Wildflower Bay (11 page)

The truth was – not that she’d admit as much to any doctor, no matter how charming and attentive he might be, or how handsomely trimmed his beard – her bones complained when
she stood up too long, and she often found herself getting breathless and tired, which was immensely frustrating. Of late she’d taken to sitting down, watching more than her fair share of
afternoon quiz shows. Her eyes had grown frustratingly misty, making reading – always her first love – difficult, even with the bold large-print books that were available at Kilmannan
Library. The idea of having someone poking around doing a cataract operation made her feel queasy. She’d put the appointment off again and again, until they’d stopped writing and
calling. Then they’d tried to interest her in audiobooks, but inevitably those lulled her to sleep. She’d wake up hours later, neck stiff from drooping like a sleeping daisy in the
armchair by the fireplace, Hamish circling her feet, prowling for dinner. Getting old was – quite literally – a pain in the neck.

Only once she was sitting down in her armchair with Hamish slinking around her legs, his tail a question mark, did Ruth – reluctantly – open her bag and take a look at the
information leaflet Doctor Lewis had given her.

‘It’s just a spot of water retention, isn’t it?’ It hadn’t really been a question, more of a statement.

Doctor Lewis had rubbed his dark beard, twisting round in his chair to look Ruth straight in the eye. She had noticed the dark shadows under his eyes. The surgery hours were long, and they were
under pressure to perform in difficult conditions, the target-driven structure not fitting well with an island still set in the ways of its past. The islanders were used to the personal care of an
old-fashioned GP and a village hospital, and the current government structures didn’t leave much room for flexibility.

‘I’m afraid it’s not that straightforward, Mrs MacArthur.’

Ruth took a breath in, straightening her shoulders, preparing herself.

‘The blood tests we took show elevated levels of something called BNP in your blood.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she snorted. ‘I’m a card-carrying member of the Labour party.’

Doctor Lewis smiled, a smile that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that particular joke. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, but pressed on. Ruth felt her shoulders
sag slightly.

‘Politics notwithstanding, these levels, together with the other symptoms you’ve been showing, suggest that we are looking at a bit of a problem with your heart.’

She was eighty years old. She’d kept an eye on her figure all her life, walked everywhere she could, switched from butter to margarine when they said that was the thing to do, and back to
butter again when they changed their minds. She’d eaten home-cooked meals and didn’t drink (well, besides a wee glass of cream sherry once in a while, and at her age she deserved a
treat with
Coronation Street
). She hadn’t so much as touched a cigarette in her life. It was a ridiculous notion to suggest there was anything wrong with her besides a bit
of—

‘There’s medication you can take that will help a bit, and it’s a matter of re-education. Take things a bit more slowly, don’t overstretch yourself, that sort of
thing.’

‘You’ll be telling me I’m to give up all the foods that are worth eating next.’ She could hear the asperity in her voice.

‘No, everything in moderation, that’s the key.’ He smiled at her reassuringly, pulling a sheaf of papers from a drawer in his desk. ‘I’d like you in tomorrow
morning for a quick test called an echocardiogram, just to confirm that my suspicions are correct.’

‘You’re not covering me with electrodes and wiring me up to some machine.’

‘Just for five minutes or so. It won’t hurt.’

Ruth tutted. ‘I’m helping with the teas at the community centre tomorrow morning.’

‘Five minutes.’ His voice was firm. ‘Let’s get this sorted out, and we can work out what we’re going to do from here. There’s a support group that meets once
a week in the library, I could give you the—’

‘A group of old people grumbling about their ailments? I don’t think so.’

She could just imagine it. No, she wasn’t having any of that nonsense. She had a wee bit of swelling round her ankles, and she’d been a bit tired and achy of late. But who
wasn’t, after eighty years of walking around?

‘I’ll give you the details tomorrow, in any case.’ Turning back to the desk, he quickly tapped some information into his computer. Without looking up, he added, ‘And for
the record, it might be an idea for you to stop helping out with the teas, and start sitting down and enjoying one yourself.’

‘Pfft.’ Ruth gave a snort of disapproval. ‘I’m not headed for the knackers’ yard yet.’

