She added the last few jars of baby food on the shelves to her basket. The woman behind the till paused before scanning them – as always – and Robin felt herself shrink a little under the weight of her stare. She had been buying baby food in this shop for as long as anyone could remember, but people knew better than to ask about a baby. They all knew she didn’t have one.
The cashier’s name badge read: PATTY. Along with the woman’s face, it made Robin think of raw burger meat, which made her feel nauseous. Patty was in her fifties but looked older in her frumpy clothes and red apron. She had messy, boyish, blonde hair, sallow skin, and dark shadows beneath her beady eyes. Robin noticed that the woman gulped a lot for no reason, which only seemed to accentuate her drooping jowls. Patty was a person who wallowed in bitchy gossip and self-pity. Robin didn’t mean to judge the woman who was judging her, she tended to steer clear of rude or unkind human beings, and she had witnessed Patty being both. The woman wore her bitterness like a badge; the kind of person who writes one-star book reviews.
Robin thought about saying hello – knowing that’s what ‘normal people’ do. But if there was a litmus test for kindness, it was clear Patty would fail every time. So even though Robin sometimes longed to strike up a conversation, just to see if she still could, Patty was someone she didn’t care to talk to.
By the time Robin got back to the cottage, the power was already out, and the place was dark and cold. It wasn’t much – a small stone building with two rooms, a thatched roof, and an outside toilet. But it was hers. And it was as close to a home as she had these days. The cottage had been built by hand over two hundred years ago, for the priest who looked after the chapel when it was still used for its original purpose. Some of the thick white stone walls have crumbled in places, to reveal dark granite bricks. The fingerprints of the men who made them are still visible, two centuries later, and it always cheers Robin up to think that nobody disappears completely. We all leave some small part of ourselves behind.
Robin’s mother sometimes slept in this cottage. Years ago, when Robin was just a child and things were… difficult at home. Her mother had a key and would come here whenever she needed to run away, or hide. She was a happy woman trapped inside a sad one. She loved to sing, and cook, and sew, and had the most wonderful ability to make everything – including herself – look pretty. Even this sad little cottage. Robin would follow her here – she always took her mother’s side in any argument – and they would sit together in front of the fire. Comforting each other without words, and waiting for the latest marital storm to blow over. The place became a ramshackle sanctuary for them both. They made it cosy, with homemade curtains and cushions, candles for light, and blankets for warmth. But all of that was long gone when Robin returned years later. Just like Robin’s mother. Nothing but the dust of a memory.
The thatch is a little more recent than the cottage’s walls, and not without holes, but they can be repaired when the weather gets warmer. Which it will, because it always does. That’s the thing Robin has learned about life now that she is older: the world keeps turning, and the years go by, regardless of how much she wishes she could turn back time. She wonders about that a lot: why people only learn to live in the moment when the moment has passed.
Robin doesn’t have much in the way of furniture. Her bed is made from a series of wooden pallets that she found on the side of the road, but it’s surprisingly comfy thanks to a thick layer of woollen blankets and homemade cushions. In the room with the fireplace – where she spends most of her time to keep warm – there is a small table with a wonky leg, and an old leather armchair that she rescued from a skip in Glencoe. Having belongings that were her own was more important to Robin than how they looked or where they came from. She didn’t have much when she arrived here, just a suitcase filled with her favourite things. Robin left everything else behind.
The plates, cutlery, cups, and glasses in the cottage were all borrowed – some might say taken – from cafés and pubs she had visited in the Highlands. Robin never saw it as theft when she slipped the dirty items into her bag, because she always left a tip. She took a guest book from a tea room once, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe all the friendly, handwritten messages inside made her feel less lonely. Robin collected all of the things she needed before the money ran out. She didn’t have everything she wanted, but that was a different story. The cash she had left was kept for emergencies only, and this was definitely one of those.