Flora brought everyone into the kitchen, where she had made Fintan lay out a selection of everything, so Gaspard could choose what he wanted and how much he was going to use. The idea of using another supplier was not on the table, and Fintan hadn’t wanted to do it at all, but Flora had talked him round by stressing how important it was and how the more their produce could be used, the better it would be for everyone.
So there were plates laid out with butter: salted, unsalted, garlic smoked, and olive, plus an exquisite fleur de sel, which had large salt crystals in it and, when spread cold on fresh warm bread with a cracked exterior and a yeasty crumb, could make grown men weep.
It was warm in the farmhouse. Bramble got up from his normal spot lying practically in the fire to say hello to Bjårk, who returned the bum sniff then, both of them satisfied neither was interested in fighting or shagging the other, casually followed him back to the fire and lay down with him back to back. Bjårk had been walking for approximately twenty minutes; the lazy creature now required approximately forty-eight hours of recovery rest. Agot, performing skating moves by herself in the corner, gave him the occasional dirty look.
“So what ees this,” said Gaspard, indicating the first butter, and Fintan took him through their processes: the difficulties of getting certified organic; how their cows were smaller, given the grass was not lush this far north but hardy and sweet; and how highland cows were some of the best out there. Gaspard mentioned something about how Brittany cows could almost certainly beat his in a fight, but Fintan didn’t really notice and, after the first bite, neither did anyone else.
Konstantin had originally been slightly taken aback by the shabbiness of the vast old farmhouse kitchen, with its range, piles of papers, back copies of Farmers Weekly, old horse brasses on the walls, a clutch of Agot’s plastic toys in the corner, and old boots lined up by the fire to dry. It wasn’t shabby chic; it was just actually shabby. The plates were mismatched, half from Eck’s old wedding service, with delicate tulips painted on them and scalloped edges, and half modern pastels Flora had ordered from the mainland for the Seaside Kitchen, with the farmhouse benefiting from the overspill and the chipped. There weren’t quite enough chairs, and even the few available were mismatched and a little wobbly on the flagstones, with the rugs here and there.
But it was filled with the scent of the coffee brewing in the little pot on the stove top, as well as the fragrance of warm bread rising in the air, and the sounds of the crackle of the fireplace, the comforting swish swish swish of the dogs’ tails, the ticktock of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner, the gentle twitter of BBC Radio nan Gàidheal in the corner, the pouring of tea into cups, and the clatter and chatter of old conversations steeped into the walls: the daily chat about the weather forecast, the grain price, the good health of sheep.
Sitting down on the least comfortable chair—he had somehow been last to choose; having been used to being offered the best of everything, it was very confusing—Konstantin found his eyes heavy, practically drifting off, as people ate and talked and the clock ticked in his ear. It had been a very stressful time.
“Konstantin? Konstantin?”
There was a voice that sounded like it was coming from far away. He was sure, suddenly, that he was, once again, in trouble for something—knocking off the bursar’s hat or spilling champagne down the exiled princess of Romania again. When he opened his eyes, though, instead he saw a group of people smiling at him. He blinked.
“What do you think of the cheese?”
“I haven’t had any cheese.”
“Your plate is empty.”
Everyone looked at Bjårk, who was licking the inside of his mouth reflectively.
“He likes it,” said Konstantin, blinking.
Gaspard’s face was grave. “You know,” he said, “of course, the only cheese I would really wish to sell is French.”
“We do know,” said Flora brightly. “But you’re not going to!”
“But if I have to—if I absolutely have to serve something else . . .”
“Which you do.”
“Then this is . . . pas mal.”
And Flora beamed at Fintan.
The snow had swept away by the time Pam’s grand charity dinner came round in early December. Joel was back home, having mentioned the new hotel to everyone of course. Flora wasn’t crazy about this: Would there be lots of his gorgeous, skinny blond exes showing up? Joel was not remotely worried about this; instead he was pondering on what to do about these Christmas lights. He had contacted a few firms in London, all of whom had given him the traditional London shrug-off, laughing at him, saying, “You wot, mate?” and suggesting that only an absolute idiot wouldn’t have started planning this eleven months ago. Whatever Flora thought, Joel didn’t actually miss London in the slightest.
