Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

by Jessica Fox

  December had been a good month for Euan and me, and I thought we had hit our stride. But then my first Hogmanay was, to my horror, spent unplanned and disregarded – despite my efforts for the contrary. I had hoped we’d go somewhere romantic, either Edinburgh or Paris, but we stayed in the snug, like any other evening, with the fire roaring and the TV on. I watched the fireworks in Edinburgh, live on the screen; saw the crowds of families, friends and couples enjoying themselves. In the distance I could hear real fireworks coming in short bursts from somewhere in Wigtown.

  I thought of my friends, celebrating in Los Angeles or enjoying the First Night activities in Boston. Didn’t Euan realise how much I was giving up to be here with him? Why wasn’t he doing everything he could to sweep me off my feet? The snug felt lonely and quiet as he helped himself to more wine, with no desire to sit near me or make conversation. Every now and then I’d catch him looking wistfully into the distance, as if he were in another place and time entirely, and I felt inadequate and worried about where his mind had wandered off to. The lack of romance for my first Scottish New Year hurt me deeply and, over the ensuing weeks, as winter’s damp cold days settled in over Wigtown, my mood also sunk into something cold and dark.

  Frost blanketed Galloway’s hills in a crisp blue line. Windows were covered in ice and the cars in the town square stood half frozen, with a dewy side that faced the sun as it rose and a frozen side that stood in shadow. I shrank from writing my scripts. I couldn’t even seek out work. With no visa, my hands were tied, and the yoga classes did little to fill my pocket or sense of ambition. My parents were worried about me, and so were my friends. They knew that I had a single ambition and passion to make films, and watched flabbergasted as I turned more and more work down to remain in Wigtown. Soon, offers of work dried up, and then stopped completely.

  For the best part of a month, Euan spent his evenings alone fixing something in the house, equipped only with his beer and portable radio. The only time we spent together was when I insisted on lending a hand. As we painted, or chipped away at plaster, through the evening we would soften, and begin to enjoy each other. Laughter and a warmth would again grow. At these moments, it was a mystery to me why they had ever gone away, and why it became so easy for unhappiness and resentment to manifest themselves between us.

  A panic was growing inside me, and would often rear its head (which looked identical to my own except with wide, anxious eyes), but still I forged ahead into the Unpath. This was a land where childhood ambition, plans for the future and past explorers’ maps had no place. This was the wilderness of listening to your instincts, of trying to see what’s before you and the Zen art of fully facing one day at a time.

  Perhaps I was trying to convince myself there was an art to being lost. The truth was, I didn’t want to write. I didn’t want to make films. I couldn’t picture a future past the week I was in. My only leading passion was to be in Scotland and for some mysterious reason, no matter how rocky things became, to be with Euan. All my self-belief, the magic of making things happen, all the effort that had at one time launched my visions and career, was now being used to keep my dream of Euan and Wigtown afloat.

  Chapter 36

  “Cloudy today, wind in the east; think we shall have rain… WE? Where did I get that word – the new creature uses it.” – Mark Twain, ADAM AND EVE: Fiction section, front room, left of the window.

  In the Bookshop window, aglow with fairy lights, was my Valentine’s-themed display. Red fabric carpeted the floor and clouds hung from the ceiling (cotton balls I had sewn together), along with flying cupids. Carefully placed on multiple levels were my favourite romantic works: Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, Tom Robbins’s Still Life with Woodpecker, Bridget McNulty’s Strange Nervous Laughter, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen and Vampire Loves, the graphic novel by Joan Sfar.

  Outside, the rain pelted down and the windows rattled in the wind. Two ladies, hidden under an umbrella, carefully made their way across the dark road. They approached the window, leaning into the glass, and peered in at the display.

