‘What about Friday, then?’
‘I’m sorry, but I really won’t have the chance to do any more baking,’ I said apologetically.
‘Slip him a leftover from the wedding, then; no one’ll notice,’ yet another passenger chipped in.
‘Stealing from the bride and groom to pay her bus fare? Is that the type of thing people do on the mainland?’ The woman at the front huffed.
‘Nah, Pip’s a decent fella. He wouldn’t be with a lass who’d be stealing from his own family, now, would he?’
I held out the note again, thinking it a small price to pay to end this nonsense.
Connell puffed out some air, sucked in his cheeks and narrowed one eye. I could see how the bus ended up behind schedule.
‘Okay. I owe Pip a favour. You can tell him that’s it paid.’ He raised his voice so the whole minibus could hear. ‘One single to Lithin, free of charge, for Pip’s pasty girl!’
‘About time, too,’ a man near the back said as I hurried to the nearest available seat, presuming he was referring to the delay.
‘Pip’s not getting any younger, after all. His ma and da will be that pleased he’s finally chosen a wife.’
I slid down the back of the seat and pretended not to hear the rest of the bus discussing my wifely qualities as we started heading down the lane.
There was no point hoping Pip wouldn’t find out I’d not only taken his favour from Connell, but also allowed a minibusto think I was his bride-to-be for the sake of a free ticket. The whole island would probably have heard about it before Connell clocked off for the evening.
Including Celine.
I slid a little further down in my seat and prayed that she loved Iris enough not to sabotage her wedding feast.
24
It soon became apparent how a bus could take so long to cover such a short distance. Every time someone got off or on, which varied between half a mile and a couple of hundred yards apart, Connell would have a chat about where they were heading, where they’d come from or what the last few people had said in answer to those questions. I also realised fairly quickly that no one paid the ‘tourist rates’. Some handed the driver a bottle of cider or a piece of cake. Others proffered a tub of cherries, clutch of rhubarb stalks or a battered paperback. One man tried a piece of driftwood, shaped a bit like a fish, but Connell reminded him that he accepted ‘useful items only’, so the man decided to walk instead.
At eight minutes past six, we pulled up on the one road that made up the centre, and all the rest, of Lithin.
Like Port Cathan, the road ran alongside the coast, with a row of buildings on the opposite side to the promenade. Beyond this were steps leading down to a pebbly beach.
I strolled from one end of the promenade to another, which took about five minutes. There was a small pub and fancy-looking restaurant, but I chose a ‘catch of the day’ special from the fish and chip shop and found a wall overlooking the sea.
The fish was crisply battered, the chips deliciously squishy and the Siskin sauce had the perfect amount of tang to balance the grease.
While I ate, a dog owner threw a ball into the waves for a pair of collies to chase, children busily constructed a tower of pebbles and a couple wandered along the shoreline arm in arm. The contrast in these strangers to the people I usually observed, scurrying across the concourse to then stand impatiently in a queue, noticing nothing save the departure board or the phone in front of their nose, was stark.
The time on the Isle of Siskin had been a revelation. These farmers and café owners, shop-workers and bus drivers worked hard to make a living, but they also made sure they didn’t neglect the ‘living’ part. Having spent several days adjusting to new surroundings and people, taking everything in, and now this evening on Lithin promenade, I started to think what this newly discovered way of living might mean for me.
Not a grand fantasy like in one of Flora’s novels. In the real world, there were contractual obligations, bills to pay, deliveries on order. A houseful of stuff, all I’d ever known, every memory from my childhood. But as I’d learned more about this whole other side to my mum, I realised that pretending I hadn’t chosen my current circumstances – the business and the busyness, the famine of friendship and family – was a cop-out. It might not have been easy to go against Mum and open some different doors – to travel, or study. Buy a pair of high-heeled shoes. I’d seen not only with Blessing, but also here, how family expectations impacted lots of people. But the brutal truth was, Mum no longer cared what I did with Parsley’s, or the cottage. Besides, she was the best example I’d known of someone whodefied expectations, ignored convention and followed her own path, chose her own life and then lived with it.
Those thoughts finally led to me one conclusion, as I sat and watched a fleet of boats bobbing on distant waves, surrounded by children’s laughter blending with the chatter from the pub across the street.
A new pasty recipe and a makeover weren’t enough.
I was done with working in an airport.
I couldn’t spend my days in a giant, windowless, weather-less box any more. I didn’t want to be constantly battered by the onslaught of other people’s stress as they hurried past.
I wanted to work under the open sky. Or at least somewhere I could look at it.
I wanted more lie-ins and late nights. Long, lazy lunches on my days off.
At the very least, I wanted to try it and see.
