The Island House (11 page)

“You tell him, lass.”

The loudmouth swung round as Walter Boyne skewered him with a look. “Since when can’t she moor her craft? You don’t own the wharf.”

“Clear off, Boyne,” the bully said. But it was he who wheeled and stamped away.

Walter called after him. “An apology, Robert Buchan, would be in order.”

The man’s eyes bulged as he stopped, and his neck swelled.

Alarms went off in Freya’s head; she said, hastily, “No harm done, Walter.” Pork Person, by the look of him, might be on the way to a stroke.

“This incident
will
be reported. Regulations are there for a reason, Boyne.” One last glare at Freya powered a pompous exit.

Walter muttered, “Oh, get over yourself.”

The hull scraped against the wharf. Freya threw the mooring rope. “Catch,” she said. She was shaking.

Walter tapped his skull as he slung the rope over a bollard. “You did well to stand up to the windy young fool.” He pronounced it
full.

Freya muttered, “Something got him going, that’s for sure.” She pulled on the backpack with unnecessary violence.

Walter grinned. Freya Dane, angry, was undeniably an impressive sight—her eyes flashing sparks like those of the welder in his workshop. “Lives in denial, that one. The Buchans were lairds here before the war, and better men than him lost the lot when he was a kid, including harbor rights. Never got over it, our Rob; thinks he’s owed.”

The girl grasped the offered hand as she scrambled up the steps. “Can I buy you a coffee, Walter?” There was a line of interested faces in the windows of the pub. They were enjoying the little drama.

Walter nodded. He said, slowly, “I’ve got a bit of time. Make it a beer.”

He held the door open to the Angry Nun, but his eyes did not quite meet hers as she brushed past.

Freya relaxed. Walter knew what was coming.

Once, long ago, Portsolly had been a much bigger place—a burgh, a seat of government on this wild and remote coast, or so the tourist brochure said. But one glance out of the window and the grand past dissolved—this was just a village now: a long straggle of houses winding from the sea up to the coast road, high above the town.

Toward the end of the summer season, the backpackers would drift off and the owners of the bed-and-breakfasts would reclaim their houses with relief, shake out the duvets and wash the towels with extra disinfectant. For now, though, the pretty harbor was crowded with groups and knots of young people and families, even though a sudden shower was starting to thicken.

Standing at the bar, waiting to be served, Walter inspected the tide of humanity as it flowed past the windows and in through the door. He muttered, “A curse. Locusts, the lot of them.”

“So, Walter, you and Robert. Cousins?” Freya’s expression was innocent. “Thanks. On me.” She nodded to the barman as he handed them both a pint.

Walter laughed. “Fair point. Still . . .” He led Freya to a table in a front window of the Nun. They were lucky to get it. The bar was filling up with pink-faced people—you didn’t expect sunburn in Scotland, after all—and as more pushed in to get out of the rain, the place took on the reek of a wet dog.

“Tourists bring money, surely?”

Walter snorted. “A shirt and five pounds and don’t change either. Looters, pillagers, always have been. English!” His voice cut through the babble, and people stared. Walter grinned amiably.

Freya choked back a laugh; the man was shameless.

Walter’s smile faded. He turned his tankard to the other side for no particular reason and took a cautious sip.

Freya leaned closer. “Did you know my father well, Walter?”

He nodded. The long exhale of a sigh misted the glass. “I would call him my friend.”

Freya said nothing.

Another gusty breath, then, “I thought it best, since we had but met, just to take you to the island. But it troubled me.” He looked down into his beer. “I did not think it was my place to discuss his passing—not then, if you can understand, because—” He stopped.

So, more to the story.
But Freya said, “It’s okay.” She didn’t say she understood, because she did not. “But there was a clipping at the house, a newspaper article, and you were mentioned.”

This time Walter looked her in the eyes. “We lost your dad and, very nearly—”

A baby howled, and there was pandemonium. He’d fallen from a high chair and, scooped up by his frightened mother, the child screamed louder.

