The Sister Surprise Page 15

  ‘This’ll do,’ says Kian. ‘We’ll harvest the rest another time and store them. If you’re left with wee ones at the market, don’t linger,’ he says, holding up a tennis-ball-sized squash. He flips it back onto the pile and takes a deep breath, both hands gently resting on his stomach. I trot to keep up beside him, low-level anxiety prickling my stomach.

  ‘Aren’t you coming too?’

  ‘No, I’m going to see a couple of university pals in town.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Moira’s helping you out on the stall.’

  I nod, a whoosh of excitement tickling my ribcage. I wonder if she’s feeling as delicate as I am. If so, we can battle through the day together as I’m sure this is only the baby teeth of a much angrier hangover. It’s not been twenty-four hours, but what I learned yesterday is that Moira likes to talk. A lot. The upside is that she can talk for the both of us.

  I scoot past Kian and the wheelbarrow, hopscotch over the cattle grid, and hold the courtyard gate open for him. I’m trying to be as helpful as possible, but candid chats about finances could be overstepping the mark.

  He clears a space on a workbench and I devise a system of weighing, calculating, and scribbling prices on the squash with a black Sharpie. I line the squash up in height order like I’m about to direct a class photo. They’re a diverse bunch; some wonky, some stout, some decidedly phallic. I’m not sure why anyone would pay upwards of four quid for what’s essentially an awkward vegetable, but I’m not going to interfere with finances anymore, if that’s what Kian thinks I’m doing.

  The church bells chime like a Biblical reminder.

  ‘So, how long have you and Moira been a thing?’ I ask. I lean up against the brick outhouse and bite my cheek. That sounded far more inconspicuous in my head than it did out loud.

  ‘What do you mean, a thing?’ Kian lines an empty crate with newspaper and frowns.

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d picked up on a vibe between you two.’

  Kian scratches his jaw and shakes his head in a bad imitation of denial. ‘We’ve known each other for ever. Since we were kids, you know? She’s familiar.’

  Hmm. As far as ringing praise goes, I’ve heard better.

  ‘So, you’ve never got silly at a party together? You’re not related, are you?’ I realise that the answer to this question has direct relevance to me. I suppose there’s a chance.

  ‘I know Kilroch is far from a cosmopolitan community, but we do draw the line at getting off with family members.’

  ‘I wasn’t implying that. Honestly.’

  Kian breaks into a smile. ‘It’s nothing complicated. I just don’t see the point in risking a friendship for a snog, you know?’

  I can fully sympathise. Max was the first male friend of mine I actively tried not to kiss. I’ve turned at least four good mates into awkward acquaintances due to innocuous actions that I misinterpreted as flirting. I’ve vowed never to make the same mistake again, especially since an incident last year involving Rory’s French housemate. He went for a double cheek kiss that I wasn’t prepared for, which resulted in me licking his earlobe by accident. It’s hard to come back from that.

  I was happily plodding through my new-found platonic existence until Kian introduced me to Ross. In a way, this is the perfect test. He’s the most attractive man I’ve seen but with the added caveat of being a priest, so I can practise talking to men again with wondering what they’ll want from me. It levels out the power dynamics quite nicely.

  As we load the Jeep, a cockerel crows from an upturned whisky barrel by the front door. Now for the important questions. Can I ask Moira about our dad without raising too many questions in return, and does Kilroch house enough Pepsi Max to stave off a hangover?

  Chapter 20

  Three hours later and my hangover has gone from a solid eight out of ten (retching behind a fishing boat) to a three (I’ve managed to stomach a Cup a Soup and have only minor heart palpitations). The oddball squashes have been weirdly popular. A small child laughed for a full minute, running his fingers over the blistered skin of a mini pumpkin, which saw another fiver into the cash tin Kian had all but chucked at me as we left the house.

  As the footfall fades, a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair stops to speak to Moira about a lame sheep, leaving me in charge of our misshapen squash nursery. Every few seconds, she pushes her hair behind her ears, exactly like I do. It’s a habit Mum has always told me off for, saying it made me seem nervous. Seeing it on Moira, a strange sense of joy settles in my rib cage. It feels like drinking tea from a Thermos in the cold: warm and soothing.

