After passing through Kyle of Lochalsh, Juliette forged ahead with an excited anticipation fluttering in her stomach. The arc of the Skye bridge loomed before her and she knew she was mere minutes away from the start of something spectacular. A few people stood at the centre point of the bridge, taking advantage of the vivid azure sky overhead, with the pretty village of Kyeleakin below.
A twinge of melancholy tugged at her once again. Laurie would’ve loved it here and she wished more than anything he could be alongside her for the trip. But just as she had before, she stopped the sadness from brewing; she knew he was there in spirit. And she thought of her mum and how fondly she talked of the island. It was bizarre, but the family connection gave her a strange sense of belonging before she even officially arrived.
She followed the road until her satnav instructed her to take a left turning, indicating that her destination could be found on the left. Thistle House bed and breakfast was situated beside a pub that would be handy for dinner, she thought. As she focused on the pretty stone house with its array of purple-headed thistle bushes, she mused that it wasn’t hard to see where it got its name. She slowed, looking for suitable parking, when a series of loud thuds came from the front of the vehicle and she slammed on the brakes, her heart almost leaping from her chest.
A tall, auburn-haired man wearing paint-spattered trousers and an equally paint speckled T-shirt had slammed his hand on the bonnet of the car. His hair was a little wild and unkempt and there was a stripe of blue paint on his cheek. His face was scrunched in anger and he pushed his glasses up his nose, glaring at her as he shouted, ‘Watch where you’re going, will you?’ He had a rather rich, deep voice and, of course, that accent she loved – shame about the aggressive tone of it though.
She immediately wound down her window and with wide eyes spluttered, ‘Oh, my word, I’m so sorry! I didn’t hit you, did I?’ The fact that she was only driving at walking pace didn’t really register when she saw the red-faced man scowling at her.
‘No, but you could have!’ he shouted. Then, he mumbled something about, ‘Bloody tourists,’ as he stormed off in the direction of Glentorrin.
Juliette took a deep breath and glanced around to see who else had been witness to her act of careless driving, but thankfully no one else was in the vicinity. Once her heart rate had calmed, she parked the car and took her overnight bag inside. The tiled hallway was painted in a calming sage green colour that complemented the parquet flooring. To the left was a dining room, to the right a small lounge and the staircase led up in front of her.
An older lady, perhaps mid-fifties, with neat, grey hair and wearing an apron appeared from a door along the hall, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Hello there. You must be Mrs Fairhurst,’ she said with a warm smile.
Juliette held out her hand and shook the offered one. ‘Yes, but please call me Juliette or, even better,Jules.’
‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Jules. I’m Morag. I’ll show you up to your room, then you can come down and have a cup of tea and some home-made shortbread if you’d like. I say home-made, but it was Caitlin at the bakery that made it.’ She chuckled.
‘Sounds lovely,’ Juliette replied as she followed Morag up the stairs.
‘Here you go. You’ve a pretty view over the village from here. En-suite through the door in the corner and you’ve a kettle and some tea-making things on the tray over on the dressing table. I’ll let you get settled and I’ll go and put the kettle on. Pop down to the kitchen, last door along the hallway.’
Once she was alone, Juliette glanced around the cosy surroundings. The room wasn’t huge, but it was sufficient for a week. The double bed was covered in what her mum would call a candlewick bedspread, in pale blue, and the rest of the furniture was painted white, giving a fresh and bright appearance to the room. Fresh flowers sat in a small glass vase on the dressing table and beside that was the tray Morag had mentioned.
After she’d unpacked her belongings, she made her way back downstairs and to the door she presumed was the kitchen.
‘Ah, come away in, Jules. I’ve made tea. Or do you prefer coffee?’ Morag said as she stood there, teapot in hand.
‘Tea is just fine, thank you.’
‘Have a seat. What brings you to Glentorrin?’ Morag asked.
Juliette sat at the old pine table that showed aged signs of plenty of family gatherings. ‘It’s a long story really, but I’m here on a kind of sabbatical from work. My mum spent some of her childhood here, so I thought it’d be a nice place to visit.’
‘Oh, how lovely. What’s your mum’s name? Might I know of her?’
‘She left when she was a young girl, but her maiden name was McLeod. Lorna McLeod.’
Morag tapped her chin. ‘Hmm, it’s certainly a well-known name on the island, but there are none in Glentorrin just now. You might want to ask around though, someone may remember her.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping. Although I thought I might start in the museum.’
Morag sat opposite her and her smile disappeared. ‘Ah, now I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that. The museum is closed at present.’
Juliette was both disappointed and intrigued by this news. ‘Oh? How come?’
‘Oh, where do I begin?’ Morag sighed heavily. ‘I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of it all, but, to cut a long story short, we advertised for volunteers to run it over the summer months but had no appropriate applications.’
Knowing she had been one suchinappropriateapplicant, Juliette’s heart sank. ‘Oh dear. That is a shame.’
Morag folded her arms across her chest. ‘Aye, it is. The wee museum is owned by the village co-operative, you see, we rely on donations to keep it going and we all used to take our turns in running it, but things haven’t exactly been going to plan lately. Everyone has their own businesses, meaning no one has enough time these days. My husband, Kenneth, and I have this place and the shop, and the others are in similar situations. Not enough hours in a day. I’m not sure of its fate at the moment.’ Sadness was evident in the woman’s eyes. ‘Reid – he’s the chairman – said we had several applications, but apparently the majority were from people without the right experience. The ones whomighthave been suitable were asking for payment, which we can’t offer. We were providing accommodation and utilities, but I understand why that’s not really enough for most people. And a couple of applicants were just taking the Michael from what Reid said.’
Juliette might not have worked in a museum before, but she had an interest in history and had a good head on her shoulders. She wondered why on earth her application had been rejected if the museum was in such dire straits and considered whether she should ask the question. After giving it some thought, albeit briefly, she decided not to mention it. After all, if she had been right for the role, surely they would have interviewed her?
* * *
Once she finished her tea, Juliette decided to head out into the village to explore. The sun was making its descent, but the air was still warm. Glentorrin, an old fishing village, consisted of a narrow inlet of water with a low wall and a wooden barrier. This was surrounded by whitewashed cottages of different shapes and sizes and Juliette smiled to herself as she wandered down the main street. Such a pretty place. There was the convenience store, which was run by Morag’s husband, Kenneth, and, in addition to this, there was a café, a bakery and an outdoor gear shop, each building as attractive as the next. It reminded her a little of the location whereLocal Herowas filmed; a movie she and Laurie had watched in their early days as a couple.
