Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

by Jessica Fox

  Soaked but glamorous in a raincoat, tasteful pearls setting off a round pretty face with a hint of lipstick, my customer lifted a bag onto the counter in front of me. It fell open to reveal a bevy of warm jumpers and socks.

  “You must be the poor American,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Deirdre, Euan’s mum.” Her eyes were just like Euan’s, radiating warmth. I watched as she pulled off her rain-soaked hood. “Now I brought you some cosy things. God knows how you’re surviving in this weather, all the way from California.”

  “I’m Jessica.” I walked past her outstretched hand and gave her a hug. She seemed surprised but pleased. I liked Deirdre immediately and was certain I could detect a kindred spirit in her. “Thank you for the clothes. Can I get you tea to warm you up?”

  “No, no, I mustn’t. Very kind of you.” Deirdre had a wonderfully melodic Irish accent, and her voice an expressive, sing-song quality. As she insisted about needing to go, she settled down beside me, pulling jumpers out of her bag. “If something doesn’t fit, no matter, I can always take it back.”

  “Deirdre, this is too kind,” I began to protest.

  “Well, someone needs to look after you while you’re here. Your poor mother, watching you go off to live in God knows where, with God knows who…” She smiled. “I’ll say you’ve come at the exact right time. It’s all a-go now for the festival.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. I hear Princess Anne is coming.”

  “Oh yes,” Deirdre said with equal delight. “We must arrange for you to meet her. And Euan’s cousin Eve will be arriving soon. You two will get on like a house on fire. She always livens the place up.” I couldn’t get enough of Deirdre’s energy. I wanted to tell her that she too livened the place up.

  “I love it here,” I said, suddenly but sincerely.

  Deirdre looked touched. “I know you do. Euan says he couldn’t believe how well you fit in here.”

  The comment took me by surprise.

  “It takes a special person, you know,” she continued and glanced at the clock behind me. “Oh my dear, the time. I could chat to you all afternoon but I really must run.” She moved towards the door, searching for her keys. “I hope the jumpers fit. I’ll see you soon.” The bell above the door chimed and she disappeared back into the rain.

  *

  Euan appeared right before closing time and asked if I’d like to come with him to meet Callum and Eliot in the pub. I had never been to a pub before and after a day of solitude, looked forward to the outing.

  “Jessica, you’re kidding. Don’t they have pubs in America?” Euan asked as we stepped outside and the damp air met us. It had finally stopped raining.

  “Of course, but they’re more bars than what I’d imagine a pub to be.” Overhead the moon was full and bright. The once overcast sky was now a clear, inky dome of twinkling stars.

  Euan was smiling again. “Well, don’t get your hopes up. I’m starting to learn about the heights of your imagination.”

  He had no idea about the real, Everest-like heights of my mind, I thought. If he had, I’m sure he’d have had me committed. I decided it would be better not to tell him about my vision of the shop.

  “Eliot came looking for you today,” I said as we walked slowly across the road.

  “Uh huh.” Euan pushed his hands into his pockets. I wondered if he would say anything else, perhaps about where he had been. Instead he went quiet.

  The walk to the pub, silent beneath those stars, ruined all subsequent night walks for me for ever. It was the most glorious way to get to a pub, so glorious, in fact, that I couldn’t imagine the pub living up to the journey there.

  The pub was small inside, dark and, in my memory, smoke-filled, but that would have been impossible because of the indoor smoking ban. The people were as thick as fog, however, and the warm, steamy air made for a hazy atmosphere. Everyone knew Euan. He was like the unofficial mayor, shaking hands and joking with the local farmers. No matter their age or background, everyone met him with the same friendly affection, except for Hannah. She was behind the bar, carefully filling a glass with honey-coloured beer and, on seeing Euan, she quickly shoved two fingers in the shape of a “v” into the air. To my American eyes, it looked like a peace sign but, from Euan’s expression, I assumed it meant otherwise. Euan yelled something offensive back and Hannah grinned.