  Moira waves the man off and stands next to me, our elbows touching.

  ‘Are you Kilroch’s go-to expert on all things veterinary?’

  ‘Well, what these guys don’t know about raising sheep isn’t worth knowing, but they think I’ve got “proper knowledge” now that I’m doing a course at the college. They don’t know I haven’t moved on from guinea pigs yet.’

  ‘It’s just a bigger skeleton, right?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’ Moira smiles at me and hooks her arm through mine, swaying from side to side. ‘God, it’s nice chatting to someone new.’

  An older woman cranking round the pedals of a rusty bicycle waves at Moira from the saddle.

  ‘All right, Lindsey? Gizmo doing OK?’

  ‘Wonderful! Fur’s grown back a treat!’

  ‘Great!’ Moira turns back to me, her fringe puffed up in a breeze that feels like a tickle compared to yesterday’s cheek-slapping wind. ‘I lanced a cyst on her dog last month,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘I don’t ask for payment, so I think it’s OK. They’re all family friends.’

  ‘Do you find it weird that everyone here is reluctant to charge money for anything? It’s nice and all, but how does anyone make a decent living?’ I say, thinking back to my egg delivery and the miscellaneous collection of items I brought back as payment.

  ‘I’ve never thought about it like that. It’s just helping each other out, like you would do with a neighbour, right? It’s all swings and roundabouts.’

  Moira scrapes muck out from underneath her thumbnail, frowning at the floor. Silence muscles in like a hand at my back, pushing me to broach The Chat with Moira. I thought I’d be able to watch and assess from the sidelines, circling in when the time was right. But what does that look like? The longer I wait, the harder it is.

  Moira wraps her arms around her middle, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘You know all that stuff I said last night?’ she says.

  ‘What stuff? Everything’s a bit hazy around the edges.’

  ‘About Kian.’

  ‘Ah, yep. There was quite a lot about that.’

  Moira scratches her forehead. ‘I’m not going to say I didn’t mean it, because I did. I just hope I didn’t come across as properly desperate. It’s hard when you’ve grown up with someone. I don’t know how to act around him in a way that makes him realise I’m hot rather than cute, you know? Even saying that makes me want to stuff both fists into my mouth.’

  I think back to this morning, to Kian and his unconvincing excuses as to why he and Moira wouldn’t work.

  ‘You need to see each other off the farm. What about the pub?’

  ‘No, my dad’s old harbour mates will be in there. I’d rather not have an audience.’

  ‘A bar?’

  ‘Do you see anything that looks like a bar in Kilroch?’ says Moira, gesturing to the bunting-lined high street.

  ‘Fair point. Ohmygod,’ I splutter, sidestepping behind her. Ross stands by the post office window with two elderly women who talk over each other in their eagerness to speak.

  ‘Why are you hiding?’

  ‘I look like I slept in the chicken coop.’

  ‘Me too. Don’t worry, everyone here is used to it. Oh …’ she says, following my gaze across the road. ‘Hold on. Rev!’ she shouts, beckoning him over.

  ‘No! Moira, I can’t.’

  ‘You lik
e him,’ she says in a sing-song voice.

  ‘I don’t! I just … get quite flustered when he’s near me.’

  ‘Rev!’ she shouts again, waving her arm like she’s trying to signal for a rescue vessel.

  ‘What are you doing?!’

  ‘Calling him over.’

  ‘Why?!’

  ‘Because you clearly fancy him. Just … let me help you out. OK?’

  I clutch her elbows and do a mental risk assessment of the situation. Chance of embarrassment? High. Risk of failure? Exceptionally so, especially as Jesus ranks higher on his agenda that I’m ever likely to. Do I go along with it anyway? I nod.

  ‘OK, fine.’

  Ross leaves the women to rearrange their plastic hair caps and crosses the road towards us.

  ‘Pretend that we’re talking about something,’ says Moira. ‘This always works in movies.’

  ‘Right, err, Babs chased me across the yard this morning and pecked a hole through my wellie boot.’

  Moira bursts into laughter, her hand on my arm. ‘Honestly, what are you like! Ava, he’s looking. He’s looking,’ she hisses. ‘You’re such a hoot,’ she booms, every bit the amateur thespian. ‘Oh, hello! Interested in a misshapen squash, Rev?’ she says, a hand on her hip.

