‘I visited here on holiday years ago, when I was a student,’ he continues eventually. ‘I suppose it just stuck with me. The different way of life, the complete opposite to the corporate environment I went on to work in. Self-sufficiency, being away from it all … It’s the kind of place that stays with you – it gets in your blood. The smells, the sound of the sea, the rain even. For years after that I would dream about the island. It’s the place I thought about whenever I pictured leaving the city and my job behind and building my own house from scratch. And when things got particularly bad with my ex-wife the island just kept coming back into my mind. I guess you could say that just that one visit was enough to plant a seed – for years after I felt the roots pulling me back here.’
I know what it feels like to dream about the island and to be linked to a place by an invisible thread. I felt it pulling me back on the train journey north, I felt it when we drove past the track leading to my childhood home, when I stood by the lighthouse looking out at the familiar view. I’m surprised to find that I feel it now, sitting inside Mallachy’s home.
I point at the ink sketches on the walls.
‘Are those paintings yours?’
His ears glow again as he nods.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I say, standing up to look closer at each image. ‘They’re so simple but you’ve captured the spirit of each bird perfectly.’
He stands too and motions for me to follow him to the door at the end of the room.
‘If you like the rest of the house you might like this room too. It’s my favourite.’
The walls and roof are made entirely of glass, held up by the same wooden structure that has been left exposed in the living room. As well as the easel I spied earlier, I take in an old dresser stacked with jam jars filled with brushes, pencils, charcoal and paint tubes. There are lined-up bottles of ink, pads of paper and dozens of art and architecture books arranged on the shelves as well as in piles on the floor beneath the dresser. Peering closer, I notice that the papers covering the desk are sketches. I catch a glimpse of them – a fishing boat, the jagged outline of the island’s mountain, Rex asleep by the fire. I want to pick them up and leaf through every one. On the opposite side of the room to the desk is a sofa covered in blankets.
I hold a hand up to my face.
‘Are you OK?’ Mallachy asks, the faint lines on his forehead deepening into a look of concern that only makes the feeling in my stomach worse. I reach a hand out to the desk to steady myself.
‘I’m fine.’
Mallachy is still watching me. I want to turn away. But before I even know what I’m doing I find myself speaking again instead.
‘I used to want to be an artist. I wanted it more than anything. I had a space a little like this in my bedroom.’
Looking around Mallachy’s studio, I think of the easel that Sarah gave me for my twelfth birthday, handmade with the help of her father. It stood proudly by my bedroom window, facing out to sea. Over the next few years I painted in every spare moment I had for myself. My fingernails were constantly dirty with paint. Sometimes when I went to bed at night I found bright clumps of oils in my hair.
I painted with a kind of hunger. When I was at my easel hours could pass by without me noticing, until my mother would call me down for dinner. Painting made me forget those other more present hungers – for food but also for affection, laughter, love – and instead think only of the drive to create. My parents never commented on my paintings, let alone hung them in the house, so my bedroom walls were filled with my own paintings and drawings, pegged up to string. When things were particularly hard or when I doubted myself those pieces of paper and canvas reminded me of what I held inside me. Colour, light, creativity, strength.
My eyes sting and my throat grows tight. I haven’t painted in twenty years. It was once my reason for getting up in the mornings, the one thing that would make me feel optimistic about the day ahead.
‘Feel free to look around,’ Mallachy says gently.
I start off by running my hand over the dresser, lifting my fingers to stroke the soft bristles of the paintbrushes. Then I crouch and examine Mallachy’s collection of books. As I explore the titles we start to talk. About our favourite artists, about the architecture practice Mallachy used to work for, about the benefits of oil paints versus watercolours versus gouache. He tells me how much he loves the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh, saying he makes the trip across to the mainland several times a year specifically to visit the gallery. I admit I’ve never been, a fact that makes Mallachy hold his head and groan. My parents would never have allowed me to make the trip when I was still living at home. And I’ve avoided returning to Scotland ever since I left. It surprises me how close I come to admitting this to Mallachy, this man I barely know. He seems at ease, his face lighting up at each new topic. I realise I feel relaxed too. I feel calmer than I have done since arriving on the island.
‘Sorry if I’m bombarding you,’ he says eventually. ‘I love living here, but no one else on the island is particularly artistic. Or at least they don’t want to talk about different types of paintbrushes with me for half an hour.’
‘No, it’s nice. It’s been a long time for me too.’
When did I last speak like this about art? I don’t think I ever have really. Growing up, Sarah was supportive of my passion but was more interested in music than paintings. I’d hoped that Goldsmiths would be where I’d meet likeminded people, where we’d discuss our shared passion for hours. But when that didn’t happen, and when I eventually stopped painting altogether, I stopped using that part of my brain. I shut it off as much as I could. It would have been too painful otherwise. I visit galleries in London if I can persuade Ella to come with me, but unless it’s a photography exhibition she usually prefers to browse the gift shop than talk at length with me about each piece. The closest I usually come to art is when I help the children wash paint from their hands at school, or if one of the youngest gets a crayon wedged in a nostril and I have to accompany them to the first-aid room.
‘If you ever want to come and use this studio …’ Mallachy says, trailing off and shifting awkwardly on the spot. His eyes are bright and his face feels suddenly familiar, even though I know we’d never met before I set foot on the island again. I’m stepping closer to him and he responds by moving closer too. I feel the heat radiating from his body. The hairs on my arms stand on end. And then I become aware of the quiet. Looking up at the glass roof, I realise the rain has stopped. Sunlight breaks through the dark clouds and shines on my face. Thelight dazzles my eyes as though jolting me awake from a dream.What am I doing here?I take a sudden step backwards.
‘I’d better go.’
Mallachy watches with a confused expression as I stumble out of the studio. But I need to get out. Now. I rush through the house towards the door and leave without saying goodbye.
It’s only when I’m back at Hilly Farm that I realise I’m still wearing his jumper.
Chapter 14
Alice
‘Howareyou?’
My eldest sister’s voice reaches me through my laptop, the familiarity of the sound making my chest tighten. I’ve shut myself away in the bedroom for a video call with my sisters, the one time when I’m insistent with my family about not being disturbed. No helping Molly find a shoe or book that she’s lost, no farm chat with Jack. This is my time.