He looked up, giving her a brief smile.

‘Right, well, if that’s us, I’ll be away then.’

‘And you’ll be back in the morning.’ His tone was warning. He scrolled down the screen, pointing to a calendar page. ‘There. I’ve put you in myself, for half past
nine. No excuses.’

‘What if I decide I’d rather get my hair done?’ She was teasing him now.

‘I’ll be at the salon in person to pull you straight up here. Don’t make me come down there, you hear me?’

‘As if I would.’ Chuckling to herself, Ruth had headed out of the consulting room.

Isla had always thought being woken by silence was something that only happened in books. But as she lay in bed there was nothing – absolutely nothing – outside.
The absence of cars and buses thundering past, the hum of people and noise and clattering and chatter that wove together to make the fabric of city life – none of it was there. The silence
was huge. It was unnerving.

She climbed out from under the duvet and pushed open the window, still waiting for the familiar sounds to fill the room. She’d always loved early-morning Edinburgh, before anyone else was
up, but the city streets were never silent. Right now, back in the New Town, the road sweeper would be chugging by, the air brakes of early morning buses hissing in the emptiness.

But here, there was nothing. Over a plate-glass sea a haze of low cloud – or was it mist? – rose to a pale blue sky smudged with thin wisps of cloud. The sunrise was beautiful, Isla
admitted to herself. As she stood watching, she realized that where her ears would have been filled with the sounds of the city coming to life, here morning was announced with birdsong. It started
with one melody that Isla had to strain to pick up; then there was another. Somewhere in the distance – it sounded like miles away – she could hear a dog bark. And there was the
familiar call of the gulls, too, just like home. Before long the noise was deafening, the air filled with birdsong.

And then the boat came into view. The hum of the engine came to her on the wind as she watched it slide across the water towards the mainland. Isla checked her watch – six o’clock.
It must be going over to collect the first passengers. The first ferry over wasn’t scheduled until 6.45 a.m. – she’d checked last night when, filled with dread, she’d seen
the harbour gate locked down for the evening and the ticket office closed.

Isla sat, chin on her hands, watching the boat as it slipped across the water until it curved around the headland and out of sight. If she’d been on holiday here, she admitted to herself
grudgingly, she might have quite liked the peace and quiet.

Later on, another day at the salon negotiated without disaster – apart from Jinny turning up late again, explaining that her brother Mikey had refused to walk to school
and lain down on the pavement, where he’d waited for ten minutes before getting up and trotting off quite cheerfully – Isla tucked her house key into her armband and set off running,
down the narrow lane that led towards the ferry landing. Turning left, she glanced down at her watch. Six-thirty in the evening, and the sky was still bright blue, cloudless, seagulls whirling
overhead. She ran on along the seafront road, past storm-weathered Victorian hotels and boarded-up shops. This place had nothing going for it, as far as she could see. Casting a dismissive glance
over her shoulder as she turned right down the fork in the road towards the little village of Port Strachan, she pushed herself harder, the sound of her breath thrumming in her ears as she ran on.
The rocky outcrops jutting out from the shoreline glowed in the evening sunlight. The road curved round, revealing the colourful houses of the little fishing village three miles from the main town.
Port Strachan actually looked quite nice. Nice in a holiday postcard sort of way, Isla thought, but living here full-time must be the most mind-numbing thing on earth. She was still smarting from
the thought that following her run there was no chance of popping into Yo! Sushi for something quick for dinner.

Solid grey houses sat back from the roadside, secure behind sturdy stone walls. The gardens were neatly kept, many of them with hoardings outside advertising themselves as ‘B&B’
or ‘Guesthouse (rooms to let)’. Isla kept on running as the road curved round and the metal railings alongside the pavement stopped, until she was running beside the beach, which was
strewn with seaweed-covered rocks freckled with limpets and tiny barnacles. She’d settled into a rhythm now, and her arms and legs were pumping along in time to the insistent beat of the
music blasting in her ears. She couldn’t hear the sea, or the gulls that swooped overhead. The music was loud enough to block out everything.

