From Shetland, With Love at Christmas

Book 2: From Shetland, With Love

by Erin Green

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Verity is embarking on a better-late-than-never gap year now that her sons have flown the nest, and dreams of turning a lifetime's hobby of knitting and crocheting into a profitable new enterprise at Lerwick Manor's gallery. Nessie has returned to Shetland after two years spent retraining as a blacksmith on the Scottish mainland. She's determined to prove that gender is no obstacle taking on her family's heritage. Isla is fresh out of catering college, but she is desperate to prove she has what it takes to run Lerwick Manor's artisan café. With the island's Yule Day celebration fast approaching, it's the ideal moment for their crafts to shine.

Release date: September 30, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

Friday 1 October

Entry: 09.10.1965

Bake: a wedding cake (replica)

Event: 25th anniversary cake

Serving size: 50 small slices

Decoration: royal icing with pink roses

 

Notes: I spent all day making my parents an anniversary wedding cake. A replica of their original cake, which was made at short notice because my dad, Duncan, had signed up for active service back in 1940. I’ve rationed the amount of sugar and fruit to mimic what they had during wartime. Family donated their rationed goods, apparently. Mum promised to pay them back, plus a little extra as interest, which she did over time. I’ll skimp by using marmalade instead of apricot jam to seal the two tiers. They didn’t have almond marzipan beneath the royal icing, so a smooth finish was difficult to achieve. It’s my present to them, as I have very little money to buy them a nice gift to celebrate their silver anniversary.

Verity

‘That’s fifty-four pounds exactly,’ says the taxi driver, turning around in his seat, my ear adjusting to his Scottish twang. ‘I can’t drive any nearer, as there’s very little space at the top of this narrow driveway.’

I peer at the red digits displayed on his dashboard. A yellow pine-tree air freshener is swinging from his rear-view mirror.

That’s easily the most I’ve paid for an airport transfer; hardly surprising, given that my last flight was over two decades ago. I ferret in my handbag, grab the bundle of crisp notes from my purse and hand them over. It might seem ungenerous of me, but still, I’m expecting my change. Watching my pennies has become a way of life for me.

‘Thanks. Is anyone meeting you here?’ he asks, flicking on the interior light before digging into a fabric bag – I assume in search of a pound coin.

I’m in two minds to lie, but I don’t. Having spent the entire day travelling by train and plane from the Midlands, I haven’t the initiative or energy.

He seems a friendly chap, mid-thirties, blond hair poking out from beneath a woollen beanie, and sporting matching stubble on his chin. His rugby sweatshirt looks fresh on today, though his jeans could do with a freshen-up in an economy wash, if nothing else.

‘No. I have instructions to get into the cottage, so I’ll be fine.’ I was relieved when the email arrived yesterday, providing a door code and instructions on where to locate an information folder. I assume that’ll contain everything: from cooker instructions, to emergency numbers and bin collection details. The website states that a complimentary basket of essentials will be awaiting my arrival. I’m hoping for fresh milk, but UHT will be welcomed. All I need at this late hour is the door code, a hot brew and a clean bed.

Tomorrow, I’ll begin afresh.

I accept the offered coin before peering out of the window. I can’t see a single thing: it’s pitch black. Worse still, I can’t see Harmony Cottage, which I assume is in close proximity since we’re supposedly parked in the driveway. Peering briefly into the rear-view mirror, I can see my bedraggled appearance. My pale blue eyes look bloodshot and my light brown hair could do with being introduced to a brush despite its fashionably tousled style.

‘I’ll stay till you’re inside, if that’s OK with you?’ he says, eyeing me cautiously under the yellowish glow of the interior light.

I act blasé but I’m grateful. The headlights illuminate a section of the driveway, after which I’ll be on my own.

The driver pops the release on the car boot, leaves the vehicle and collects my single large suitcase from the rear. I follow, ensuring I have retrieved all my belongings from the rear seat, and find myself standing in the darkest darkness I have ever experienced. The night air is warmer than I was expecting. In the distance – I’m assuming it’s the direction from which we’ve driven – I can see a smattering of orange and white lights but very little illumination close by.

In approximately five minutes’ time, I will be surrounded by a nothingness unlike any I have ever encountered. I will be alone for the very first time in my entire life. Not the alone that I’m used to – where people are in an adjoining room, living next door, or sharing a womb – but totally alone.

And I can’t wait.

It might seem abnormal to most, slightly freaky or unhinged to others, but I’m about to be granted the one wish I have craved for a lifetime: solitude.

