BONNY IN BLACK It was his mother who started it. “Strushle Jock” she’d call him, to shame him into buttoning his shirt properly or chide him for wearing his trousers at half-mast. Not that it changed anything; John Allardyce’s mind was forever elsewhere. If his mother needed a rabbit for the pot, he could catch one more than likely with his bare hands and if eggs were scarce he knew the nesting places of partridge, grouse, peewit or capercaillie. From an early age he could carve animal likenesses from kindling wood. Vanity was alien to him When his classmates at Aberkinnie School picked up on it, the nickname became personal, but the more the scruffy youngster fought against it, the more the label stuck. At fifteen, when the pain of loneliness really hurt, he tried hard to change his appearance - but the die was already cast. At sixteen, with tractors and farm machinery making horses and farm labourers redundant, John’s father found him a live-in apprenticeship in the village of Craigellachie, sixty miles away. During the train journey his self-esteem was so low that when crossing the River Spey, he wondered if drowning would be quick and painless. It took him less than a week to come to terms with the miracle - that he’d left Strushle Jock back in Aberkinnie. Bill Stuart, the owner of Spey Valley Cooperage, welcomed the shy young lad, taking him under his wing and treating him like family, while teaching him the art of making and repairing whisky barrels for local distilleries. In time, though his wife frowned on it, Bill also shared with him his appreciation of the flavour and comforting effect of a good malt whisky. Later he demonstrated how an empty hogshead straight from the blender’s warehouse, could magically generate a gallon of whisky or more from its staves if left in the sun for a day. John repaid his employer’s trust with diligence and hard work. As the years flew by, he visited his parents only as duty demanded, studiously avoiding Aberkinnie where the dour Strushle Jock had been moulded. Yearly he would help with the harvest at the Home Farm where his father worked and on such occasions he’d mutely identify with the farmer’s daughter Mary, especially when her older brothers rebuked her. “Glaikit Mary” they had called her at school and preoccupied as he had been then with his own problems, he’d noticed how she always blushed and panicked and got things wrong. Although he made no close friends outside Bill’s family and acquaintances, John became respected in Craigellachie as a keen fisherman and a darts team regular at the nearby Fiddochside Inn. If his boss wondered about the lad’s background or his desperate shyness with girls, he was never disposed to embarrass him over it. When Mary’s father was crushed to death on the hill under his new tractor, John bought a black mohair suit for the funeral. After the ceremony he waited near the churchyard gate, just far enough away to be ignored and near enough to respond to an enquiring glance. “I, eh…I’m real sorry Mary…aboot your father. It’s hard to believe…” “Aye…thanks…it was a terrible shock.” Their eye contact was lasting and meaningful. “Well…I jist wanted to ask…” “Whit? Whit is it Jock? They’re waitin’ for me.” He scowled. “I dinna like Jock. It’s John – my name’s John.” “John’s fine wi’ me - but I have to go.” She placed her gloved hand on his shoulder, glancing back at her brothers, towering protectively over their distraught mother. “Look, I ken I shouldna be saying this at my father’s funeral, but there’s a dance at the Drill Hall in a fortnight. Will ye be hame that weekend?” “Aye,” he answered, then “definitely. Ye ken Mary, you look right bonny in black.” “Aye, and you look bonny in black yersel', lad.’” As the weekend of the Aberkinnie Harvest Festival neared, John was scared. He knew deep down he had to go; something in Mary’s look had told him so, but tormentors from his school days haunted his dreams, daring him to show how the years had changed him – or not. On a good day he knew he could handle it, but most days he recoiled from the prospect. Bill Stuart kept a well-stocked cabinet of Speyside Whiskies, gifted by visiting distillers. On special occasions, or when Mrs. Stuart visited her sister, he and John would break open a prized malt over a serious game of chess, which would often be abandoned unfinished in favour of a sing song. If Bill suspected his stocks were dwindling fast, he didn’t broach the subject, maybe mindful that his lodger was of an age where learning came mostly through making mistakes. On the fateful Saturday evening John arrived early. With half an hour to wait for Mary’s bus, he strolled up and down Aberkinnie’s deserted High Street, glancing at shop window displays, which had changed little over the five or so years since he last saw them. The walk from his parent’s cottage had sharpened his mind; he felt good. “I’m real proud o’ you son,” his father had told him the night before - for the first time ever. “You’re a big improvement on the scruffy little bugger you used to be.” Then he’d poured another measure of the twelve-year-old Glenfarclas his son had brought. “Aye and a cooper’s niver short o’ a dram or two, either.” “I was thinkin’ I might go tae the harvest dance.” “Aye, an’ it’s nae afore time. Wi’ that suit on you’ll hae a’ the lasses chasin’ efter ye. I was tellin’ Mary up at the ferm she should get oot mair. But they’re a dour pair, the brithers – treat ‘er like dirt ye ken? An’ they dinna treat their mither ony better.” Reaching the square, John looked at his watch then walked smartly downstairs to the public lavatories. Whisky no longer caused him to throw up or do daft things; indeed he’d long since learned to judge his own tolerance level. In a cubicle he took a measured swig of full strength Scotch from the half-flask he carried in an inside pocket. He gasped and breathed deeply, a smile forming on his ruddy features, then flushed the toilet before ascending the steps sucking a super strong mint. The bus disgorged an assortment of incoming revellers. Girls