Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

by Jessica Fox

  A shadowy figure next to me crossed himself. “Depart… We have to depart,” he whispered.

  I felt dizzy. The coach walls disappeared and I found myself, blindfolded, being forced to walk down a path with the sounds of the forest all around me. A long cloak hung heavy on my shoulders and the nose of a pistol dug into my back. Suddenly the gun exploded with a large bang and a warm sensation spread over my shoulders and up my neck.

  The sound of a gate announcement dragged me back into consciousness. My eyes opened and the pistol in my back revealed itself to be the arm of an airport bench, uncomfortably poking into my spine. I was at Dublin Airport, trying to get some rest before my connecting flight to Glasgow. Euan hadn’t seen me in two months and though I felt like I had just travelled part way across the world, I didn’t want to look like I had.

  I slid off my backpack and gave my shoulders a rub. They were sore. I had thought that second time around, the journey would be easier. I had left from Boston after all, not Los Angeles, which already cut my travel time down by five hours. I was also stopping over in Dublin, a much more manageable airport than Heathrow. The plane, however, had had trouble as we tried to land because of the wind. We had rocked dramatically from side to side as we had descended. Suddenly there was a massive thud and we had slammed against the runway. Everyone screamed. I had grabbed the arm of the woman next to me, who’d looked anything but sympathetic, then pulled myself away, apologising. We had bounced back into the air and, as a wind current scooped under the wings, begun ascending quickly.

  “Sorry about that folks,” the Captain’s voice had said calmly over the loudspeaker. “The wind is making it difficult to land, but we’re turning back towards the airport now. Let’s hope in this case, second time’s a charm.”

  Everyone had laughed nervously. I hadn’t. I had been close to tears.

  At the departure gate I stretched my arms and slid on my backpack, checking the time. It was still dark out of the large windows of the airport, which added to the illusion that I was in travel purgatory. It could be any time and I could be in any place.

  I bought myself breakfast and found someone with a phone. They politely told me, in a wonderful Dublin accent, that it was 5:20am. I still had time before my gate opened. In exactly three hours I would be standing in front of Euan. My stomach was surprisingly calm. I wasn’t nervous yet, just deeply excited. After leaving Los Angeles, then moving to Boston, all I had wanted was to be standing still in front of Euan’s sweetly pensive face.

  Now that I was on my own – after the decision to come had been made and I had dealt with leaving family and friends – I felt so much more capable and whole in myself. Eating my croissant, wandering around Dublin Airport, I was one-hundred-per-cent confident that I had made the right decision. In this moment, there was nowhere else I wanted to be other than Scotland. I had followed my golden guide and it had indeed put me on the pollen path.

  *

  In a blink of an eye, I was approaching the security checkpoint at Glasgow Airport. The butterflies in my stomach were now very much awake. Over the shoulder of the security guard, I could see the exit doors, behind which Euan would be waiting.

  Like a repeat of my first trip through Heathrow, they asked why I was visiting the country. I wanted to shout, “Because I am following my feelings.” But instead I said quietly, “To visit my boyfriend.”

  “It seems like you were just here.” The guard said, eyeing my passport suspiciously.

  “I was, for a quick visit. This time I hope to stay longer.”

  The guard did not like this answer. “Do you have a return ticket with you?”

  “No.” My heart pounded. “I didn’t know I’d need to show one at security. I hope to stay through Christmas.”

  The guard softened and stamped my passport. “Next time, you need one.”

  Relief ran through me. I was approved. I was through. I was walking towards the doors. They opened and I could see Euan.

  I saw him before he saw me. Euan’s curls bobbed above the crowded lobby, full of people waiting expectantly for their visitors to come through the doors. He was wearing his brown coat, holding what I thought were flowers. I began to run, dragging my suitcase behind me.

  Euan suddenly saw me and his face lifted into a smile. He moved through the crowds until we were a couple of yards away from each other, then just one yard, then a couple of feet. My heart was thumping so loudly that I was convinced he could hear it. We stood awkwardly smiling at each other. The flowers in his hand revealed themselves to be his newspaper.