  No one eyed me with the least amount of interest or suspicion as I walked behind Euan. Either they were used to him bringing different women into the pub, or they were displaying Wigtown’s famous nonchalant attitude that I had grown to love so much already. This small town did not have any of the judgement or the Puritan scrutiny that I was used to. My New England home town, with its population of 31,000, felt claustrophobic by comparison with Wigtown and its 1,000 residents. Growing up in a wealthy suburb of Boston, there had been an ever-present pressure to try and meet an unspoken intellectual and socioeconomic ideal. The pressure was subtle but real, an invisible pink elephant standing on everyone’s manicured lawns.

  In the few weeks I had lived there, I had found Galloway’s mind-your-own-business, look-the-other-way acceptance incredibly liberating. Wigtown in particular, isolated and idiosyncratic, seemed to welcome the same qualities in its residents. It was an attitude I embraced with increasing enthusiasm. One sunny afternoon, after a full day of writing, I had walked into the town’s small grocery store, in my tiny retro running shorts and slippers, Euan’s jumper and massive Lolita heart sunglasses. Euan had described my outfit as looking like a blind woman who had stumbled into a charity shop. No one in the grocery store batted an eyelid, however. The only person who paid me any attention was an elderly lady who had asked, in an admiring way, where I had bought my “footwear”.

  The experience of shopping in Wigtown’s Co-op was a lesson in eccentricity itself. I learned never to go with a list of what I wanted, because it was just a recipe for disappointment. Depending on which day you went in, the Co-op could be a fully stocked wonderland of food, filled with surprises and yummy treats. On the wrong day it could look like a ration depot from the second World War, having run out of even the essentials. No one seemed to be able to figure out when was the best time to go; the good days changed weekly, keeping the residents on their toes. I was hooked with a gambler’s enthusiasm on its unpredictability, as exciting as playing the lottery.

  As we moved further into the pub, Euan spotted Callum waving at us from a small table in the corner and grabbed my hand, pushing through the crowd. His hand was large and warm, and like magic, the Red Sea of people parted long enough for me to squeeze through.

  Euan went off to the bar for drinks and I slipped into the booth next to a smiling Callum. “Just in time to hear me sing,” he said, his Northern Irish accent well oiled from beer.

  “So what song?”

  “Not sure yet. You play?”

  I shook my head. “I dabble with the banjo, though.”

  “Dabble?” A guitar rested in Callum’s lap, over which his fingers were diligently rolling a cigarette. The same small tin was open by his side, filled with tobacco and papers. My eyes caught sight of something moving and I looked up to see Eliot shifting in the corner. I hadn’t noticed he was there and he waved at me without making eye contact. He sat curled around his cell phone, struggling to hear.

  “You coming to the festival?” I asked Callum while Euan dropped a pint of beer in front of me.

  Callum shrugged with indifference. “It’s tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Eliot corrected, looking stressed, and quickly returned to his phone call.

  Before he could sit down, Euan’s phone rang and he excused himself from the table.

  “Everyone’s on their cell phones; I could be back in LA.” I sipped my beer and watched disappointed as Euan disappeared into the sea of locals.

  “Spoiled for choice.” Callum shot me a knowing glance. Though we were all speaking English, I felt like Callum understood me better than others did. My face had be
en rosy already from the heat of the pub, and I was glad Callum couldn’t see me blush.

  “Let’s go outside for some air,” I suggested.

  “Good. I want to smoke this anyway.” He finished rolling his cigarette and licked it closed.

  Outside in the cool dark evening, musicians sat, smoking and playing folk music. Callum lit his cigarette and put the guitar on a bench nearby, content to listen to the music around him.

  “You settling in here okay?” he asked.

  “I do love it here.” I shrugged. “I just hope I’m not a burden to Euan.”

  Callum raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “It’s hard for me to tell. He’s always so nice.”

  “That’s a boarding school thing. We’ve been drilled to be nice and polite.” Callum stretched his legs out before him. “But don’t worry about it. He likes having you here.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can tell,” Callum said in his straightforward way.

  Euan reappeared looking drawn and sat on the bench next to Callum, smiling apologetically. “So, what have you fools been doing?”

  “Talking about you,” Callum teased with an air of satisfaction and drew on his cigarette. It was Euan’s turn to blush.

