Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets
Page 10
Suddenly I felt that I was not alone. I had assumed it was just me, my thoughts and the darkness of the hall, but I got the prickly sensation of another presence. Eve and Euan were still upstairs. I could hear their footsteps and the occasional cackle of laughter drift down. I had been so engrossed in my daydreams that I hadn’t noticed that someone had brushed by me in the hall. From behind, the whirring of a toilet flush sounded. The “other presence” emerged from the bathroom and I turned, expecting to see Laura.
But instead out walked a giant bear. I took a couple of steps back, stunned. In the dim hall light he emerged from the shadow and I saw that he was more half-man, half-bear. Massively tall and broad, his thick, jet-black beard cascaded upwards into a forest of hair. He coughed.
“Excuse me.” His voice was deep and grizzly, with a hint of eastern Europe. When he breathed, the buttons strained on his jacket and I imagined that his suit was too tight, not because of his belly, but because of the massive amounts of fur that lay underneath.
“Can I help you?” I took a step back as he walked towards me. He held out his arm and I fully expected to see a paw, but instead his hand looked convincingly human. It was large and covered with dark, rough skin.
“I’m Miroslav,” he growled.
“Oh, hi.” My hand disappeared in his and his eyes bored into me as if looking for something in particular. I imagined that I would fall in his estimation if he didn’t find it.
“Why do you look so scared?” He stood back, surveying me closely.
“I thought you were a bear.” It fell out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Miroslav threw his head back and rumbled with laughter. His eyes returned to me looking bright and delighted. “You’re far more entertaining than Richard Heckler.”
My face flushed.
Eve vaulted down the stairs behind me. With one hand she shook Miroslav's while she wrapped her other arm around my waist affectionately. “Hello there, I’m Eve.”
The Grizzly Bear smiled. “Miroslav.”
“I remember you from last year.” She tugged on my side knowingly. “Can I get you a drink?”
How did Eve do it? It seemed she always knew what to say. The Grizzly Bear looked relieved and replied in low Slavic tones, “Those Scots are complete Scrooges with their whisky. Show me the way, fairy lady. I want to have at least a glass to myself before the vultures come.”
It wasn’t long before the authors descended into the sitting room, casting their rosy, inebriated glow over it. I stood among the crowds, and noticed how suddenly the energy in the room had changed from a peaceful quiet into a chattering buzz. I looked up at the gorgeous Georgian ceiling, ornate with inlay and intricate carvings, and listened to and whispers about the Burns supper – mostly descriptions of the infamous Burns impersonator.
The reason why Miroslav was thirsty for his whisky was that the Burns impersonator had found, and drained, most of the bottles before the dinner had even begun. By the time Robert Burns was supposed to give his recitation, his voice was so slurred that the audience had had to finish the poems for him. Burns had only been able to do a couple of lines before wandering off somewhere, shouting into the ether. Everyone had enjoyed it immensely.
One of the guests suggested that Burns was a method actor, and that his drunken manner and complete disregard for authority was a genius attempt at an accurate historical portrayal.
“He’s here.” Eve suddenly appeared and shot through the doorway. As if on cue, Robert Burns stumbled into the room.
“Where is that beautiful woman?” Burns demanded, searching the room for Eve but she was carefully hidden behind Euan. Giving up his search with an ease not befitting a romantic poet, he locked me with his unsteady gaze and made a beeline. I held out my wine glass.
“There you are,” I said, hoping the ruby-red wine would distract him. It worked. He took it from me and sat in the closest chair. It was already occupied by a famous local poet but Burns didn’t seem to mind the extra cushioning.
*
Bang. Thwap. Crackle. In the night sky above Wigtown's square a dizzying spectacle of fireworks exploded. Laura and Eve stood on either side of me, and we leaned in together, trying to keep warm. A crowd had gathered in their winter hats and jackets, looking up at the smoky sky. In bursts of blues, pinks and whites, the festival had officially begun.
Eve handed me her phone, smiling. I pressed it to my ear, trying to make out the voice in between the bursts of fireworks.
“Hi, it’s Robert Burns.” The voice message began. His voice seemed sober and tired. “I seem to have lost my sideburns. If you find them, please would you mind posting them to the following address…”
Chapter 12
“Let Ahab beware of Ahab.” – Herman Melville, MOBY DICK: Fiction section, second shelf on the left in the gallery.
On the second day of the festival, Stanley appeared. He stepped off the bus, landing firmly in Wigtown Square among the hustle and bustle of the festival tents. With a VHS tape of his documentary film under his arm, he had made the journey all the way from Zimbabwe, and now happily travelled the extra two blocks to the festival offices on foot.
I was hiding in the kitchen when he arrived. Two days into the festival and I had already become wary of the sitting room, with its endless stream of authors, dishes to clear and kettles to refill. On the whole the authors were incredibly kind, pitching in and helping to keep the sitting room tidy. There were always those, however, admittedly few and far between, who treated us like indentured servants, and me with something bordering disdain (was it my accent?) until they heard I worked for NASA. Then I became worthy of eye contact when spoken to. It was such a strange phenomenon that I liked keeping the fact I worked there in my back pocket, like a wild card, pulling it out if I felt that an author was judging a book by its cover.
