Once again, Annie’s Seaside Kitchen did not open on Monday morning. Mrs Cairns waddled down looking for her first cheese scone of the day (Saif had warned her about her weight many times, and she had looked at him and said, quite clearly, ‘Doctor, I am seventy-four years old, my husband is dead, my children live in New Zealand and you are seriously telling me I can’t have a cheese scone?’ Saif had said uncomfortably, ‘Madam, I think you can have one cheese scone but you cannot have four cheese scones,’ and Mrs Cairns, who had, after huge initial reservations about whether the brown doctor was there to blow up the island, rather overestimating the island’s political interest to ISIS as a target, had grown to like him and the way he gravely called her madam, and actually he was rather handsome when you came to think about it, a bit like Omar Sharif …) and she sighed heavily when she found it shut. The gaggle of her friends and relations, many of whom she had hated for murky reasons for almost half a century, joined her slowly as they pondered where they could go to discuss their latest ailments and who may or may not have died.
Charlie’s face fell as he cheerily led his latest bunch of troubled youngsters off the boat for their early morning sausage roll. It had been a difficult crossing: the ones who weren’t throwing up were, frankly, going bananas on the boat, charging about here and there, and the stewards, who knew him pretty well and were usually very tolerant, were raising eyebrows left, right and centre. He’d promised them all the best sausage rolls in the country if they’d behave, and now he was stuffed.
Isla and Iona had been absolutely delighted by the news of an unexpected day off, having not yet caught up with the gossip, and had decided to go sunbathing, even though it was fourteen degrees with a wind that felt like somebody was spinning a fan over some ice, but Isla had waited a very long time for her new bikini to arrive from the mainland and was absolutely not going to miss the opportunity to wear it.
Hillwalkers and holidaymakers, excited by the amazing TripAdvisor reviews (except for ‘Very disappointing lack of Chinese food – one star’ and ‘Couldnt understand wot they was saying, theys shood speek English up here – one star’) and in the mood for something delicious to set them off for ten hours’ hard walking in goodness knows what weather, realised they were going to have to make do with whatever the supermarket felt like offering them, or the beer-smelling Harbour’s Rest. They tried, and failed, to put a brave face on it, particularly the dragged-along hikers, there to make up the numbers but who were now clearly going to do nothing but moan all day. It was not working out very well for anyone.
If Flora could only have seen it, it would have cheered her up immeasurably to see how, in such a short time, the Seaside Kitchen had become such a mainstay of their little community.
But she couldn’t.
The confusion in Joel’s head as he awoke around ten-ish was hard to deal with. First, he had the mother of all hangovers. He also had absolutely no idea where the hell he was. He glanced around, his eyes scratchy and sore, his brain still furled up in cotton wool, muggy. What? What the hell had just happened? Argh, oh God, oh God, his head …
He tore to the bathroom and threw up. He looked at himself in the mirror; he barely recognised himself. Where the hell was he? What was this?
Finally, gradually, he pulled himself up, found a huge fluffy white towel and pulled it around himself. He was so light-headed he staggered against the doorframe. When was the last time he had eaten? He couldn’t remember. Oh God, he felt awful.
It was only then, clutching the door, trying to work out what the hell had happened, that he caught sight of the room beyond, and his brain exploded.
Wasn’t he in New York? His heart skipped in panic. The panorama in front of him …
His first thought was he had died. He had jumped – suddenly it scissored back into his brain: the balcony, the heat, the height. He clutched again at the doorframe, his head trying to focus on what he was seeing.
Instead of the bright reds and oranges of the New York sunset, ahead of him was a palette of washed-out pale greys: a huge glass window looking out onto a dawn that precisely reflected the room they were in, huge grey vistas, clouds and sea, soft white sands, pale flattened grass, deep blues. He blinked. And there, on the bed, stretched out, pale, her hair around her like sea grass …
And then he remembered. And he was so grateful he nearly burst into tears. Okay, his career might be in ruins …
But she was still here. The worst had not happened. He sat on the bed for a little while, making his breaths go in and out with hers. She shifted slightly in her sleep and he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead and headed out to blow the cobwebs away – to breathe the fresh air he had missed for so long.
Chapter Forty-one
Lorna turned up at school early and nervous. The news hadn’t reached her about Joel yet; she was worried about their two new arrivals. The children wanted to sing their alphabet song again – they had, to be fair, spent an awful lot of time practising it – and it was a fine day, so Lorna decided to let them. Neda Okonjo had sent over the briefing notes on both the children, which she had to keep locked in a filing cabinet. Both gave her cause for concern. She’d had children from difficult circumstances before, of course – there were divorces on Mure like anywhere else, and Kelvin McLinton’s father had fallen under the wheels of his tractor one awful stormy day.
But this was something she was worried she wasn’t fully equipped to cope with. She’d read as much as she could online about dealing with post-trauma in children and infants. Much of it was reassuring – as she kept telling herself, as long as babies were loved and looked after, they possessed so much resilience. She reminded herself that her grandparents’ generation had lived through evacuation and war. But this was a challenge she was desperate not to get wrong, for Saif, and for the boys themselves.
‘Just do your best.’ Neda had been cool, clear and reassuring on the phone. ‘Nobody’s going to expect perfection. Just keep to what they can do, and don’t worry too much about their English – basically to get that they need to do the opposite of what we recommend for most children, and watch about six hours of TV a day. Just try and make sure the other children are as nice as possible, and let them draw lots of pictures. Did you know children’s drawing is universal?’
Lorna did.
‘Well. Appreciate that. Every neurotypical child has a way of building up the world through their hands. Let them do it and they’ll slot right in with the rest of the class. And keep your Google Translate on.’
Lorna stood. She’d chosen a long skirt, hoping in some odd sense that she might look more like women they were used to seeing, although she didn’t really know much about that at all, and she plastered another big smile on as she saw Saif arrive.
He greeted her, trying his best to smile in return. He looked exhausted. Lorna thought it suited him.
‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘I had an emergency last night. They haven’t had much sleep.’
Indeed, Ash was sleeping on his shoulder, having not quite woken up in the car. Ibrahim was trailing sullenly behind, the sleeves of his blazer hanging down past his fists, kicking the fronts of his new black shoes against the gravel.
‘Hope it was okay,’ said Lorna, and Saif figured he would leave her to find out for herself; he was on his way to the Rock now anyway.
He shook Ash awake, who instantly started to cry, then held both the boys close.
‘It’s just school,’ he said firmly. ‘Ash, you’ll like it. They have lots of toys to play with and things to draw. Ibrahim, there’ll be other boys to play with.’
Ibrahim shrugged.
‘And I’ll be back at lunchtime.’
They were starting with some half-days. If they had to come back to the surgery with him, they just would.
Ash set up his shrill, one-note yell again, and Saif tried not to let his irritation show too much.
said Lorna. ‘Come in and welcome.’
Saif looked at her. ‘One year here and there was a fluent Arabic speaker all along,’ he said with a half-smile.
She flushed. ‘I’m terrible!’
‘Your effort,’ he said, ‘is the biggest compliment and kindness anyone could do me … I am sorry I ever …’
She shook her head. No apology was needed between them. He nodded.
Then he indicated Ash, whom he had to peel off himself again.
‘No, I really am sorry,’ he said.
‘Happens all the time,’ said Lorna with a smile, and looking in Lorna’s pretty freckled face, the warmth of her reassuring, slightly nervous smile, Saif felt his world stop spinning, just a little. He was not alone.