‘Your case is fairly heavy,’ says the driver, lifting it from the boot.

‘I’ll manage,’ I retort. Having lugged it for most of the day, I don’t need reminding. I should invest in a modern lightweight one, with rotatable rubber wheels and a comfy handle, but this battered old case is a faithful friend from my teenage days. I can’t justify expensive luggage, given my home-bird nature.

‘I’ll carry your case to the door,’ he suggests. ‘It’s not too far,’ he says, heaving my suitcase on to his shoulder and leading the way.

Once we’ve left the beam of the headlights, I grab my mobile, flicking the screen to illuminate our path. The terrain underfoot is rugged, compacted mud, with large boulders jutting up, which would wreak havoc on the underneath of a low-slung chassis. And he’s right, it is very narrow in places; I wouldn’t wish to reverse a vehicle the length of this driveway in the dark.

‘I do appreciate your help, but I could have managed, honestly,’ I insist, keeping my eyes on the bulky outline some steps ahead of me.

‘No problem. I’ll at least know that you got inside safely,’ he answers, before adding, ‘and are not wandering the coastal path by mistake.’

I can hear him puffing within minutes.

‘Are you staying for a week or two?’ he asks, after a lengthy silence.

‘A year,’ I reply. ‘I should have brought more luggage but the flight allowance curbed that idea.’

‘Wow! That’s unusual, most folks . . .’ His words fade.

I assume he presumes I’m not most folks. And he’s right, I’m not. I’m Verity Kendal, mother of three, daughter of two, twin of one, aunty to another. But for my forty-third year of life, I’m choosing a gap year. I feel incredibly guilty for wanting or even needing such an indulgence but I’m putting myself first for once. I’ll miss an entire year of family events, Christmases and birthdays, but I’ve been dreaming of this since my three sons were munching on Farley’s rusks. And tonight, I’ve arrived on the eve of three hundred and sixty-five days of pleasing myself.

Harmony Cottage is my ideal getaway. Proudly sitting in a solitary position high upon a cliff top overlooking the North Sea, within the aptly named Bay of Sound. There’s a different vista from each window denoting a 360° picture-postcard setting. I’ll be surrounded by paddocks, coastal pathways and grazing sheep amidst a backdrop of autumn bracken. The nearest house is a short distance along the lane, so what more could I ask for? I’d been slightly embarrassed asking for a house tour via a flickering iPad screen, but the lady was obliging in every way. ‘It’ll be roomy for a solo occupant,’ she’d said. ‘The usual bookings are families, given the two-bedroom and two-bathroom layout.’ It’s tastefully decorated and partially furnished, which suits my needs. For me, it was simply love at first sight, so I signed the contract as soon as she emailed the paperwork.

We trek for a few minutes, taking the gentle climb at a steady pace, before the whitewashed walls of a cottage loom out of the darkness, complete with drystone walls on either side. It’s quaint, peaceful and promises complete solitude.

‘Here we are. The main door into the porchway should be unlocked,’ says the driver, adding, ‘you’ll need the code for the inner door—’

‘Yes, I know.’ I interrupt, having memorised the details from yesterday’s email. I silently repeat the digit sequence: three, four, six, five followed by hash.

‘Just punch in three, four, six, five, then the hash symbol before turning the latch,’ says the driver, dropping my suitcase beside the porch door.

My mouth drops wide as I stare in disbelief.

‘Get away with ye. You’ll be fine. Folk around these parts are old-school, not like these mainland folks who trust nothing and no one,’ he says, waving aside my shocked expression. ‘We leave our doors unlocked around here. Our motto is, “If it isn’t yours, don’t touch it,” which works a treat in most situations – unless you’ve an allotment plot, but you needn’t worry there.’

A sudden neighing from beside us makes me jump out of my skin.

‘What’s that?’ I ask, lifting my mobile to illuminate a five-bar gate set in the adjoining drystone wall. A pair of reflective eyes appear eerily out of the darkness. ‘A pony?’

‘That there’s a Shetland pony – you’ll find one or two about these parts,’ he says, giving a deep-throated chuckle. ‘That’s peerie Jutt, he’ll not harm you.’

‘We’ll make friends tomorrow, peerie Jutt,’ I say, stepping into the unlocked porch and finding the inner doorway. I press the number sequence, as memorised, turn the locking device and the door springs wide.

The driver lugs my battered suitcase into the porchway, before stepping back outside. ‘You’ll be OK, now?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ I say, feeling along the interior wall for a light switch and illuminating the hallway.

