That evening, her mother had woken up, or seemed to, briefly, as the sky was beginning to turn a fulsome pink, and Flora sat next to her and gave her some water, although she was close to choking, and her medicine, which relaxed her mother right away, up to the point where she was able to stroke Flora’s hand; and Flora leaned her head against her mother’s and they breathed together, in, out, and everyone came over; and who even knew exactly when the last breath came or who noticed it first or how it was taken, but it came; in the place where she had taken nearly every breath she ever took, and they were incredibly grateful to have her there, at home, not connected to things that beeped, or in a sterile ward, or surrounded by people shouting and trying useless maneuvers, but where the old blackened kettle on top of the oven was still set to whistle; where Bramble’s tail slowly thumped a rhythm on the rug as it always did; where the ancient pile of unused keys—the house was never locked—sat in the bowl with mysterious bits and bobs of screws and handy things; where the curtains that Annie had made herself when she’d first moved in there still hung, so many years ago, a young bride full, Flora imagined, of cheer and hopefulness: orange flowers on a blue background, which had been fashionable, then hideous, and were now on the point of tipping back into being fashionable again.
There had been babies on the rug in that room, then children tearing around, the endless comings and goings of the farmhands; how many vegetable soups, and apple pies; how many scraped knees, and tears wiped away, and muddy footprints in various sizes of Wellingtons; how many birthday cakes—chocolate for Fintan and Hamish, lemon for Innes, vanilla for Flora—how many candles blown out and Christmas presents wrapped; and how many cups of tea . . .
And it had all vanished in the blink of an eye when Flora had been twenty-three years old, and she had run away as far and fast as she could; couldn’t bear to think of it, never ever wanted to come back; wanted nothing of a life that had been ripped from all of them; didn’t want to assume the mantle of the family’s pain, come home as they’d all expected. As the entire island had expected.
She stood there now, in the dark, dusty, unloved kitchen, braced herself on the back of the chair, and simply let the tears flow.
Chapter Eight
She heard her father—or rather, his dog, Bracken, woofing hello at the intruder—before she saw him, and rubbed her face quickly.
Eck MacKenzie had always been strong looking. But his blue eyes were sinking now; there were broken veins on his cheeks from decades of high winds on the moorland, and his hair was thinning under his omnipresent tweed bunnet.
“Flora,” he said, nodding.
They had spoken, of course, since the funeral. But only briefly. She’d invited him down to London and he’d said, “Aye, maybe, maybe,” which they both knew meant never, never.
“You’re no back to stay?”
Flora shook her head. “But I’m working up here,” she said eagerly. “I mean, I’ll be here for a bit. Maybe a week?”
He nodded. “Aye.” Her father’s ayes, she well knew, could mean many things. This one meant, well, that’s fine as far as that goes.
After that, everyone stood around. If Mum had been there, Flora thought, she’d have been bustling, making tea, thrusting cake on everyone whether they wanted it or not, making everything cozy and nice and not strange.
Instead, everyone looked a bit awkward.
“Mm, tea?” said Flora, which helped a bit.
They sat around the kitchen table bleakly. There was almost no food in, and everything felt like a gap.
“So, how’s work?” said Fintan eventually, as if it had to be dragged out of him.
“Uh, good,” said Flora. “I’m up here to talk to Colton Rogers.”
“Good luck with that,” snorted her father.
“That bastard!” said Innes.
Uh-oh, thought Flora.
“Hang on. He’s nice!” she said.
The boys exchanged glances.
“Well, we wouldn’t know,” said Fintan.
“He doesn’t have anything to do with the local people,” said Innes. “Doesn’t employ us, doesn’t buy from us.”
“He’s building some fancy-pants place over on the north of the island,” said Fintan. “For rich idiots to fly in by helicopter and have ‘experiences.’”
“Idiots,” said Innes.
“And he gets arseholes up here to hunt grouse. They come in the Harbor’s Rest and behave like English wankers,” said Fintan.
“Well, I expect you’re very friendly and give them the benefit of the doubt,” said Flora.
“Not nice people,” said Hamish, shaking his head and giving a biscuit to Bramble, who was standing there, poised for exactly that eventuality.
Her father wasn’t even at the table with them. He was sitting by the fireside, stoking up the grate and sipping a large glass of whisky, even though it was early in the day. Flora looked at him, then back at her plate.
“Are you guys eating . . . I mean, are you looking after yourselves all right?” she asked.
“We tidied up for you coming.” Fintan frowned.
“Seriously?” said Flora.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fintan was on the defensive immediately.
“No, no, I was just saying . . .”
“We eat sausages,” said Hamish, frowning. “Also sometimes bacon.”
“You’ll kill yourselves!”
Her father was looking thinner. Flora wondered if he was eating much at all, or if it was all just whisky. It had been three years; surely they must be starting to get over it.
Not that she was.
“Yeah, thanks for the life advice you’ve flown all this way to give us, Flora,” said Innes. “We’ll just stop working twelve-hour days . . . How long is your working day again?”
“It’s plenty long,” snapped back Flora. “And I commute.”
“Do you cook?”
“No. But there’s M and S, and Deliveroo . . .”
Flora looked at their faces and decided this was not the time to attempt to explain Deliveroo.
“So,” she said, glancing around, “how’s the farm doing?”
There was a very long pause. Innes stared at his plate.
“Why? You going to come back and lawyer it up?” said Fintan shortly.
“No,” said Flora. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Not well,” said Innes shortly. “Not all of us are pulling our weight.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Fintan.
“You heard.”
“I do my bit.”
“You do the absolute bare minimum. Thank God Hamish picks up your slack.”
“I like cows,” said Hamish.
“Shut up, Hamish,” said Fintan. “You like everything.”
Without looking at him, Flora passed Hamish her last biscuit. He ate it in two bites.
“How are things, Dad?” said Flora.
“Och. Fine,” said her dad without turning round. He kept staring at the fire, Bracken’s head in his lap.
“Right,” said Flora. “Great.”
Innes switched on the TV. This was the only new thing in the house; it was huge, and tuned to Sky Sports 9, which showed the shinty. He turned it up loud and handed round a bag of horrible, greasy sausage rolls he’d brought up from the village. And Flora sat and watched in silence with the others, the gap inside her so vast and hollow she could hardly breathe.
Chapter Nine
At 9 P.M., Flora got a message from Colton Rogers’s office that he would be busy tomorrow and wouldn’t be able to see her after all, which was even more useless. She texted Kai about it, who got back to her straightaway.
Hey babe. How is it?
Are they thrilled you’re back?
Well this will cheer you up. Joel is concerned about what’s happening. He’s coming up.
Get some sleep.
Eventually Flora gave up on the shinty and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She felt the slightly musty pillowcase under her head, the thin duvet, the sagging mattress, and wondered when the last time anyone had slept in here was. It wasn’t as if her father particularly encouraged guests. Why would he when everyone he knew in the world, more or less, lived within walking distance? And with a large family, the house had always felt full and lively enough anyway, if anything, too noisy.