Page 80 of Little Wing
‘Actually – to be honest, I’m just a failed photographer.’
Nell watched as Dougie nodded gravely at himself, the wind lashing cords of his hair against his face as if in punishment while he sent his shame and disappointment out to sea. ‘It was everything to me – and I was good. Once.’ He turned to face her. ‘So it’s nice to hear of your success, your love for what you do.’
They walked on. Nell frowned. ‘How did you fail?’
Dougie thought about this. ‘I stopped looking. No true photographer ever stops looking.’
‘Did you fall out of love with it?’ Nell asked. ‘Has what was once your craft just become a chore?’
He thought about it. ‘Maybe,’ he said. He thought about it some more. ‘Not so much,’ he said warily and left it at that. Nell saw that he was done talking.
‘Bollocks,’ she said. ‘I left my own camera in the car.’
‘And this is the one time I forgot to bring mine,’ said Dougie. ‘Told you – failed photographer.’
‘Maybe I’ll come back,’ she said.
‘When do you leave?’
‘It was meant to be today. But then I found Nurse Keaton. I haven’t rebooked my ticket yet. What about you?’
‘Tomorrow.’ He turned his focus back to the sea as if soaking up the sight of it, then he gave her a little nudge and nodded ahead toward the cottage.
‘Ready?’ Dougie asked.
They had reached the cottage after strolling for twenty minutes, during which time their questionnaires had eased into relaxed conversation. And now they were here. Whistling, Dougie opened the gate and busied himself with the keys, until he was aware that Nell was standing stock-still and pale a few steps behind him. He looked from her to the house and back again.
‘Do you remember it? Are things coming back?’
When she brought her eyes to his they were shot through with tears. ‘It’s just theknowing,’ she told him. ‘Just knowing that this is where I lived. Me – here. Baby Nell and young Flora.’
Dougie considered this. ‘I’m sorry I can’t remember stuff for you,’ he said.
‘That’s OK – you were only a toddler yourself.’
‘Are you ready to go in?’ He touched her elbow. ‘We can wait a bit – just hang out here in the garden?’
‘It’s OK,’ Nell said. ‘I’m ready.’
‘You should open up,’ he said, standing to one side.
So Nell unlocked the back door and pushed it open, Dougie just behind her. Inside, everything was very still, very quiet, very polite. It was simple, plain, tasteful. It was very much of today.
‘When you first bought it – what was it like?’
He wished, just then, that he could provide details beyond the mundane, that he had information or anecdotes that would have significance for her, but he had none.
‘I think your ma rented it for the time she was here – and it’s been rented or sold on again a few times over the last, well, thirty years.’
‘All the treasures are gone?’
Dougie shrugged. ‘It’s a treasure in its own right, is it not?’
A cosy yet airy sitting room, a small but sweet kitchen, a compact but bright bathroom downstairs. Walls painted in a contemplative soft white, enlivened by curtains and cushions and a throw over the armchair in tweed the colours of heather. They went upstairs and looked into the two tiny bedrooms in the roof: simple, spruce, neutral. They gazed out of the window. The sea was calmer now and there were lengthier gaps of sky between the clouds.
‘That’s the garden,’ said Nell.
‘You don’t say,’ said Dougie and it could have been rude but it wasn’t. She was glad for the tone to be lightened. The air in the house hung heavy and forlorn with inaccessible memories and sealed history.