  I turned my attention from them to the music echoing through the dark beer garden. The voices were strong and clear, hitting every bittersweet note with skilled passion. The folk songs felt as much a part of the Galloway landscape as the moon above us, or the trees or the hills beyond. My time here was moving too quickly. The festival would soon be upon us and then in a couple of weeks I would be leaving again. In the heat of a Los Angeles afternoon, I hated to think this mysterious, mossy, majestic Wigtown would feel more like a dream than it ever had.

  I suddenly felt swept away in a mood of sadness. My father had been a folk singer, and sometimes before I went to bed when I was young, he would sing me traditional folk songs that came from Appalachia but whose origins were in Ireland, Scotland and England. They were full of jilted or star-crossed lovers, tragic deaths and mystical happenings. There was a sense of otherworldliness and longing in the beauty and simplicity of the melodies that had transported me as a child. Now, all grown up, I was hearing the music at its source and felt so close to it that beneath the singing and guitar strings, I could almost hear a heartbeat.

  Chapter 11

  “O would some power the giftie gie us to see ourselves as others see us.” Robert Burns, POEM “TO A LOUSE” – VERSE 8: Scottish Room, Burns section, second shelf from the bottom.

  Of the first night of the festival, two moments remain vivid in my memory. The first: a sudden announcement that Richard Heckler, the famous footballer, would not be able to appear that evening for the festival’s headlining event. Second, was the look on Eliot’s face when he told us the news.

  Eliot had pulled off a real coup in getting Heckler on the programme. Wigtown Festival, though small, had a growing reputation for being both an intimate literary event and attracting speakers of a high calibre. Eliot had turned programming into a work of art, and included an eclectic group of literary elite and popular speakers. Ticket sales had been up this year, and the anticipation of Heckler’s presence had brought fresh faces to the festival, mixing sports enthusiasts with book fans.

  It was exciting. Wigtown was buzzing with false sightings. “I think I saw him,” I heard a woman say. “Don’t be ridiculous,” shouted another. “It’s too early.”

  People had come in droves, pouring in from every part of the country, specifically to see the inaugural event of the festival. This was important.

  I was hiding upstairs in Euan’s large sitting room, completely unaware of the impending crisis when it happened, engrossed in a conversation with Euan’s cousin Eve. She had just arrived from Ireland for her yearly trip to the Bookshop to visit Euan and, of course, attend the festival.

  She had bounded into the sitting room with a magnetic energy, smiling broadly after a hellish drive, declaring, “Where’s my loathsome cousin? I can smell his putrid scent so he can’t be far.” Euan had appeared behind her.

  “Ah, evil.” Euan had struggled to hide his pleasure.

  I introduced myself immediately, thinking: be cool, be cool.

  “Hi, I’m Jessica, the American.”

  Eve had raised her eyebrows. “I couldn’t tell.” Eve, like Deirdre, spoke with a lyrical, rounded accent, but Eve’s had a hint of self-enjoyment at your expense. I adored it.

  “Ha, yeah, well…”

  “I won’t hold it against you.”

  It did not take long before we were drinking and gabbing away. Euan’s sitting room, converted for the festival, was empty except for catering equipment and a long banquet table, covered in a white cloth and flowers. We sat at the table like lone royalty, a fire blazing in the large fireplace, bottles of Prosecco opened and most of our conversation geared to insulting Euan. I laughed until my sides hurt. Between gasps for air, I realised I hadn’t had this much fun in ages. Eve’s warmth, determined enjoyment of whatever came her way and her piercing wit left me feeling that my own personality could use a few improvements.

  “You’re not drinking enough, dear, have some more,” Eve said, filling my glass.

  As I watched the golden liquid pour into my glass, I felt giddy with happiness. If only Josh could see me now. He wouldn’t have recognised the former workaholic, now grinning from ear to ear, completely content with Euan and Eve, half listening to their laughter and insults and half looking out of the large windows at the crowds of people gathered around the main marquee.

  The festival’s opening event was just an hour away from starting, and everything was feeling fresh and filled with possibility.

  “So what’s happening this evening?” Eve took another sip of her drink, while staring at the programme. “Oooh, a Burns supper.”

  I tried to offer something. “After that there’s a ceilidh…What’s a ceilidh?”

