Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

by Jessica Fox

  Thus, bewitched, my mind seemed to empty. I wondered what this landscape would do to my writing, my need to create, for that impulse had always been fuelled by dissatisfaction, by shpilkus, and the restlessness that the crisp New England air inspired. Here, I didn’t feel dissatisfied. I didn’t need to be transported elsewhere. I hardly needed to create a film. I felt I was already in one.

  I was nice and warm by the time I returned to the Bookshop. A handful of customers eyed me as I slipped past them on my way upstairs. There was no separation between my life and the shop, I suddenly realised. If I came home sweaty from exercise, I would have to face customers. If I came in from shopping, arms full of groceries, I would have to pass them as I struggled to make it up the main staircase. Every time I returned it would be like I had entered a play and only when I reached the first floor would I finally exit the stage, and be at home.

  After a quick shower and change into jeans and my warmest shirt, I came down into the shop for the second task of the day. I had a schedule after all, and I wanted to keep busy. It was important to me. Euan had only known me when I was relaxed and on holiday, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t think that was all there was to me. I was hardworking and determined, and was not here to abuse his generosity. My drive was not for Euan alone, however. Underneath my excitement I was terrified. The big empty space called my career loomed before me. If I did enough things, and occupied myself with a fabricated list of to-dos, perhaps I wouldn’t feel my ambition waning, its gravity as inescapable as a black hole.

  “So what else would you like me to write on it?” Euan asked, viewing the computer with some concern.

  “That it begins in the fall.”

  Euan’s eyebrows rose.

  I had asked Euan to print out flyers for a yoga class that I would lead. On my way back from the run, I visited the town hall library and agreed to rent out the smaller of the two social hall rooms upstairs. I had remembered the room from the events at the festival and thought its high ceilings, wooden floors and large windows looking onto the sea would be the ideal space for a yoga class.

  Wigtown had never had a yoga class before, and the women at the library had looked at me with equal measures of curiosity and suspicion.

  “What kind of yoga is this?” one of them had asked.

  “Vinyasa Flow, for all levels,” I had said, not convinced this answer would illuminate anything.

  Euan handed me a stack of freshly printed flyers. I looked one over, happy with the result. “Wigtown Yoga, Thursday nights from 6:30 to 7:30pm, Supper Room, Town Hall. Come and enjoy the benefits of this weekly practice: greater flexibility, strength, stress reduction and an increase in overall wellbeing.”

  “I’ll put one up in the window.” Euan took one from my pile. “You’re going to have us all connecting with ourselves and talking about feelings before you’re done.”

  “That’s the plan,” I said as I kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Euan’s eyes darted around the shop, making sure no customer saw the public display of affection. “You’re so American, Jessy.”

  “Shocker.” I smiled.

  Papers in hand, I walked up Wigtown’s small high street. The sun had finally come out and the pastel stone houses were looking cheery, as strangers walked up and down the street, visiting the bookshops. The excitement of the crowds, marquees and events from the festival were all gone, but I preferred this version of Wigtown. It was quaint and soft, but there was still a buzz.

  On my way up the street I saw familiar faces from my previous visit, and got a new thrill as they recognised me in turn. There was the impeccably dressed elderly gentleman, with his suit neatly pinned where his arm was missing. He was in the phone booth and smiled as I passed. Ahead I could see the hearse double-parked outside the Co-op, and the goth-dressed woman emerged. She leaned into the back seat of the car and pulled out her beautiful young baby. I had entered the Scottish version of a Fellini film.

  My heart filled with a deep love for this quirky town, and I, perhaps the strangest among them, felt right at home. My pace slowed as I reached a small, peach-coloured house to my right with the name Mackerel’s painted on the top. “The Biggest, Littlest Store In Town” was written in bold, italicised letters underneath. Every inch of the windows was covered with community flyers and posters, and outside, sitting on the window sill and blocking the door was a handful of Wigtown youths, dressed in tracksuits and armed with crisp packets and Irn Bru. I slipped by them and entered “the biggest, littlest store in town”.

