by Jessica Fox
My computer screen showed Google. “Used book shop Scotland” waited patiently in the search box. I closed my eyes. I could see it as clearly as if I were there already. It would be a cold, wet day and I would be sitting with my feet resting against a long wooden counter. I would be worlds away from LA, in a small Scottish town right by the sea, enjoying a solitary afternoon in a bookshop. Wrapped in a large sweater, in my hands would be a torn copy of Pride and Prejudice, a dusty tome I had pulled out from the many shelves that surrounded me. The bookshop would be quiet and empty and my eyes would drift dreamily out of the window, taking in the green hills and the sea beyond.
“This is insane.” A little voice crept into my vision, its doubting tone breaking apart my dream, particle by particle, until it evaporated and my eyes fluttered open. My heart was beating so loud that I couldn’t tell if I was excited or terrified.
Then a big voice thundered in… I could actually do this. Not just dream it. I could make this happen, I could for once listen to that instinct that Jay O’Callahan had articulated about NASA, not “why” but “why not?”
Maybe the dream, or the process of dreaming, was the point, not executing it, I thought, but then what would happen if I did? What if I took all the imagination and creativity that I poured into my screenplays and invested it in my own life? I saw Melville before me, sitting on my sofa, drinking tea.
“Why let your characters have all the fun?” he said and immediately spat the hot drink back into the cup. “You call this tea? It’s green.”
I looked around my apartment. The four white walls I was so proud of, piled with books and scripts and stacks of work, now felt like the four walls of a big cubical. My life had become so myopic, so focused on my career, that I was living in a self-imposed box. When was the last time I had done something without calculating how it benefited my ambition? The lack of an answer made me sad. There was nothing wrong with being ambitious or having large aspirations. That had been a part of me ever since I was born, and I felt at home in that space, but I also felt I was missing out on something else, something I was hungry for and which I couldn’t put into words.
It brought to mind the months I had spent as a student in Prague. There, sitting in my usual little nook by the window of Beas, the best Indian restaurant in Europe, I had read Joseph Campbell’s book, Hero with a Thousand Faces – a seminal work of comparative mythology in which he outlined the German ethnologist Leo Frobenius’ idea of “the night sea journey of the solar hero” and Toynbee’s “Palingenesia”, a continual reoccurrence of birth within the soul. Campbell explains the ideal hero journey as one of continual growth, and not just growth in one direction – even in an environment of constant challenges or constant change, we acclimatise, and our growth plateaus.
I rummaged around in my desk and found my journal from Prague. I leafed through a couple of pages until I found my notes on “Palingenesia”. In familiar handwriting, on a page partly stained with curry, I saw my younger self trying to figure out what constituted the perfect journey, what would allow someone to continually grow. On the bottom of the page I had concluded that our journey through life must be self-directed, for as we allowed ourselves to change, the shape of our journey would change, too.
I shut the journal, my mind buzzing with a sense of purpose. My birthday was coming up in a couple of months, and it suddenly occurred to me that the timing couldn’t be better. I would gift myself a holiday. A leap into the unknown wherever that took me, following my instincts – this would be my 26th birthday present to myself.
My hand hit the enter key on “Used book shop Scotland”. Immediately the results page appeared, and “Wigtown, Scotland’s National Book Town” stood clear and bold at the top of the list.
“Wigtown, Scotland’s National Book Town,” I said out loud. I clicked on the link and my heart jumped into my throat. The website was modest and had a list of bookshops to choose from. I couldn’t believe it. Wigtown was a town of 1,000 people and sixteen bookshops, right by the sea in Scotland. That small voice thundered in my chest, “See, you can make things happen.”
Chapter 4
“When you choose one way out of many, all the ways you don’t take are snuffed out like candles, as if they’d never existed. At that moment all Will’s choices existed at once. But to keep them all in existence meant doing nothing. He had to choose, after all.” – Philip Pullman, THE AMBER SPYGLASS: Children’s section, across from stairwell, right shelf.
My finger quivered as it rested on my laptop. I scanned the names of the different bookshops and was attracted to the third on the list: “The Bookshop, Scotland’s largest used-book shop”. I tried to justify why I felt compelled by this one – it was the largest, it had a straightforward title – and then I decided it didn’t matter. This trip was about instinct.
The Bookshop’s website was simple and unremarkable, with a little video on one page offering a music-accompanied tour through its many rooms. The video was a bit blurry but funny, with “it’s massive” appearing in bold text at the end. There was also a page linking to a holiday home, which the owner evidently let out in the town. “Promising!” I said to myself. Especially if I wanted to do some kind of live/work exchange. It looked like a lovely two-bedroom cottage, perfect for a month’s stay. That would certainly cut down on the costs of the trip. My heart started to pound. It was too exciting. It actually all existed, the bookshops, the town – now I just had to get work in one of them.
I saw a contact page on the Bookshop’s website and clicked on the email address. What would I write? Sound enthusiastic but not crazy, Jessica, I thought. Keep your vision to yourself. Sound normal. Whatever you do, sound totally not-crazy and nice. I took a deep breath and began.
