Page 37 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

‘Freya? Freya! ’

‘All right, Dad, keep your hair on,’ Freya mumbled as she plumped up the pillows on her bed. She’d been thinking about Mack – but when didn’t she? He was constantly on her mind.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his mouth on hers. He’d kissed her with tenderness and passion, and the combination had been electric.

She was in imminent danger of falling in love with him – if she hadn’t already – and that would never do.

‘Freya!’ her dad yelled again.

That man could shout louder than a foghorn. It was a wonder the neighbours didn’t hear.

‘I’m coming, Dad. Let me put my dressing gown on.’ She’d woken up a mere five minutes earlier and hadn’t even had a chance to wash and dress yet, and her father was already yelling for her.

He sounded cross, and when she walked into the sitting room and saw the state of it, she felt cross too. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, frowning as he jabbed his walking stick under his chair, sweeping it from side to side.

‘I can’t find my tablets!’ he snapped.

‘You know you’re not supposed to be bending over like that,’ she scolded, and he straightened up reluctantly. ‘Let me see.’

Freya knelt on the floor and peered underneath. ‘They’re not here, but I’ve found the pen you lost.’

‘I don’t care about the ruddy pen. I need my tablets.’ His face was thunderous.

‘They’ll be around here somewhere. I’ll put the kettle on and make a cup of tea, then I’ll have a proper look.’

He let out a snort. ‘Don’t bother, I’ll find them myself.’

Freya gave up. When he was in this mood, there was no reasoning with him and she knew he wouldn’t settle until they were found.

‘Sit down, Dad. I’ll look for them now: the tea can wait.’ She scanned the disordered room, thinking that she’d have to tidy up first, before she could begin looking.

As she moved around it, picking things up and putting them in their rightful places, she asked, ‘Where did you last have them?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ His tone was petulant, like a small child or a whiny teenager.

She tried again. ‘You took them last night, didn’t you?’

‘Of course I bloody did!’

While Freya appreciated that her dad was frustrated, she didn’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner, especially since she was only trying to help.

Putting her hands on her hips, she turned to face him. ‘We’ve got a while to go yet before I’m out of your hair, so I suggest we do our best to be civil to each other.’

‘What you mean is, you’re being civil but I’m not.’

She gave him a pointed look. That was precisely what she’d meant.

Sullenly, he said, ‘You can go back to London whenever you want. Don’t think you’ve got to stay here on my account. I’ve been managing without you fine.’

‘Yes, but that was before you fractured your hip.’

‘Pah! You’re hardly here these days.’

Freya gasped. ‘That’s so unfair! I always put you first. I clean the house, cook your meals, do your laundry, your shopping… How much more do I have to do?’

His face mutinous, he turned his head away and refused to look at her.

Because he knows I’m right , she grumbled silently to herself. She’d find his flipping tablets, then make him his breakfast.

‘Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ she muttered, then wished she hadn’t been so snide, when his defiant expression turned to worry.

‘I just want my tablets, that’s all,’ he said, his voice quivering.

Instantly contrite, Freya crouched by his chair. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll knock my visits to Mack’s place on the head.’

Vinnie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ll do no such thing. You need to keep working.’

Her eyes filling with tears, she said, ‘I don’t, Dad. I’m doing it because I want to; and I’m being incredibly selfish.’

‘I didn’t have to go to sea, you know. I could have got a shoreside job – it’s what your mother wanted me to do – but the sea called to me. Clay calls to you the same way. You know what they say: if you find a job you love doing, you’ll never work a day in your life. We’ve both been blessed.’

So has Mack , she thought – and Cal and Tara, and Mhairi, and the other crafters she’d met.

Freya covered her dad’s hand with hers. ‘Shall we start today again? I’ll find your tablets while you put the kettle on.’

‘Deal!’

But when she found the box and looked inside, she realised there were none left in the blister pack. He’d taken his last tablet, and he wasn’t going to be happy.

Freya smiled at the pharmacist. ‘Hi, I’ve come to pick up a

prescription for Vincent Sinclair? It’s a repeat one.’

‘Vinnie? How is he? I was sorry to hear about his fall.’ The woman turned away to look through the stack of bags on the shelf behind her.

‘He’s getting there, slowly.’

‘I bet you’re giving him lots of TLC.’

‘I try, but he accuses me of fussing.’

The pharmacist glanced over her shoulder at her. She was frowning. ‘I don’t appear to have anything here for him. Let me check.’ She walked across to a computer screen and tapped something in. ‘No, sorry, we’ve had nothing through from the surgery.’

Freya’s face fell. ‘Oh dear, he’s not going to be happy when I tell him.’

‘Ask at the surgery first. They might have forgotten to send it through.’

‘Good idea. I’ll go there now.’ With any luck that was what had happened, and she could pop straight back to the pharmacy with the prescription.

There was a small queue at the surgery, and as Freya waited in line to speak to the receptionist, she glanced around curiously.

She hadn’t been here since she was a teenager and was intrigued to see that it had gone hi-tech, with an automated signing-in system and another screen directing patients to the various appointment rooms.

It took a while, but she eventually reached the head of the queue. ‘I wonder if you could help?’ she began. ‘My father asked me to collect his prescription from the pharmacy, but it isn’t there. Would you have any idea what’s happened to it?’

‘I’ll take a look for you now. What’s his name?’

Freya told her, along with his address and date of birth, then waited anxiously.

The receptionist studied her computer for a moment, the mouse clicking as she moved around the screen. ‘Is it for his Parkinson’s meds?’ she asked, without looking up.

