She inhales, finding comfort in the familiar scents. Fresh cut flowers, roses and heather. The sea salt and lavender candles made by her friend Ginny. And beneath all of that, the books… hundreds, probably thousands, of books. Old books, new books, the well-thumbed and the tattered and the pristine, all of them telling their own story and bringing their own history. Paper, print and the tiniest hint of age, all blending to create a unique smell that speaks one word to her: home.
Moira tucks her curly silver-grey hair behind her ears, and gets to work. It’s been a good day in the Edge of the World Bookshop. A day filled with chatter and companionship and warmth, with the casual comfort that is to be found by simply being around others. By reaching out and finding a smile and a nod, no matter how fleeting. Reading, talking, laughing. The stuff of life, in her opinion.
When she opened this place, she always dreamed that it would be like this – a home from home. Angus was a fisherman for the whole of his working life, a tough job that saw him battle the elements until he was well into his seventies, but he always had a more sensitive side. A side that was in tune with theglories of nature, that loved poetry and Shakespeare and art. He took the most amazing photographs, and recited Burns, and was at her side every step of the way in creating this little bookish haven.
He is as much a part of it as she is, and now, Moira plans to thank him for that with one more mission – their ‘special project’, as Robbie calls it.
First, she does the clearing. The plates and mugs go into the kitchen, and the tables are all wiped down. The magazines and newspapers are stacked up, and the books put back on the shelves.Wuthering Heightsis tucked away next toA Thousand Splendid Suns, and aBeginners’ Guide to Crochetis placed beside an illustrated edition ofThe Secret Garden. She pauses to straighten a set of Enid Blyton’sFaraway Treestories, and affectionately strokes the cover of theSeabirds of the Scottish Isles. She lights one of Ginny’s candles, and moves it to the big table by the fire.
After that, she gets out everything she needs, and makes herself a mug of tea – strong, sweet, a splash of milk.
‘Builders’ tea,’ Angus says, from his spot in the chair opposite her. It was always his favourite, right next to the fire. ‘I should know. I made enough of them for you!’
She glances over, nods in acknowledgement. ‘You’re back, then, are you? Waited till everyone had left before making your grand entrance?’
She lets her eyes drift over him – still a brawny figure, hair grey but thick, face lined with the marks of both laughter and loss. Not handsome in a Hollywood way, but definitely her leading man. The only one she’s ever loved.
‘Of course. You know I only have eyes for you, Moira McLeod. Don’t let your tea go cold now, wife. Though I bet it’s not as good as mine.’
She takes a sip, and decides he’s right. It’s not. On every single morning of their fifty-year marriage, Angus brought her a mug of tea in bed. Through sickness, through health, through arguments and stand-offs, nothing would get in the way of his ritual. He’d present it to her with a kiss, and say: ‘Strong tea, for a strong woman.’ It was the very best way to start the day.
‘So,’ he says, gesturing at the table. ‘You have it all ready, I see? Going through with the crazy plan after all, are you?’
She nods, opening up one of the cards that she has placed before her. It’s one of a set, and each of them bears a beautiful photograph of the local environment taken by this big, gruff man. Mountains, cliffsides, birds and beasties, all in their natural glory, all of them perfect in their own way.
‘Aye. How could I not, Angus? That day we had together, when you came up with this whole idea? I look back now, and it was such a perfect time. Simple, like all the best things.’
‘Do you mean me, woman? Are you calling me simple?’
‘No,’ she assures him, smiling, running her finger over the photo of a nearby puffin colony, ‘you’re far from simple. But that daywasthe best…’
As it has so many times since, her mind transports her back to the year before. A warm summer’s afternoon when life was good, and they both felt like they’d live forever. They’d been perched on the edge of the cliffs, watching the dolphins frolic in the blue of the sea beneath them. You could spot whales and seals from their look-out too, but the dolphins were always their favourite. The sun was on their faces, after a day of pleasures: a picnic, and laughter, and even a kiss or two.
‘We’ve been so lucky, my love,’ he’d said, slipping his gnarled hand into hers and squeezing it. ‘Some losses for sure, but more gains I’d say. I think we should pay it forward.’
‘Pay it forward?’ she’d replied, eyebrows quirked. ‘Have you been at the whisky already, Angus? You sound like you’re on the TV using language like that!’
They’d laughed some more – they were always laughing, Robbie said it was their ‘love language’, whatever that meant – but they’d also talked. An idea had formed, a little project that they’d work on together now he was finally retired from the boats. At least that had been the plan. Fate had other ideas, as she often does.
‘I thought we’d do this as a couple, Angus,’ she says now, back in the present. She looks across to her man, tears shining in her eyes. ‘I thought we’d always be a double act…’
‘I know, hen, I know. I’m so sorry I had to leave you. You know I never wanted to, don’t you?’
Nodding, she wipes the tears away. Because she knows Angus isn’t really sitting in his chair, chatting away to her. Angus died just before Christmas, and life has never been the same since.
She doesn’t believe in ghosts – the vision of the man sitting across from her is just that. A vision her mind cooks up when she’s alone to help her cope. It’s her version of talking to him at his graveside, which she knows Robbie does. In fact he takes a bottle of Glenfiddich to the cemetery, and shares a wee dram with his grandfather. They both miss him so desperately, and they’ve each had to find their own ways through the muddle, their own ways to fill the gap Angus left behind.
‘I know. And I suppose I’m a mad old coot for sitting here talking to you about it, aren’t I? You’re long gone…’
‘Aye. Long gone – but in the ways that count, I’ll always be with you, my darling girl. Now, stop blubbing, and get on with it – those cards won’t write themselves now, will they?’
‘I’m not sure what to say,’ she replies, picking up a pen and staring at the blank white space.
‘Do it like you do everything else, Moira – from the heart.’
She looks over, at the empty chair in front of the dying embers of the fire.From the heart, she repeats to herself.
That heart might feel broken right now, but she is old enough and wise enough to know that it will heal. It may still have some cracks in it, but it will heal, and maybe this whole scheme will help. Paying it forward, like he said.
