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As Carrie walked along, taking in deep breaths of the sharp, cold air, she tried to steady her nerves. Her heart was hammering and her palms were sweaty. Just the act of leaving the cottage had put her into a state of panic: grieving had made her into a hermit. In her normal life, Carrie would have thought nothing of going for a walk through a rural village. It wasn’t exactly anything to get nervous about, but, nonetheless, she was having to take deep breaths and clench her hands into fists to try to stay calm.
It's one of those October mornings you saw in magazines, Carrie thought. The trees on the other side of the loch displayed a profusion of oranges, reds and yellows among the deep green pines and other evergreens that were so common in the area. The autumn trees were so deeply colourful that they almost seemed artificial: as if they had been created scrupulously by a team of painters in some kind of rogue art project.
She walked past the cottage next to hers and nodded to the man in its front garden, a tall, craggy-looking man with his face half-covered by a thick greyish-ginger beard. He was standing next to a large tree that dominated his front garden and was hung with a number of bird feeders. Carrie thought he looked like a Viking who had found his way to Scotland and decided to retire there.
‘Morning,’ she said, shyly.
‘Mornin’.’ He nodded. ‘You rentin’ the Ross cottage?’
‘Yes. For a while. I’m Carrie Anderson.’ She attempted a smile.
‘Ah. Angus McKinnon.’ He tapped his barrel-like chest. ‘We’re neighbours, then. How long you here?’
‘I’m not sure. Gretchen Ross said I could see how it went.’
‘Ah. No’ a holiday then?’ The man gave her a sharp look, but continued filling his bird feeders with seed.
‘Not really.’ She looked away. ‘Anyway, I’m just going down into the village to get some food, get some fresh air, you know.’ She shrugged, keen to be on her way and avoid a difficult conversation about what had brought her here. ‘Can I get you anything while I’m there?’
She didn’t really want to run errands for this Viking neighbour, who didn’t exactly seem infirm or vulnerable – Carrie was sure that he was entirely capable of getting his own supplies – but she wanted to be polite.
‘Ach. No, but thanks fer the offer.’ He nodded again, not smiling, but with a kind look in his eye. ‘Listen. I dinnae bite, so if we’re goin’ tae be neighbours a while, come in an’ have a cuppa with me sometime. I could do with the company, and so could ye, by the look o’ ye.’ He gave her another shrewd look. ‘An’ if ye need anythin’, just knock. If I dinnae answer, I’ll be in ma workshop out the back. Just walk around.’
‘Your workshop?’ Carrie asked.
‘Aye. I repair things. Clocks, furniture, whatever people need.’ He shrugged. ‘Keeps me outta trouble, now I’m retired. An’ if ye hear me singin’, dinnae call the police’ – now he chuckled, a deep, sonorous laugh that made Carrie smile instinctively – ‘I’m practisin’ for my choir’s show.’
‘There’s a choir in Loch Cameron?’ Carrie asked with interest. She had always enjoyed singing as a child, and she’d even sung some solos in her secondary school end of year show. Not that her dad had bothered to come – but Claire had helped her practise, and watched proudly from the back row of the auditorium. Carrie felt herself tense up at the memory of her sister, and clenched her hands again to try to regain control over the surge of grief that rose up in her.
‘Aye. Come along, if ye want. We’re always lookin’ for new members.’ Angus closed up the big bag of birdseed and placed it on the grass by his feet.
‘Oh. Maybe,’ Carrie said, noncommittally. She might have once enjoyed singing, but the idea of joining a choir and singing with strangers right now was terrifying.
‘Aye, well. Ye know where tae find me.’ Angus whistled a little bird call to a nearby Finch. ‘I’ll let ye get on.’
‘Okay. It was nice to meet you, Angus.’ She gave him a little wave.
‘And you, Carrie,’ he called after her.
That wasn’t so bad, she thought, as she walked along.Human contact. It was okay. I didn’t fall apart. In fact, it was reassuring to know that Angus was next door. Not that anything ever happened in Loch Cameron – she remembered that from being here as a child. Great-Aunt Maud would often say,it’s more likely to rain frogs than a crime happen in Loch Cameron, my sweet little bairn, and it had seemed true at the time. No one had ever locked their doors or been afraid of burglars, or worse. Carrie didn’t know if the village was still the same, but she appreciated the fact that all six feet-whatever of Angus was next door.
A few cottages along, though, Carrie came to a stop and gazed at the place she remembered so well. She’d been avoiding it thus far, not feeling up to seeing the cottage where she’d spent so many happy times as a child. Not because there were any bad memories – it was the opposite. She knew that as soon as she saw Great-Aunt Maud’s cottage again, she would be unable not to think of Claire.
The whitewashed cottage was similar to the rest along the row. Carrie was pleased to see that whoever lived in it now kept the garden neat, though they had repainted the door and the window frames from the cheery green that Carrie remembered, to white. However, there were children’s pictures of rainbows in the windows, and Carrie could see a washing line in the back, stretched across the garden, and a swing set and slide. Clearly, a family lived here, and that made her feel a little better.
Still, seeing Great-Aunt Maud’s cottage again was a jolt. Despite the changes, the familiarity of the place meant that Carrie could immediately see herself and Claire playing on the lawn, helping their great-aunt pick raspberries from the bushes in the back garden and bringing them inside in huge baskets to make into jam. Carrie stood there, feeling tears prick her eyes, as she remembered every detail: she and Claire being in charge of carefully placing the hot, sterilised jam jars on a clean tea towel on Maud’s peeling linoleum kitchen table, making sure to wear Maud’s huge floral oven mitts to avoid burning their hands. Great-Aunt Maud would stir the bubbling jam and, when it got close to being set, would test it on the back of a spoon. If the sticky pink jam cooled on the silver spoon and formed a skin, then it was ready, and Maud would ladle the hot jam into the jars that the girls had laid out. Then, she’d place on sterilised lids, though not screwing them down too tight. The best part was that there was always a little jam left in the pan, and when it had cooled down enough, Maud would produce some freshly baked bread or a couple of homemade scones, and the girls would be allowed to spread the jam on the baked treats and devour them in front of the ancient television.
She and Claire had loved jam day. It was a highlight of their summer. Sometimes Mum had helped, though Dad never did. But, often, Mum would go for a walk and Dad would go to the pub, and leave them with Maud. She and Claire had never minded.
But, now, Maud and Claire and her mum were gone, and her dad might as well have been dead for all that she heard from him. Not even Claire’s funeral had prompted him to be a better father. He’d come, watched Claire’s coffin be lowered into the ground, and then left again. He hadn’t even come to the wake.
Carrie zipped up her coat against the sharp autumn wind, and put up her hood to disguise the fact that she had started to cry. She had wanted to come back to Loch Cameron for comfort. And itwascomforting, in a way. But it was also tough to walk in the footsteps of her memories. Would she ever be able to get over losing Claire? She didn’t think so. Carrie couldn’t imagine a day where she would wake up and not think of her sister straight away.
She didn’t know if it made losing Claire better or worse, staying in the cottage so close to the one that held so many memories. But something in her wanted to be here. And, even though it was hard to remember, it was also good to go back to those times. Because they had been good. A long time ago, life had been sweet.
FIVE
‘Hello, dear. What’ll it be?’