To whom it may concern,
I hope this email finds you well. I am a 25-year-old film director and writer from the States, looking to spend a couple of months in my favourite country, Scotland, starting this fall.
I’ve read the wonderful reviews of your bookshop and I was hoping, with any luck, you would be open to live/work volunteer opportunities that allow young writers to volunteer and help at the shop in exchange for living accommodation. I hold a BA in Folklore and Mythology and currently work for NASA as a storytelling consultant and media director. Information about my education and work history is available upon request. Taking a month to visit and write in Scotland has always been a dream of mine, and as I have a deep affinity for used-book shops, I cannot think of any better way to spend my time there.
Thank you so much for your time and I look forward to hearing from you.
Much warmth,
Jessica
I pressed “send” and exhaled. It was good to get it off quickly, like sending off a flare. The message was out there now, travelling through the ether.
Suddenly I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t sit still. I made more tea, I flipped through books without actually reading anything. I called Josh back, thanking him for including me at the party. He sounded cheery, completely unfazed by my earlier rudeness. The party had been a great success for him. The people Tate wanted him to meet were impressed by Josh’s ideas. He had made important contacts.
Half an hour later when I sat back down at my desk and opened my computer, I was stunned. I had a new email.
Dear Jessica thank you for your letter could you please tell me more about yourself Euan
The message, though short, felt promising. It wasn’t a “no”, rather, it was a question, an opening for possibility. I had sent an email out into the unknown and heard the echo of someone receiving it half a world away. That in itself was exciting.
However, the lack of punctuation and capitalisation in the one-line response was confusing: it made me feel I had discovered someone not well used to digital technology – some 80-something proprietor of a dusty old bookshop, staring in awe and bemusement at an ancient computer. I pictured this man, surrounded by his grandchildren as they helped him figure out this �
�newfangled thing called email”, while he painstakingly typed out his response, one arthritic finger at a time.
Excited, I wrote straight back. As requested, I told him more about myself, in clear language that an 80-year-old could understand, as well as giving him a very professional-sounding list of my abilities, plus my CV. For good measure, I also attached a picture of myself waving, with “hi” written on my hand.
The next day Euan wrote back stating my CV looked impressive. This email was lengthier, casual and humorous. I wondered if I had misjudged my 80-year-old bookseller.
The Bookshop already has plenty of help, however I live in a big, old house above the shop and often host artists and writers.
As I kept on reading, it all felt more and more surreal.
Wigtown is a beautiful place to visit, but remote. We could find you transportation if you felt like exploring the area while you are here. It is cold too, so best to come in the spring.
I looked at the computer screen, amazed. Euan was an incredibly generous person, clearly. He had responded to the extension of my hand into the unknown not with suspicion but with a friendly handshake. I couldn’t believe everything was flowing so easily.
Immediately I received another email from Euan.
In fact, he said, perhaps on second thoughts I should come in September – only weeks away and much earlier than I had planned – for the Wigtown Book Festival. He wrote that his house was the centre of activity during that time and would be full of authors, speakers and interesting people. The town, he explained, would be buzzing with activity. He still had one spare room left where I could stay and write and enjoy the town at its best.
I hope we’ll be able to keep you amused while you’re here. You may find you get quite good at lighting wood-burning stoves.
Without another thought, I booked my ticket.
Chapter 5
“Careful the tale you tell, that is the spell.” – Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine, INTO THE WOODS: Music section, front room, middle shelf on the left.
At passport control at Heathrow Airport, the security official asked why I was visiting the country. I stumbled, struggling to find a simple answer.
“To visit a friend,” I said.
Had I ever met the person I was staying with?
“Honestly, no.”
How had we met?
“Online.”
My face flushed. Aloud, it sounded so mail-order-bride.
If the universe is truly infinite then theoretically there are an endless number of Jessicas who, at airport security check points like these, might have decided to answer differently. Perhaps one of those Jessicas would have told the officer the insane truth, that she was following her golden guide because of a vision she had had of a bookshop. This Jessica, however, decided that would be worse.
Undaunted, the security official let me through. That in itself was disturbing. How often must he get people travelling across the world because of someone they had met online? Often enough to be unruffled by it, apparently.
I headed to the boarding gate for my connecting flight to Scotland. In an hour or so I would be in Glasgow, where Euan said he’d pick me up. Wigtown was that remote. The journey, he had written, would be mostly on single-track roads and would take about two hours each way.
I could see down the departures hall that a queue had already started forming in front of the boarding gate. I hurried to get in line as a well of uneasiness sprang up inside. What, in God’s name, was I doing? By asking simple questions, the security official had stripped away the romantic narrative in my mind, and for a brief moment I had seen my journey as he had: I was going to a tiny town in a country I knew nothing about, to live with a complete stranger.
A crowd of people piled in behind me, all holding boarding cards. The line moved forward and I felt stuck – hemmed in by people on all sides, trapped in the current of the extraordinary events that I had started.
I boarded my plane to Glasgow, found my seat, and freaked out.