‘Sorry, his what?’

‘Tablets for his Parkinson’s. There’s a note on here to say that the doctor wants to see him to review his meds since his fall.’

‘Parkinson’s?’ Freya was confused.

This time the woman did look up, speaking slowly, her voice raised as though Freya was hard of hearing. ‘Parkinson’s disease? The doctor wants to see him before he’ll issue another prescription. Would you like to make an appointment now?’

Freya’s brain had gone numb. She’d heard what the receptionist had said, but she was unable to process it.

‘Parkinson’s disease?’ she asked again.

‘Yes, your father— Oh! ’ The woman’s eyes widened and her face paled. ‘You didn’t know ?’

Mutely, Freya shook her head.

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’ She looked distraught as she eased herself out of her seat. ‘I’d better fetch the practice manager.’ She took a few steps, then looked back. ‘I really am sorry. I should never— Oh, God.’

Freya waited, in a daze. Her mouth was dry, but her palms were damp, and there was an ache in her chest.

Parkinson’s disease?

Snippets, like short videos and snapshots, kaleidoscoped across her mind’s eye: the way he’d glossed over the fall; the way he was visibly uncomfortable whenever she spoke to a member of the medical profession; his continual insistence that she should return to London and that he could manage on his own.

Her father hadn’t wanted her to know. He’d deliberately kept it from her .

But other people knew. The medical staff at the surgery and the hospital, obviously.

The pharmacist knew and probably the rest of the staff there.

And the people from social services; did they also know?

Is that why they’d been so insistent on her dad having a stairlift?

But who else? Was her father’s condition common knowledge in Duncoorie?

Did everyone apart from her know that he had Parkinson’s?

‘Ms Sinclair?’ A woman in her forties with a severe bob and horn-rimmed glasses emerged from a side door. Behind the counter, the receptionist hovered, wringing her hands and biting her lip.

‘I’m Helen Barclay, the practice manager. Would you like to follow me? We can have a chat in private.’ She led Freya into a treatment room and closed the door.

Freya stared at her wordlessly.

‘I understand you weren’t aware of your father’s condition,’ Ms Barclay said, sitting down at the desk. ‘Please, take a seat.’

Freya remained standing.

The woman nodded to herself and pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry you found out this way. It must be a shock.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Kayleigh should never have disclosed that to you. Patient confidentiality is a major concern. On behalf of her and the practice, please accept our apologies. She is distraught, as you can imagine. Of course, if you feel you’re not able to accept our apologies and wish to take matters further, you have the right to complain to the—’

‘How long has he had it?’ Freya broke in. She didn’t give a toss about Helen Barclay’s concern that the practice had disclosed confidential information, or that she might put in a formal complaint. Freya’s only concern was her father.

The practice manager took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. Patient confidentiality—’

Freya barked out an incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘I really am sorry, but two wrongs won’t make a right. You need to discuss this with Mr Sinclair.’

Without another word, Freya turned on her heel and left. She heard her name being called but didn’t stop. She had to get out of there now, before she broke down.

She began walking, not caring where her feet took her; all she knew was that she couldn’t go home. Not yet.

Freya eventually found herself at the loch, at the very spot where she and her father had scattered her mother’s ashes. It seemed fitting.

Perching on a rock, she sat staring out across the water. While she didn’t know much about Parkinson’s disease, she knew it was serious. She also knew that she needed to learn about it fast, before she confronted her father.

Freya took out her phone and after finding a reputable website, she began to read. What she learnt rocked her to the core. Phrases circled in her head like crows over carrion: ‘progressive disorder of the nervous system…’; ‘causes parts of the brain to weaken and die…’; ‘gets worse over time…’

The list of symptoms was long and varied, but she began to pick out the ones her father was displaying and that she’d ignored or had put down to other things, such as the tremor in his hand, and the way he’d slowed down significantly, his frequently blank expression, his sleep issues, the tendency to lean forward as he walked, and his small, hurrying steps that she’d attributed to his fractured hip.

His occasional memory lapses and irritability, she had assumed to be a result of frustration at being incapacitated, and resentment that he was dependent on her.

And there was the fall itself. People with Parkinson’s disease had a higher risk of falling.

The realisation that he’d probably suffered falls previously, although less serious, hit her. The realisation that he would undoubtedly suffer more falls in the future made her want to cry.

The hope she’d had that he would regain his mobility in a matter of weeks was dashed against the rocks of her newfound knowledge.

His fractured hip was mending well, but his world was falling apart and had been for some time.

Parkinson’s wasn’t something that developed suddenly.

He’d had it for a while and he’d kept it from her.

Her stomach clenched, bile rising into her throat, and she leant to the side and vomited, the spasms tearing through her until she was completely empty.

Weak and drained, she stared bleakly at the mess and began to cry.

Burying her face in her hands, great heaving sobs burst out of her, grief twisting her gut and stabbing her in the heart.

But her grief for her father was soiled and stained by grief for herself – because she knew now that she could never leave him, could never leave Skye.

She’d be stuck here looking after him, and her selfishness in thinking of her own needs and wants, when her father had been prepared to face this awful disease alone, appalled and shamed her.

Her dad had kept it from her because he knew she’d sacrifice her own dreams to care for him – and he hadn’t wanted her to .

Freya pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and with tears pouring down her face, she howled her anguish to the uncaring sea.

She cried until she didn’t think she had any tears left, then she cried some more.