  Inside should have been dark but instead the walls of the shop were lit by electric lighting, soda fridges and a colourful gambling machine, which played music. A couple of young teens followed me in and raided the fridge, putting a fistful of coins on the counter. Gathered on the small shelves were a grab-bag variety of items. You could get everything from firewood and newspapers to candy, plus drop off your clothes to be dry-cleaned. I could see why it was the biggest, littlest store – it was the Tardis of shops – and it was here that I knew I had found the beating heart of the town. Standing behind the counter of this small, disorganised, cement-floored convenience store stood the man behind the curtain, Mackerel himself.

  Mackerel was softly-spoken, and middle-aged. His father had owned the store before him, and the candy, frozen at 1950s prices, was famous with children of many generations who had grown up in Wigtown. Mackerel himself was unassuming, but not to be underestimated. In exactly a year’s time he would vanish for two days, the town’s concern escalating at the sudden disappearance of its most integral member. However, the concern wouldn’t last for long. Mackerel had won an MBE for his dedication to his community, and had made the round trip to London to meet the Queen via two overnight buses within a 48-hour period, just so that he could open the shop the following day.

  “Hi, Mackerel,” I said, walking up to the counter. “I was wondering if you could put this flyer up on the window?”

  “Let’s have a look, ma dear.” Mackerel put on his glasses and read over the benefits of yoga. “I’ll get that dun right no,” he said and walked over to the window.

  “Thanks.” Being tone deaf, I was surprised by my ease in understanding the various local accents. “Any chance you’ll join us?”

  Mackerel immediately blushed and laughed. It hadn’t meant to be a joke, but I quickly laughed too and slipped out of the shop onto the street.

  Up the road, I came to Wendy’s Frame Shop. It was painted a beautiful deep-green colour, and the windows were decorated with great care, showing items for the home, cards, jewellery and artwork.

  As I passed through the door, a small golden bell rang and a well-dressed elderly woman, with playful eyes and silvery hair, appeared behind the counter. She tilted her large glasses in my direction.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing the flyers under my arm. “We don’t take those.”

  I searched for the right thing to say. “Oh, I just stopped in to say ‘hi’. I’m Jessica,” I said, walking towards the counter. Wendy’s expression melted into a warm, big smile.

  “So you’re back at the Bookshop are you?” Wendy’s eyes twinkled. “How is my boyfriend with the Titian locks?”

  “He misses you, of course. Says you broke his heart.”

  “I like you already,” Wendy laughed in pure delight. “Now tell me all about yourself, my dear.”

  After a long chat, I headed, one flyer lighter, diagonally across the street to the post office. I felt warmed by Wendy’s feisty spirit and smiled, thinking that perhaps in addition to Deirdre, I had found my first true friend in Wigtown.

  Inside the post office, there was a long line, but all eyes were on me as I appeared in the doorway. So much for my short-lived anonymity.

  If Mackerel’s was the heart of the community, then the post-office was its eyes and ears. It not only transferred information in letters and packages, but in chatter, too. It was the knowledge-sharing hub of Wigtown. I chuckled to myself thin
king that even NASA’s knowledge management department would be envious at the speed at which information travelled, intact, here from the post office to the rest of the town.

  I waited in line and finally handed my flyer to an unhappy teenager behind the counter.

  “We don’t have room,” she said, handing the flyer back to me.

  “Well, do you mind holding onto it in case something opens up?” I politely handed the piece of paper back to her.

  “Yoga? What’s that?” she asked, as if yoga was a dirty word. Suddenly a voice called from the back of the post-office.

  “Yoga? That must be Jessica.” Doris, a kind-looking woman standing behind a pane of glass, in the packages and parcels department, waved at me.

  “Hi there, Doris. Yes, it’s me.” I walked over and would have given her a hug if it weren’t for the wall of glass, so I waved awkwardly instead.

  “I’m happy to see you, darling. I had no idea you were coming back.”

  “Neither did I, until recently.”

