Winter's End (12 page)

“That’s enough,” she
said. Her voice was
 
more colder and
demanding than she expected that it startled her as well. “Thank you,” she
tried again. “I think that should do for a small vegetable plot for now.” She
pretended to study its perimeters.

He plunged the fork
deeply into the earth and pulled out his garden gloves, hanging them over the
grip of the fork. He then walked tiredly a little away. He placed his hands on
his hips as he continued to gaze at the ocean.

She paced slowly
behind him. “You okay?” she said softly. “I hope that wasn’t too hard. I didn’t
mean for you to dig up so much.”

He looked down at her
and sighed. He took off his hat and combed his sweaty, damp hair with his
fingers. The ocean breeze blew over him and he savoured it, feeling it cool the
dampness in his face.

“Not at all,” he
said. “I think a bit of occasional manual labour isn’t so bad. If I had more
time, I would gladly have dug up a dozen plots for you.”

She laughed. “I don’t
need a dozen plots, Richard. It’s a hobby. I don’t mean to turn myself or you
into a veggie farmer. Not that there is anything wrong with it. I just prefer
the architectural you,” she said, pulling out her gloves and tucking them into
the pockets of her overalls.

He tilted his head at
her and gave her a smile. She looked radiant in her denim overalls and tall
garden boots. She had her long hair held back by a yellow bandana. There was a
streak of dirt on the left side of her face. It was probably caused from her
dirty sleeves grazing her cheek whenever she wiped off the sweat from her brow.
He instinctively put his thumb onto it to gently brush it off. But she pulled
away slightly and a little shyly.

She touched her face
and felt the sun-dried smear of dirt. Her face burned from the delicate touch
his fingers. She pulled the corners of her shirt collar to wipe away the dirt.
The smear was gone but his heat was branded onto her skin.

“Emma,” he said
slowly. “I would have to leave earlier than expected.”

A heaviness enveloped
her heart but she tried to disguise it with a smile. “When do you need to go?”

“Tomorrow,” he said.
“It’s a potential client with a very good contract to offer. The trouble is, he
isn’t willing to discuss it with anyone but me. I’ve tried to have Miles
Ackerman, my assistant to step in but he will not have it. He says it's got to
be me or he walks off.”

She nodded, trying
very hard to focus on his now dirty, expensive Adidas trainers, thanks to her.

“Emma,” he continued.
“I tried. I really did. But it is a huge contract and I can’t just let it go.
It's a good opportunity for the company.”

“I know,” she
whispered. “I understand.”

His eyes gazed upon
her bent head as he touched her fingers gently, caressing the tips of it.

She withdrew her
hands and placed them into the pockets of her overall. It was safer there, with
her dirty gloves.

*****

The house, Emma felt,
was much quieter. Richard
had
made a difference, despite that the
children were back at their usual squabbles for remotes and toys instead of the
games they played with Richard in the yard or in the house and she, meanwhile, had
returned to the recluse of her conservatory.

He left early in the
morning, dropping the children off to school before rushing off to catch his
awaiting helicopter at
Ashaig
.

He had worn his
pin-striped suit and a silvery striped necktie over a pale blue shirt. He
looked immediately in his element, his hair combed and styled and his face,
clean shaven. She could smell his musk as he entered the kitchen while she
served the children their breakfast. It invigorated her senses almost drugging
her with illicit desires. She wanted to snug her face into his neck and soak in
the scent of his maleness.

“Morning,” he said as
he sat into a chair- his chair at the end of the table.

“Morning,” she
replied as she poured out his coffee. Instinctively she added precisely one levelled
teaspoon of sugar. She then laid a plate of one plain toast and scrambled eggs
on the side. The children preferred French toast instead unlike Richard who had
a rather distaste for bread dipped in eggs and then fried.

He pulled out the
local newspaper and started reading the front page simultaneously over a
conversation with the children.

“When are you going,
Uncle Richard?” asked Jai.

“Right after I drop
you off to school,” he answered without lifting an eye from the article he was
reading.

“When you coming
back?” Hannah asked. Her voice was low with a hint of sadness in it.

Richard looked up at
her and frowned. “Come here,” he said. She obeyed dutifully and sat on his lap.
“I’ll try to come back as soon as I can. But we can video call as often as we
want. It will so much be like I was here that you won’t even miss me.”

“It’s not the same,”
she replied.

“Yes, it will.”

“No, it won
‎
’t.”

And it wasn’t.
 
She missed the sound of his baritone
voice
 
roar with laughter as the children
would pester him with questions
 
or
debate with him the logics and the importance of sleeping late, soft drinks
that increased intelligence, horror movies that should be watched at midnight
and other pressing life issues.

The walls did not
echo any longer with those cheery sounds. They remained barren staring at her,
demanding that they were always the same as before he arrived. But she did not
know any longer. It was difficult to remember any more how those walls sounded
before Richard arrived two and a half weeks ago.

They had never lived
together, Richard and she. Even after Robert died, Richard always had his
lavish family home to which he would return to each night after visiting them.
And when he did ever come around, there was always Meredith and Patty, the
housekeeper and the maid to serve him with his tea and coffee and meals.

But these past weeks
were different. She had attended to his needs personally. She knew when he
awoke, how long he went for his morning runs and when he took his shower. She
had learnt that he preferred his shirts sun-dried and crisp and then pressed
with a crease in its sleeves.

When she entered his
room after he had left, she still could smell his scent on his sheets. She laid
her head on his pillow, imagining his arms around her. She pulled the covers
over her and saw what he would have seen each time he had lain where she was
now. She saw the door at which he had held her captive briefly and the bathroom
from which he emerged with only towel wrapped loosely at his waist.