  “Hello,” I said. There was an awkward pause. I stared at him and he at me almost in disbelief. The last time I had seen Euan we were just friends and any evolution of that relationship to one of lovers had happened over a great distance apart. It was as if the waves in the air between us were retuning, finding a matching wavelength to connect two realities. All this was new – but wonderful. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand and I felt myself grabbing his; whatever calibration had suddenly occurred was now complete and the awkwardness melted away.

  Euan wrapped his arms around me and we kissed. Every cell of my being aligned and, after so many weeks apart, I finally felt happy.

  *

  “How was the flight?” Euan held my suitcase in one hand and my hand in the other. It was still an unfamiliar feeling, his large hand in mine, but warm and perfect. I began to relax.

  “It was good. Very bumpy,” I said, suddenly nervous again. He was taller than I had remembered him. As his hand tightened around my own, I wondered how he could feel like a stranger and a dear friend all at the same time.

  We headed towards the doors in silence and as they opened, I could see the familiar red van parked before us.

  “Now I should tell you, we’re not going straight home.” Euan strode quickly through the airport parking lot. He smiled and looked at me intently through his glasses. “I thought we’d have a little adventure.”

  Chapter 28

  “Neither in ‘Snow White’ nor in ‘Cinderella’ are we told about their life… living happily with their partner. These stories, while they take the heroine up to the threshold of true love, do not tell what personal growth is required for union with the beloved other…” – Bruno Bettelheim, THE USES OF ENCHANTMENT: Psychology section, front room, middle shelf on the right.

  Euan had done better than flowers. He had planned a three-day whirlwind trip for me around the coast of west Scotland. Not wanting to give much away, he said we were going to one of the most stunning places on Scotland’s western side, Glencoe, the seat of the MacDonald clan. From there we would head to a ferry and stay overnight on an island. On the way back we were to visit the birthplace of Robert Burns and the home of Sir Walter Scott.

  Euan looked over at me to gauge my reaction.

  “That sounds wonderful.” I beamed and Euan, satisfied, looked back to the road. I was home. I was finally home. Though excited, my eyes fought to stay open. The van was warm and as it rumbled along, it rocked me into a drowsy hypnosis. The green fields stretching beyond my window faded in and out of grey as my eyelids drooped.

  “Jessy, you had a long journey. It’s okay, you should sleep.” Euan patted his shoulder and I shifted up to lean on him, my head sat perfectly next to his collarbone. I quickly fell into a deep slumber. The last thing I remember was Euan’s warm hand still holding mine.

  When I woke, the scenery outside looked like a different world. The clouds were so heavy they touched down in places close to us, making it impossible to see beyond a couple of yards ahead. Every once in a while I would glimpse rust-coloured barren and bracken-covered moors. The bright-red van must have stood out in this neutral landscape like the ruby nose on Rudolph.

  “Ah, she’s awake.” Euan smiled, and turned on Radio 4. He had been driving in silence this whole time to allow me to sleep. “I’m sorry it’s such a crap day. You wouldn’t know it but we’re surrounded by highlands. This is Glencoe.”

  My eyes adjus
ted and rested on Euan. Any lingering notion that he felt like a stranger had dissolved. I looked at him closely, happily, enjoying the sensation of being completely in love.

  Euan caught me staring. “What is it, you strange American?”

  “I didn’t dream you up. You’re real. And I’m actually here, in Scotland.”

  Euan laughed. “Yes, unfortunately you are.”

  I smacked his arm. I wondered if any strangeness he might have felt had disappeared as well.

  As night closed in and it grew dark, the van pulled into a small gravel drive. The fog was still thick but I could see the twinkling of lights coming from a massive stone house before us. Euan slid the van easily into a small parking lot and I quickly opened the door. After hours in the warm van, the cold night air that greeted me shocked me awake. Goosebumps rose on my skin. I hadn’t expected it to be this cold. My breath appeared in great white puffs before me and, as I pulled my suitcase out of the van, I could hear the nearby sound of rushing water. In the dark, I had no sense of scale or distance, but by the way the sounds were echoing, it felt like we were in some kind of canyon.