He looked good in his suit. Flora was having trouble zipping up her old black velvet dress, which was extremely annoying. Unbelievably annoying, in fact. Pam kept wanging on about how she’d accidentally lost all her baby weight so quickly after Christabel, it was amazing, really—baby weight was a myth held on to by lazy people. This was obviously nonsense, but still, thought Flora, knowing she had a healthy and beautiful baby wasn’t really helping with the fact that she also had a horrible and unrelenting zip.
“Let me breathe in really hard and you zip it,” she said to Joel, who made a face.
“Just wear something else,” he said, kissing her shoulder. “You’ll feel bad all night if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“No! You look amazing!”
“Well, if I’m not fat, I’ll still fit in this dress,” said Flora crossly, sucking herself in as Joel tried not to catch her with the zip by mistake.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s go. If Gaspard can pull this out of the bag again and Iona gets enough photos for Instagram, I think this might be a bit of a success.”
She desperately hoped so. Fintan had done basically nothing, and she didn’t really have the marketing skills to open a hotel. If they had some lovely pictures, they could get some brochures done and hopefully all would go well for the launch.
But this was Fintan’s problem, obviously. She should, Joel kept pointing out, just relax and enjoy it.
It seemed like the entire island was there, mostly because it was. Pam and Charlie were from two very old Mure families, and there were few people who weren’t connected with them somehow. And everyone supported their work; they brought impoverished young people from built-up cities on the mainland to Mure, taught them how to camp and look after themselves, gave them outward bound experiences, but more than that: fresh air, self-reliance, and a break from whatever might be going on at home. They were, undeniably, a force for good. Most of the money to fund this came from the lawyers and office johnnies they charged vast amounts to sit in a freezing tent and eat beans and tell each other it was a bonding experience (it was: they all tended to bond very tightly indeed as to how much they hated Charlie and Pam for putting them through such a miserable experience).
The building looked ravishing as usual, and Flora had booked the lovestruck ferryman Bertie Cooper, who had never gotten over his teenage crush on Flora, even though she now had an actual baby of her own. He was an optimistic sort.
“Quite the night,” he observed, rowing her and Joel round in choppy waters. Joel was looking at the island behind him, frowning. “Wouldn’t want anyone to accidentally tip over the edge, leaving baby without a daddy,” said Bertie quietly.
“Well, no,” said Flora, puzzled, then went over to Joel.
“What are you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” said Joel, who had barely celebrated Christmas as a child and had felt the lack very keenly, “that when you look at it from out here, there’s barely any lights on the island at all.”
“Yes, well,” said Flora, “that’s because we’re out at sea on a boat, and people very rarely decorate for people passing by for two minutes on a boat. The next nearest people who could see it are in Norway.”
“Hmm,” said Joel. “Only I was thinking . . . it is Douglas’s first Christmas . . . I really need to get on it.”
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” said Flora, smiling to herself at the sheer amount of extraordinary woolen garments that had already come her way from her older customers, with more to come, she knew. That poor child would get eczema before he was two.
“I haven’t managed to allocate Colton’s lights provision yet.”
They looked at the dull island.
There was a council ruling every year that the money that other places set aside to use for their Christmas decorations actually went toward extra street lighting.
School finished in the dark in the winter months, and the school itself was at the very top of the hill above the village. Extra lighting and handrails on the hill meant more children could walk to and fro on their own, without parents having to drive up and get them, increasing danger to the other, still-walking children. It was a sensible arrangement. But it left the island rather devoid of decorations elsewhere. Joel hadn’t noticed it last year. This year, of course, everything was completely different.
“Cool,” said Flora, whose mind was on other things as they completed the short journey and Bertie held out his hand to lift her off.
“You’re looking lovely,” he said, lightly depositing her on the quayside.
“Thank you!” said Flora, genuinely grateful as it helped cheer her up quite a lot about the zip situation. Bertie was happy. He’d made her beam. There was always hope.