Page 46 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Eighteen

I read on, oblivious to the darkness smothering everything outside and the time slipping by.

The journals mentioned my parents, my grandpa, me and her artwork.

The first few notebooks, from what I could make out, covered the last twenty years. Beside some other entries were random sketches and little drawings: thistles, small fishing boats, daisies and her beloved butterflies.

But what jumped out at me from the pages again and again, was the edge of disappointment at not having tried to have her work displayed; or more to the point, taking a risk and putting her paintings out there.

I continued to read.

13 September 1999

I’ve finally finished my sunflower and gardening tools painting. I’m pleased with it. A tiny part of me even suggested it might be good enough to exhibit but I’m not deluding myself. I’m not prepared to take the risk and be rejected. I’ve had enough of that feeling.

Hmmm. Rejection. Was she referring to Reece there?

Settling back in the desk chair, with Bronte snoring by my feet and the glimpse of the lighthouse beam drizzling through the blinds, I returned my attention back to Grandma’s journals. The years fell away as I turned the pages.

There were some days when she hadn’t written anything. Others were more mundane. Some consisted of a couple of sentences, whilst in other entries she expressed her frustration at not being more ambitious or was far too hard on herself.

Bloody shadows are all wrong, she’d grumbled on 3 January 1982. I don’t know what I’m doing with this damned piece!

I eased over a few more pages, my grandmother’s handwriting and the faint scent of fusty vanilla emanating from the paper.

I put the notebook I was holding down on the desk and picked up another. This journal appeared older than the others. The pages were much more yellowed and it had a faded, suede, baby pink cover. Crikey! How many were there?! I’d no idea Grandma Tilda had been such a prolific journaler.

I opened it up. The first entry was 10 June 1963.

I love Reece so much, but I’m not sure it’s enough. His family disapprove of me. No matter what I do or what I say, they treat me like I’m a nobody. I can see it in their eyes. They think I’m beneath him. I keep mentioning it to Reece, but he says they just haven’t got to know me properly yet and just brushes it off. He insists that once they do, they’ll fall in love with me like he has. I won’t hold my breath!

Even though Reece had already alluded to this, anger lit up inside of me. My grandmother had been the most loving and compassionate woman. She was kind and considerate. How dare Reece’s jumped-up family be so judgemental?

I turned over the next few pages, my heart going out to my grandmother. It must’ve been awful for her.

There were details of dates that she and Reece had been on. Descriptions of the music they loved at a dance hall in Edinburgh; her saying how much Reece loved The Four Seasons and The Ronettes. My grandmother had written how she’d watched the movie Cleopatra in the cinema with Reece, and that he had teased her that the next choice of film they went to see would be The Great Escape. Then there were more frustrated comments about her art and also annoyance at her job in a picture framers in Edinburgh.

I know some of my paintings aren’t as good as the ones we sell in here, but others are.

I skipped over a few more entries until I arrived at Christmas Eve 1963.

Reece proposed to me tonight – and I said yes! We were admiring the huge Norwegian Christmas tree just off Princes Street, when he suddenly dropped down onto one knee. Stupid me, for one moment, I thought he was tying his shoelaces, but then he plucked this small, glossy box from out of his coat pocket. I opened it up and there was the most gorgeous yellow diamond ring.

I’m so, so happy! I honestly could cry right now. I did when he proposed. But his parents keep looming in my head. I know they aren’t going to be at all pleased about this. Reece still insists I’ll win them over, but why should I have to? I’m a good person and I love their son deeply.

I lowered the journal, a mixture of fury and sadness battling it out inside of me on behalf of my grandma. You could sense her fear and apprehension underneath her happiness and delight at her engagement to Reece.

I looked over several more entries and then stopped. Under the date 16 April 1964 was scribbled just a few, frantic sentences.

It’s over. Reece has called off the engagement. I love him so, so much but it’s not enough. I’m not enough. I knew I wouldn’t be. I’m not enough for him, as it turns out, and certainly not enough for his parents.

I shook my head.

Outside, the stars blinked over the bay and the lighthouse was beaming its protective eye across the boats it was guiding in the rough swell.

The journal had no more entries for a long time after that last one, just more random sketches of pieces of fruit and birds.

In fact, there were no more diary entries for another six months, until 30 October 1964.