Isla didn’t want to think about the fact that the disturbing sensation she’d felt, watching the girls from the salon as they joked and teased their way out of the door at the end of
the day, was loneliness. It wasn’t something she allowed herself to feel. Years of training at school, where the only way to survive was to create an impenetrable shell, had been the
answer.

It was going to have to hold her together here, too. There was something strange about this place. Everywhere she went, there was a feeling that everyone was talking about her behind her back,
that the whole island knew exactly who she was and why she was there. It was unnerving, and she didn’t like it one bit. She’d gone into the bakery that morning, thinking she’d
have a coffee and a sandwich as an early lunch break. The lunch itself had been surprisingly nice, but the feeling of sitting, awkwardly, eating her lunch whilst pretending to read her magazine as
the girl behind the counter looked at her, had been uncomfortable. A man had come in then and sat down at the table across from her, spreading himself into the space, filling the whole room. Legs
akimbo, sitting back against the wall, he’d sat waiting for his coffee, checking his phone.

‘A’right James?’

‘Aye.’

A younger man had come in, hooking his dog to the post outside. He’d picked up a pre-ordered roll for his lunch and stepped back outside, tapping his forehead with a finger in a salute:
‘James, how you doing?’

‘No’ bad, herself?’

This had gone on and on. Everyone who walked in through the door knew this mythical James, or knew his wife, or – it was suffocating.

She upped her speed, pushing herself harder, faster. She could feel her calf muscles aching as she pounded forwards, making a split-second decision to fork left, up a narrow single-track road.
The incline was punishingly steep but she forced herself to maintain the pace, heart thudding against her ribcage. When she reached the top, she’d stop.

There was no space to think about anything. Everything was white with effort and pain, and then with a gasp, slowing down gradually as she crested the hill, she began to catch her breath,
bending double, hands on hips, breathing through the stitch that had been niggling her the whole way.

‘
Shit!
’

There was a screech of cycle brakes, and a crash. Isla threw herself sideways on instinct and therefore missed being taken out completely by a lunatic cyclist, who had lurched off his bike and
now lay flat on his back, hands gingerly checking his ribs for breakages. His bike lay across the middle of the road, the front wheel spinning. The back wheel, however, was a different matter.

‘My bloody wheel. Bollocks.’ Pushing his helmet off his nose, the cyclist looked up at Isla from his prone position. He gave a broad, slightly dazed smile.

‘Are you – OK?’ She wondered if he might be concussed, or something. It wasn’t normal to be grinning like that when you’d just gone flying through the air on a
bike.

‘Yep.’ He pushed himself up with his hands. ‘Yeah –
ow
.’ He gasped, before continuing, ‘Fine.’

Isla recoiled slightly, feeling awkward. She reached out a cautious hand, hoping that he wouldn’t take it. His hands were filthy, his face spattered with mud. He took her hand with another
smile and hoisted himself up with his own weight. Isla let go and stepped backwards.

The cyclist wiped a sleeve across his face, revealing a deep, outdoorsy tan (which, Isla couldn’t help thinking, looked like he hadn’t set eyes on anything with a sun protection
factor for at least a decade) and blue eyes beneath fair, extremely muddy brows.

‘I know you, don’t I?’ He narrowed his eyes for a moment, frowning.

‘I doubt it.’ Isla shook her head.

He cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful. ‘Yes, I do. I do. You’re Recycling Girl.’

Isla raised her eyebrows. ‘I think you’re confusing me with someone else.’

‘Nope. I never forget a face. Well, only if I’ve had a few, but let’s face it, we’re all guilty of that, aren’t we?’

He gave her a rueful smile, one that clearly expected something in return. This guy was well aware of his good looks. He had a cockiness that Isla recognized. Hours of people-watching at work
had taught her the art of reading people – not just through their words, but through their manner. And this one was sizing her up, working out his next line. Even covered from head to toe in
mud, she had to grudgingly admit he was pretty handsome in a slightly pleased-with-himself, Ewan-McGregor, rugged sort of way. And he knew it. He smiled at her, and went on, ‘You’re
looking after Jessie Main’s place whilst her daughter is sick, aren’t you?’