  I placed my suitcase on the ground and tried to grab Euan’s as well. It wouldn’t budge. Euan stood there impatiently as I fiddled in the dark. “Ah, I forgot about Fox help.” He pushed past me and prised his old leather suitcase loose.

  I made a face.

  Soft orange light and warmth burst forth as we entered the foyer of the hotel. A stuffed bear, as tall as the ceiling, arched over me as I stepped in. As my eyes travelled along the walls, I felt I had stepped back in time. The small, Victorian reception hall was covered with stuffed exotic animals. A peacock stood shyly in the corner, near a hat rack, above which sat a squirrel. The faded ornate wallpaper acted as a backdrop for stag heads, mounted birds and paintings of hunts.

  Euan approached the reception desk and rang a brass bell, around which a stuffed mongoose wrapped itself menacingly. He turned, and shook his head at my delighted expression.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  We spent the rest of the evening in the firelit pub, drinking beer and having dinner. Talk ranged from the history of Scotland, to movies, to friends. We were almost tripping over each other to discover how far our similarities went. I felt like I had known Euan all my life and was taken aback whenever we uncovered points of disagreement, as if such a thing couldn’t be possible.

  “I would never do that,” I said, scooping up the last bits of sticky toffee pudding. I was surprised by how hungry I had been. After a full portion of Guinness pie, I had downed three beers and polished off an ice-cream-covered pudding on my own.

  “Do what?” Euan asked, half drowsy now from the long drive and copious amounts of beer. He had been telling a story about a friend who had recently given her boyfriend an ultimatum about getting married.

  “Well, I would never make a guy choose like that. It’s highly unromantic,” I said. My fingers pushed my plate away and I sat back, happily content. “I wouldn’t want to have to force someone to marry me. They should want to on their own volition.”

  “But some men need a bit of a push,” Euan said and quickly avoided eye contact. The conversation suddenly felt delicate, like I was holding an invisible bubble with a thin membrane, almost bursting with meaning. Was he giving me some kind of cloaked instruction? The beer and food were making me hazy, and I wasn’t sure who we were talking about any more.

  *

  The following morning I woke up to someone in my bed. Having slept alone for the past couple of years, the surprise of finding a tattooed arm lying across me jolted me awake. It was light in the room, and quiet. I followed the arm to a muscular shoulder and a mop of curly hair chaotically spread across the pillow. There was a loud rumble from under the mass of curls. It was Euan, fast asleep.

  We were a contrast in almost every aspect, from our age to our upbringing to our genealogy. The difference between his strong, light-haired, tattooed self and my slim frame, pale skin and dark hair pleased my senses. It felt new and exciting to wake up next to such a person. I slid up slowly against my pillows, so as to not to wake Euan, and my arms were now exposed to the cold bedroom air. It was freezing and I wondered how early it was. I looked at the clock, which rested on a table on Euan’s side. It was just a couple of minutes after 7am.

  Standing at the window across from our bed, I gently pulled back the curtains. The view took my breath away. What the fog and darkness had cloaked the previous night was the most spectacular vista of the Highlands. They were right in front of us, like a sheer wall of steep rock and craggy waterfalls, topped with snow and clouds. The scale was dizzying. I could see four early-morning hikers half way up Glencoe right in front of me, no bigger than ants. They would have faded into the side of the mountain altogether if it weren’t for their brightly coloured parkas.

  My entire body was buzzing. I could imagine these highlands would affect people in one of two ways. Either you would feel dwarfed, crushed by the sheer magnitude of size and drained of all energy while looking at the fortress of nature all around you. It would be enough to make someone feel insignificant, and caged in. Or you would feel invigorated by the challenge to conquer the seemingly impenetrable dominance of Glencoe, each sheer face a red flag to a bull, a challenge set by nature saying, “Come on, human, show me your spirit.” The effect on me was the latter, and being in such a dramatic environment almost gave me a physical high.