‘No worries, you’re safely inside,’ he says, striding off into the darkness. ‘See you around.’

I stand for a moment on the porch step staring out. I can hear the pony snuffling at the gate, the heavy tread of boots descending the driveway, but I can barely see my hand before my face.

‘Excuse me . . . and your name is?’ I call into the darkness.

‘Me? I’m Levi Gordans . . . everyone around here knows me.’

‘Thank you, Levi – I do appreciate your help,’ I reply, before continuing, ‘I’m Verity, by the way.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Verity. Welcome to Shetland.’

Chapter Two

Saturday 2 October

Verity

I’m woken by my mobile ringing. It’s only half six, I’m in a strange bed but I know who this will be: Avril.

‘What’s your bloody game?’ screeches my twin sister.

‘Morning, Avril, how are you?’ I answer, knowing full well that I’m in for a telling-off.

‘Cut the crap, Verity. You’ve upped and offed leaving a damned note! Where are you?’

‘I’m fine. I’m taking time out for myself, that’s all. There’s no need to make a major fuss. The lads will be fine, I’ve left provisions . . .’

‘So I’ve heard. According to your Tom there’s a chest freezer full of sodding lasagnes, apparently.’

‘Home-made food, not shitty microwave meals which some people live on,’ I say, knowing such a reference to her culinary cop-out will hit a nerve.

‘Oi, some of us are busy.’ And now she’s twanged my nerve, as always.

‘Avril, we’re all bloody busy at something. No one in our family has got it cushy.’

‘Where are you?’

I take a deep breath; I sense what’s about to follow.

‘Shetland.’

‘Where?’

‘The Shetland Islands.’

‘Above bloody Scotland?’

‘Yep, the place with the little ponies and beautiful knitting,’ I declare proudly, knowing she’ll have rolled her eyes at the mention of knitting.

‘It’s hardly visible on the weather map, let alone being a holi­day hotspot.’

‘Exactly, which is why it’ll suit me.’

‘That didn’t happen overnight, so how long have you been planning this for?’

‘Kind of for ever, or at least since the boys were little. I wanted to say, but you know what our family are like. The minute I mention anything others don’t approve of, you all clan together and quickly talk me out of doing it. So I thought, bugger the lot of you, I’ll do it my way.’

‘Verity!’

‘I know, I know. It’s not what you all want to hear, but there are times when I’m smothered by the lot of you.’

‘Thanks a bunch!’

‘Sorry, but it’s true. Every day of my life, I’ve got people pulling at me; demanding my time and attention. If it isn’t the three lads, then it’s you, or Mum and Dad. There are times I would simply like to be me. And have no one asking what time I’ll be clocking back in to my “being Mum” role as chef, maid or bottle-washer.’

‘Don’t you think we all feel like that?’

‘Perhaps, but you have Francis to share the load with; I don’t have anyone. I’ve been doing it single-handed for nearly eighteen years, and enough is enough.’

‘We’ve always supported you and yours the best we can.’ I can hear the hurt in her voice.

‘And I’m very grateful. But now, I’d quite like some alone time.’

‘How long?’

‘See what I mean? “Verity, what time are you clocking back in to home life?” That’s precisely what I’m on about, Avril.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ says my twin, her patience clearly wearing thin. ‘I’m simply trying to establish how long I’ll need to . . .’

‘You don’t need to do anything. At twenty-three, Jack is more than capable of running the show. I’ve made arrangements for everything: the utility bills, the mortgage and, as soon as I’m ready and settled, regular contact via the iPad. Give me some credit, I didn’t just up and off, you know.’

‘How long have you booked a room for?’

‘A cottage actually, and I’ve paid for the year.’

‘A year!’

‘Yes . . . but I could be home next week if I choose to be, so don’t worry.’

‘Believe me, I’m not worrying. You’re obviously out of your tiny mind, being utterly selfish and self-centred. I can’t believe you’ve actually done this, Verity.’

There’s a long pause.

I get that Avril doesn’t get it. We may be twins, but we are very different in personality, outlook and how we navigate this world. She’s the yin to my yang. She’d never slope off without her beloved Francis and their young daughter, Amelia, in tow. But then she gets weekly ‘me’ time via her yoga, her mid-monthly book clubs and her weekly gardening group.

I don’t; my life isn’t like that.

‘Avril, do you remember when we were children and you always talked about running away, finding a new family or living in a different country?’