flaunted their figures, decked in tight-fitting fashions, while young men fidgeted in too tight collars and suits that saw the light of day maybe twice a year. Some trotted lively towards the sound of dance music, while younger ones studied the tarmac, embarrassed at being escorted by their parents. As the stragglers disembarked, John was resigning himself to disappointment when he heard the shout. “Look lads, it’s that scruffy bugger, Strushle Jock – in a new suit by God!” Probably a year or two older than John, the speaker’s name escaped him, but the smirk was familiar. Speechless with anger he returned the stare, but more intensely, then walked forward. His hands grabbed for the throat, squeezing hard, forcing the young man against the bus shelter wall. He was relishing the power of his physical strength as much as the look of abject fear on his tormentor’s face. He raised his right fist, memories of years of mental torture crowding his mind. “John – my name’s John!” “Aye…” He tightened his grip, fiercely. “Say it you bastard – loud this time!” “John! John! For God’s sake I’m chokin...’” The anger left him as quickly as it came, but the self-belief stayed with him. He loosened his grip, straightened his tie and made eye contact with the others, testing their resolve. As he slowly and smugly turned away, he realised he no longer had any destination in mind. “This is a fine way to greet a lass!” The relief he felt was as exhilarating as his newfound confidence. It was the dress she’d worn at the funeral, this time enhanced by a light pink shoulder scarf and a red carnation attached to the square-cut neckline. “Bloody hell, Mary,” he whispered, shaking his head and smiling, “Bloody hell!” “Well, if that’s a’ you can say…” His grin was as broad as the street. “No…no…I’ll think o’ something.” Her complexion shone as she blushed and smiled, her neatly combed shoulder length black hair accentuating her pretty features. Remembering their schooldays, he marvelled at the transformation. “You look…great – lovely in fact. Black suits you.” “You look gie smart yoursel’ John. I couldna get dressed ‘till my brithers went oot. They act like I’m a ten year old quine.” “C’mon,” he said, taking her arm and leading her down the lane towards the swing park. “There’ll be plenty o’ time for dancin’ later.” John walked even taller when they eventually arrived at the Drill Hall just after dusk. He’d shared the whisky with Mary and they’d talked about the years between and the pain of being branded when you’re young. As they’d kissed on the swings and later when groping and fumbling behind the bushes, although uninhibited in their mutual desire, their combined ignorance of the sex act brought only the frustration of premature climax. But they’d laughed contentedly, their intimate knowledge of each other signalling a bond that united them for life. The whole building seemed to be pulsating in time to the music. The country dancing they’d learned at school should have come easy, but the combination of a slippery floor and alcohol intake caused them to slither around helplessly, gripping each other for support, all the while giggling uncontrollably. It was as they embraced, moving their feet imperceptibly to the strains of a slow waltz, that Mary remembered her promise. “I have to catch the last bus.” “Aye. I was forgettin’. I have tae go tae the toilet.” In the scratched and pitted mirror above the urinal, John saw a man – a real man: a man who, in one never-to-be-forgotten night, had confirmed his new identity and taken one gigantic step into adulthood. He leaned forward to confirm the contented smile he’d been wearing all evening. “Tak’ a good look Jock – ye’ll maybe nae look sae braw in the mornin’.” Above noise of the band playing a rousing reel and somebody being sick in one the cubicles, John recognised the harsh voice of Tam, the elder of Mary’s brothers. He zipped up his trousers, turning as he did so, feeling annoyance more than fear. “I have tae go,” he said, side-stepping the burly farmer, “Mary’s waitin’...” His found his way barred by Angus, the other sibling. “Aye, I thought she was schemin’ tae meet somebody on the quiet. Mary’s nae for the likes o’ you, lad.” Tam was quick for a man of his size, pinning John’s arms to his side in a vice-like bear hug. He saw Angus’s punch coming, almost in slow motion, but could do nothing to deflect the impact. He was on his knees watching the blood from his nose mingle with the urine on the tiled floor when the first kick to the solar plexus rendered him helpless. In the days that followed his late return, Bill Stuart tried to motivate his sullen lodger, who showed little interest in his work, his normal pastimes, or even his personal hygiene. Letters from home were thrown away unopened. And he was drinking more than was good for a man who seemed to be in bad physical condition. On the one occasion he went out with the rod, Bill followed at a distance and was dismayed to find him sitting near the river bend by the old railway tunnel. The rod, still in its cover, lay on his lap, while he sipped slowly from a half bottle, staring transfixed into the bottomless whirlpool a few feet below. Next day Bill stayed behind after breakfast, retrieved a letter from the bin and read it. He placed a call to the Home Farm, Aberkinnie. Mary arrived on the Saturday, carrying a suitcase. The wedding was a hastily arranged affair at Elgin Registry Office. Besides Bill and his wife and John’s parents, only Mary’s mother attended. When he was twenty-one, Glenlomas Distillery, Bill’s biggest customer, accepted John’s application for employment as distillery cooper, at tradesman’s rates and a two-bedroom bungalow rent free. There was little that the couple had hoped for that hadn’t come to fruition – in a magically short space of time. Within a year Mary gave birth to their daughter Jenny, Although Glenlomas employed only one cooper, John was seldom called upon to demonstrate the skills of his craft. Much of the day was spent patrolling cold and damp, bonded