  Ross stands in front of the stall, the collar of his coat flicked up and a thick-knit red scarf bundled under his chin.

  ‘I had a grand plan to buy decent veg for dinner tonight but seems like I’m too late.’ He lifts his elbow, where a small loaf of rye bread is tucked under his arm in a paper bag, the crust blackened and hard from what I can see of it. ‘It’s a bittersweet gig, this ministerial business. No one wants to charge me for anything, but then I’m palmed off with the bits that are one step from being chucked on the compost. Look at these.’

  He slips a strap of his tote bag down and motions for us to look inside. A bunch of spindly parsnips sit alongside a bag of sprouts so small they could pass as malformed peas.

  ‘I feel bad asking if I can swap, but what am I going to do with this?’ he says, taking out a micro-parsnip. ‘Pick my teeth with it?’

  I burst into laughter, disproportionately so going by the hasty departure of a nearby seagull. The two women by the tearoom pause their conversation to glower in our direction.

  ‘Can’t you organise a smiting, Ross? Get the Big Man involved to teach them a lesson?’ I ask.

  He pretends to consider it, rubbing his chin (his well-formed, just-the-right-amount-of-stubble chin, I must add). ‘I’m all booked up on smitings this week,’ he says. He changes his stance and goes to point a finger at me, but the effect is undermined by the Fair Isle mittens he’s wearing. He looks at his hand and frowns. ‘Didn’t think that through. Just know that I was trying to be intimidating, because you’re definitely on my smiting list.’

  My pulse taps hard in my chest. ‘What for?’

  ‘You’ve caused a problem in the village, Ava,’ he says.

  Moira looks between us, unable to tell if this is a serious conversation or not. As much as I love being around her, I now want her to vanish, leaving Ross and me alone. Moira slides her hands into the pockets of her fleece.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You’re playing innocent, but I know the truth. It comes with this,’ he says, pulling down his scarf to reveal a dog collar. ‘It’s like an amulet. Gives me all sorts of insight.’

  ‘Fine.’ I hold my hands up like a cornered bandit. ‘I’ll admit it. Sometimes I don’t wash jam jars up before I put them in the recycling.’ Oh, God. That’s got to be in the top five lamest things ever said in the history of spoken English.

  ‘No, that I could forgive. I’m thinking of the health crisis you’ve instigated. You won’t believe the number of terrible scones I’ve had to palm off on the Bible Studies group to get rid of those eggs you brought me. Glen nearly went into hyperglycaemic shock on Thursday. He was injecting insulin like a junkie. As humans, we are graced with free will, but some people can’t be trusted with theirs.’

  ‘Of course. Ted Bundy, Jefferey Dahmer, John Wayne Gasey … they took some real liberties.’

  ‘I was thinking more Glen and his lack of control when it comes to scones, but we’ll get to the serial killers at some point, I’m sure.’

  A woman taps Ross on the shoulder, giving my pulsing heartbeat a chance to go down. For a moment, I thought he was going to ‘out’ me. If Ross has stumbled on the live stream, there’s a chance he’ll recognise me, even without the heavy make-up and startled expression.

  ‘Minister, will you be doing a service for All Saints’ Day? Only I’ve got a few thoughts based on last year. I know it wasn’t you, but that business with the effigy was very politically charged for a celebration. There wasn’t the need for so much lighter fuel,’ says the woman, clutching a canvas trolley so big I’m sure she could climb inside for a nap.

  ‘Quite right. I’m planning something far more … venerated.’ Ross looks solemn, which seems to appease the woman, who smiles broadly, her wrinkles pinched either side of her eyes and mouth. When she’s hoiked her trolley further up the road, he rolls his eyes. ‘Killjoy.’

  I laugh and touch his forearm. Holy bejesus, I’m touching his forearm (through a thick woollen coat, but still).

  ‘Oh, Rev. How was the committee Come Dine With Me?’ says Moira.

  ‘Dr Singh sneaked into first place on the final night. It was a bit of a relief because the winner had to donate a thousand pounds to charity, and if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have tried so hard,’ he says, tucking his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Well, if you need anyone to sample new dishes, you’ve got a willing participant right here,’ says Moira, nudging me with her elbow.