‘Kind of.’

‘All because Dad wouldn’t let you have your ears pierced or let you stay out till after dark. You were planning a runaway escape once a week, twice in some weeks.’

‘Yeah, so what’s your point?’

‘I’ve thought about running away more as an adult than I ever did as a child.’

I let my words sink in. I hear her sigh.

‘Is that it? You feel the need to run off and find yourself?’ Her voice is calmer; she’s finally listening.

‘Not find myself; I already know myself. I simply need some time to do the things I want to do, without anyone calling on me as their mum, sister, aunty or daughter.’

‘Have you quit your job at the solicitors?’

‘Yep, that too. A receptionist only needs to give four weeks’ notice.’

‘And George. Have you told him?’

‘Have I heck! If you can find George Kendal, then be my guest. In fact, remind him that he has three sons who’ve grown up since he last saw them. He might like to step up to the plate during my absence. And, before you ask, I have the means to support myself. I’ve rented space within a local gallery and started a small business selling knitted and crocheted garments. You know how much I love my knitting, so I’ve turned it from a hobby into a business.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? Because if you do . . . would you kindly relay the details to the others?’

‘You aren’t going to speak to them?’ Shock returns to Avril’s tone. ‘You realise it’s Amelia’s birthday in a few days.’

‘Amelia’s six years old – she won’t notice if I’m there or not. I’ll pop a card into the post and send a birthday gift. As I said before, I’ve made extensive plans and left an explanation for the lads. I want this time to myself. To do as I please and –’ I inhale deeply before proceeding – ‘I’m not about to explain myself ten times over to each concerned relative. If they’re angry with me, then so be it. I’m sorry, but it’s frustrating when you know what you want and yet your current life doesn’t permit it.’

‘Verity, please, Mum’s nerves won’t take kindly to this.’

‘Avril, give them all my love, tell them I am quite safe. Can you ensure Jack organises the food money? Otherwise Harvey and Tom will blow it on a Domino’s Pizza street party. Tell Amelia that I’ll send a gift. I’ll leave my mobile on charge, but I have no intention of using it purely to hear complaints, OK?’

‘I think you’re being incredibly selfish, Verity.’

I’m silent for a moment. That sounds like such a negative judgement, yet she’s absolutely right. ‘Why thank you, I intend to be! I’m putting myself first for once. Love to you all. Bye.’ I swiftly tap the screen, ending her call. I throw my mobile on to my duvet for fear of feeling her wrath burning through the phone casing.

She’ll be annoyed that she wasn’t able to talk me round; that’s Avril’s superhero power up the Swanee.

I’m proud of myself and it’s only 6.45 a.m.

I scramble from the double bed, my feet padding on the stained wooden boards, and head for the kitchen to make a fresh brew. As sole occupant, I don’t need to navigate three young men seeing their mother nipping about in her scanties. It feels oddly liberating to walk about half naked in my underwear.

Last night I’d been grateful to find fresh milk and decent tea bags awaiting my arrival, so I’d forfeited any exploration of the cottage before succumbing to the comfort of the first double duvet I found. I hadn’t drawn all the curtains, ignited the wood burner or even bothered to unpack my battered suitcase, apart from rummaging for my toothbrush and toothpaste.

I sip my tea now as I explore each room: there’s a bedroom and bathroom on each floor, a huge open kitchen and a beautiful lounge with picturesque views. I return to my bedroom and sweep the heavy lined curtains aside. And there, less than a metre from my ground-floor bedroom window is a middle-aged man with a mop of unruly brown curls, in a split leather apron, with the Shetland pony’s hoof thrust between his thighs, staring back at me in all my semi-naked Marks and Sparks glory. His metal rasp is suspended in mid-air and the expression on his face suggests that he doesn’t need his eyesight testing. I do the only feasible thing: I grab the curtain, wrap its heavy folds around me and cover my voluptuous figure, before giving a hearty wave and mouthing ‘hello’ as if butter wouldn’t melt.

I stand there for a moment, attempting to convey an air of confidence, whilst dying inside. The pony is jet black; there’s no wonder I couldn’t make him out when I arrived last night. His back dips deeply from shoulder to rump and his stubby legs are squarely set, supporting a low-slung belly.

Enough pretending; I can’t sustain such a level of self-confidence whilst wrapped in a curtain. I drop the fabric and swiftly close the bedroom curtains. Thank God he doesn’t realise that he’s the first to witness such a sight in eighteen years – since my youngest, Tom, was born. I vow to keep my bedroom curtains closed for the duration of my stay.