warehouses where the whisky was stored to mature, tapping each hogshead, butt or American barrel individually to detect leakage. The job was lonely, with only rats and mice for company. “I miss the open air,” he told Mary, “and the satisfaction of making a sound barrel – jist like you must be missin’ the ferm.” “I never notice,” she’d reply. “Jenny keeps me busy. Times I miss my mither, but I can never forgive my brithers, so that’s that.” John thought himself a connoisseur, a man who appreciated the bouquet and flavour of a whisky matured in an old Sherry cask for twelve or more years. And a distillery cooper has daily access to the best. Most of the stock belonged to large blending establishments in the cities, but some individual quarter casks or firkins had been purchased to honour the birth of a son and heir, the owner intending to pay duty and take the cask home to toast his twenty-first birthday. In twenty-one years people die, fortunes change, dreams are shattered; foundations laid sometimes lie neglected. Sometimes John would conjure up a picture of skulduggery in high places to explain such unclaimed property, while taking a sample to make sure the contents hadn’t gone woody and unfit for drinking. The long copper tube sealed at one end and capped at the other, was a going-away present from Bill. Two inches thick and twelve inches long, it slipped neatly through the bunghole of a cask with a string attached so that could be concealed inside the trouser leg, attached to the belt. As well as management and the Customs & Excise Officer, it was traditional that the cooper took a discretionary dram home occasionally and John’s well-stocked cupboard soon rivalled the distillery sample room for its versatility. “A good servant but a bad master,” Bill had told him after his last binge, and for a while John tried to drink only in company and in moderation But not for long. He was bright enough to recognise a familiar pattern emerging. He became disinterested in everything around him, retreating into his shell, even washing and shaving only when Mary nagged him to, until one day she used a name that awakened the pain of the past. “Strushle Jock,” she’d called him. When his best friend visited Glenlomas on business, John sought a word with him in private. “I canna get through the day or even the night withoot it noo,” he confessed. The public bar at the local Delnashaugh Hotel was empty; they’d given up on the game of darts, concentrating instead on John’s concerns. “I remember whit you said, but I canna fight it. I hide bottles on top o’ the wardrobe, under the sink, oot in the shed, onywhere I can drink in secret. I hate mysel’ for daein’ it – but I canna stop.” Bill observed his young protégé closely, before answering. “I’ve seen some strong men lose that battle, lad. It’s a mystery how some can cope wi’ it and some can’t. It’ll nae be easy, but you’ll have to leave your trade an’ tak’ anither job.” John’s shoulders dropped and he drained his glass. “Oh aye, and whit then? Whisky’s the only thing that…that maks a man o’ me.” “It’s easy tae think that, but believe me lad, you’re a better man withoot it.” John thought for a while, before walking to the bar and pointing to the bottle of Macallan. “Twa doubles please.” If Bill had noticed any casualness about John’s driving, he refrained from puncturing his pride. On their journey home the tiny windscreen wipers of the old Ford Popular were proving no match for the torrential rain, yet John kept pressure on the accelerator oblivious to the skidding and wobbling of the box-shaped vehicle as he negotiated the bends. After they’d sung about the tenth verse and chorus of The Ball o’ Kirriemuir, John reached over and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Listen to this Bill, I made it up the ither day…the brewer’s daughter, she was there…” He realised they were travelling too fast when he saw the Glenlomach turning looming up only a few yards away. But the message to turn sharply reached his brain before the instinct to slow down. Hamish Mackie, the local policeman, having paid his weekly visit to the distillery on whatever pretext, was cycling home. Reaching the main road, he lingered for a while in the bus shelter, waiting for the rain to ease, and relishing the euphoria of two large drams of Glenlomach coursing through his veins, soothing his mind and body. He recognised the approaching car; there were only two black Ford Populars in the district and the minister never drove that fast. But surely he should be slowing... One second the car looked to be tearing past and the next it was jerking violently, then spinning out of control before slamming into a telegraph pole backwards. It reared up like a can-can dancer’s skirts, displaying a rusty underbelly before crashing back down on all fours. The constable walked forward cautiously. Close up, the front of the car looked immaculate; he could even hear the engine ticking over gently as he leaned on the bonnet, staring through the windscreen, which was still intact. He blinked and shook his head then looked again, but could see no occupants. As he stepped gingerly towards the driver’s door, the full horror of the accident was plain to see. The car was now wedge-shaped, the bodywork flattened from the top of the windscreen right down to the boot. The door offered no resistance, but he stared in amazement at the position of the two bodies inside. The tubular metal bucket seats had folded right back with the impact. Both heads lay snugly on the rear seat, with the crushed roof only inches from their faces. Both faces appeared to be smiling. “Are you a’right?” seemed a daft thing to say, but he said it. “I’ll phone for an ambulance,” Hamish suggested, after he’d helped them into the shelter. Both were trembling a little but seemed to be able to move about, albeit slowly. “No, there’s nae need,” said John, then turning to his friend, “whit do you say Bill?” “We’ll be a’right.” The policeman made to open the top pocket of his uniform, then looked back at the distillery