‘Excuse me, Doris Anderson!’ she says suddenly, her voice loud and sharp. ‘I won’t tolerate gossip and lies in my shop! If you’re going to talk like that you’ll have to get your food from some other shop.’
‘I, I, well I don’t know what you …’ stutters the voice I now recognise from our conversation in the pub the other day. ‘But, thereisn’tanother shop.’
‘Quite,’ says Mrs Campbell, folding her arms across her chest.
I listen to the sound of shuffling footsteps and turn around just in time to watch Mrs Anderson and a couple of women I recognise as my parents’ church friends disappearing out the door.
I let out a sigh.
‘Do you think they saw me?’ I ask Mrs Campbell.
‘And so what if they did! I hope it would make them feel right disgraceful for talking like that. And they call themselves Christians!’
She shakes her head.
‘But no, dear, I don’t think they saw you,’ she adds more softly. ‘Anyway, come over here! Let me see you!’
She reaches across the counter and as I stretch out in response she covers my hands with both of hers, tough, weathered hands that are nonetheless warm and strong around mine.
‘It’s so good to see you again, dear,’ she says with a smile.
As I look at Mrs Campbell the memories come flooding back. I remember her handing me sweets as a young girl when I trailed behind my mother on our weekly visits to the shop. And then there was the time when my period first started and I was too embarrassed to tell my mother. I was twelve, and by that point I’d learned not to talk to my mother about anything particularly personal. The conversations I’d tried to have with her about my father and the plans I’d tried to make for her, Jack and me to escape had come to nothing. If anything, they created a gulf between us, both of us uneasy around one another. That day was a weekday so Sarah was away at school. So I walked across the entire island with toilet tissue folded inside my knickers, arriving at the village shop soaked from a sudden downpour that hit while I was walking. I remember feeling cold, frightened and deeply ashamed. But somehow, without having to say anything Mrs Campbell guessed what had happened and brought me the things I needed from the shelves. She let me use the toilet at the back of the shop.
‘I don’t have any money with me,’ I remember saying quietly, my head tilted towards my shoes.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, love,’ she’d replied.
Back in the shop now I swallow back tears. Somehow over the years I’d forgotten this woman and those small but meaningful acts of kindness.
I finish my shopping and lift my basket onto the counter.
‘Thank you,’ I say as she hands me the bag and my receipt.
I hope she knows I mean for far more than just the shopping.
‘Anytime,’ she replies gently. ‘You are always welcome here, Lorna.’
A smile spreads across my face.
Outside I load the bicycle. As I’m piling things into the basket my phone buzzes. There’s a text from Cheryl that was sent yesterday but has only come through now I have signal.
How’s it going? Taking Frankie to the zoo today. He’s been a right monkey this week so I might leave him there!!!! xxx
I try to call her back but the phone cuts out, my one bar of reception clearly not enough to connect me. I wish suddenly to hear the sound of my friend’s voice. Instead, I type a message. I nearly tell her about Mallachy and the strange moment we shared in his studio. But what would I even say? I can’t quite understand or explain that sudden feeling of connection I experienced. He’s a complete stranger. And besides, I ran away.
Instead I type:
Sorry for the slow reply. Dodgy signal here. Hope you had fun at the zoo and that you changed your mind about leaving Frankie there! Things still strange here, but at least the sun is shining. x
On an impulse I take a photo of the view and send it to her, boats bobbing in the harbour, the stretching sea and the mainland just visible on the horizon. On my way back to the farm I pause a few times along the way to take a few more pictures: wildflowers swaying in the breeze, a lone sheep on a hillock facing out to sea, a close up of the vibrant moss that clings to rocky outcrops alongside the road. Maybe I should have brought my proper camera on this trip. But it didn’t even enter my head when I was packing. This isn’t exactly a holiday, after all.
Arriving back at the house I spot Alice in the field on a quadbike, the sheep scattering around her as she bumps across the grass. I can tell the house is empty as soon as I step inside; the quiet fills every room. Now is my chance to wander more freely. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly. Anything that tells me more about my brother and the life I’ve missed. I pause by the staircase, looking closely at the pictures of Molly and the family that line the wall. In the living room I scan the bookshelves. There’s a shelf of classics, several of paperback crime novels with peeling covers, a collection of science fiction and a few coffee-table books. There are several local history books about Kip but also about the surrounding islands.
And then I pause on a book I hadn’t expected to see. It’s a very old copy ofFinn Family Moomintroll, tucked in the middle of one of the lower shelves. I reach out a hand and touch the spine. Suddenly I’m a child all over again.
When Jack was little he had nightmares. Every night he would struggle to sleep, terrified of what would be waiting for him in his dreams. Once I knew our parents were downstairs or in their own room I would sneak into Jack’s room and read to him.
Reading seemed to be the only thing that helped Jack to sleep.Finn Family Moomintrollwas his favourite. When we were very young I couldn’t read all of the words so would make up parts of the story for him. But as I got older I was able to read the whole thing to him. I’d sit next to him in his bed and read as much as I needed until he fell asleep. I never told him, because I was trying to be a good big sister, but I had nightmares too. I think I needed that book just as much as Jack did.