After replaying my interaction with the local farrier numerous times whilst showering, I grab some comfy yet casual clothing: black leggings and a long tunic.

I need to begin my day, which means getting to grips with my new business premises. The gallery’s grand opening is tomorrow. And that, I imagine, will take up the majority of my day.

But first, I grab my tiny make-up bag and dash into the downstairs bathroom. Using my one and only decent kohl eyeliner pencil, I write on the vanity mirror: Do as I wish and please myself!!!

I stand back to admire my handiwork. The lettering is wonky – but who cares? I’m the only one to see it. And that thought alone fills me with a renewed glee. Wow! I can officially do as I please, when I please, and for however long I please!

I slam the cottage’s inner door firmly behind me, knowing I don’t need a key. I pull the porch door to, leaving it as I found it last night. Even this small act provides a renewed sense of freedom that I haven’t known since my teenage years, when Avril and I were deemed ‘sensible’ enough to be given a house key.

The weather is overcast and slightly windy. I’m unperturbed by the threat of rain but pray that the door code works on my return. Modern technology has a knack of malfunctioning for me. Vending machines frequently flex their powers by denying my request, despite the simple instructions. After a full day at the gallery, I’ll feel utterly ridiculous if I have to nip to the nearest cottage to seek help breaking into my new home. One embarrassing incident a day will be quite enough. I scour the lengthy driveway, ensuring it’s empty, for fear of bumping into the visiting farrier.

The driveway has a paddock on either side. To my left is a large grassy field with a simple wooden fence, homing a rust-coated Shetland pony and a bay horse; both are eating but quit to stare at me as I pass by. To the right is a smaller paddock edged with wire fencing and filled with a formation of sheep busily engaged in synchronised grazing. Their tiny front teeth protrude energetically, revealing pink tongues as their jaws robotically chomp. I shiver slightly as I notice their weird rectangular-shaped pupils stare in my direction. I quickly stride past, causing the sheep formation to slowly turn in unison. My haste is a combination of my short legs and the steepness of the incline. I imagine the sheep can probably empathise. Somehow I never associate beautiful knitting yarn with these animals; their clumpy fleece splattered with droppings and mud looks undesirable in its natural state.

On reaching the road, I’m greeted by a view that is to die for: an open stretch of furling sea crashing upon the black rocks edging the coastal road. Choppy waters stretch into the distance to be greeted on the far side of the bay by a vast array of purple mountains. A sliver of golden sand curves along a nearby coastline, and at the far end of the headland stands a proud lighthouse painted with broad bands of red and white, its glass fascia sparkling in the morning light.

I make tracks along the coastal road, heading towards the centre of Lerwick, whilst admiring the landscape. My destination is Lerwick Manor’s gallery, which lies a short distance from the busy town centre.

Chapter Three

Nessie

I never thought this day would arrive. For so long, I’ve dreamt of having my own forge with the freedom to sustain an income from my talent.

It takes time for my coal pit to burn properly. I begin building the kindling into a neat pile, tucking a layer of coals around it and building my pyre in the centre of the blackened hearth, with a tiny char cloth poking out ready to light. Then I fiddle. I always fiddle, can’t help myself, making sure there is maximum contact with each combustible. It still amazes me that with fire and force I can create such beautiful items that will last a lifetime. It’s like waking a dragon each morning after a long sleep. Within an hour, the coals are glowing. The flaking ash provides a grey frosting on each blackened edge; a comforting sight from the fire pit.

I’ve previously had observers laugh at the precision with which I approach this morning ritual. If they knew the importance, they wouldn’t take the mick. I know from experience that if I rush my morning fire, I’ll spend the rest of the day regretting it, making for a tiring day; the heat levels won’t reach their maximum if there is an inefficient burn between oxygen and energy source. The heat affects my metals, my creativity and, ultimately, my products.

I’ve undertaken a major career switch to study, qualify and follow my dream, reigniting the passion for fire within my family. Today is simply day one of the rest of my life.

My coals are the primary task of any morning, so I don’t rush.

‘Morning . . . Wednesday, isn’t it?’ says the male voice behind me.

I turn about to view my recently acquired stablemate at the forge: Isaac Jameson.

‘Hi, that’ll be me!’ I say, extending my palm to receive a warm handshake.