and changed his mind. “Will ye be able to drive it?” “Aye,” said John, “nae bother Hamish.” “Ye can never be too careful in treacherous conditions like this,” he said, mounting his bicycle again with a half grin on his face. “You’re right there.” He moved painfully into the backless diver’s seat. “Jump in Bill, I’ll tak’ ye back tae your car.” “I dinna think so lad. I’ll wait for a bus an’ pick it up tomorrow.” When he got home he drove the damaged car round the back of the house and threw a sheet over it, before staggering indoors and into bed. As the intoxication wore off, shock and pain replaced it. At midnight Mary phoned for an ambulance. Jenny started primary school when her father was still in hospital. They kept him in for a week, X-rayed his back, and gave him painkillers for the broken ribs and bruising and tablets to help him sleep. The medication dulled his senses, allowing him to focus on other things besides his craving. In lucid moments he remembered the good times and the love he felt for his wife and daughter. Some nights he cried himself to sleep in shame over his selfishness. At home he made a fuss of young Jenny, while Mary fed him home made broth and laughed as he struggled to walk again unaided. They came to visit and wish him well, the manager, the brewer, the mashmen, the stillmen, and the maltmen – all his workmates. He felt proud that he could now pour them a dram without resorting to one himself. Then the excise officer brought him the two things he needed least – a bottle of mature Glenlomach and the influenza virus. An Edinburgh man, Donald Chisholm habitually wore a suit and had that civil servant’s air of authority, which, in John and Mary’s psyche, entitled him to the same respect as a minister or a doctor. “Bring two glasses Mary,” he instructed as he shook John’s hand. “I’m nae sure John should be drinkin’ – whit wi’ the medicine an’ a’,” she ventured. “Nonsense lass! Whisky’s a cure for all ills; I could do with one myself – I feel as if I’m coming down with the flu’.” “Aye, but I’ve managed tae stay off it a’ week,” John added, as Mary complied with the request. “No wonder you’re looking so peely-wally.” He poured two generous measures. “Get it down you lad – you’ll be back at work in no time.” He recovered from the slip and stayed dry for three days, although the strain made him edgy and bitter, but when the flu’ symptoms hit him, he mixed a hot lemon drink with sugar – then added some whisky. Mary looked on helplessly as he distanced himself from her, moping about the house, refusing her every offer of help or even sympathy. Medicines were left unopened as he dosed himself on toddies that were mostly straight whisky. When bronchitis set in, he took to keeping a bottle under the bed, reaching for it regularly and automatically as his sleep pattern changed. During the third week Mary asked Doctor Grant to drop by. “I canna tak’ much mair o’ it, Doctor. It’s like the lad I merried has left me, an’ I’m nae strong enough tae manage withoot him.” “It could be depression. It’s common enough after an illness...” “No, I ken whit it is - it’s the whisky! Everybody roon’ here likes a drink, I ken that. God knows we’ve had some rare parties an’ I like a drop mysel, but noo he jist canna leave it alane.” “I see. Well all spirits are depressants; that would explain the mood swings. Does he become violent?” “No Doctor, we never fight. I’m thinkin’ it might be better if we did. Surely there’s something…” “I can prescribe tablets that’ll make him sick every time he drinks – but I don’t think he’d take them. He needs to dry out – get the poisons out of his system.” Mary leaned over and squeezed her husband’s hand on the eiderdown. “Hear that John? You can get treatment…” The patient coughed and opened his yellowish, bloodshot eyes. His lips barely moved. “I ken you mean well Doctor, but I’ll manish fine,” he mumbled. “I’ve got my appetite back…I’ll be back at work on Monday…I dinna drink while I’m workin’.” “Aye, we’ll see,” said Mary. “I’m ashamed to face the dustmen, wi’ a’ them empty bottles in the bin.” That’s all it would take to be in control again. He had a responsible job that he’d proved he could cope with. Life would get back to normal. It was bad enough being at death’s door, without a wife that treated you like a bairn and a bairn that treated you like a stranger. Getting up was easy; the bottle under the bed was long since empty and he craved another dram. When the fourth one hit the spot he realised that shaving would be a risky job after days of neglect. Mary hadn’t bothered to get up, but that was fine. He stuffed the sandwiches in his pocket, ignoring the thermos flask. As he approached the cooper’s shed, the brewer tooted and waved on his way to the car park. He would see the manager and Exciseman later for access to number one warehouse. Best to check the older stock first. He felt a familiar nervous twinge in his stomach - funny how the effects wore off so quickly these days. He listened to the billings sloshing around inside as he rolled a hogshead in from the yard. The markings told him it had previously contained ten-year-old Glenlivet. Maybe half a gallon had seeped back from the staves. He removed the bung and fetched a bucket. On the first Monday of the school holidays John came home to an empty house. Although devastated, the note didn’t surprise him. “Dear John, Jenny and me have gone to stay at my mother’s. I hope you see the doctor and get help. Mary.” He sat for nearly an hour, staring at the message. He phoned the doctor. When the shakes and sweating started on his second dry day, he put it down to lack of sleep and not eating properly. The hallucinations were terrifying. At the end of his third day he had an epileptic fit which seemed to last forever. When he finally made it to the nearest bottle, he could think of only one way to get rid of the anxieties. ooooOOOOoooo At Aberkinnie Home Farm, Mary was helping her mother with the washing up. “He canna help it mither; he was a good man tae me ‘till the drinkin’ got oot o’ hand. Maybe he’ll come tae his senses noo.” “It’s a wonder there’s anything left tae drink the way he’s been knockin’ them back.” “Oh, he brings bottles hame an’ planks them a’ ower the hoose.” Tam looked up from his newspaper. “And you never thought to find them an’ pour them doon the sink? Your as bad as him, you daft limmer.” “Mind your ane business, Tam! You dinna ken whit you’re speaking aboot.” “That’s whit you said the last time, but as lang as you’re under our roof lass, it is our business and we’ll dae what we think is best.” ooooOOOOoooo In his stupor, John had been only vaguely aware of the crashing sounds and other loud noises around him. At six in the morning he reached under the bed for what was left in the dock sample bottle. At nine he woke to another panic attack, his guilty mind racing through fearful scenarios while his stomach churned. Trembling, he staggered to the wardrobe, his arm sweeping the dusty top, vainly searching. In the kitchen he realised the futility of looking under the sink when he saw all the cleaning materials scattered on the floor. Still in his underpants, he staggered to the garden shed, but the door was already open and the contents lay scattered on the lawn. Moaning and crying out, he wandered from room to room collecting every box and bottle of medication he could find. ooooOOOOoooo Mary brought her mother with her when she came back to Glenlomas. Jenny played with her friends while they busied themselves tidying up the bungalow. They brought John back the next day. Mary waited till they’d gone before going to the bedroom to see him. She caught her refection in the dressing table mirror and she was glad she got dressed for the occasion. What was it he said again? Oh aye - “You look right bonny in black.” He looked much better now - clean and smart for the first time in months. Visitors would notice. In the black mohair suit as well – and that canny smile. She leaned over the coffin and kissed him gently on the lips. “You look right bonny yersel,” she whispered. *********************************************************** "ORRA LOON," another story set in the North East, appears on the page headed "contact" *********************************************************** GULF 1981 MARGATE, ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY, USA. Anita looks up from her lawyer's letter. "But I am interested Hon! It's just I have a divorce settlement to deal with, you know - important life or death things? Tell me again angel - you went twenty miles offshore and threw a Coke bottle into the ocean?" "The whole class did, Mom –last year! A school project, don't you remember? Maybe I should’ve gone with dad. At least he listened to me - sometimes." "Yeah, if you could catch him sober. You're fourteen years old, Marilyn. For goodness sake, try to act your age! O.K. So how many messages were found?" "Six, that's all, and most of them had only travelled a few miles down the coast. A fisherman at Key Largo, Florida answered Julie Brogan's message. I bet her father drove down there and threw another one in the water, just so she could win the prize. Mine is still out in the Atlantic, I guess." "Well, you just tell them to wait. If Julie's took that long to reach Florida, I guess yours could be on its way to Japan..." "No Mom, not Japan. It couldn't...” She switches her pretty dimpled smile on, then off. “Oh, never mind." 1985. INVERNAVER, SUTHERLAND, SCOTLAND. Kirsty Morrison lays her washing basket on the ground. "It's a while since I’ve seen one o' them," she says, holding the clear but roughened glass bottle up to the sunlight. She disentangles it from the flotsam her brother has raked off the field. "Well, I can tell you this, it seemed damned determined to come ashore. I've been throwin' it back into the sea for months, but it won’t go away. I was feart it might get broken and cut the sheep." By the back door of his cottage, on his small area of arable land, known in Scotland as a croft, Murdo has unloaded a wheelbarrow laden with pieces of wood and tree bark. In a county whose terrain is mainly heather moorland, bereft of trees, such material is coveted as kindling for the peat fire. He has collected the debris from a line of dried seaweed, deposited within his perimeter fence by the high tide. In order to protect his livestock, he has also gathered up plastic bottles and other non-perishable refuse. "Oh, but look Murdo - it's sealed and it looks like there's something inside it. Would it be a letter from a shipwrecked sailor on a desert island, d'you think?" The crofter straightens up, his large hands massaging his back muscles. The smile on his dark, weather-beaten features is frivolously mocking. "Well, I was reading there's a warm current flows all the way here from the Gulf o' Mexico. You'd be surprised at the weird stuff comes ashore some days, but I haven't found any desperate young bachelors so far." She pushes him off balance with the palm of her hand. "Maybe, but hope springs eternal for the lonely old maid." He places a hand on his sister's shoulder. "Oh, Kirsty. You're still a fine lookin’ woman and you’ve had plenty chances to get wed, if you’d wanted to. If you ask me, you're too fussy." "Nobody’s askin’ you and what if I am? I'd rather be a spinster in my own home than a slave in somebody else's. All the same, that doesn't mean I'm willing to be housekeeper to you for the rest o' my days, and I wouldn't say no to a wee bit o' excitement now and then. Fat chance o' that 'though." Kirsty's words seem to unsettle her brother. "Sometimes we have to make the best o' what we have..." "You think so, do you lad?" Kirsty counters, "Jean's been gone a good five years now; its about time you started lookin' to your own future. At forty-five, you're no' too old to marry again, if you find the right lass. Young Tom'll be spreadin' his wings when he gets his degree." The big man squirms and looks around him helplessly, conceding yet again his inability to ever win an exchange of words with his younger sister. He turns away. "I'm goin' to have to speak to that mobile librarian: you've been readin' too many Mills and Boon novels! Anyway, I'm off to the hill to stack peats." MARGATE, ATLANTIC CITY (Two weeks later). "Oh my God! Oh my God! Isn't he gorgeous? I have good vibes about this." Anita holds the local broadsheet at arm's length. A blown-up picture of a burly man, described as a Scottish farmer, covers most of the front page under the heading ‘Amazing Journey Of Message In A Bottle.’ Below is the transcript of an interview with Anita. “I must send a copy to what's-her-name, his sister, tell her about their free trip. Isn't it exciting Marilyn?" "Scary more like. That lady, Kirsty, could be mad at you for telling the newspaper, especially when her brother gets to know. Anyway, you should've checked with me first. Haven't you heard of scams? I don't believe you some times Mom!" "Don't be so provincial! That guy found your message - in Scotland of all places! If the newspaper wants to bring him and his sister over here, it’s no big deal." "No? Well, he looks the same age as dad, for a start. That school project was five years ago, mom. Sure, that's my stupid letter they sent back, but I’m over that now - I've moved on." Anita fetches iced drinks from the kitchen and joins her daughter on the patio. "You're still only young, honey, don't wish your life away. The editor thinks it newsworthy, even if you don't. Besides, Kirsty sounds like a really nice person - and her brother too." "That's what this is all about isn't it? But think about it. Why would she send a photograph of her brother? And what are you hoping to do - make dad jealous? Get real mom! Maybe he's a two-time loser, but dad sure don't care about your sad little life anymore. You're divorced now – deal with it. I'm outa here as soon as I can arrange a roommate in town." Anita makes as if to retaliate, then composes herself, studying her drink. "It’s O.K. I don't blame you honey; we don't belong here anymore. We were good enough for the gentle folk of Margate once, but you're on your own when your marriage hits the rocks." She looks at her daughter, almost pleadingly. "I'm an incurable romantic, so what? A coke bottle, with your letter in it, crosses the Atlantic Ocean and someone finds it five years later. Don't you wonder why now, why Scotland? This isn’t just coincidence - I call it fate." Marilyn shakes her head slowly, smiling faintly. "Mom, you're crazy, but I'd love to see Julie Brogan's face when she reads about it." "Best if you reply to Kirsty's letter first I think." "First?" IVERNAVER (One week later). “Behave yourself Kirsty! If the message took that long to get here, I wouldn't think it's all that urgent. Besides, I like to choose where I go on holiday." "Choose? Chance would be a fine thing! When was the last time we had a holiday, tell me that? This is the opportunity of a lifetime Murdo - and all expenses paid." "Aye and who's to look after the croft, eh? Besides, the newspapermen will be following us everywhere we go. They do nothing for nothing, you know. And I’d like to know how the Northern Journal got wind of it." "They said they had a phone call from America. Anyway, it won't kill you to smile for the camera occasionally, and Hamish'll look after the sheep." Kirsty's smile broadens and her eyes light up. "Every night when I close my eyes, I see that wee bottle bobbin' about in the sea. All those years, Murdo, imagine that! And God knows how long it's been floatin' in and out, just off the shore. It's a miracle! If you'll no' do it for me, do it for the young girl." "Young? That was when she sent it. She'll be eighteen now. Lassies o' that age have plenty other things on their minds, without entertainin' a pair o' boring, middle-aged peasants from another country." "In that case, maybe we should send Tom: he's fed up with university, I know that." "We'll do no such thing! And don't you go tellin' Tom anything! That lad has a chance in life no crofter's son ever had in my day." MARGATE, ATLANTIC CITY (One month later). "Well, it's just been grand Anita, there's no other word for it." Murdo raises his glass to his hostess. "I'll remember this holiday for the rest o' my life." His wide grin says he means every word. The photo calls and interviews had been embarrassing, and trying to understand the code of behaviour at the first class hotel in Atlantic City proved to be hard work. He was a wee bit uneasy about the bar bill he’d run up from the ready availability of single malt whisky, but, that aside, he and Kirsty had enjoyed a shamelessly carefree two weeks. At a farewell dinner with their hosts, the recently widowed crofter acknowledges the part played by Anita and Marilyn. "Hey, don't make it sound so final. There'll be other times - I'm counting on it." Her guest reaches across the dining table and places his hand on hers. He doesn’t understand why, the action is out of character and will only make things worse. "I know you mean that, lass, but I can't honestly see how it could happen.” He hears the mumble of conversation from the kitchen and wonders if his sister can explain to Marilyn the futility of making false promises, better than he. “It’s not the gulf between our nationalities that separates us, but the difference in standards of living. I’ve seen the posh houses on this island – their gardens are bigger than my two fields put together. I keep telling’ you, I don’t own a farm, the newspaper made the story up to suit themselves.” “Look Murdo, would it help if I told you I hated it here? My husband was rich, sure, but Marilyn wants out and I can’t afford to stay here on my own, even if I wanted to.” “Oh lass. It’s not as if we’ve…” “Made love? Don’t look so shocked and don’t tell me it didn’t enter your head!” The crofter squeezes her hand and closes his eyes tightly, his head moving slowly from side to side. “Oh aye,” he mutters. “But I was goin’ to say we’ve only known each other for a fortnight.” ooooOOOOoooo In the kitchen, Marilyn pours the coffee while Kirsty stares in fascination at the