Walter drained the pint in a swallow and stood. “Shall we?”

Freya was happy to go. The tables were too close for a private conversation.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but it had cleared the crowds from the quay, leaving the world a calmer place.

“Over here.” Walter put his hand under Freya’s elbow, guiding her toward a large stone shed at the other end of the wharf. A working building, it had its own slipway and stood a little apart. Closer, and she could read the sign.
WALTER BOYNE & SON. SHIPWRIGHTS
.

The place was well kept. There were no missing slates on the roof, and a pair of massive doors was painted copper red, as were the outer frames of the windows under the eaves. The inner frames were brilliant white—a pleasing contrast to the dark stone. From inside there came the tearing whine of power tools.

“Here you are.” Walter opened a small door within one of the larger pair and stood aside, and Freya stepped past him over the threshold. The air inside was thick with resin and the hot cinnamon of sawn timber.

“We use a lot of oak and different kinds of pine. That’s the smell. Other timbers as we need them.” Walter was shouting.

Up close the noise from the equipment was huge, toothshakingly
immense. Freya stuck fingers in both ears, nodding. She stared at the half-built boat that reared up toward the ceiling—it claimed most of the space in the center of the shed, and light from the high windows poured across ribs half-clad with overlapping lengths of timber. Walter Boyne & Son built wooden boats out of an ancient tradition; of course he’d been Michael’s friend.

“Dan . . . turn it off. Dan!” Walter cupped hands to shout to a hunched figure at the other end of the workshop. He and another man were feeding a piece of timber through a benched power saw; both had ear protectors on, and both were oblivious to the newcomers.

“Excuse me, Freya.” Walter strode the length of the shed, waving both arms. “Oi!” Finally, as the lumber completed its journey past the blade, one of the men signaled to the other and the power was switched off. As the howl died, the saw disk slowed and grew impressive teeth.

“I can see you, Dad.”

Daniel Boyne was taller than his father. He took the ear protectors off and shoved safety glasses back on his head. Unshaven and dark-skinned with bright, cold eyes, he flicked a glance at Freya before he leaned down to speak to Walter. “What do you want? We’ve got a lot to get through.”

Freya felt the impatience from forty feet. Walter said something in a low voice, and Freya looked away as Daniel Boyne glowered in her direction; the structure of the ship suddenly became fascinating. She wandered down the flank closest to the wall, running her fingers along the smooth wood. Someone loved this work.

“It’s a long way from finished.” Uttered like a warning.

Freya stood back, suddenly guilty, but she recognized the voice this time. Workshop Man. Of course. She forced a smile. Intense eyes, grayer than a cold sea, stared at her with no expression.

“Hello, I’m Freya. I think we might have spoken earlier? When I was trying to find Mr. Boyne. Walter, that is.”

“Yes.” Not even the ghost of an apology or a smile.

Freya’s face stiffened.

This was news to Walter. “You should have let me know, Dan; it was Freya’s first time on the island last night, I told you that. I was worried for her.” He coughed and waved toward his son, the gesture some kind of apology. “He’s not always like this.”

Daniel Boyne cast Freya an unfriendly glance, then stared at his father. With an edge he said, “We’re behind.”

Freya blushed like a child. The hostility was hurtful and strange, and she felt her eyes well up. What was it with men in Portsolly?

Walter spoke sharply. “Freya’s come a long way, a very long way. She deserves to know more about her father.”

Daniel Boyne opened his mouth—and closed it with a snap. He moved rapidly away down the length of the workshop toward his assistant. “Denny, time for lunch.”

It took Freya a shocked moment to register that Daniel was leaving, and then she saw he walked with a cane, compensation for an awkward, rolling limp.

Walter touched her arm. “Come to the office, child.” He sighed. “You being here, I’d hoped that Dan . . .” Walter’s face worked.

Freya linked an arm through his. “So it’s not me, then, it’s him.” She found a smile. “I was starting to worry.”