  I sat at the computer behind the counter, bundled under jumpers and hugging a portable heater, which sat at my feet. With the house now to ourselves, and the shop ghostly quiet in the daytime, I had become used to being on my own listening to a silent soundtrack. There was ample time to play the well-worn record of my circular thoughts: career, life, love, career, life, love, never getting anywhere but with every turn feeling as if I were seconds away from an emotional epiphany. It was always a surprise to me when a customer did stumble into the frozen silence of the Bookshop, and I tended now to greet them with the grumbling indignation that I had once teased Euan for displaying.

  The two Scottish ladies appeared, dripping wet, listening to the soft bell as it jingled in the cold silence.

  “We’re visiting from Aberdeen,” the tall one announced, as they walked through the front gallery slowly, arm in arm. They whispered loudly, agreeing it was the largest bookshop they’d ever seen; the shorter one grunted, it was also the coldest. They hesitated near the Maritime History section, next to the front counter.

  Listening to them was like hearing a scene from a Pinter play and I smiled. It was a while since I had last been at the theatre.

  “My son says we were never bombed.”

  The smaller lady scanned the shelf, obviously not hearing. “Well now, I wonder, is the 1960s considered Maritime History?”

  The taller lady crossed her delicate arms. “What, I say to him, so I suppose it was oranges and apples they were throwing at us.”

  “I don’t see it here.”

  “You were never bombed, he says.” She shook her head. “Now where did he read that?”

  The smaller lady shrugged. “I worked at a school down in Dumfrieshire and they taught the children all about the Holocaust.”

  “I think he may have looked it up on the computer. He just thinks he’s right.”

  “I’m glad they did, aren’t you?” The smaller lady took off her glasses. “That’s something that should never be forgotten.”

  “Who says it never happened?”

  “There’s a man. I think he’s English.”

  “Oh dear.”

  I had been eavesdropping so diligently that I didn’t hear the fresh sound of footsteps next to me. In my mind, these two women were on stage, framed by a small proscenium, perhaps in a black box theatre with minimal set and stark lighting.

  “Excuse me,” a soft, posh accent said behind me. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  The footsteps stopped. I turned to see a woman waiting expectantly for me, her umbrella tucked under her arm and dripping onto the floor. I had, on first arriving at the Bookshop, been eager to help customers, interested in what book they wanted, and I had respectfully listened as they ultimately explained why they wanted it. The excitement had worn off quickly and now I only saw needy customers as an unwelcome intrusion into my otherwise idyllic deserted bookshop island. Other Americans especially annoyed me, as they ruined my “Local Hero” fantasy of being a stranger in a strange land, far away from anything familiar.

  The list of offences customers caused was endless. Many were rude and obtuse, with a penchant for demanding discounts on books that were already under five pounds. Working with the public did little to encourage your faith in it. I had one customer demand a bulk discount as he shoved three books in my direction. Another approached the counter, complained he couldn’t find “a damn thing he wanted” and proceeded to sneeze on me. One woman, who used the child on her back like a weapon, knocked over an antique vase and let it crash to the ground before turning to me accusingly and asking, “Well, what happened here?” Of course there were nice customers, but they were in the majority and far less interesting. The nasty ones, who spewed bile or germ-infested sneezes, left their sticky fingerprint on your memory. They also left fingerprints elsewhere, like the elderly woman who had asked for books on sermons and when I had pointed her in
the right direction, had slapped my ass.

  “I was hoping you could help me find a book,” the woman said again, staring at my blank expression. She wore a dull-brown blazer suit with a cream silk shirt that matched her short white hair. The happy wrinkles around her eyes indicated she must be 70-something. There was nothing sharp about her, and, no matter how pointedly I stared, she seemed always to be just out of focus.

  “It’s by an author,” she continued, her voice as soft as her presence. “I just can’t remember the name.”

  A book by an author… what a novelty! I felt the quick trigger of annoyance being pulled. In moments like these, I could see why Thoreau went off to live in a cabin by himself. Only in true isolation could he come up with an inspired vision of humanity. I challenge him to be so enlightened while working in customer service.

  I tried to be polite. “Do you know the book title?”