His eyes take in my appearance in one fluid glance; he’s certainly not shy. I can guess his opinion, based on first impressions: my pixie-cut hair is dyed a vivid pink, and I’m wearing my standard wardrobe of denim dungarees and vest top beneath my leather apron, with my bulky steel-toecapped boots. I’m not your average woman, but then I don’t have a regular job!

‘Isaac Jameson, engineer in glassware,’ he says, flashing a white-toothed smile, highlighting his Scandinavian colouring, typical of many Shetlanders: blond hair with piercing blue eyes.

‘I like it,’ I say, chuckling; a sense of humour will certainly make life easier in sharing our work space. It’s one thing to benefit from a decrease in rent; quite another if the set-up doesn’t work on a day-to-day basis. I want a positive vibe, not a toxic environment that could drain me – physically, mentally, emotionally or creatively – and affect my output. ‘Wednesday Smith, engineer in metal, thanks to force and flames – though friends call me Nessie,’ I say, correcting his original address.

‘Nice to meet you, Nessie. I’m ready to face the day – and you?’

‘I will be, once I get my coals going . . . there’s nothing worse, is there, than a bad day of coals?’

‘A tough day with little reward,’ confirms Isaac, removing his flying jacket to reveal a tartan lumberjack shirt. ‘I’ve wasted entire days trying to temper molten glass over a poor heat, only to smash the lot after it cooled. I can’t stand poor-quality work.’

‘I’m exactly the same. Shoddy workmanship – there’s nothing worse, is there? I mean to hit the cobbles running, given the short run-up to Christmas.’

‘Same here, though I have a stash of items in storage. I can bring them in for my displays if customers clear me out – not that I’ll complain, if that happens.’

‘No, nor me.’ He’s nice, easy to talk to, and on the same wavelength regarding a passion for his craft. ‘I’d best nurture this fire, otherwise today will be a non-starter for me.’

‘Sure. I’m glad that my furnace is somewhat easier to light.’

‘What are using?’ I say, nodding to the bulky equipment dominating his workspace.

‘Oxygen and propane for the furnace – enabling me to control the temperature. Then a sand and limestone mix for my glassware. The set-up works pretty well, to be fair; coal or charcoal wouldn’t give me the extreme temperatures I need. And you?’

‘Bituminous coal – it gives me the heat I need, with very few impurities to contaminate the metal. Though I tend to call it my coal pit, rather than my forge or a hearth.’

I reluctantly return to my coal pit, which ordinarily should be well under way by now. Funny how easily distracted I suddenly became – I’ll need to have a stern talk with myself, if that becomes a regular occurrence.

‘Did you go to Bell’s Brae primary school as a child?’ asks Isaac, as he unpacks his belongings on to his shelving unit. ‘Your name sounds familiar.’

‘I did, though only for a few years – my parents took me out by year six,’ I say, reverting to the shy kid on the front row.

‘Did you move house?’

‘Oh no – I’ve always been a bit . . .’ I gesture towards my pink hair. ‘A bit way out or alternative, as some might say, but that doesn’t always fit in well at school, does it?’

‘Nope, not always. Kids can be pretty cruel,’ adds Isaac, stopping his actions to focus on me. ‘Sad, really. Especially when you mature and realise that the most interesting folk are those who don’t follow the pack.’

‘I agree, but then I would, wouldn’t I?’ I jest, knowing that a childhood filled with insecurities has resulted in that flippant answer.

‘Did you finish school and get your qualifications?’

‘Yeah. I was home schooled by private tutors – my parents did all they could, once they realised that I really wasn’t happy at school. I followed a typical path after taking my Highers and then started working as an admin assistant in Lerwick, but it didn’t suit me. I was always a hands-on creative type, more practical than any desk job allowed. If you get what I mean.’

‘Sure. I’m pretty much the same. I went into insurance when my heart really wasn’t in it. I developed my skills for glass blowing as a hobby until, eventually, I made a switch by jacking in the day job.’

‘Strange, isn’t it? How, deep down, we understand ourselves, yet fall into careers that are totally unsuitable,’ I say, grabbing my small tinder box. I strike the flint hard against the carbon steel; a tiny spark lands on the exposed cloth poking out from my constructed kindle and coal tepee. I could use matches and a splint, but choose not to. I gently blow, encouraging it to take hold. I love how the tiny flame licks the pale kindling and leaves a black scorch mark in a twisted wave before taking hold. I could watch a naked flame all day; only ever stepping away once an efficient burn is under way. Sometimes additional kindling is necessary, but not this morning; the forge’s fire is looking pretty perfect. I only hope that is a good omen for