by Jessica Fox
I sighed. I couldn’t win. Boot not trunk, pavement not sidewalk, autumn not fall, acclimatised not acclimated, courgette not zucchini, aubergine not eggplant.
When I had first arrived, I had already known enough not to use the American “fannypack”, something that inspired hysterics from Euan’s employee Hannah, but I had learned the hard way about trousers. One snowy December day, I had horrified both Euan’s parents by declaring that I hadn’t packed enough pants.
“Two countries divided by a common language,” Euan teased me, but I didn’t smile back. Today, with my adventurous ride to Dumfries, I felt like I had survived an important right of passage. I was living, eating, speaking and now driving in Scotland, and starting to truly feel at home in Galloway. However, in one sentence Euan had reduced me back to alien status. The only person I had been fooling into thinking I was acclimated, excuse me, acclimatised, was myself.
“So finish the story,” Euan continued, handing me a cold glass of red wine. Everything in the kitchen was frozen, and Euan would often tell people, without exaggeration, that in the winter we put things in the refrigerator to “warm them up”. “What happened after people helped you pick bits of your car up from the pavement?”
I glared at him. I had never wanted to accept the idea of something called “The Cultural Divide”, believing that people were people. Any failure to relate to another culture, I thought, showed a lack of flexibility and curiosity of the mind rather than a real disconnect. However, living with Euan was beginning to convince me that “The Cultural Divide” was not some fictitious national landmark, but represented a true impasse – a gap between us as vast and impressive as the Grand Canyon. “The Cultural Divide” meant there were things I could never share with Euan; it meant misunderstandings and bickerings. It also, to be fair, meant we avoided the rut of relationship boredom and predictability. On good days it kept us fresh and interested in one another. “The Cultural Divide” kept us on our toes.
Instead of finishing my story, I helped Euan slice carrots in silence. I had always – eventually – grown antsy in my past boyfriends’ company, knowing them so well that familiarity had bred contempt. Instead of feeling as if there were two people in a relationship, the relationship had taken over and it had come to feel like one shapeless, bland experience with no mystery or sense of excitement lingering around the corner. I would feel trapped, as if I had joined the Borg, my identity lost in the amorphous cloud of me, him, us. Euan was different. No matter how much time we spent together, there was something distant and separate about him. Perhaps being with Euan would always feel like that – a mix of familiarity and distance. Perhaps the distance I felt was “The Cultural Divide” and instead of keeping us apart, it would by nature of its separateness, keep us together.
*
“Why are we having so much food for dinner?” I asked, chewing on a raw carrot and peering curiously as Euan lit candles, placing each carefully in the centre of the table. “Are we having people over?”
“I thought you’d have worked that out by now, Jessy.”
“You said Callum, Rebecca and the kids are coming.” Opening the door to the oven, I peaked at the massive roast inside. “But this is enough to feed them for weeks.”
“Well, a friend of mine is staying over too. I’m sure I told you. And Olive may be joining us.”
“Olive, as in the woman you used to date?”
“Only a couple of times. She rang to tell me that she had moved into the area so I thought it would be nice to invite her over to dinner.”
“…with your girlfriend?”
Euan was silent.
“Does she know I’m here?”
“Yes, of course. I mean, I don’t know, I assume so.”
“Jesus, Euan, honestly. You’re totally clueless sometimes.”
Euan’s face darkened, hurt.
“So who is this other friend, then?” I sighed, trying to relax into the night ahead.
Euan passed by me, trying to get to the oven. “Her name is Heather. I knew her at uni but haven’t seen her in ages. She’s over from Dublin to visit her parents in Dumfries.”
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes, she knows about you.”
“It’s a fair question.” I shook my head, abandoning my cold glass of wine, and went out into the hall. A fire was growing inside my belly as the doorbell rang.
*
Euan and I lay in bed, not speaking. The evening, predictably, had been a disaster. I had opened the door to find Olive waiting patiently outside, dressed for a romantic night for two, wearing heavy eye make-up and a slinky black dress, and holding a bottle of wine. She had looked bewildered to see me.