  “Well, it’s a series.”

  “I can’t really help you unless you know either the author’s name or book title,” I said and pointed across the room. “The Fiction section is there, so you might want to have a browse.”

  The woman didn’t move.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” The words were polite but my tone was not.

  “I do actually know one title,” she said in almost a whisper. “It’s called Blue Diamond.”

  I turned to the computer and typed in the title. On the computer screen the author’s name quickly appeared, and I wrote it down on a piece of paper for her. “You might want to try the Fiction section, listed alphabetically by author.”

  “I’m not sure it will be there,” she said quickly. “It’s an erotic novel.”

  I tried to keep my facial expression neutral, and wondered if I was succeeding. “Oh, well, in that case it would be in the Erotica section, left of the spiral staircase, right next to the Mystery section.”

  “They’re very good novels,” the woman said gently. “Really well written, you see. Have you read any?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  The woman suddenly chuckled. “When you’re my age, people don’t think you have those feelings, but you do. Perhaps the French can get away with it, but something happens in this society that when we hit our mid-sixties, old ladies like me, we start becoming invisible.”

  I smiled sympathetically though I felt terrible. I was at fault for having treated her just that way. Her inner life was showing itself to be complex and colourful, far more so than I had imagined on first appearance. It’s so easy to lose sight of the truth that, as Vincent van Gogh writes to his brother, when you look on people with patience “one discovers their Millet-like side”. Then and there I promised myself to do my very best to keep my patience with customers.

  “I was happy to find that Blue Diamond was part of a series,” she continued, “Really well written, it took me to the tropical beaches of the Caribbean. Put some colour in my cheeks. Reading her novels, all those feelings come rushing back – I feel alive again.”

  “I really hope we have some of her novels for you.” As I looked at her, I pictured myself in the future, her age, and wondered how I would stop myself becoming invisible.

  “It doesn’t matter really, dear.” She took my hand and patted it. “I enjoyed talking with you.”

  The conversation stayed with me for most of the day, a lingering uneasiness that only began to fade as it neared closing time. As the last bit of sunlight crept away from the shop window, the familiar jingle sounded and Euan appeared carrying a box of books. I jumped up smiling, not having seen him since the early morning.

  “How was the deal? Did you get anything good?” Euan brought a gust of cold with him from the outdoors and I shivered.

  “It was okay. The house was beautiful and massive. You would have loved it.” He shoved the box onto the counter. “I noticed your God-awful window display, by the way. Annoyingly festive. I usually do a D-Day window for Valentine’s.”

  “That’s surprising.” I rolled my eyes and watched as Euan flipped through the mail. In his coat pocket, I noticed there was a wrapper. My heart fluttered. “You are a romantic, aren’t you!”

  Euan followed my gaze and laughed. “Nope,” he said, “unless you want this.” Euan’s large hands dug into the pocket and pulled out a Big Mac wrapper from McDonald’s.

  “I’m already invisible,” I mumbled. Euan watched as my shoulders slumped.

  “What do you mean invisible? Jessy, I told you, I don’t do Valentine’s Day.”

  I made my way back behind the counter. “I just thought after New Year’s…”

  “Well, why do I always have to be the one to do something?” Euan grabbed the box off the counter, smiling. He was in a particularly good mood.

  I thought about that for a moment. Why did I always expect the man in my life to be the romantic one? Surely Euan deserved to be wooed as much as I did? It didn’t exactly adhere to the classical idea of courtly love and chivalry, but then again, it’s a sad day when one looks to the medieval era for an enlightened way to behave.

  “Fine. I’ll cook you dinner.”

  “No!” Euan’s plaintive voiced echoed back as he headed out the back. “Anything but that. Please. I’ll do something.”

  Smiling, I turned my attention back to the computer. This was one way of getting what I wanted.

  The following day I took a bus into the neighbouring town of Newton Stewart to visit the butcher. I was still determined to make Euan a Valentine’s Day meal that would sweep him off his feet, though the day had already begun better than I had imagined.

