are.’
Jessie opened the door to the flat. There was a narrow staircase with a utilitarian blue carpet, and the whole hallway smelt very strongly of some kind of artificial flower scent.
‘Lavender and geranium.’ Jessie noticed Isla sniffing the air. ‘I love those plug-in air fresheners, don’t you? This place smells beautiful now. I’ve bought a load
to take over for Pamela, hide the smell of the bairn’s nappies.’
Isla refrained from responding that she thought she’d prefer the smell of dirty nappies to the chemical pong of whatever-it-was, and followed her aunt up the stairs.
‘It’s no’ been used for a good while, but I’ve given it a quick sort out. It needs a good clean, mind you, but if you’re OK with that . . .’
Isla’s Aunty Jessie stood back, arm open in a gesture of welcome, as Isla stepped forward into the flat that would be her home for the next eight weeks. It was hideous. The floor was covered
in a nauseating green swirling carpet, and a stained wooden fireplace surround framed a dubious-looking old-fashioned gas fire. Brown floral nylon curtains hung at a window that looked onto the
tiny castle, and down the street to the tired-looking amusement arcade Isla remembered from her youth.
‘A bit of fresh air and a bunch of carnations to cheer it up a bit, and you’ll have it looking like home in no time.’ Jessie beamed at her niece before leading her through to
the bedroom. Isla closed her eyes. It was only two months. And maybe Pamela might turn out to have developed Wolverine qualities, and her bones would repair overnight.
Please
, thought
Isla.
‘The view is amazing, isn’t it?’ The side of the bay window looked down a narrow lane and beyond to the sea. She could see the ferry sailing away, and with it any chance of
escape for another two hours. Isla turned away, feeling despondent.
‘And this is the kitchen,’ Jessie called from across the hall. ‘Isla, are you there?’
‘Coming.’ She shook her head in despair and headed towards what should have been the heart of the home. Trying not to think of the sleek, metallic beauty of the kitchen in
Hattie’s place, she stepped into a room that had been the height of fashion in 1984. Pale brown cupboards trimmed with fake wood handles, a brown sink (a brown sink? Isla didn’t even
realize such horrors existed) and an under-counter fridge that hummed and rattled alarmingly.
‘I’ve made up the bed for you, and there’s a pint of milk and a packet of tea in the cupboard here.’ Jessie opened the cupboard where a tiny packet of PG Tips sat beside
a packet of chocolate biscuits, some alarmingly orange pasta sauce, and a box of Cup-a-Soups.
‘Now, I’m away on the next boat to Pamela’s place. I’m going to give you the keys to the salon downstairs so you can open the doors for the girls, but if you want to have
a wee nosey around and make yourself at home before tomorrow morning, that’s fine by me. We’re open until Saturday lunchtime, closed Sunday and Monday, and we do a half day on
Wednesday.’
‘So many days closed? Is that normal?’ She was going to be climbing the walls with boredom.
‘Well, we’ve only got our regulars and they know the days they want to come in. There’s a lassie who does mobile hairdressing for the people who can’t get out and about
so easily, and the young ones all seem to want to go off the island to have their hair cut for some reason.’ Jessie sniffed disapprovingly. ‘And of course nothing is open here on a
Wednesday afternoon. Half-day closing,’ she explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Which it was, Isla reflected, in 1975, which is where this godforsaken hole seemed to be stuck. She shooed her aunt out with words of reassurance, grabbed the keys and headed at speed towards
the Spar round the corner. There was only one thing for it – she was going to have to gut the place and scrub it from top to bottom before she unpacked a
Jessie opened the door to the flat. There was a narrow staircase with a utilitarian blue carpet, and the whole hallway smelt very strongly of some kind of artificial flower scent.
‘Lavender and geranium.’ Jessie noticed Isla sniffing the air. ‘I love those plug-in air fresheners, don’t you? This place smells beautiful now. I’ve bought a load
to take over for Pamela, hide the smell of the bairn’s nappies.’
Isla refrained from responding that she thought she’d prefer the smell of dirty nappies to the chemical pong of whatever-it-was, and followed her aunt up the stairs.
‘It’s no’ been used for a good while, but I’ve given it a quick sort out. It needs a good clean, mind you, but if you’re OK with that . . .’
Isla’s Aunty Jessie stood back, arm open in a gesture of welcome, as Isla stepped forward into the flat that would be her home for the next eight weeks. It was hideous. The floor was covered
in a nauseating green swirling carpet, and a stained wooden fireplace surround framed a dubious-looking old-fashioned gas fire. Brown floral nylon curtains hung at a window that looked onto the
tiny castle, and down the street to the tired-looking amusement arcade Isla remembered from her youth.
‘A bit of fresh air and a bunch of carnations to cheer it up a bit, and you’ll have it looking like home in no time.’ Jessie beamed at her niece before leading her through to
the bedroom. Isla closed her eyes. It was only two months. And maybe Pamela might turn out to have developed Wolverine qualities, and her bones would repair overnight.
Please
, thought
Isla.
‘The view is amazing, isn’t it?’ The side of the bay window looked down a narrow lane and beyond to the sea. She could see the ferry sailing away, and with it any chance of
escape for another two hours. Isla turned away, feeling despondent.
‘And this is the kitchen,’ Jessie called from across the hall. ‘Isla, are you there?’
‘Coming.’ She shook her head in despair and headed towards what should have been the heart of the home. Trying not to think of the sleek, metallic beauty of the kitchen in
Hattie’s place, she stepped into a room that had been the height of fashion in 1984. Pale brown cupboards trimmed with fake wood handles, a brown sink (a brown sink? Isla didn’t even
realize such horrors existed) and an under-counter fridge that hummed and rattled alarmingly.
‘I’ve made up the bed for you, and there’s a pint of milk and a packet of tea in the cupboard here.’ Jessie opened the cupboard where a tiny packet of PG Tips sat beside
a packet of chocolate biscuits, some alarmingly orange pasta sauce, and a box of Cup-a-Soups.
‘Now, I’m away on the next boat to Pamela’s place. I’m going to give you the keys to the salon downstairs so you can open the doors for the girls, but if you want to have
a wee nosey around and make yourself at home before tomorrow morning, that’s fine by me. We’re open until Saturday lunchtime, closed Sunday and Monday, and we do a half day on
Wednesday.’
‘So many days closed? Is that normal?’ She was going to be climbing the walls with boredom.
‘Well, we’ve only got our regulars and they know the days they want to come in. There’s a lassie who does mobile hairdressing for the people who can’t get out and about
so easily, and the young ones all seem to want to go off the island to have their hair cut for some reason.’ Jessie sniffed disapprovingly. ‘And of course nothing is open here on a
Wednesday afternoon. Half-day closing,’ she explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Which it was, Isla reflected, in 1975, which is where this godforsaken hole seemed to be stuck. She shooed her aunt out with words of reassurance, grabbed the keys and headed at speed towards
the Spar round the corner. There was only one thing for it – she was going to have to gut the place and scrub it from top to bottom before she unpacked a
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