The Island House (19 page)

This time he smiled straight into her eyes.

Woah, lad,
thought Freya. Simon was certainly intriguing, but then, of course he knew he was—
and he knows I know that too.
Men like that were a worry.
Who cares?

They laughed simultaneously.

Standing together in what must, once, have been the nave of the church, they faced a dais set upon a flight of granite steps. Squat pillars, thick as tree trunks, lined up on either side.

Simon pointed toward a side aisle. “Over there was a lady chapel—it’s long gone, but you can see where the screens were by the marks in the floor. The altar was up there”—he gestured to the dais—“under the rose window.”

Freya stared at the delicate tracery of stone, which framed clear glass; it was the prettiest thing in the building. “That’s really lovely, Simon,” she said, “though it might be a bit later than the rest of the building.”

He nodded and flashed her an approving glance. “At least the stone mullions survived. A genuine bit of Gothic that, and it must
once have had colored glass. John Knox and his merry friends would have seen that off, of course, but though they de-Popeified Portsolly thoroughly and turned this building into a plain old kirk, they couldn’t destroy everything, even if they tried. Come and see what I’ve found.”

Simon ushered Freya to a side wall. “Do you see? Here, and here also . . .”

Old surface plaster had fallen off, exposing a painted surface underneath. A man’s face peered out with bulging eyes. He was snarling, and for a moment Freya drew back, intimidated. She’d seen him before, or someone very like him.

Simon didn’t sense the trepidation. “So refreshingly violent; the days before political correctness, obviously.” He grinned. “I bet it was the elders who had him covered up, but how are the mighty fallen now? Barbarians, one; Elders, zero.”

Freya resisted the urge to tell Simon about the carved panel in the undercroft of Compline House. She said, “It does seem quite old. I’m betting Norse. Quite a find.”

Simon flicked her a glance. “I’m impressed. The official history of the church says that parts are supposed to have been built pre the turn of the first millennium, Common Era, but the text provides little real evidence, though I’ve been doing some work of my own. However, perhaps this gentleman goes some way to proving that theory if he can be dated.” He paused, staring at the brutal little face approvingly. “Anyway, I’ve decided he’s my protective deity. After all, he chose to emerge from the dark only after I bought the place.”

Freya glanced at Simon. “He’s a bit scary, isn’t he, to be a protector?”

Simon laughed. “Not at all. Think of China—all those snarling lions and demons. Thailand too. I think he’s either a demon or maybe a Viking, as you say—a raider from the sea. That’s exciting if it’s true, because though there’s a lot of myth about Vikings in
Portsolly, I’ve found few actual records so far. I’m hoping there’s a whole cycle of frescoes under the plaster—wouldn’t that be great?”

“Yes, it would.” Freya’s enthusiasm was ignited by his own, and Simon sensed it.

“You’re welcome to drop by and observe progress any time you’re passing. It’ll be a bit of a process turning this place into a house, but it’s going to be great, just great.”

It seemed churlish to disagree, but Freya found it odd to imagine eating, sleeping, washing, working on a computer—all the day-to-day banality of life—among such frowningly massive forms. She glanced at her watch. “You certainly do have a challenge here, as you said.” She held out her hand again. “Thanks for the tour—very interesting.”

Simon took her hand and shook it gently. His fingers were warm.

Freya held his gaze, slightly embarrassed, and asked, hesitantly, “Would you mind if I had a look in the churchyard? Does one need to get permission or . . . ?”

Simon shook his head. “Not from me.”

There was a small self-conscious moment as Freya removed her hand from his.

“I don’t own the graves; they’re the property of the families, and the council is responsible for the graveyard, but I signed on as sexton—the title came with the building and it seemed the least I could do. So there you have it—I’m the official protector of those who lie here at peace.”

Freya was surprised how moved she felt. “That’s really nice to know.”

Simon sensed the change. “Anyone special you want looked after? You have only to ask.”

It was hard to say it. “Michael Dane. I’ve come to see his grave.”

Simon nodded, his eyes compassionate. “Ah. He was your dad?”

She shrugged and looked away, conscious her eyes had filled.

He said, softly, “The Australian connection.” He sighed. “People
in Portsolly speak well of your father, though I never knew him. We stopped coming here for holidays before he bought the island. I am so sorry for your loss, Freya.”

She managed to respond, “Not your fault, Simon, not anyone’s fault.”
Was that true?

He nodded slowly. “But a sad business. Let’s go and see him, shall we?” He picked up her hand, tucked it into his arm, and walked Freya toward the porch.

She let him. But why, if she had not wanted Katherine to come here with her, did she feel so comfortable with this man she had never met before?

Inside a high wall, the graveyard lay behind the church. Ancient and crowded, it allowed little space between graves, and many of the memorials were unreadable, the names consumed by centuries of Scottish rain and lichen. But Katherine had said it was beautiful, and Freya could see why; roses climbed everywhere, and there was the sound of bees in this sheltered place, busy among the flowers.

“Here you are.” Simon squeezed Freya’s hand gently, then walked back toward the church.

She appreciated his sensitivity, but now it seemed lonely to visit her father’s grave by herself.