  I had blinked awake, wrapped in Euan’s arms. It had been one of those perfect waking moments, where Euan had woken first and I found him looking at me, his expression pensively affectionate.

  “You’re so pretty.” He gently stroked the side of my face. “I do love you, Jessy.”

  The alarm clock, my second arch-enemy after the cold, had rung and interrupted the blissful moment. Euan had leaped up and I had struggled to follow, and he laughed watching me half sitting up and half unwilling to get out from under the warm covers. “Look under the bed, Fox.”

  I rolled over and hung myself over the edge. Under the bed, a massive Valentine’s Day heart filled with chocolates and a present sat waiting to be opened. Delighted, I scooped them up and opened the wrapped box. Inside, there was a necklace with a little fox dangling from the end, plus a book of pictures of Euan and me over the past five months.

  “This is… just wonderful, I love it all.” I jumped up and kissed Euan.

  “Calm down, Fox.” He looked overwhelmed but very pleased. “I wanted you to have a good Valentine’s Day.”

  In turn, I handed Euan a small heart-shaped box. In it, there were two silver cufflinks with his initials engraved on them. “Jessy, that’s so thoughtful,” he said. “You really didn’t need to get me anything. They’re lovely.”

  “Well, I thought I was supposed to woo you.” I smiled. “Just think, you still have dinner to look forward to.”

  Euan moaned. “Jessy, if you loved me, you’d stay far away from the kitchen.”

  In the butcher’s, I was overwhelmed with choice. In a long glass counter that went on through the shop, I found local meats of all kinds, a pinky-red pallet of flesh and fat. Unsure of what to get, I looked for the most fancy-sounding. “Beef olives” sounded quite posh and looked tasty to my untrained eye. I peered through the glass at what looked like rolled beef stuffed with fancy olive pâté, basil, garlic and spices. I proudly asked for two.

  “Is this for anything special?” The butcher eyed me curiously.

  “Valentine’s Day, of course,” I smiled. “Do you have any recommendation of how to cook them?”

  The butcher looked confused. “No, just the usual way, in the oven.”

  On the way home, the beef olives sat cold on my lap. I dreamed of making a large salad, perhaps with cooked potatoes, and I would get some nice champagne to have with it as well. We’d eat in t
he big room, by the fire, and Euan would feel spoiled. Then he would have to take back his evil comments about my cooking skills, or lack thereof.

  As I walked through the door to the shop, Euan started laughing. He was sitting behind the counter, eyeing the brown paper bag dangling from my arm.

  “Is that my dinner surprise?” Euan asked, looking pleased with himself.

  “Yes, if you must know.” I stiffened and quickly made my way through the shop and up the stairs. Euan followed behind.

  In the kitchen, I slid the brown package into the fridge and Euan filled up his mug from the kettle. He was laughing uncontrollably.

  “What, exactly, is so hilarious?”

  “Beef olives, Jessy. Beef olives?”

  My mouth dropped open. “How did you know? Who told you?”

  “My mother just called.”

  “How did she know?”

  “She went into the butcher’s right after you and called me from home, before you arrived back on the bus.” Euan was beaming. “What possessed you to get beef olives?”

  “Well, I thought it sounded nice.” I sighed. Nothing was secret in this part of the world. Even innocent Valentine’s Day dinner surprises were impossible to keep. “Don’t you like them?”

  Euan laughed harder. “Jessy, I was forced to eat beef olives at boarding school. They’re like cafeteria food, cheap meat stuffed with God knows what.”

  “Maybe these are gourmet versions?” I flushed, embarrassed.

  Euan tried to stifle his chuckles and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m sure they’ll be delicious.”

  That evening, after a picnic dinner in front of a roaring fire, enjoying our beef olives and champagne, Euan took me down to the Martyr’s Stake. As we walked along the boardwalk, I felt as if I was finally making a long-overdue visit to a friend.