  Euan leaned back. “A dance. It’s fun.”

  Suddenly, the door flew open and Eliot tornadoed into the room, looking frantic. I could almost see invisible papers flying in his wake. “This is not happening,” he muttered to himself over and over, as he paced through the room.

  “Hi, Eliot,” Eve chirped. He didn’t seem to notice.

  I stood and walked towards him. “What’s wrong?”

  Eliot waved his hands in the air, trying to dismiss whatever cloud of chaos hung around him. “Heckler missed his flight. We don’t know where he is.”

  Eliot ran over to the window and watched the crowds gathering outside the marquee. “This is not happening. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.” Taking out an inhaler from his pocket, Eliot held it up to his mouth and a soft hissing sound was heard. He inhaled deeply and held his breath.

  Eliot’s phone rang. He let out his breath and answered. “Hello. (Pause). Yeah, I know, so where is he? (Pause). What? WHAT!”

  Euan shot me a look. This wasn’t good. The mood, which moments before had been exuberant, suddenly shifted.

  “Oh my God!” Eliot began to pace again. “When? (Pause). We’re just going to have to tell them. Refunds, tickets for next week, whatever. We’ll fix it. (Pause). Thanks – I suppose.”

  Eliot shoved his phone back into his pocket, slowly raising his eyes. His expression was that of someone who had completely accepted the imminent arrival of the apoca-lypse. He leaned against a chair, and drew a breath in. “Heckler isn’t coming.”

  “What?” Euan yelled, and Eve and I joined in.

  “He’ll come next month.”

  I resisted the urge to hug Eliot. I didn’t think it would make him feel any better. In fact, I’d been in Wigtown long enough now to know that it would most definitely add to his discomfort.

  “Right.” He sighed. “It will be fine. It will have to be fine. We’ll just apologise, offer free tickets and that’s that.”

  He didn’t say goodbye, just disappeared through the door as quickly as he came. I stood ther
e amazed, and impressed. Although it may not have felt like it at the time, it was a heroic moment for him. He had handled a near catastrophe with perfect grace.

  Euan’s gaze returned to me and seemed to read my thoughts. He quickly filled the silence with “Heckler is a wanker”.

  Eve nodded, then proceeded to pour everyone more Prosecco.

  We watched from the windows for a while. The fall out of the Heckler debacle was chaotic. As quickly as the guests had disappeared into the white marquee, they poured out again in hordes, like the carnival trick of clowns emerging from a clown car. Eliot commanded his post heroically, herding angry festival patrons to and fro, calming the masses and reinstating order.

  With near disaster evaded, we thought we’d get Eve settled in before guests filtered back to the sitting room for the Burns supper.

  Eve had arrived not only bearing gifts of chocolate – enormous Toblerones – but also groceries, booze and a shocking amount of personal luggage. We stood in the hall surveying her substantial entourage.

  “How long are you staying for exactly?” I smiled, suddenly feeling that I had approached travelling all wrong. I always tried to pack as little as possible, but Eve had not stinted on one creature comfort and I had become an immediate convert to her pack-all, want-not philosophy.

  Euan tried to pick one case up. “Jesus,” he exclaimed. I quickly tried to grab the other end and grunted, feeling a deep twang in my lower back.

  “Shut it, all of you.” Eve proceeded to bound up the stairs with her other trunk, putting Euan and me to shame.

  Euan grabbed the suitcase from me. “I got this, Fox.” His tone carried the same ease that I was used to hearing from Rose or Josh. In a week and a half, despite mysterious moods and my assumptions to the contrary, we had become friends. Euan quickly disappeared up the stairs and I felt supremely happy.

  An echo from a book I once read, by the German philosopher Novalis, came back to me: “The seat of the soul is there, where the inner and outer worlds meet.” Perhaps I had stumbled upon my seat here, standing alone in a dark hallway, halfway across the world. For weeks it had felt as if I had been living in a liminal realm between the imagination and reality. It was weird, fantastic and empowering. What if, I mused, Wigtown only existed because I dreamed it? Quickly I shook the self-deluding notion away. Better to think that, in all likelihood, Wigtown was dreaming me.