Page 5
“The beginning of March? That’s only four weeks away! I don’t even know if this is right for me. And I don’t want to rush into it—”
“Rush into it?” Auntie Peigi interrupted, brusquely. “You’ve been rushing into hare-brained schemes your whole life, m’ eudail! You need something steady, something dependable to build a foundation from. I think this makes perfect sense.”
Jenn didn’t know if it was the residual alcohol, the exhaustion, or the sheer force of Auntie Peigi’s will, but she found herself stuttering…
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent!” Auntie Peigi squealed—a sound Jenn was fairly certain she’d never made in her life. “I’ll tell Ealasaid you’re starting next month for the year. Now, pass me over to that lovely Vivi—we’ve got arrangements to make. You clearly need a shower and more tea. Tha gaol agam ort, m’ eudail,” Auntie Peigi said, clearly signifying the end of her discussions with her.
“Love you too.”
She waved Vivi over with a dazed look. “She wants to talk to you,” Jenn muttered, handing her the phone.
Vivi took it with a curious glance.
Jenn slumped back onto the sofa, nursing her tea, and grabbing another chocolate biscuit.
What the hell had she done?
What the actual hell…
Chapter 3
Four weeks later, Jenn stood looking out over Oban harbour. She had no idea if she was ready for what waited across the water—or if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
It was unusually quiet for this time of year. From Easter onwards, tourists would descend in hordes—midge bait in expensive waterproofs, clutching How-To-Ceilidh guides. Jenn had never understood the appeal. For her, Oban was just a stopgap on the way to Hellisay.
The sky—and ground—teemed with squawking, gnarled seagulls. Some with one eye, some one leg, and a rare few miraculously intact. Eating a fish supper outside here was an act of bravery. Or idiocy. She’d learned that young—happily toddling along the pier with a warm cone of chips, only to be dive-bombed by a hellish grey-and-white demon. The gull got its prize. She got trauma.
Oban was a proper working port. Paint-chipped and storm-beaten fishing boats bobbed alongside hulking passenger ferries, all jostling for space on the choppy water. The tourists were already trickling in for the ferry, weighed down with paper bags filled with tartan scarves, overpriced tablet, and slightly stale shortbread, eyes full of romantic island dreams.
Jenn exhaled slowly. This time was different. This time, she wasn’t going to Hellisay for a visit. She was going to stay.
For a full year.
She wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or bolt back to Edinburgh and hide under her duvet.
“Penny for them, m’ eudail…” Granny Annag’s dulcet tones broke through Jenn’s contemplation.
Years of Edinburgh living had softened her accent, but the Hebridean lilt still danced on certain syllables. Jenn suspected it would grow stronger with every mile they travelled closer to Hellisay—with more and more Gaelic slipping through.
“Just wool-gathering,” Jenn replied, turning to face her.
Even in her seventies, Granny Annag was a sight to behold. Her sculpted cheekbones and heart-shaped face were only slightly softened by age. Her once jet-black hair was now snow white, but her sea-glass green eyes still glinted with mischief. According to Auntie Peigi, many a Hellisay lad had drowned their sorrows the night that Granny Annag left the island for Edinburgh. Fresh out of school, Annag had left and taken work as a seamstress. There, she met Grampa Tam—a postman who made sure her letters were always hand-delivered. One day, he handed her a heartfelt love letter of his own. He invited her to ‘the pictures’. The rest, as they say, was history.
“I think this is the beginning of an adventure, m’ eudail,” Granny Annag said with a smile, linking her arm through Jenn’s. “It’s just what you need.”
Jenn didn’t reply. She gave her a grateful squeeze instead.
“You’ll need to watch yourself back on Hellisay, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” Jenn said warily, giving her a sideways glance.
“Island men. They’ll take one look at your cheeky face and start lining up with marriage proposals. You’re a rare commodity now—a mainlander who can bake.”
“Granny.”
“I’m just saying. Nothing wrong with a wee fling, either. Shake the dust off.”