  ‘Funny, that. One of the cricket club guys was supposed to be coming for dinner tonight, but he’s cried off. Severed his left thumb trying to unclog the lawnmower. Can’t hold a fork, apparently, so that’s a problem. Care to swap in?’ he says, looking from Moira to me.

  ‘Oh, I can’t. I’m helping Mum in the tearoom tonight. The Young Farmers are holding an AGM and want three different kinds of sausage rolls,’ says Moira.

  ‘Ah, I won’t try to take you off Jacqui,’ says Ross.

  ‘Hang on, Jacqui? Jacqui’s your mum?’ I say, momentarily distracted by this news.

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘Shall we say seven?’ he asks.

  ‘Me? For dinner?’ I ask.

  ‘I was going to suggest we pray the rosary together, but we’ll start with food.’

  ‘Sure. Sounds good,’ I say, winding my smile in so I don’t look too overenthusiastic.

  I look over Ross’s shoulder, to where Jacqui stands outside the tearoom. Her apron strings are pulled so tight, the over-all look is that of a sagging sofa cushion. Around her, the same two women I saw lingering behind Ross moments ago are talking behind their hands, unsubtle looks thrown in our direction.

  ‘Ah, I knew there was something else. Moira, your mum said that you know a good ceilidh caller. Can you see if they’re free for the church roof fundraiser? The lass I had lined up has pulled out and we’ve not got long to go.’

  ‘Oh, aye, no problem.’

  ‘See you tonight, Ava,’ says Ross, lifting a mittened hand to say goodbye. I wave back.

  ‘Do your cheeks hurt?’ says Moira when he’s out of earshot.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because you were gurning like an idiot the whole time he was talking.’

  ‘Was I?’ I say, poking my cheeks.

  ‘To be fair, he’s got a very good jawline for a Scotsman. As have you. Think of the babies! A walking chin with teeny little feet trying to keep the rest upright.’

  ‘Oi!’ I say, bumping her with my hip.

  ‘He’s never asked me to call him Ross,’ she says, imitating my accent. ‘He’s just been “Minister”. The last one was called that too. It’s like Doctor Who; one disappears and a younger version turns up with a slightly different coat.’

  I look i
nto the middle distance, thinking.

  ‘I’ve got an idea. If Ross is organising a ceilidh, why don’t you use it to make a move on Kian? You’ll have plenty of time to put in some groundwork before then. And if it’s a community event, there’ll be boxed wine, which has always helped me through awkward situations in the past.’

  Moira looks up, thinking. ‘That could work. But what am I going to do there? I usually get roped into dancing with the widowers, so I might still get some action. They get a bit handsy during The Eightsome Reel.’

  ‘Put a good dress on. Swing about a bit. Strip the willow.’ I wink. Moira smacks me on the arm and buries her face in her hands, her fringe sticking up from the fine sea mist that’s only just retreated back into the harbour. She squats down to collapse the table legs, pausing to look up at me.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ says Moira, tapping the pen against her teeth. ‘If I’m going to try something on with Kian, you’ve got to attempt a bit of casual flirting with The Rev. Even if it is to give them lot something to talk about.’ She nods towards the gaggle of pea-coat-clad women hovering by the tearoom who disperse when Moira waves at them, fingers fluttering. ‘But you have to report back to me after you go round for dinner.’

  I pout to the side and slowly nod.

  ‘Excellent. Wait there,’ she says, taking a few coins from the cash tin. ‘This deserves a toast, over hot chocolate, of course. Marshmallows?’

  ‘Always.’

  Chapter 21

  I’m in a conundrum. If I ring the doorbell and wait on the step, the curtain of ivy will force me to stand so close to the actual door that when Ross opens it, I may fall forward onto his face. Not the worst consequence, admittedly, but not smooth. On the other hand, if I stand partway up the garden path, I’ll look like a creepy lurker, which is more accurate. Is there a chance I’m over-thinking this?

  As I hover by the bell, the door shunts in its frame and a muffled voice filters through.

  ‘Can you push it from your side? The rain has made the wood swell.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I use my shoulder as leverage. When I step away, the spiderwebs strung on the latticed windows stick to my jacket.