Stanley wandered into the kitchen, looking lost in his oversized leather jacket. “Excuse me,” he asked in a warm, African accent. “Is this the authors' room?”
“No, you’re not far off though.” I wiped my hands dry and led him into the sitting room. He flashed a smile, looking up at the large ceiling, then taking in the long dining table surrounded by authors feasting on lobster.
“You’ve come on the right day,” I continued. “On the weekends authors are treated to lobster.”
“I impregnated a woman who looked like you,” said Stanley, catching me off guard, while Eve who overheard, snickered into her wine. From that moment on, everything suddenly became very bizarre.
Stanley, it soon transpired, with his sincere, smiling face, and his home-made documentary, was a rampant Mugabe supporter, and a possible sociopath. He changed careers as often as he changed seats, first saying he was a supermarket owner, then a music producer and finally a bookshop owner, all the while professing his undying loyalty to his holy Mugabe, and ingratiating himself with people with rape jokes. Within five minutes in the authors’ room, he had succeeded in offending everyone sitting near him.
Eliot appeared, sheet white, as people evacuated the room. “What the hell is happening?”
Stanley attempted to snap a lobster claw off and it went airborne, hitting Eliot squarely in the forehead. Eliot dropped his folder and looked frightened, as if his fears of festival mutiny were being realised.
“How the hell did he get here?” I whispered, searching Eliot’s confused face. “Was he invited?”
“No, he just showed up. I have put him on the African panel this afternoon.” Eliot, bewildered, looked from Stanley to the now empty table littered with half eaten lobsters.
At the African panel, Eve and I sat in the back row. The moment Stanley saw us in the crowd, he waved happily, like a child who had glimpsed his parents in the audience of a school play. He proceeded to upstage each speaker during the debate by pointing to his own self-published book.
“When did you lose your virginity?” he asked one stunned writer, who had opened the floor to questions about his book recounting yea
rs spent as a hostage in Lebanon. Promptly asked to leave, Stanley wandered into another tent, trying to open-trade for books in exchange for his “many trinkets”.
In the middle of the chaos, between keeping tabs on Stanley and taking care of the authors in the sitting room, I hardly noticed the reporters wandering through to the back of the shop.
“Do you mind if we take your picture for a small article?” they asked as I brought more teacups into the sitting room.
“Sure,” I said, on ”perfect host” automatic pilot, and followed them downstairs, where they asked me to hold a book, and flashed their camera. A day later a festival patron came up to me, pointing. So you’re the girl, they said, holding up a copy of The Big Issue. My face was enlarged over an entire page.
By the second day, we were taking shifts buying Stanley rounds at the Wigtown Ploughman, keeping him far from anyone he could offend. Eventually Eliot personally escorted him to the bus station, waving him off and watching with relief as his bus disappeared over the hill. And thus, Stanley vanished as quickly as he had arrived.
Chapter 13
“An event is something that happens at a particular point in space and at a particular time.” – Stephen Hawking, A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME: Science section, Transportation Room, left of spiral staircase.
Royal can be an adjective and a noun, which is appropriate, because royalty in Scotland, to my fresh American eyes, seemed like two things at once or, for lack of a better word, a contradiction. Scotland was a free, separate state of mind to that of England and an undercurrent of rebellion towards its parent country or anything English still ran strong in its proud veins. However, when it was announced that Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal, was to appear at the festival, the entire town gathered in excited reverence to see her.
I was also desperate to see Princess Anne. Americans are perhaps more obsessed with the idea of royalty than our long-lost British brothers; our taste for anything royal, never satiated in a true democracy, manifests itself in the canonising of celebrities and their families and mass idealisation of political dynasties like the Kennedys. I’d say our fascination with royalty is a perversion from the Revolutionary War, a desperate longing, perhaps, to reconnect with our parent country. But my family tree on both sides is Jewish from eastern Europe. My father’s family extends back a couple of generations in America and my mother, born in Germany, is the child of two Holocaust survivors. As things stand, I have no colonial ties. Yet, faced there in Wigtown with the imminent arrival of Princess Anne, I was still royally inspired. As I leaned against the window, neglecting my cleaning duties in the sitting room, I watched as my breath created a fog against the glass, hoping I would catch a glimpse of her.
I heard she was only staying a couple of hours, having arrived earlier that afternoon by helicopter. She would wave and plant a tree, but no speeches. That was in her contract.
“Where is she? She’s missing all the excitement. Jessica? Yoohoo!” I heard a familiar voice echo from the hall. Deirdre bounded into the sitting room full of her usual, infectious enthusiasm. My day suddenly brightened.
“What are you doing up here, silly girl? All the excitement is happening downstairs.”
“I know,” I said, feeling a bit like Cinderella missing the ball. “I’m supposed to be manning the authors’ room this afternoon.”
“Oh stuff and nonsense!” Deirdre grabbed my hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “I’m taking you to see her. This is an opportunity you cannot miss.”