“Is this where Euan who owns this shop lives?” she asked, pointing to the sign and cocking her head.
“Yes, come on in, we’re expecting you.” I had tried to sound gracious and took the bottle of wine. Confused, she followed me upstairs, her tight dress making an irritating rubbing sound as she slinked close behind me.
In the kitchen, I quickly got her a glass of wine, feeling that she might need one as well, and introduced myself as Euan’s girlfriend. Her face sort of froze in the no-man’s-land between politeness and sheer panic. Before she could say anything in reply, the familiar, happy voices of Callum, Rebecca and the children sounded from down the hall. They entered the kitchen all smiles and “hellos”, cancelling out the bizarre developing energy. Euan’s uni friend, Heather, arrived soon after.
Heather was tall and blonde, in her mid-forties and stunningly beautiful. Olive no longer concerned me. Rather, I looked on curiously as Heather held onto Euan’s arm as she laughed, and brushed her hair aside as he handed her a glass of wine. For two people who had just reconnected, there already seemed to be a private library of inside jokes and knowing glances that I was not privy to. Throughout the meal, the spark of energy between Heather and Euan was palpable, and I wondered, in hurt embarrassment, if I was the only one who had noticed.
I wasn’t. It didn’t take long for poor, confused Olive to find an excuse to leave, and I envied her her swift exit. For the rest of the evening, Callum shot me glances, his eyebrows raised, looking concerned. Wanting time alone, I suggested Euan take the others into the sitting room while I cleaned up. Unfortunately, Heather hung back to help me with the dishes. Instead of helping, she leaned her long, thin body against the kitchen worktop, watching me curiously as if I were some exotic animal in a zoo.
“So you’re Jessica.” She said my name as if it was difficult to pronounce.
My blood suddenly boiled, hotter than the water filling up the tub in the sink, which was now scalding my hands. I turned off the tap and pretended to be very interested in washing the dishes. She might as well have said, “Euan never mentions you”. What could I say in response? I didn’t want to look simple, ignorant of their relationship, whatever that might be. Nor did I want to seem defensive in any way. So instead I took a page from Euan’s book, and said nothing.
This seemed to irritate Heather, who came closer. “Euan’s lovely, isn’t he?”
Again, I met her loaded comment with silence. I didn’t know how one created a stony silence but I hoped mine was befitting a glacier. I straightened my shoulders, trying to keep my expression serene, as I stared at the dishes floating in the sink.
“I have no idea why he doesn’t think you’re the one for him,” Heather continued in an almost conspiratorial whisper. “I think you’re gorgeous.” She poured herself more wine. Realising I wasn’t going to play ball, she stood for what felt like cavernous minutes, before at last leaving the room.
The bedroom’s air was icy cold, but did nothing to distract me from remembering Heather’s words, “he doesn’t think you’re the one for him”, which ran on a masochistic loop over and over in my mind. Euan rolled towards me, bringing much needed warmth to my side of the bed.
“I’m really sorry, Jessy.”
“You told her that I wasn’t the one for you.” My fairytale dream of Sc
otland, and my bookshop owner, started to crumble in my mind in cloudy puffs of dirt and rubble.
“I don’t know why I ever said that. It was ages ago. I guess I felt that way then, but I don’t now,” Euan’s sleepy voice sounded concerned and sincere.
I was getting a lot of practice at creating stony silences.
“There is no one else for me but you.” Euan said dreamily. I let him snuggle up next to me, despite my mounting anger.
I half believed him. Euan was not deceptive, just indecisive. I now knew what being a ditherer meant: someone who was confused. His feelings kept being dragged back into the past by the shadows of ex-girlfriends, or being pulled into the future towards new people he had not yet met, but they only rarely seemed to reside here in the present, in this relationship, with me.
