Page 47 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

The thought of Reece still hurts but perhaps, on reflection, he did the right thing by ending our engagement. His parents would never have allowed us to be happy anyway.

I’m trying to move on. It’s still difficult. I loved him more than life itself. But I’ll get there. I have to.

I’ll get there. I have to.

I traced one finger over these particular words. I just wished I could believe them for myself.

More dates were missing – no more new entries for ten days, until 10 November. Then my grandmother had written.

Whilst I was working in the shop today, a young man came in, asking about having a picture framed for his grandfather for his birthday.

The picture was a painting of the older man in his younger years whilst serving in the army. Whoever had painted it had captured a determined, steely spark in his eyes.

Anyway, the young gent kept staring at me, going red and smiling.

He was attractive in a kind, boyish sort of way. When Ms Townsend disappeared into the back office and I’d taken the measurements of his picture and processed his order, he thanked me for my help and said his name was Howard Michaels.

I let out a delighted, stunned little gasp that made Bronte jerk her head up to look at me.

My grandpa. That was the day she’d met him. The day she’d recounted again and again over the years, describing him blushing furiously across the counter and smiling at her. I rubbed at my eyes. They were beginning to feel gritty. I’d done far more sorting and reading than I’d intended.

Weariness was tugging at my bones. Even Bronte let out a very unladylike yawn, as she rested by my feet.

But I couldn’t resist. I decided to push on with reading just a few more pages, before calling it a night.

Details of their subsequent dates – meeting for coffee; going dancing and ten-pin bowling; strolling through Princes Street Gardens; catching a concert by The Hollies – followed. My grandmother’s happiness at their blossoming romance wafted from the pages.

Howard is trying to encourage me to display my work or sell it. He says I have great talent. But then he would, wouldn’t he? I’ve had comments like that before. I’m happy for the first time in a long time and I’m not prepared to risk that. Perhaps I’m not meant to have my work seen by a lot of people. Maybe my painting is just meant to give me happiness and contentment – which it does. So, so much. Perhaps I’m not as talented as I think I am, or those around me believe me to be. Still, I do dream about having an exhibition of my work, people in the arts admiring my brush strokes and sketching abilities, appreciating what I’m trying to do.

Art makes me feel alive, and thinking that my paintings could make other people feel the emotion I do is almost too wonderful to imagine.

I know my darling Howard means well, but for me to take that further step and try to get my paintings exhibited somewhere … well, I just can’t. I’ll hold that dream in my heart though. Always.

Fascinated, I flicked through more entries: my grandparents’ meeting, falling in love, marrying and then eventually leaving Edinburgh to move to Rowan Bay.

31 May 1985

Leaving Edinburgh behind was difficult, but both Howard and I have decided we wanted a change of scene and Rowan Bay is certainly that!

Tessa has gone travelling with a few friends in Europe, before she begins her English degree at the University of York, so it seemed like the perfect time to start a new chapter.

Rowan Bay is breathtaking, with the majestic waves, rippling cliff faces and even a lighthouse just across from our cottage and up on the opposite cliff! It will certainly be an inspirational setting for my art.

The lighthouse keeper is a flirty, funny gent about the same age as Howard and me, called Barclay Hogan. He’s promising to lead Howard astray by taking him on a tour of some of the local hostelries. I don’t think my dear Howard will take much persuading!

The locals, just like Barclay, seem welcoming and friendly. Or at least, most of them are…

I frowned. I wonder what Grandma meant by that? I resumed reading.

There’s even an art gallery here, called the Lumiere Gallery, which I’ve heard so many wonderful things about. Apparently, almost every famous Scottish artist you can think of has had paintings exhibited there at one time or another. Oh, to have a piece of my own work hanging on its famed walls! What a dream that would be.

Anyway, it’s been another busy chaotic day, unpacking more boxes after we arrived earlier in the week.

I hope to go and check out more of Rowan Bay and its inhabitants tomorrow.

I smiled fondly at Grandma’s dancing handwriting and her mention of meeting Barclay for the first time. I turned over the next page.

3 June 1985