dishwasher they’ve just loaded. She declines a cigarette. "I'm glad we're on our own, Marilyn, I wanted to have a wee word with you before we catch the plane home tomorrow." "Yeah, me too, Mom can be... well, 'over the top' at times. She likes to impress, I guess." "She and Murdo both, I'd say. I've never known him talk so much, well, not since his wife died. And as for playin' jigs and reels on your fiddle! I don't know what's come over him: you and your mother seem to have brought him back to life." "Well, I guess it cuts both ways, we've enjoyed having you - and it's the longest time mom and I have spent together without throwing things at each other. It's weird, she and I just don't agree on anything, yet when she’s with Murdo, a total stranger, she’s a different person," Her pretty features become wistful, “like she was before…” Kirsty loses eye contact and stares straight ahead. "Maybe it's easier for strangers, or when you're lonely...or when you’ve both had marriages that ended too soon." “I guess. But you’re about the same age as Mom.” “Aye, but you and I won’t be seein’ each other again after tomorrow, maybe that’s the difference.” “You’re kidding! Wh…” "The holiday's been like a dream come true for my brother and me Marilyn, but it had to come to an end. We have to return to the real world, as if it never happened.” "What d'you mean?" "Oh, just that we live a completely different life back in Scotland." "Sure, but..." "How can I put it? It's to do with what you would call lifestyle, I suppose. When you’re a crofter you get accustomed to hardship, to the simple life. I’m not complainin’ – it’s just a fact." She looked quizzically at Marilyn. "Don't misunderstand me lass, we're really grateful to you both and the newspaper for the flight and everything, but..." Marilyn looks up, frowning. "But? Go on, tell me." "Oh, I'm no good at explaining things. It's just that we can't return your hospitality. We'd like to, but, believe me, it's impossible." Marilyn breaks the silence that has lasted a full minute. "O.K. Cool. But I'm sure gonna miss you two." Kirsty places a consoling hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “It just doesn’t seem right that your message didn’t change your life the way it does in the novels I read.” She gazes upwards, as if considering other alternatives. “It can’t be helped now. At least I got to know a smashin’ young lass, who showed me how to live a little.” They’re embracing when the others walk in - holding hands. "Hey, what's with the tears?" asked Anita. "Trust me, this is just the beginning.” INVERNAVER, SUTHERLAND (One year later). “We’ll talk about it in the morning hon, I’m bushed. We’ve done the difficult part, driving from Inverness to here… all those single-track roads. And this isn’t exactly the Waldorf Astoria, but we should be grateful we found a hotel at all in this wilderness.” “It’s for salmon fishers and deer stalkers. I reckon we should head back first thing in the morning. This doesn’t feel right. I guess Kirsty was right, we don’t belong here, it’s like an alien world.” “That’s crap and you know it. They’re nice people. O.K. so they feel embarrassed about…” “No, not embarrassed mom. It just felt like they didn’t want to disappoint us. Maybe we should respect that.” “Get some sleep Honey. We’ll take a rain check in the morning, huh?” oooooOOOOOooooo Around about midday, following directions from the hotel proprietor, they walk the short distance down hill towards the croft belonging to Murdo and Kirsty. On the way, they pass a few renovated roadside cottages, each displaying a "B & B" sign. A crudely drawn arrow on a piece of hardboard guides them down a rough track to their destination, a small and very old, stone-built dwelling, surrounded by a dilapidated outbuilding and a neat stack of dried peat briquettes, the staple winter fuel. A small, decrepit, VW Camper Van, where Murdo sleeps when tourists occupy one of the two bedrooms, or Tom when he has a break from his studies, stands next to the lean-to kitchen. Unfenced sheep graze on sparse grassland. A bewildered Anita restrains her daughter, as the sound of a vaguely familiar voice, now raised in anger, assaults the tranquil atmosphere. "Well you can just go back to Edinburgh and re-sit your damned exams! Your mother saved long and hard to get you into University. Is this the way you repay her?" "For God's sake change the record, dad. I know my mother wouldn't have forced me to put up with toffee-nosed townies givin' me a hard time. I hate it there, you know that." An audible sigh signals a softening of Murdo's tone. "But Tom, you've got it in you to get a degree, get a future. There's nothing here for young folk; you must see that." "You're doin' it again dad," says Tom, dismissively, "and anyway, who says I want to stay here?" His theatrical exit is ruined as he nearly collides with the visitors, but he recovers quickly and ushers them in. He waits by the door, frowning. Open-mouthed, Kirsty abandons her knitting to use the first of her many clichés that day. "Anita! Marilyn! This is a surprise. You should've said you were coming. I'll put the kettle on." "Hi Kirsty!" says Anita, nervously assembling her thoughts. "Marilyn got a notion to blow her inheritance on a trip round Europe, and I guess she's not too old to need a chaperon." Murdo is still blinking his eyes, as if hoping they deceive him. "Well, welcome to the Highlands," he says, in a voice less than convincing. "Yeah, well, Atlantic City it aint," says Anita, "but it sure is peaceful here. I just love the scenery." Then, to Murdo, curtly, "Why didn't you answer my letter?" The crofter busies himself finding chairs for the guests, all the while glancing helplessly at his sister. "Why didn't I write?" He holds his hands out, palms uppermost, letting his gaze wander round the room. "Because this is all we have to offer by way of hospitality. As you can see, it's hardly what you're used to over there. Kirsty's right, you should have warned us." When his son returns with cakes from the Post