I have never liked the term a “thin line between love and hate”. Feeling angry towards someone I deeply loved has always felt less like two sides of a coin and more like two opposing forces, anti-matter meeting matter, a negation of realities. It’s like Bruno Bettelheim’s observation that for a child to express anger towards his or her mother, a duality needs to occur, splitting her into the good witch and the bad witch, or the fairy godmother and the evil stepmother. Unfortunately, I was old enough to know that people are complicated and no matter how angry I was, there were not two Euans, the good and bad – but one. Truth existed not in separation but in contradiction. This was Euan. I was furious and I didn’t want to be, for there was nothing to be furious about – I had fallen in love with the totality of him, all the dithering sides of him. However, it didn’t mean I had to like how conflicted he was, or live with it.
I felt I was losing some imaginary battle over the forces of fate and love. My vision, as visions should, brought with it a journey whose rewards were things I deeply needed but never had anticipated: a place of perfect beauty where I found a sense of belonging, peace from shpilkus, a break from ambition, new kindred spirits and most important of all: love. Everything was working so perfectly so I couldn’t understand why the biggest piece of the puzzle, Euan, was falling out of place.
Euan ran his fingers through my hair in a sleepy, careless manner. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” His words were heartfelt but fuzzy, as if he felt that way but wasn’t confident about why.
In the darkness of the bedroom, I stared up at the ceiling. I had left my life in Los Angeles, I had changed my job, my routine, my friends – everything. I had embraced the change fully, going with the flow of what felt right, so why wasn’t it working? The pea was sprouting and the crack was widening.
The answer suddenly became clear. I had been the one making all the decisions. My face flushed with embarrassed recognition as I saw how my directing instinct, without films to channel the energy into, had gone berserk on my own life. I was the one who had made all the small and big decisions to make our relationship happen, and perhaps it was because of, not in spite of, all the risks I had taken to get here that I was so committed. Euan, however, had never really had to make any decisions at all; everything had happened to him and the result was a massive imbalance.
This had been my dream, my adventure, and Euan had never had the privilege of having that kind of ritual to create his future. He was just a willing accomplice in this scenario. I suddenly saw it from his point of view. He had been descended on by an enthusiastic American who was supposed to stay for a couple of months but had ended up taking over his house, changing his routine, invading his social circle and never leaving. What had started as a trial run had suddenly turned into a long-term, permanent relationship and no matter how happy he was or content he felt, he probably didn’t feel as if he had had any part in making it happen. Where I thought he should feel lucky, he very likely felt bewildered.
My mind tried to come up with an appropriate plan of action, but like James Lapine’s Cinderella when she decided to leave her shoe for the prince to find on the palace steps, “I knew what my decision was, and it was not to decide”. It was still just a glimmer of an idea, not a fully formed thought, but I wouldn’t direct this relationship any more. Maybe I would leave and give Euan the space and time to figure out the mystery of who and what he wanted. Then, if what he wanted was me, he could come and get me. Suddenly I was flooded with excited anticipation. There would be no dithering, no drama and no warning; he would just arrive on my doorstep on a date we both agreed to. The spark of the idea faded in intensity as I began to fall asleep. I had come to him, travelled halfway around the world to show my affection and commitment. It was time for him to take the same risk.
Chapter 38
“Earth! Invisible! What is your urgent command, if not transformation?” – Rainer Maria Rilke, DUINO ELEGIES: Poetry section, right of fireplace in the gallery.
And then, in the morning, spring arrived. The warm winds and the spirit of things growing must have pushed out the last of the damp and cold once and for all, because on waking, the sun shone in and noises of birds, people and buzzing crept in through the cracks in the window. The bed was still surprisingly warm, and so was the air outside the covers. Euan had already disappeared downstairs and I got up and ran happily to the window. The scene outside took my breath away.
Wigtown’s small green was in bloom. The branches of cherry trees danced in the wind, their delicate pink petals flying free, past window boxes and hanging baskets filled with colourful flowers, and finally landing at the feet of smiling people. Yes, actual people. Smiling. Wigtown filled with cyclists, children and neighbours I hadn’t seen in months. As I peered out, it felt as if the town itself had bloomed and had come alive again for spring.
