The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans

even though a sudden shower was starting to thicken.
    Standing at the bar, waiting to be served, Walter inspected the tide of humanity as it flowed past the windows and in through the door. He muttered, “A curse. Locusts, the lot of them.”
    “So, Walter, you and Robert. Cousins?” Freya’s expression was innocent. “Thanks. On me.” She nodded to the barman as he handed them both a pint.
    Walter laughed. “Fair point. Still . . .” He led Freya to a table in a front window of the Nun. They were lucky to get it. The bar was filling up with pink-faced people—you didn’t expect sunburn in Scotland, after all—and as more pushed in to get out of the rain, the place took on the reek of a wet dog.
    “Tourists bring money, surely?”
    Walter snorted. “A shirt and five pounds and don’t change either. Looters, pillagers, always have been. English!” His voice cut through the babble, and people stared. Walter grinned amiably.
    Freya choked back a laugh; the man was shameless.
    Walter’s smile faded. He turned his tankard to the other side for no particular reason and took a cautious sip.
    Freya leaned closer. “Did you know my father well, Walter?”
    He nodded. The long exhale of a sigh misted the glass. “I would call him my friend.”
    Freya said nothing.
    Another gusty breath, then, “I thought it best, since we had but met, just to take you to the island. But it troubled me.” He looked down into his beer. “I did not think it was my place to discuss his passing—not then, if you can understand, because—” He stopped.
    So, more to the story. But Freya said, “It’s okay.” She didn’t say she understood, because she did not. “But there was a clipping at the house, a newspaper article, and you were mentioned.”
    This time Walter looked her in the eyes. “We lost your dad and, very nearly—”
    A baby howled, and there was pandemonium. He’d fallen from a high chair and, scooped up by his frightened mother, the child screamed louder.
    Walter drained the pint in a swallow and stood. “Shall we?”
    Freya was happy to go. The tables were too close for a private conversation.
    Outside, the rain had stopped, but it had cleared the crowds from the quay, leaving the world a calmer place.
    “Over here.” Walter put his hand under Freya’s elbow, guiding her toward a large stone shed at the other end of the wharf. A working building, it had its own slipway and stood a little apart. Closer, and she could read the sign. WALTER BOYNE & SON. SHIPWRIGHTS .
    The place was well kept. There were no missing slates on the roof, and a pair of massive doors was painted copper red, as were the outer frames of the windows under the eaves. The inner frames were brilliant white—a pleasing contrast to the dark stone. From inside there came the tearing whine of power tools.
    “Here you are.” Walter opened a small door within one of the larger pair and stood aside, and Freya stepped past him over the threshold. The air inside was thick with resin and the hot cinnamon of sawn timber.
    “We use a lot of oak and different kinds of pine. That’s the smell. Other timbers as we need them.” Walter was shouting.
    Up close the noise from the equipment was huge, toothshakinglyimmense. Freya stuck fingers in both ears, nodding. She stared at the half-built boat that reared up toward the ceiling—it claimed most of the space in the center of the shed, and light from the high windows poured across ribs half-clad with overlapping lengths of timber. Walter Boyne & Son built wooden boats out of an ancient tradition; of course he’d been Michael’s friend.
    “Dan . . . turn it off. Dan!” Walter cupped hands to shout to a hunched figure at the other end of the workshop. He and another man were feeding a piece of timber through a benched power saw; both had ear protectors on, and both were oblivious to the newcomers.
    “Excuse me, Freya.” Walter strode the length of the shed, waving both arms. “Oi!” Finally, as