‘Well, I didn’t quite say that. I said I’d help. Manage? That’s too strong a word – I’m not even sure how long we’re staying!’
Damn. I did say I’d help, before I knew anything about Rory. Now I feel like I’ve committed to something that feels impossible – how to navigate this? How to stay true to my word and help Moira, but also retain my sanity?
Kate listens to my slightly panicked bleating, and grins. ‘That’s what we all say. But while you’re here, we’ll take all the help we can get. The gallery will open regardless of the extra funding, thanks to our investor, James. I suspect he’ll be looking to find a place for a proper hotel too, once we’re up and running and bringing more tourists in. He’s a good man, but not an idiot – he’s not doing it all for the sake of art. The grants, though, they could make all the difference. If we can give some extra cash tolocal aspiring artists, support them to display their art here… A gallery will be a commercial proposition, but Moira wants it to be so much more. She wants it to matter to the people who live here, to make a difference. And to be honest, whatever Moira wants, I’ll do anything to give her.’
I can feel how much this means to Kate as well – and how much Moira means to her too. ‘I’ll get the papers for you,’ Kate says. ‘Moira’s running late but will be in soon. And Rory should be here in a bit, to plan the murals…’
Kate gets to her feet and heads behind the counter. She roots a file from a cabinet, while I stare at the door and wonder if I can make a run for it. I came down to the bookshop today to escape from Rory and the drama of it all, and now it’s following me. I suppose that’s the downside of living in a tiny village instead of a town near London.
‘You okay?’ she asks, eyeballing me as she hands me the file.
‘Yes! Of course. Do you only have hard copies?’
‘No, it’s all digital as well – but Moira prefers something she can hold so I print everything off for her. You can go and sit in the office if you want some peace and quiet? Brody might stop by with Alice soon, and… well. That gets noisy.’
I agree, and shuffle off to the small room at the back with my coffee. She pauses before she leaves me there, and gives me a quick hug.
‘Thank you,’ she says sincerely. ‘For coming here. Moira put so much effort into those cards, inviting people to the shop and the village… and it’s wonderful that we weren’t the only people who turned up. And thank you for helping with this – it means much more to her than she lets on.’
‘How so?’ I ask.
‘Well, it’s not just her bookshop – it’s her and Angus’s legacy, I suppose. They built it together, and by all accounts he was a marvellous man with a sensitive soul. The bookshop, the gallery,all the impact she wants to make? That’s for him as much as for her, and I get the feeling that she’s… well. She’s even more invested than normal. So again, I say – thank you.’
She looks slightly worried, and I see how strong the connections here are. Kate, the shop, Moira – all of them tangled together. I nod. ‘Okay. I get it. I’ll just take a look then.’
Everything she has said makes me more determined to do whatever I can, and truthfully, I also just need to be alone for a minute. Kate seems really nice, and I’m sure we could be pals, but I’m also not sure how much of an actress I am. If Rory really does turn up, I could swoon, panic, cry or pin him to the wall and snog him – all of them are viable options, and I need to get a grip of myself.
I open the file, and start reading through the paperwork. It’s something I feel better equipped to handle, and welcome the tedium of official language and form-filling jargon. I can see some of the answers already pencilled in are fine, but some are lacking. I smile as I recognise Moira’s handwriting from the card, and read the little comments she’s scrawled on her draft of the application, able to now imagine her voice to go with them. One says: ‘This bit is rubbish!’, another says ‘weak and weedy’, and the last simply says ‘give me strength!’
I have my own ideas about how to boost their pitch, and make notes on a pad as I go through. If I’m here long enough, I can totally knock this into shape for them, but this way even if I leave this afternoon I’ll have given them something to work with.
I can totally see where the portrait project for the elderly folk of Bonnie Bay could fit in, too. I wonder how hard it would actually be? What would we need to make it happen? I notice the ‘we’ there, and feel both unnerved and comforted by it at the same time.
I start to make a list. I love a good list, it restores order in a world that is often sadly lacking it. Maybe I should make a listof the pros and cons of being anywhere near Rory Callaghan, maybe even a nice spreadsheet.
I shake my head, and herd the cats that now seem to live in it. I’ve managed a lot of different projects at work, and I’m sure I’m capable of this. It’s just a matter of finding the right people for the right jobs – just like those cards of Moira’s were searching for the right person at the right time.
If we get the funding, it would be a matter of then finding the right artist or even artists, scheduling sittings, discussing mediums – we could look at oils, watercolours, sketches, a combination of them all. Lots of options, lots of interesting ways to present them. It’s all right there, ripe for the creating.
Beneath all of that, though – beneath the logistics – are the people. Moira told me a little about some of them, the lives they have led. The way that the fishermen and farmers are an essential part of this community, but somehow still apart from it. Their isolation, and the way that Moira wants to use this project as a way to both honour them and bring them closer.
I might not live in the wilds of Scotland, but I do understand loneliness. If there’s something I can do to help, then I’m all in.
I’m so enthused that I don’t notice how much time passes until I’m startled by the sound of a baby wailing. I look up, on instant alert, even though my own baby is sixteen and probably still in bed. I message her quickly, asking if she’s still alive.No, comes the immediate reply.I’m typing this with my ghost fingers. I laugh and send her a few white-sheeted emojis, then go into the bookshop.
I pause before I show myself, because there is a lot going on out there. For a start, Beth – she must have messaged me while she was already here, just for fun. There’s also a huge man perched on one of the tables, gulping down coffee.
And in the middle of it all, Rory.
He’s walking around with the baby cradled up against his shoulder, doing a little jig. His hand is firm against the back of her adorable head, and he drops little kisses on her velvety crown. He’s murmuring consoling sounds to her, and it’s working – she’s stopped crying.
‘Yeah,’ says Brody – it’s got to be him – wearily. ‘Now you just need to keep doing that for the next ten hours. Jesus, I’d forgotten how hard this all was…’
‘And you wouldn’t change a thing, would you now?’ Rory replies.
Brody’s big, battered-looking face breaks out into a slow grin. ‘Nah. No way. I’m the luckiest man in the world.’
‘That you are, my friend,’ Rory says, ‘that you are.’ Am I imagining it, or does he sound sad? Is there a note of yearning in his voice, or am I yet again externalising my pain? I know that seeing him like this, so tenderly caring for that little one, is melting some ice from around my heart. What could have been…
