Should I wait it out here until the rain passes? But that could be a long time, looking at the heavy black clouds in the sky. Maybe I should just make a break for it, but the thought of continuing on my run seems suddenly very unappealing. I’ve come further than I’d intended – it would take a while to get back now.
Shivering and unsure what to do next, I spot a pick-up truck bumping along the track leading towards the house. There’s a dog in the back and the sound of its barking reaches me over the hiss of the rain. As the truck pulls up in front of the house I take a closer look at the dog. It’s a sodden Old English sheepdog. Before I have time to move, the truck door opens and Mallachy steps out, dressed in waterproof trousers, wellies and a navy raincoat.
He looks me up and down. My sodden T-shirt clings to my body, tendrils of hair drip around my face and my arms have turned lobster-red with the cold.
‘Great weather for a run,’ he says, his voice raised in competition with the sound of the rain.
‘It was fine when I left,’ I shout over the rain and Rex’s barking.
Mallachy looks up at the sky. It is slate-grey and the rain pours down as heavily as ever.
‘Aye, it’s a beautiful day for sure!’
His trousers and coat are shiny with moisture, but he at least looks much warmer than I feel. He lets Rex out the back of the truck and the dog immediately bounds across to me. Before I can step out of the way he jumps up, leaving two muddy paw prints on my T-shirt.
‘Leave her alone, Rex!’ Mallachy shouts, but I can tell he is trying not to laugh as he glances at my muddy top.
‘I’m glad you’re finding my distress amusing!’
He follows Rex towards the front door until he is standing right beside me. He’s taller than I remember from our brief meeting at the school yesterday, and broader too. With both of us beneath the porch we’re forced to stand close together. He gives me another look.
‘I suppose you’d better come in then before you drown,’ he says, pushing open the unlocked front door.
Inside, Mallachy removes his boots and hangs his jacket on a hook by the door. I take a good look around. We’re standing in a modern, open-plan room with a kitchen island in the centre and a living area behind, a grey sofa and a leather armchairfacing a large wood-burner. The far side of the room is taken up by floor-to-ceiling windows with a view stretching out to the sea, obscured now by curtains of rain. An engine boat is tied up to a decking that stretches out into the water. Inside, the wooden frame of the building has been left exposed and matches the table in the corner and the two wooden chairs. My eyes are drawn to a set of pictures on the wall – a loose yet expressive ink sketch of a puffin, another of a sea eagle, and finally an oystercatcher. I don’t know what I’d been expecting from Mallachy’s home, but I don’t think it was this.
Rex flops over to a cushion by the sofa as Mallachy hangs up his coat and pulls off his waterproof trousers to reveal jeans beneath. I pause awkwardly by the door.
‘Your home is beautiful.’
‘You sound surprised,’ he says, turning back to me with a flash of a smile.
‘I guess I didn’t have you down as a trendy minimalist,’ I reply, glancing at his muddy jeans, the wellies by the door and his hair which looks in need of a good cut. Is there even a hairdresser on the island?
‘Aye, I’ll take that,’ he replies. ‘I’m glad you like it though. It’s always nice to have your work appreciated.’
I look around again, taking in the elegant lines of the central room which manages to feel spacious yet cosy at the same time.
‘You built this house?’
I must sound as impressed as I feel because he laughs, a brief, joyous burst of noise that makes Rex thump his tail even harder from his cushion. I meet Mallachy’s eyes for a momentand we look at one another across the room. Is it just me, or is the room suddenly considerably warmer?
‘You look like a drowned rat, come and sit down.’
My cheeks grow even hotter. I fold my arms around my body as Mallachy drapes a towel over the sofa for me. I perch awkwardly on the edge, aware of my hair dripping onto the towel.
He leaves me on the sofa as he pulls down mugs and a teapot from the kitchen cupboards. While the kettle boils he pushes open a door on the right-hand side of the room. I catch a glimpse of an airy space, a desk scattered with papers and in the middle, a large easel. My heart beats quickly at the sight but then the door closes again and Mallachy is handing me a large, rust-red woollen jumper.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Don’t want you catching hypothermia on your second day on the island.’
I mumble a thank you and pull it over my head. It smells of dog and pine needles and something that I immediately recall as the scent of oil paints. I watch Mallachy more closely as he passes me a mug of hot tea and sits down in the armchair. Every now and then I find myself glancing over towards the closed door in the corner.
Rex has fallen asleep, one of his paws twitching slightly. Outside, the rain continues to pelt the sea and the dunes, droplets sliding down the window pane. The room is warm and I feel sensation returning to my toes and fingers. Mallachy flicks on the radio and for a moment we sit and listen, not talking.
‘I love this song.’
‘Me too,’ says Mallachy.
‘I’m sorry again that I ignored you the other day. It was rude of me.’