Office, Murdo introduces him. "He was in his first year at university when we went over to see you. He couldn't get away from his studies." "Over to where? America!" The youth shakes his head. "So you went a wee bit further than Inverness, then? You might've told me!" “They’re busy at the hotel just now. I’d better go up and see if I can book a table for dinner,” says Murdo, confused, embarrassed and desperate for a dram. “Kirsty can walk you down to the beach. I won’t be long.” Looking back, he watches their progress, two groups of two, separated by age and culture, strolling through the field where, little over a year ago, a coke bottle had washed ashore to wake his slumbering emotions. oooooOOOOOooooo As the meal progresses, the crofter speaks intimately to Anita by his side. "I didn't mean to upset you lass; I was just facin' facts - we're worlds apart. I could tell you had a romantic notion about the way we live here… but we're not rich landowners. We don't even earn a livin'. Without subsidies we just couldn't exist. You know, except for a funeral, I haven't worn this suit since I saw you last." "Hey! It's O.K. I didn't have a clue about your lifestyle Murdo, but I thought we meant more to each other than that - and you never mentioned Tom. Who were you trying to save from embarrassment, you or me?" "Aye, maybe you're right, pride and poverty don't lie well together. But at least you know now." Anita holds eye contact and edges closer, placing her hand affectionately on his thigh. "Don't answer me right away. Murdo, would you consider coming over to the States - to live?" The crofter winces visibly, but returns Anita's smile. "You know, I have thought about you quite a lot, but I never flattered myself you'd be interested… and I was scared to say anything. I mean, Kirsty's quite happy here; it's just Tom. I'm determined to make sure he sticks to his studyin'. You know what they're like at that age - I couldn't just leave him." "I sure do. I feel just as protective towards Marilyn, I guess." They steal a glance at the youngsters who are closely involved in whispered conversation. “Maybe we worry too much,” she adds. oooooOOOOOooooo Over the days that follow, Marilyn and Tom take the initiative, ably supported by Kirsty. Pony-trekking at nearby Ben Loyal is followed by a day trip to John o'Groats, then an outing to the Orkney Islands. Murdo busies himself on the river, having made a deal with the hotel manager to act as a ghillie to resident fishermen for a fortnight, to pay off his bill for the dinner and drinks. Most nights Tom and Marilyn attend a disco in Thurso, the nearest town. One morning at daybreak, Tom, weary and dishevelled, is entering the camper van, just as his father is leaving for his stint on the river. "What's goin' on son? Have you no respect? Keeping that lass out to all hours, and her mother wonderin' where she is! You're actin' like a spoiled young brat." "Leave it dad..." "No, Tom, it has to be said. There's plenty jobs need doin' on the croft while you're here, instead o' gallivantin' about and maybe getting a young lassie into trouble. You think you know it all, but you've a lot to learn." Tom blinks, facing up to his father. "Tell you what dad, since you know all the answers, why don't you do something with your own life, eh?" "Aye, maybe I would if..." "If it wasn't for me, is that it?" Tom walks back to the van, leaving Murdo rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. oooooOOOOOooooo For the tourists' last night at Invernaver, a dinner for four is arranged at the hotel. Kirsty has made excuses for not attending, which haven't been challenged too strongly. "The kids are leaving it late," says Anita, as she and Murdo sip their third aperitif. "They took the boat to go mackerel fishin' in Torrisdale Bay. They wouldn't let a wee thing like keepin' us waitin' spoil their fun." Murdo sounds tentative and irritated. "Your Tom’s a real nice guy. I’ve stopped worrying about Marilyn. I mean, how many nervous breakdowns do I need?" "I spoke to Tom this morning." "That’s great. So you told him?" "He was just getting home from last night - as daylight was coming in." "Yeah, well I guess it must have been about four a.m. when you left here. Seems like nobody had much sleep last night." "I know, but it's worrying. If anything was to happen… Well, you know what I mean. I tried talkin' sense to him, but all I got was impertinence. I don't know what they're teaching youngsters at university these days..." "So you blew it, is that it? But you Murdo, have you decided?" The crofter squeezed her hand. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long while, Anita. I know I'm slow to express my feelings, but I'd really like to start a new life with you in America." "So? Let's get things moving." "No, I'm sorry lass, it won't be for a while and I don't think you'd want to wait that long. I can't leave without knowing that Tom's settled one way or another. We may be poles apart, but I'm all he has; I couldn't let him down." "O.K., we'll sleep on it, shall we? As for now, let's eat, I'm famished." oooooOOOOOooooo "Hmm." murmurs Kirsty, confirming her suspicions that Murdo's bed has not been slept in. Deep in thought, she then walks the short distance to the moorings, relieved to find the boat securely tied up there. Murdo returns to the croft with Anita soon afterwards, looking troubled. "Marilyn didn't go back to the hotel last night. The hire car's missing. Where's Tom?" All three rush into the caravan, the interior of which is tidy beyond recognition. A battered Coke bottle sits on a shelf, a piece of paper protruding from the lip. Kirsty grabs it first, smiling as she scans the contents. "Well?" growls Murdo. “I can’t see anything to laugh about!” “I often wondered what would have happened, if Tom had gone to America instead of me.” Murdo grabs the note. "We've decided to go and get a life,” he reads, “maybe you should try it sometime." ********************************************************* (c) Eddie Bruce 2003. All rights reserved.