The large cream tent was filled with the smell of plastic. It was the first time I had been inside and I was impressed with its scale. I had no idea there was so much room on Wigtown green.
We walked past the entrance, full of tables with pamphlets, raffles and books for sale.
Deidre pushed me ahead into the next room which opened up into a grand space with plastic windows and a draped ceiling. The sound of chatter bounced off the walls and a sea of chairs, filled with expectant festival-goers, stretched out before us.
“Deirdre, I don’t think there’s anywhere to sit,” I whispered.
Patting me on the hand, Deirdre led me to two open seats at the far end of the back row. On the stage, at the podium, Eliot cleared his throat. He saw us and smiled, and I shifted to the edge of my seat. The room suddenly became quiet – the anticipation was palpable. Deirdre searched my face for signs of approval and I glanced at her, smiling broadly. I was about to see my first princess.
*
Was it already over? That was it? We walked into the reception area after our brief public audience with Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal. Clad in a tartan skirt suit, with a string of pearls, gloved hands and impeccably done hair, she had been on stage all of ten minutes. She had waved, her secretary had read a letter and then she had accepted a book from a small child (quite sweet). Then she had left to tour the garden. I had been all set to meet her, and had been practising my “Ma’am as in ham not Mum as in hum”. There was something so impressive about her, her etiquette, posture, poise. To me, she felt royal… if such a thing existed.
I excused myself from Deirdre, anxious to get back to my abandoned post in the authors’ room. I was also anxious to break free from the smell of plastic. As I stepped into the fresh morning air outside the tent, I took a deep breath. Smell has always been a very vivid sense for me, ever since I was little. Right now I could smell the whiff of powdery perfume from a lady who had brushed up next to me as I had slid through the door. I could smell the chalky dust of the gravel beneath my feet, mixed with the grease from a distant chip van, flowers in bloom and the fresh salt sea air.
Crossing the street, I stood watching Princess Anne surrounded by an adoring crowd. She held a shovel in her gloved hand, and she smiled as her picture was taken next to a newly planted tree. She looked up and saw me standing away from the crowds, lingering outside the Bookshop. Our eyes met and I’m still not quite certain if this next part was in my imagination, but she lifted her hand and waved. I waved back, filled with a sense of destiny. Wigtown was magic, everything about this moment was magic. As soon as our eyes met, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal shifted her gaze.
Chapter 14
“Some beautiful morning she will just wake up and find it is Tomorrow. Not Today but Tomorrow. And things will happen… wonderful things.” – L.M. Montgomery, ANNE OF THE ISLAND: Children’s section, top shelf on the right.
The rain beat down in steady, rhythmic torrents onto the roof of the red van. I felt as if I was inside a large kettle drum. We had abandoned the festival for an afternoon and were making our way slowly along the western side of the peninsula from Wigtown, the Monreith coast.
“It’s around here somewhere,” Euan said, bending over the steering wheel. Eve and I leaned forward, too. Sandwiched in the front of the van, we struggled to see out beyond the foggy windshield. Stone houses appeared every now and then in the rain-soaked fields, breaking up the rolling pastureland. The van slowed as we approached two horses – one brown, one white – that stood in a fenced-in pasture near the road, heads down, braving the elements.
“That must be them,” Eve said, delighted, reaching her arm across me and pointing out the window. I snuggled back into the warm seat. The thought of emerging from the van’s cocoon-like warmth into this damp weather made me shiver. Euan’s neighbour owned these horses and had made kind and generous offer that we could ride them any time we wanted. Neither Euan nor I had any experience of riding but Eve had a passion for horses, and on hearing that there were some nearby, had been determined to make the most of it.
As the rain continued to pelt down, Euan and I stood, soaked, and watched Eve walk alone across the wet field. She was fearless, as her tiny frame approached the massive and slightly jumpy white horse. In the distance, it looked as if she was betwitching the wild creature, throwing a bridle over its head and instantly coaxing it to walk with her. I looked on, fascinated, as she returned to us, beaming through the rain.
“No, thanks. I’m here to watch, not ride.”
I stepped back, intimidated by the horse, which reared its head at me. The only time I had ever ridden was during a family vacation to Arizona. My father had been in his element, trying out the whoops and whistles he had heard as a child on The Lone Ranger. I had not been so at ease, however. The pony I was placed on had a rash on its belly. As I tried to follow my parents and sister as we trekked through wild backcountry trails, the pony would compulsively walk into shrubs and trees in the hope of alleviating its belly itch, scratching me in the process.
“Come on, where’s that American confidence?” Euan looked at me.
“I’m wearing a dress.”
“And fishnets.” Eve looked at my soaked fishnet stockings, undeterred. “Step on here,” she said as she pointed to a broken part of the fence, “and I’ll help you get on.”
“But there’s no saddle.” I argued, firmly placing my hands on my hips. “I can’t ride bareback.”
Eve cocked her head and it seemed the horse did the same. The horse glowed white in the misty green that surrounded us. I could hear the ocean roaring not far off. It was an intoxicating atmosphere, pregnant with challenge, and I felt my resistance waning.