Page 46 of Beautiful Ugly
“Right you are, my love. Is that all for now?” she asks, nodding toward my drink. It’s the color of honey and my mouth waters justlooking at it. She clasps her hands together and I notice the silver thistle ring on her finger.
“Your ring. I think I’ve seen a few people on the island wearing the same one—”
“Yes, we’re all part of a cult,” she says, and when I don’t respond she laughs. “Just pulling your leg. It means we’re part of the Isle of Amberly Trust, that’s all. Part of a group who care passionately about this island and will do anything to protect it. The thistle is a symbol of resilience, strength, and protection.”
I think it sounds a bit like a cult but keep my thoughts to myself.
A short while later I am sipping my pint in a cozy corner of the pub, and Columbo has a bowl of water and a dog biscuit. Life is good for the first time in a long time. There are little vases of fresh flowers on each table and they remind me of something. It takes me a moment to figure out what, but they look exactly like the ones that were in the cabin when I first arrived.
“How are you finding island life?” Arabella asks from behind the bar.
“Okay so far,” I lie. “These vases of flowers...”
“Pretty aren’t they? The vases are from Beautiful Ugly.” I frown. “The pottery on the island,” she explains. “The flowers are from Meera at Highland Cow Candles. Meera uses the wildflowers native to Amberly to make her scented candles, which are sold next door. Her slogan is ‘Nature Knows Best,’ and we like to reuse things here. There’s a bit of a make do and mend mentality. Meera used to be a chemist but she was the victim of a violent armed robbery—two bastards in ski masks—and she wanted a quieter life after that. She found one here, making luxury candles. She makes these little bouquets from anything left over. The bog myrtle is good for keeping the midges away and other things. She even blends her own teas! The corner shop sells one of themmade from bog myrtle. I like the taste, but it’s a hallucinogenic; it can make you see things that aren’t there.”
Her words shock me but I do my best not to overreact or mention how much of the stuff I’ve been drinking. Maybe that’s why Sandy wouldn’t touch the cup of tea I made her.
“Right, well, I’ll try to remember that. This is a great pub by the way.”
“Thank you, we do our best. The place was in need of some TLC when we took over, but I think all the hard work was worth it.”
“You’re not from here originally?”
“What gave it away?” she asks in her thick London accent. “Sid and I are from London originally, but we’ve been living here for four years now. I haven’t set foot off the island since.”
“You haven’t left Amberly for four years?”
She shakes her head, smiles as though I’ve asked a silly question. “Not once.”
“Not even to visit friends or family, the people you left behind?”
“I left everything I left behind for a reason. Sid is the only person I couldn’t live without. If you stay long enough, you’ll soon discover that everybody on this island has a story. All of them. Some of them might come in handy for one of your books.”So she does know who I am.“This is a place for people who have spent their lives living in the margins, never feeling like they really belonged anywhere. They come here to find that sense of community they’ve been craving, a surrogate family made up from people who were once strangers, a place they can finally call home. Then they never leave.”
“I plan to leave,” I say, taking another sip of my pint.
“Do you not like old Charlie’s writing cabin?” she asks.
“I like it fine. There are things I miss, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
“Like...” I struggle to think of anything at first. It’s been so long since I lived anything resembling a normal life I’ve forgottenwhat one looks like. “I miss going to the theater, or an art gallery, or going to the cinema to see a movie. I miss walking around London. People watching. Going out for a nice meal.”
“We serve food here in the evenings and at weekends!” she says. “Charlie used to come here every Sunday for a roast beef dinner and a pint. Creature of habit, that one. Sat there in the corner every weekend with his dog.”
“Charles Whittaker had a dog?”
“Always. The last one, Dickens, was very old but Charlie didn’t go anywhere without him. Sandy used to join them here most Sundays too. I can still picture the three of them now, the dog sleeping under the table...”
“I didn’t know Charles and Sandy were such good friends.”
I wonder why Sandy never mentioned it.
“Oh yes, thick as thieves those two. Charlie didn’t really engage with anyone else on Amberly. Only Sandy. He kept himself to himself, didn’t get involved in community matters, but I think maybe he was just shy. Charlie didn’t behave that way with Sandy. They went walking together, fishing together, drinking together. But they had a big falling-out before he died. The news of his death went down like a lead balloon, everyone was devastated. We didn’t see Charles in his final months, nobody did. He locked himself away in that cabin, stopped coming to the pub, rarely came to the village at all. It was hard on Sandy. I don’t know what they fell out about, but before then Charles—who struck me as a man who didn’t trust anyone—trusted Sandy. So much so, she was his first reader. Read all of Charles’s books before he even let his agent read them, apparently. Including first drafts.”
I put my beer back down on the table. My hands are shaking too much to hold it without spilling.
“Really?” I say, and my voice sounds strange. Strangled.