Chapter 6
“‘The inhabitant or soul of the universe,’ Najagneg said, ‘is never seen; its voice alone is heard. All we know is that it has a gentle voice, like a woman, a voice so fine and gentle that even children cannot be afraid. And what it says is: Sila ersinar sinivdluge, ‘Be not afraid of the universe’.” – Joseph Campbell, MYTHS TO LIVE BY: Mythology section, front room, second shelf from the bottom.
In the long mirror, under the electric lighting, I looked at my reflection. Staring back at me was a pale, dishevelled, sleep-deprived, mid-twenty-year-old with dark circles hanging under her eyes – I hardly recognised myself. It was not the look I was going for to start my new adventure, and the ambience of the airport’s public bathroom wasn’t doing me any favours either. I tried to put on a brave smile. I was one floor above the arrivals hall, where Euan would be waiting for me. Despite appearances, I felt awake, alive and extremely nervous.
“I’m not going to hold up a sign like an idiot,” he had written. “I don’t need one. You’ll recognise me. I’m tall with a mass of curly ginger hair. I stand out in a crowd.” I detected a note of pride in his words.
It was my first clue as to what Euan was really like. He was wittily self-conscious and a bit of a contradiction. I had once taken a workshop with the great performer and clown, Bill Irwin, who had asserted that character equalled contrast. While Euan didn’t want to stand out in a crowd by holding a sign, he was happy to let his appearance set him apart.
I brushed my teeth and felt instantly refreshed. Dabbing concealer to hide my dark circles, I went through my make-up ritual: light eyeshadow over my lid, a darker shade in a thin line around the eye and a dusting of gold in the corners. In less than a minute, I felt like myself again.
Two other women entered the bathroom and brushed past me. Through the swinging door I caught a glimpse of the escalator leading to the arrivals hall, and felt aware that imminently I would be leaving the safety of the bathroom. I took a step back to inspect myself. In jeans, an “I LA” tank top and with my long dark hair and fringe, I looked very Californian. Perhaps I should have tried to blend in more and not look so American. I sighed. I wouldn’t be able to change now; there wasn’t enough time. I grabbed my small suitcase and pocketbook, and ventured out.
The escalator was empty. I stepped onto its moving teeth, feeling the velocity pulling me down. There was no turning back. In the waiting room below were a handful of families, looking expectantly up at me. When I fully materialised and they realised I was not the person they were hoping for, they looked disappointed. I smiled, apologetically.
In the far corner of the room, sitting on a bench, there was a man who I thought had to be Euan. A large newspaper was opened before him and covered most of his body, so all I could see were his arms, in a brown jacket, and a mop of ginger-blond hair sticking up over the top.
I put on my best, friendly, I’m-very-normal smile and walked boldly over to him.
“Are you Euan?” I said in my thick American accent. Euan would later tease me that I had pronounced his name with a nasal “Eu-aaan”.
He looked up from his reading, as if startled. “Jessica.” His voice was deep and sounded perfectly round, like a classic BBC broadcaster’s.
He stood up and we looked at each other with a faint sense of recognition. He was far from the 80-year old that I had imagined. For a moment we each smiled with surprised pleasure. Perhaps it was what Anne of Green Gables would have explained as the thrill of instantly spotting a kindred spirit. Or perhaps it was the relief that neither of us looked outwardly insane.
As Euan grabbed my bags and paid for parking, I took a moment to study him. He was tall, 30-something and slim, with wire-framed glasses on a round, good-looking face, big hands. On glancing down, I was delighted to see brown, suede shoes. Everything about him was neat and tidy, except for his hair, which rested like a nest of chaos on his head.
Despite my being instantly comfortable in his company, there was
also something that felt very distant and unreal. Perhaps that was because I had dreamed this world up, and was now suspicious about its reality.
It was a sunny and unseasonably warm afternoon, and Euan led me through the busy Glasgow parking lot to where he had parked his bright-red van. The five-year-old in me did a somersault. The van had no other markings; it was just cherry-red and big, and looked far more fun than a regular car. This was a good sign of things to come.
But then, as we approached, I saw on the dashboard a sticker reading, “I Tongue”. Interesting and, I thought to myself, surprisingly raunchy. Euan slipped my bag into the back. “Is this all you brought?” His voice was rich, almost heavy, an intriguing contrast to his light, easy demeanour.
“I don’t like packing much.”
“Neither do I.” He smiled and walked around to the front. I started to follow him but quickly remembered that passengers went on the left. Other side of the car, I told myself, shaking my head: we’re not in Kansas now, Dorothy.
“It’s really good of you to have me,” I breathed as I pulled myself up into the van and slid into my seat. “I can’t believe I’m here.”
“Why?”
“Well…” There was an electric buzz in the air. I couldn’t tell if he felt it too, or if my excitement at realising my dream was overflowing. “I’m a complete stranger. I can’t believe you said yes, actually.”
“Well, it’s really great of you to want to come,” Euan said as he drove out of the parking lot. “When I got your email I thought, this girl must be really brave to write out of the blue and travel to a strange town across the ocean alone. It was very cool of you. I decided that anything I could do to help, I would.”