“Well, it’ll be worth it to test how the restaurant deals with really difficult customers,” whispered Flora to Fintan, who nodded emphatically in agreement.
There are two ways of getting to the Rock from the south where the village is. On sunny days Bertie Cooper will run you round in the boat to the headland—it’s not far, only five minutes or so, and it’s delightful on a dusky pink evening to be out on the water. You might see a dolphin and you’ll certainly hear the seals barking at you as you land at the jetty with the torches shining up ahead toward the building itself. Fintan had always thought it was one of the most beautiful landings in the world.
This was not one of those times. The wind that had nearly blown Konstantin and Bjårk Bjårkensson off the roof the previous week was bucking harder. The ferry that day had taken a few tries to get to where it needed to be, and even then the passengers disembarked a trifle green. Gusts were flapping smaller cars out of the way—the farm’s and the Rock’s Land Rovers could be trusted to take them the few miles up the narrow bumping track that served as the inland road, but you wouldn’t want to be in a little tin can, however much Flora might have hankered after a chic little pastel Fiat 500.
Gray clouds dropped out of the sky as night was now falling at four P.M. Sheep huddled close to the mountainside, trying to keep themselves warm, and Flora inhaled the scent of sleepy warm baby beneath her in the car and lightly twirled one of his fine black curls, pressed beneath his best woolly hat with ears—all hats came with ears these days, Joel had observed, puzzled as to why.
“That baby is very hairy,” observed Agot from the opposite seat, where she was cross because she was in a baby seat “even though,” she complained the entire way, “I am not that baby.”
“He is.” Flora smiled. “Hairy babies are lucky.”
“Yes,” said Agot. “He is lucky he doesn’t have to sit in a stupid baby’s seat or eat stupid Dead Uncle Colton’s food.”
“Agot,” remonstrated Innes. She had started calling him Dead Uncle Colton after the funeral, and although Flora had furiously tried to get her to stop, Fintan told her he didn’t mind it. In fact, it was comforting because she brought him into every conversation, every game she played. She didn’t lay a tea table for her dollies (who were usually to be heard getting strict tellings off—who knew where she had even learned them, given that Innes was useless at it and the primary school specialized in encouraging play, not discipline) without including Dead Uncle Colton in the family lineup and was absolutely convinced that he watched every single thing she did. Fintan found it an unending comfort. Flora, watching the little sprite, with her white-blond hair and tiny dancing figure, sometimes wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t see ghosts.
“That’s enough.”
Agot lifted her stubborn little chin and stared out the window crossly, pausing briefly en route to shoot Douglas an utterly filthy look. Flora sighed inside. They were meeting Pam and Charlie there too, so they could “discuss menus.” Please, please, let it go well.
Chapter 15
Meanwhile in the kitchen, all was chaos. Gaspard was shouting, and everyone, it felt like, was crying. The last week had been an absolute trial for everyone, like Big Brother without the calm, cooperative atmosphere. The Norwegian guy was absolutely hopeless, so there was never a pot or pan when you needed it. Kerry wouldn’t do anything without checking with Gaspard first and would stand around doing nothing except eating crisps, which meant Isla being in charge of cakes and puddings and going nuts. Tam was fine, but his job was bringing in supplies; he wasn’t around for long enough to help with anything really useful.
Also, slightly worse, Isla’s initial coldness with Konstantin after the way he’d behaved had hardened into an awkward stiffness. He hadn’t done anything really awful since, just ignored her, and she didn’t know how to talk to him except to tell him how to peel potatoes without skinning himself when he was helping with food prep, or how garlic actually worked, something Gaspard had found so astonishing he’d actually stopped cooking to watch. There was a bad attitude in the kitchen, and they all knew it.
“Okay. Tonight. Try not to be idiots, non?” Gaspard was saying, just as Konstantin dropped the most enormous pan on the stone floor. The noise sounded like a bomb going off, and Isla even let out a tiny shriek. There were French expletives, and Konstantin, white as a sheet, looked like he was going to walk out of the kitchen, even as a pot literally boiled over just behind him. Everyone froze as Gaspard marched toward Konstantin.
“You want work in thees kitchen or not?” he snarled.
“Not,” snarled back Konstantin.
“Well, you can leave.”
“Well, I can’t,” said Konstantin.
It was unbelievable but true. His phone and his debit and credit cards had all been stopped. He’d called the bank to absolutely no avail, because he didn’t know any of the passwords. His friends and relations had been warned by his father not to sneak him any dough, and given that most of them were also completely funded by their parents, and were absolutely terrified by the amount of attention their mums and dads were paying toward the elder Konstantin’s experiment, meant they were very much toeing the line as well.
He couldn’t quite believe it, but he was somehow meant to survive—and feed Bjårk—on the tiny pittance he got, which wouldn’t quite cover a single restaurant meal back home but here was supposed to last him a week.
It was a joke. A stupid, ridiculous joke, and he was near constantly tempted to storm off and tell them all where to stick it.
Except he couldn’t. He had literally no way of paying his way off the island, and even if he got off, by the time he’d saved up for a plane ticket, what would he do—sit at his father’s feet and beg for forgiveness? His pride wouldn’t let him do that.
Well, okay. It wasn’t so much that, because in fact he’d already tried it. And his father had graciously said, “Thanks for the apology. Now get on with your work and I’ll see you in six months.”
He was stuck and mutinous, and he stared at the pan on the floor. The room went silent.
“Pick that up or you go now,” said Gaspard unwaveringly.
They all glanced at the windows. Hail was hurling itself against the glass. A lovely night to be cozy in front of a roaring fire with a good book and a glass of whisky. A frankly ludicrous night to storm off in a snit. The atmosphere in the room grew as icy as the windows.
MEANWHILE, THE DINING room looked as beautiful as ever, the big wooden fire crackling merrily away, its light gleaming off the tinsel. “Scots Nativity” was playing gently, and the scented air gave everyone a thrill. It didn’t matter how old you were: Christmas was coming! And that was always the most exciting feeling. Agot stomped over, irritated that the tree hadn’t come yet, but when she realized the highly polished wood was very slippery, she took off her shoes and was soon skidding round the room in her stripy tights. Flora thought, Health and safety, and filed it away to mention to Fintan later.
Colton had bought a number of old barrels from a distillery that was closing down, and the wood on the fire had the deep aroma of peat and whisky. It was, as Flora always thought, the most comfortable place you could be, with soft chairs and the anticipation of a good meal ahead. Gala had greeted them happily and brought them drinks, and everyone was stretching out good-naturedly. Agot stopped skating and got happily buried in her sketch pad with her felt-tip pens, as usual drawing everyone in her life including Dead Uncle Colton but missing out Douglas, which was, Flora supposed, something of an improvement from when she’d presented them with a mass family portrait with everyone in it including Douglas, but with a huge black scribble across Douglas’s face.