The office at the far end of the workshop was tiny, and Walter shoved the door hard. It opened protestingly. “A bit of a trick to it. In you come,” he said and gestured to a wooden stool that stood between two elderly desks. One depressed office chair and a couple of dated computers completed the furnishings, though paper was strewn across every surface.

Perhaps Walter saw the room through Freya’s eyes. He said defensively, “Put things on the floor when you can’t find room on the desk—that’s my system. Dan won’t file, says it’s not his job, and I keep forgetting.” He looked away. “Sally used to do the books; place was tidy then. But I can still put my hand on what I need when I need it.”

Freya smiled cautiously. “I shared a house with a girl once who dropped stuff out of the window—that was her filing system. True story. Drove the neighbors mad.”

Walter filled a kettle from a sink in one corner. “Tea?” He splashed water everywhere. “Hold on, I’ll just . . .” He mopped the puddle ineffectually. Freya resisted the urge to fix it for him.

“Tea would be nice.”

There was a moment’s awkward pause as mugs were rattled from a cupboard and the kettle burbled its way to a scream.

“Milk?”

Freya nodded, and Walter pulled a bar fridge open. He stared inside, perplexed. “I could have sworn . . .” He raised his voice above the kettle. “Sorry. No milk. There’s sugar, though.” He flipped the switch, and the howl sputtered to spitting silence.

“No worries. Black will be fine. No sugar.”

Walter smiled faintly at the Australianism as he dunked tea bags. “Watching your weight? Never can understand why half of you go through life starving and the others, well . . .” He handed a mug to Freya, full to slopping over, and sat down heavily. He swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Dan’s not a bad lad.”

Freya might have smiled—the lad was certainly past thirty—but Walter was struggling. “I’m sure he’s not; people don’t like being interrupted.”

“It’s not that . . .” Walter’s voice trailed away.

Freya sipped the scalding liquid.

Walter tried again. “I walked you into this, lass, and I am sorry for it. But I thought speaking with you about the night your father died”—he stumbled, getting that word out—“might help him. Dan’s proud, you see, and he will not talk to me about it.”

Freya said, softly, “Go on.”

“He tried, he really tried to save your dad, and me as well, but the sea beat us all. He’s the one left with the damage of it and not just what is physical. And now here you are.” Walter shrugged, helpless. “You have a right to know what happened.
Sally, now . . .” A sad shadow passed across his face. “She was my wife, Dan’s mum. Sally would know what to say to you and to him. She got on well with Dan—better than I do—but she died three years ago.”

Freya murmured, “I’m sorry to hear it.” She was; Walter’s face had softened when he said his wife’s name.

Walter turned the mug in his hand. “We say the wrong things to each other, you see. I try too hard; he thinks of it as prying.” His smile was pained. “Fathers and sons.”

Freya might have replied
Mothers and daughters,
but she didn’t.

Walter stared out into the silent workshop. “He’s been locked away since then, if you can understand.”

“I know what you mean.” It was true, she understood being emotionally locked away.

“And, after it happened . . .” Walter paused unhappily. “We were out there that night in
The Holy Isle,
as the paper said. Late, very late, coming back, but when the fish run in these times, you chase them even on New Year’s Eve.” He stared into the tea as if it could tell him what next to say. “I would have said I knew these waters, but that night the strait turned against us. The seas were high as this shed, and when the engine swamped, we were driven toward Findnar, toward the rock shoals at the end of your cove.” Walter closed his eyes.
Mayday, Mayday. This is Holy Isle . . .

“But we could not raise the lifeboat service, and Dan begged me to let her go, take our chances with the inflatable, but I would not do it. I thought she would come through.” He exhaled. “Michael heard us from the house, the signal got that far. He saw our lights too—red and green—so he knew we were straight ahead for the rocks. He tried to put out to help us. A foolish thing but brave.” He shook his head. “It was my fault, all of it.”