  “Euan didn’t say anything, the dark horse. I hope he’s making you feel at home?” Before I could answer, she winked. “I’ll have a word with him.” The words of Hillary Clinton, “it takes a village”, suddenly came to mind.

  Heading back to the Bookshop, I felt disappointed at the number of flyers still left in my hands. It was Tuesday, and in a week I doubted whether I could drum up enough support to make the rental of the hall worth the effort. As I entered the shop, I saw Deirdre standing there, grinning. My fears about what people would think when I suddenly returned all but evaporated in the intense warmth that greeted me.

  “I’m so happy to see you, darling,” she beamed. “Euan, the monkey, said absolutely nothing about you coming back.”

  “Mum,” Euan began in protest from behind the counter.

  “And look at you, hitting the ground running.” Deirdre picked up one of my flyers and began to chuckle. “Yoga will start in the fall.”

  “Is something wrong?” I looked from Deirdre to Euan.

  “It’s called autumn here, dear. Everyone will think you have injured yourself.”

  I moaned. “Euan, why didn’t you warn me? I’ll change it.”

  “Don’t change one bit.” Deirdre put her arm around my waist. “You are delightfully American. I absolutely love it.”

  Chapter 30

  “Two birds, beautiful of wing, close companions, cling to one common tree: of the two one eats the sweet fruit of the tree, the other eats not but watches his fellow.” – Sri Aurobindo, THE UPANISHADS: TEXTS, TRANSLATIONS AND COMMENTARY: Religion section, Garden Room, second building out the back.

  The beautiful old house, nestled above the shop, felt much larger than it had before with just the two of us rattling around inside.

  Today would mark the end of my first week in Wigtown. We had kept ourselves to ourselves for this time, not going out or socialising. In contrast to my busy days filled with driving, fast food and friends in Los Angeles, I was enjoying the solitude with Euan: the long rambling days, the home-cooked meals and our nights sleeping in the blissful silence above the shop.

  The routine of life here had become clear within that first week. I would wake up in Euan’s arms each morning, and enjoy a lazy moment with him, warm in bed, before greeting the chilly day. He would smile sleepily, then at the first sound of the alarm clock, would jump up, throw on his clothes and disappear. I hated that alarm clock.

  My mornings were taken up with writing, finishing consulting work and, if I was really motivated, a run or walk in the cold winter air, drinking in my fill of ice-capped mountains, green-brown fields and the silver sea.

  In the daytime Euan would have his assistant join him, and depending on how busy the shop was, we would leave to go out on adventures. Adventure is a relative term, mind you, for anything we did in this new world felt like an adventure to me, from grocery shopping to going to drop scrap furnishing at the dump. It reminded me of a time in childhood where outings, no matter where or with whom, were filled with possibility and opportunity for excitement.

  On my first Sunday, with the whole afternoon to spend together, we had hiked through the woods to see a waterfall. It was a beautiful walk; the waterfall wasn’t very high but it was thundering, swollen from the rain of the previous night. We raced down the path and Euan won, by miles, it would seem, and we then drank out of a stream. What a thrill to be thirsty, heart racing, and to gulp down crystal-clear mountain water. This was a luxury that a place like Los Angeles could never have afforded. This was happiness to me.

  As the sun set we visited a beach with an ancient graveyard and church set into the cliffs. The church was crumbling, and the gravestones were marked with images of skulls, wings and hourglasses. In the orange light, Euan and I made our way down the beach path and onto the long stretch of soft sand. It was low tide and the beach was deserted. I couldn’t believe that in a place such as this, we were the only ones to enjoy the views. Steep, dramatic cliffs faced us on one side, and sand dunes on the other. It felt like our own private island. The calm ocean was full of contrasting sunset shades: soft blues and peachy oranges. In the distance, Euan pointed out the Isle of Man, shadowy and mysterious on the horizon. This was a place that would satisfy even the most romantic of souls.

  Another day, still blessed with good weather, we climbed Cairnsmore, following the steep mountain path through pine forests, which opened up into brown fields. It was a rigorous climb and I would need frequent breaks, pretending to be taking in the view but really catching my breath.