She drew a sharp
breath and arose out of his bed. She couldn’t bear changing the sheets just
yet. Instead she straightened them out and then cleaned up his bathroom. She
folded his used towel and hung it neatly over the towel rail. One more day, she
said to herself. She would give it one more day.

She heard the door bell
ring and not long after she heard Jai call out to her. “Mum, it's Gran.”

She gave one final
look at Richard’s bedroom before dashing downstairs.

“Hi Ethel,” she said.

“Hello,” Ethel
answered. “Were you busy?”

“Not at all,” Emma
answered. “Would you like to sit in the conservatory?”

“No,” she said. “It’s
quite a nice and warm afternoon. How about the rear veranda?” Ethel didn’t wait
for an answer but instead strolled slowly to the rear of the house through the
kitchen.

She settled herself
into a white sun-dance chair. A small breeze blew past her, flicking her snow
white hair lightly over her shoulders.

“You don’t get many
afternoons like this one,” she said once Emma had joined her at her side.

“No,” Emma answered
admiring the glowing amber ball of the sun setting in the oceanic horizon.

“You have been gardening.”
Ethel noticed the freshly dug earth. “It's a wise time to start. Make sure you
ask Nancy for seeds. She has an assortment of those. Harvests them each time at
the end of their season.”

“Thanks Ethel. I
will.”

They remained silent
for a while as they watched the setting sun sink lower into the horizon. The
chatter of birds in the distant trees indicated they also had retired for the
evening. The blue skies that were dominated by sea-eagles, sparrow hawks and
buzzards by the day was now gradually darkening and bereft of them. A cloud of
bats flew swiftly through the evening sky.

“Where’s the
children’s uncle?” Ethel asked. “He doesn’t seem to be home.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s
actually returned to London this morning.”

Ethel glanced at her,
a frown furrowed in her wrinkled brow. “No? But aren’t you going to that dance
in
Dunvegan
tomorrow?”

Emma gave her a
small, half-smile. “Well, he was supposed to be my escort. Now that I have
none, I don’t know if I want to go anymore.”

“Nonsense,” Ethel
scolded. “After all that effort to buy yourself a dress? Plus you had been so excited
about this dance.”

Emma chuckled. “I
know. But you can’t expect me to go alone. And even if I do, who should I take
along? The only other people I know here in Skye are you, Theodore and Nancy.
You're definitely I’m not taking. You’d fizzle a lively Irish set dance to a
sad slow dance. Do you know how apprehensive the entire isle is of you?”

Ethel gave a small
croaky grunt. “What would they know? All they care to do is indulge themselves
in small, irrelevant gossip. It’s always been there. Way before I was born and
it still continues today. I remember how much we used to fear old grandfather
Kinnaird, Arthur’s grandfather.”

“Was this when you
married Arthur?”

“No, no
lass
. This was long, long ago. Way before I was married. I
was just about young Jai’s age. Eight or ten years old maybe. His name was
Clement Kinnaird. Very officious looking man. His hair was brushed into a
cowlick lock, full sideburns, an imperial moustache and a spade beard that we
thought was so sharp at the ends, he could use it to split the next person he
found offensive. His tongue was just as sharp and he had a voice that boomed
when he was angry. Worked his employees to the bone that man. He had an
intolerance for any man to question him. We were all so terrified of him. Many
believed that the
Kinnairds
were descendants of the
devil himself. They were all so uptight and vicious looking. And of course, Mr.
Clement Kinnaird’s spade beard didn’t help alleviate the rumours at all. But
no, the
Kinnairds
never mingled with anyone except
when there was a charity ball or a dinner function. Even so, Mr. Kinnaird’s
voice would barrage at the butlers and maids for being late or clumsy. As for
the little
Kinnairds
, we rarely did see them. They
were privately tutored unlike most of us who attended public schools. Oh, we,
children, shook in our shoes if we ever did step in grandfather Kinnaird’s
path.

Well, one fine day,
I, along with my friends, helped our mothers sell cake and pies to raise funds
for our church. For our good efforts we were rewarded with a couple of pennies.
We thought we were rich. A penny could get us a lot in those days. We put
together our hard earned money and discovered we had a half-shilling in total.
So there we were, four little girls, rushing up to
Portree
General Store
run by Mr. Andrew McDonald to buy ourselves candies. I had my
eyes set on the Chocolate Swirl, a beautiful swirl of milk chocolate with a malt
nougat centre on a stick.” She sighed. “
Ahh
, but it
cost threepence a stick. Seeing my sad face, my friends offered to part with
half of what we earned to make me happy.

I can still remember
how extremely elated I was when Mr. McDonald handed me over the Swirl. As I
skipped out, licking deliciously at my candy, someone bumped into me so hard, I
dropped my precious stick of candy into the dirt. I looked up disappointedly
and found Mr. Clement Kinnaird scowling at me.

“Watch where you’re
going, child!” he berated. He pushed me roughly aside and walked on without a
care in the world.

I was seething with
rage. I didn’t care any longer that it was Clement Kinnaird, the man almost all
of Skye feared. All I wanted was revenge for my soiled Chocolate Swirl.

Now Mr. Kinnaird was
the old fashioned sort who still preferred to ride his buggy around the island.

With what money we
did have left, and much against the advice of my friends, I bought six raw eggs
and hid it under the thin blanket that Mr. Kinnaird kept in the box seat of his
buggy. Not long after, Mr. Kinnaird walked over with thunderous and angry
strides. As expected, he hopped into his buggy and sat heavily down on the
hidden eggs.

“
Arrr
!”
he growled, throwing down the reins angrily. He looked around and saw us
watching him from the veranda of a store. Of the four that stood there, I had
the widest grin. So it wasn’t surprising that he had guessed instantly who dared
to play such a trick on him. His trouser dripping with egg yolk, he sprinted
after us. We ran, but my short legs were no match for him.