‘What’s that one again? You Irish have so many words for pished!’
‘So drunk you want to flush your own head down a toilet the next day.’
‘Right,’ she says, pondering it. ‘Well, I make no promises…’
She leaves me standing there on the cobbles, feeling thoroughly outfoxed. Here was I, planning a simple night at home. One man and his Guinness. Now, she’s got me all messed up. I let out an exasperated growl and walk down the steps and back onto the beach. I need to think about this.
I sit on the sand in front of one of the big red boulders, and stare out at the horizon that always calms me. The kittiwakes are calling, and I spot seals basking on the distant rocks. I need to be more seal.
I feel better, watching the final rays of the sunset over the water. I love this time – that perfect moment between day and night, when all seems possible, all seems touched with atleast a glimmer of enchantment. The time when anything could happen.
Maybe, I think, she’s right. Maybe I need to open my mind. I’ve seen magic happen – I saw it happen for Kate and Brody. For my brother and sister. For so many others.
It’s been a long time since I let myself believe it could be possible for me, and I realise I’m almost too scared to allow it. The only thing worse than being without hope, after all, is having hope and then seeing it crushed.
I hear a small commotion coming from behind me, laughter and giggles. The women decamping, Moira’s clear voice saying she’s going to give her guest a guided tour of the gallery, and then take her to the pub. ‘Okay,’ comes that sweet, soft tone again. ‘But I’m switching to Coke – I can’t keep up with you lot!’ Again, for some reason the sound of her speaking makes me smile.
I’ve never met Moira’s latest project in person, but somehow, she already seems like somebody I will feel comfortable with. I should stand up, go and introduce myself – but I suddenly realise I’m not ready for that. I need to think it through first. I sit hidden by the boulder, and wait until they pass.
Time to go home – for now, alone.
SIX
JANE
I stay with Rosie and Moira in that gorgeous little garden, and between the three of us we polish off two bottles of prosecco. They tell me all about the village, and the bookshop with two names – officially the Bookshop at the Edge of the World, which suits it perfectly, but also the Hopeful Hearts, in honour of its new role as a ‘beacon of light and bringer of joy’, Moira modestly announces.
The warm welcome, and possibly the prosecco, go right to my head, and despite my initial fears, I have actually managed to relax – something that is as rare as pigs flying over a blue moon, while flashing their hens’ teeth.
Rosie says she needs to get home, and we stand together on the street outside the shop saying our farewells. I glance down at the beach, see the beginnings of what will be a spectacular sunset. I also see a man’s jean-clad leg, peeking out from behind one of the huge red rocks. It looks a little like he’s trying to hide, but he’s just a bit too big. For some reason it makes me laugh inside – maybe he’s scared of us! What would happen if I ran down there and said ‘boo!’?
He’d probably have a heart attack, and I like it here. Killing off one of the residents wouldn’t be a good start. I leave him be – we all need our alone time.
I’ve checked in with Beth, who is having an absolute blast, and Moira assures me that Kate and Brody’s cottage will be perfect for us for the night. I decide to simply chill out, and follow her into the almost-finished gallery she wants to show me.
It’s a large, light-filled room, the orange rays of the dying sun pouring through the windows. It’s all pale wood floors, high ceilings, and walls stripped down to brick and whitewashed. The overall effect is stunning – especially with the sound of the sea as its backdrop.
I twirl around, taking it in from all angles. It’s very easy to imagine beautiful pieces hanging on these walls, to picture launch events and gatherings. Art at the Edge of the World, they’re calling it – could it be more perfect? I wonder.
Moira smiles at my reaction. She looks tired, but happy and proud. She fills me in on the progress here, and tells me about the grant funding they’re applying for to make it even better.
‘Now we’ve got the shop itself back up and running again. And James – our investor – has covered the bricks and mortar for the gallery,’ she explains. ‘But I’ve got ideas. Probably above my station.’
‘Always the best kind. What ideas?’
‘Well, now I come to think of it, maybe “ideas” is a bit grandiose. We have a few artists living here, and we thought it’d be nice to give more a chance, ye ken? Residencies, shows, scholarships for grown-ups really. It’s the perfect addition to the bookshop. Though I am wondering if I’m a bit biased about this place – would anybody even be interested?’
I shake my head, and reassure her. ‘I can definitely imagine it. It already feels like the kind of place that inspires people tobe creative – look at your invitations! The one we found was wonderful!’
She thinks about it and smiles. ‘Aye. You’re right. My Angus worked the fishing boats his whole life, but he had an artist’s soul. And in a different world, I’d have liked to write. Maybe we should specialise in giving oldies a chance, eh?’
‘It’s not a bad idea, Moira. Not everybody got to chase their dreams when they were young, for whatever reason. I mean, life gets busy doesn’t it – kids, jobs, looking after family. One minute you’re young and full of plans, then you blink an eye and you’re knee-deep in responsibilities. My younger self wouldn’t even recognise me.’
I feel her scrutiny, and cringe a little at giving away so much of myself.
‘You’re speaking from experience there, Jane – what is it you wished you’d done?’
‘Nothing. I’ve lived the dream.’