So much of Michael’s life had been solitary. It had been his choice to exist here, on an outer edge of the world away from other people, and so it was in death, for he was buried in the least-used corner of the cemetery, beside an ancient yew tree.

Freya had expected to cry. She had tried to rehearse how she might feel, hoping that would help her through the actual moment. Now, standing on the raked gravel path, she began to murmur the Lord’s Prayer, but she felt self-conscious. Theatrical. She’d never been religious, didn’t believe in an afterlife—though she’d often wished she could—and there was no comfort to be found in words that were only words.

Freya bent to pick up a leaf that had fallen on the grave and saw that someone had arranged for an inscription. Who? Perhaps her father had left instructions for his lawyers, as he had about the letter she’d found in Compline’s kitchen. Katherine, perhaps, could have taken charge? Or Walter.

Freya closed her eyes. She remembered Katherine’s face this morning, when they’d talked about Michael’s grave, remembered the undefended feeling in the other woman’s eyes. She felt unkind excluding the librarian from this moment. Too late now.

Freya stepped closer to the grave—stainless-steel lettering was incised into the dark stone.

M
ICHAEL
D
ANE
B
ORN
S
YDNEY
, A
USTRALIA
01.08.1956
D
IED
P
ORTSOLLY
, S
COTLAND
01.01.2012
S
CHOLAR

Scholar.
How could a life be summed up in just one word? He had been a father and a husband and, it seemed, a lover. A friend too.

But Freya remembered a man with large hands and small feet and a lopsided grin who had made her feel safe. She remembered, too, that her father was a good cook, where her mother was not, and that he had told her stories about the past. And the sense he had given her that each life, no matter how ordinary or obscure, was still a wonderful thing, that everyone had a history. That everyone was important.

No one else knew, now, that he felt like that.

There had been happy times, too, in her father’s life. How do you carve happiness into a monument, or laughter? If Michael Dane had been an enigma, this piece of stone was mute about his complexity.

Freya turned away from her father’s grave clear-eyed. His body might be buried here, but his work was all that remained of his voice; perhaps that was the way she could speak with him again.

At the cemetery gate, she stopped and looked back. She lifted her hand in salute.
Sleep well, Dad. I’ll be back.

No, she didn’t believe in the afterlife, but she’d try to understand what he’d wanted her to do.

It turned out there was a shop that sold camping equipment in Portsolly, and even though Freya did not relish using her single credit card, she treated herself to a fleece-lined hat, two pairs of gloves, a gas-cartridge camping light, and an extralarge flashlight. Apples, a few oranges, six eggs (she’d forgotten them before), fresh bread, bacon, a head of lettuce, tomatoes, and washing powder from the supermarket, and she was ready to go back to the island.

Trapped by the lights where the main street of Portsolly joined the coast road, a line of small cars was not going anywhere. One or two interested glances were cast Freya’s way as she hurried down the hill toward the harbor, but she was oblivious, focused on getting back to Findnar.

Nearly there now, nearly to where she’d left the little cruiser moored. The bright sea, the soft breeze with its tang, and the smell of kelp—all these real and natural things—filled Freya with relief after the complexity of the last twenty-four hours. She wanted to shout
Thank you!
when she saw the wharf, and just over there . . .

It was gone. Michael’s cruiser wasn’t there.

Freya stared. She must be mistaken—she must have just forgotten where she’d moored it. She hurried the length of the wharf, searching.

The harbor was busy with boats lining up behind the breakwater—small sailing craft, one or two bigger yachts, and even a three-masted ketch. The trawlers would have left at first light, but
her
boat was gone. Definitely. Confusion flashed to anger in one crisp second—the cruiser had been stolen.

There was a shout. “Freya!”

She turned. Walter was waving from the top of the workshop slipway.

She ran toward him. His expression changed as she got closer. “What’s wrong, lass?”

“Dad’s boat. It’s gone.”

He spoke over her. “Are you sure?” He craned to look past her shoulder.

“It’s disappeared, Walter. Really it has. I looked just now; someone’s taken it. Does Portsolly have a police station?”

Walter was as angry as she was. “It does, and we’ll get this sorted, don’t you worry.”

He barreled through the workshop door, calling out, “Daniel! Get off the phone.”

From the door of the office, Daniel stared at his father and then at Freya, a handset cradled between chin and shoulder.

“Hang on, won’t be a moment,” he said. The tone was cool.

Walter wasn’t having any. “Give me that.” He spoke into the phone as he snatched it from his son. “Call you back, Denny. Don’t let them give you rubbish—backsawn oak, that’s what we want.” He pressed the disconnect.

“I was halfway through the order, Dad.” Daniel spoke mildly, but he frowned at Freya.

She glowered right back—the nice girl had just taken a holiday.

Seeing the exchange, Walter quickly said, “Freya’s boat’s been stolen. Hello? Hello!”

He turned away. “I want to report a theft. Of a cruiser,
and
I’ve got a suspect for you . . . Right.” He glanced at Freya. “Yes. The owner’s with me now.” He put his hand over the receiver. “They want a statement. I can take you to the cop shop.”

She nodded. The bright day had just turned dark.