  I whirled around and jumped on top of Euan. “Wake up, come on, we have things to see.”

  Euan moaned and wrapped me in his arms. “Calm down, Jessy.” I could see he was smiling.

  After a day of hiking up a waterfall and finding the hidden valley – an opening between a cluster of highlands where the MacDonald clan would hide cattle – we left Glencoe for the ferry.

  The ferry arrived on the Isle of Mull just before twilight, and we drove along its enchanting one-lane roads to the other side of the island before it got dark. Because it was late autumn, the trees were bare and the landscape was shadowy in tones of black, grey and brown. It reminded me of something out of a fairy tale, with twisting knotted trees and copper hills, a slumbering land, waiting for a hero to come and whisper the words to wake it up.

  For half the drive, we had an extra passenger, a blonde hitch-hiker Euan had picked up as we embarked from the ferry. It had annoyed me that our romantic solitude had been interrupted, especially by an attractive young blonde. I couldn’t fault Euan’s kindness, however, so I said nothing but seethed quietly.

  We had stopped at a deserted sandy beach to stretch our legs, and I had drunk in the endless rocky coves, grey water and isolation of the Isle of Mull. The blonde woman, who had gone off to have a joint, had returned to talk nonstop for the next 40 minutes. We listened to her wax lyrical about Reiki healing and how she could tell someone’s soul by the aura of colour around their head. I had started to like her more because I could see how annoyed Euan was becoming.

  “Oh you know, Euan hurt his knee on our climb yesterday,” I mentioned cheekily.

  The blonde woman widened her glassy eyes. “I can heal it, I can.” Despite Euan’s protests, she proceeded to pray over it as he drove.

  “Is it better?” she asked earnestly.

  “Yes, I think so, thank you.” Euan smiled but shot me a glare. I was delighted. Once we arrived at her hostel, he looked more relieved than I to see her go.

  As we rounded a massive hill, Euan announced, “This is Tobermory.”

  Almost on cue the sun emerged. I looked ahead and below us I saw a never-ending row of vibrant, painted houses lining the main street and a gem-toned boat-filled bay. It was as if all the colour of the island had been drained and re-routed to this seaside-port town. As we drove downhill, the pavements became increasingly crowded and busy.

  Euan quickly parked and we grabbed fish and chips from the famous van, parked on the pier. The seagulls were massive and ferocious, dive-bombing any tourists in hopes of dropped le
ftovers. Sitting on the pier watching the water, we waved them away with one hand while eating with the other.

  Euan had again showed a lot of thought with his choice of hotel, this time a little grander, with views of the sea. “This is the nicest hotel we’re staying in,” he announced, almost in apology.

  “Please let me help you pay for things,” I protested as we headed up the stairs to find our room. “How about dinner tonight?”

  Euan looked offended. “Don’t worry about it, Fox. You came all the way here from America. All I want you to do is enjoy it.”

  *

  It rained the next day. Our departure from the Isle of Mull back to the mainland was less eventful than our arrival. Stretches of fog-covered roads appeared before us and after a soaked visit to Sir Walter Scott’s home, as we were preparing to head back to Wigtown, Euan had got a call. A man had a load of books he wanted rid of immediately, not too far from Glasgow.

  Euan looked at me apologetically. “Do you mind? It’s on the way.”

  “Of course not. I can assist you, load things.” Having been so well treated, I was pleased to be of some help.

  “If there is anything to load. It could be a pile of crap.” Euan’s mood today had darkened. I wasn’t sure if it was because our holiday was ending, or because of something I had done. My heart pounded, and a mean little thought crept into my mind – perhaps he had already tired of my company.

  We drove in silence for two hours, with Radio 4 echoing in the van. They were tumbling over the same news stories and I was getting irritated. Every 20 minutes they would repeat themselves: more distress in the Middle East, the NHS falling apart, hospitals failing us. It got to the point where I could lip-sync each depressing piece of news, which, to my American ears, with its perfect diction sounded eloquently detached.