I found Euan sitting in his usual place, behind the long wooden counter in the Bookshop, using the computer at the desk. He looked tired, though I could tell he had noticed that spring had arrived as well. Instead of jeans, he was sporting shorts, and in no time his shoes would be off too. Euan soon would be in his element, as he always said spring was his time of year. He was looking forward to the longer, warm days when free time meant a cold beer, the portable radio and long evenings spent in the garden. His fantasies never included other people, rather him being “left alone” to do what he wanted. Sometimes, I felt lonely on his behalf.
“Anything interesting?” As I approached the counter, I smiled with the satisfaction of knowing someone so well. Over Euan’s shoulder I could see he was looking at a gardening website.
Euan wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. “I’m thinking of building a polytunnel.”
“That will be nice,” I said, my thoughts as active as a beehive. Despite the beautiful weather, the night before weighed heavily on my mind. From the dark circles under Euan’s eyes, I knew that neither of us had got any sleep. I hated the feeling that we were drifting aimlessly in this uncomfortable space. Things between us wouldn’t get better unless we did something and perhaps that did have to involve me leaving. I knew I would have to discuss it, and I was dreading the conversation. Even thinking about it drained me of resolve. I loved it here, I loved Euan. I felt so unsure of myself that any words of protest on his part would easily unnerve me.
“I have a surprise to show you, actually,” Euan said, suddenly brightening. “I was waiting for some good weather.”
Euan led me out the back of the shop and into the garden. Multi-coloured flowers were blooming everywhere, vines and ferns stretched out into the sunshine and butterflies floated on the breeze, accompanied by the soundtrack of buzzing bees. “This is so beautiful,” I said, entranced by the change from the bleak winter.
Euan paused, smelling the blossoming clematis that climbed up a trellis, separating the front part of the garden from the back. “It smells like chocolate – here.” Euan held out a flower and I leaned in, dizzy from the strong, sweet scent. It smelled just like a Dairy Milk bar.
“That’s a great surprise. Thank you, darling,” I said and kissed him on the cheek. I felt the strong urge to hug him, in hopes of dispelling
the pre-emptive pangs of homesickness I’d have when I returned to America.
“That’s not the surprise, Jessy.” Euan laughed, and turned me around to face his garden shed. On the door were new iron letters that read: “The Fox’s Den”.
I opened the door. Euan had cleared out his workshop to make room for a small desk, a chair and a picture, which hung on the wall. It reminded me of Jay O’Callahan’s writing cabin in his back garden that he affectionately referred to as “the Chateau”. Philip Pullman wrote all of His Dark Materials in a small shack like this, and now, like my writing heroes before me, I had my own Thoreau’s cabin. The desk was perfectly positioned by the window, from which I could see the glittering garden. On the window sill sat a pot, which instead of holding a plant, was filled with pens and pencils.
“I thought you might want your own space, you know, to plan your films in when the weather is nice,” Euan said, shuffling his feet.
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” I sat at the desk and tried to ignore a massive spider, crawling up the far wall. I felt both touched and more conflicted than ever. Leaving had felt so right the previous evening, but now, in the bright light of a glorious Galloway spring day, in my own writing hut, it felt horrible, treacherous even.
I stood up. “So you do love having me here.”
“Sometimes,” Euan said, teasing, and yet that, unfortunately, was the confusing truth.
My mouth moved before I had time to think. “Am I the one for you?”
“Of course. Really, Jessica.” Euan embraced me, almost as if he could hug away my concern.
“What?”
“You do know how to spring things on a person.”
“You did tell Heather…” The pang of the memory still burned and I winced. The sensation reminded me of when I discovered Grant’s journal, the mortification of accidentally stumbling on his true feelings – or lack thereof.
“I know I did. It’s just confusing.” Euan sighed, and looked concerned as my eyebrows raised. “Sometimes I feel you are, but sometimes I don’t.”