  We sat at the windblown top, sipping soup from a thermos. Euan had been particularly quiet that afternoon. Searching his wistful face, I wondered if he was thinking of someone else, perhaps the last woman he had taken on this hike. I knew his facial expressions by now, and whatever was occupying his thoughts was taking him worlds away. Before descending, however, Euan took a picture of the two of us, smiling into the sun with the ever-stretching view behind us. New memories, I had thought. We had each come with a past and it would take time to tip the scales of newness; but, slowly, we were building up memories of our own.

  My favourite days were less grand. On these, Euan would often check in on me through the day to see how my writing was going or ask if I’d like to come along on an errand. One particularly rainy day, he and I headed off to the dump, which may not sound inherently exciting, but in this part of the world any excursion involved driving through small country roads – an experience that I still found exhilarating. We listened to Count Arthur Strong as the van rumbled along, laughing out loud, before he tuned the radio to a recorded reading of A.E. Housman poetry. It was the first time I’d heard his verse and I was swept away by the lyricism and language. The green fields rolled by as I lost myself in “A Shropshire Lad” and Euan glanced at me, thoughtful.

  At night, after the shop closed, Euan would spend every daylight hour left in the garden. At the back of the shop, he had created a mini-paradise. Like the Bookshop itself, the garden seemed to go on for ever, with paths that twisted and turned, taking you through beds spilling over with flowers and plants. He would be in a trance while working in the garden, beer in hand and Radio 4 droning away. I’d try to join in, and be “helpful”, often feeling out of place, lingering awkwardly with nothing to do. My tasks were always reluctantly given; on most days I would go back inside, feeling as if I was interrupting his sacred time alone.

  Euan teased me for being lazy or having nothing to do, which he thought was hilarious, but in truth it had started to annoy me. My future was completely blurry, with little income and no clear sign of what to do next. I was exploring, I had told myself: this was a brave thing to do.

  When the weather wasn’t cooperating, which was often, and blankets of rain dramatically covered Wigtown, Euan would spend the evenings fixing and improving the house, beer still in hand, and Radio 4 still droning in the background. These were solitary evenings that I’d spend alone. I had to remember that Euan was in th
e shop all day, surrounded by people, and he was used to having his evenings to himself. I was overly conscious that I was having to fit into the life of a certified bachelor, whose rhythms and routines dominated mine, for I was younger, more flexible and the visitor.

  To mark the anniversary of my first week in Wigtown, Euan made haggis for dinner. He was establishing himself as the chef, because, as he would often tell me, he felt my American culinary skills left much to be desired. The comment was more than justified. I had tried to cook meals the entire week, from Mexican dishes and my grandmother’s matzo ball soup to American hamburgers, but each ended in a spectacular disaster.

  The Co-op had provided little in the way of ingredients for a Mexican burrito and I had had to improvise, soaking beans myself, which were not ready by the time dinner rolled around. My second attempt was more tolerable. To create matzo balls for the soup, in lieu of mazto meal, I’d had to hand-grind crackers with a mortar and pestle, an act of devotion that should have won me some kind of Jewish Nobel. It had taken so much energy that I had lazily used chicken stock cubes instead of real chicken stock, and Euan quickly turned his nose up. My old faithful canned soup was not going to cut it, obviously.

  Finally I had tried the classic American hamburger, with a make-shift bun, although I had been lucky enough to find ketchup in the Co-op, and topped the evening off with a home-made brownie sundae. The meal had, at first, been a success, but Euan couldn’t sleep that night as a result of indigestion and an overdose of sugar. Two things Americans are immune to, apparently.

  So with my cooking duties discharged for the evening, I sat expectantly, trying to look gracious, as Euan placed the haggis before me: a brown lump closely resembling the kasha my mother used to make, swimming in gravy, under which were mashed potatoes and black pudding. I was learning, quite quickly, that although many of the foods Euan presented me with seemed foreign – Branston pickle, haggis, black pudding – most felt oddly Jewish: pickled herring, smoked salmon, kasha, boiled veg and potatoes in every shape, size and consistency.