by kc dyer
I’ve spent the last few weeks reading books written by Jack Findlay, a Scottish writer I met in——ah——extraordinary circumstances before I left the US.
These are marvelous stories. You can find out more about them at his website. And a little blackbird has told me that another one is due, based on the life of Scottish hero William Wallace. Watch for it soon!
- ES
Comments: 153
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
Jack Findlay is second favorite writer to Herself. His books romantic and adventure. You SO lucky to meet him! You live my dream, Emma. But still——we wait patiently to hear of your true love. Does he ride horse?
(Read 152 more comments here…)
After tea with Jack, I managed to find an Internet cafe to make the blog post and still be only twenty minutes late for Sandeep. No chance to read all the comments, though – they were coming in so fast and furious. For a guy who had so many empty seats at his reading, he sure had a lot of fans.
Sandeep spent the entire drive home raving about all the features on his new machine, so at least he wasn’t angry with me for being late. Ash slept in the back, curled in the one corner of the van that wasn’t filled with giant espresso machine parts. I listened to his father rave on, and thought about Jack Findlay.
I felt like I had spent two hours (and twenty-five minutes, according to my boss) kicking a puppy. I mean—bad enough that no one had shown up to Jack’s reading event. But then I had to add insult to injury by giving him my expert opinion on what was wrong with his books? His broken foot still hadn’t healed, he was clearly struggling with self-confidence issues and I had stomped all over the female character in his story.
The blog post was the only remedy I could come up with.
I’d missed seeing my boyfriend, AND ruined Jack’s day all in one.
I tried to take my mind off Jack by thinking about Hamish. About how I’d persuade him that a night out didn’t need to involve Geordie and the boys. About how much fun we could have, just getting to know each other better.
But even the idea of seeing Hamish soon couldn’t banish the look of pain on Jack’s face as he walked out of that tea shop. Well, maybe he could go home to his Rebecca for comfort. I’d actually forgotten her existence until he mentioned her again, just as I’d forgotten to look to see if he wore a ring or not. So, after all that time together, I still didn’t know if he was married or not. Not that it mattered—it had to be a pretty committed relationship, with the reverential way he referred to her.
As Sandeep chirped on about his new machine, I slumped in my seat and considered how big a vat of espresso I’d need to drown myself.
Five hours of winding roads and a major two-hour traffic jam brought on by an errant collection of sheep and a cranky farmer brought us back to Nairn just after ten. After helping Ash and Sandeep unload the enormous machine into the back of the cafe, I headed home to Morag’s on my bike. Sandeep had looked at me like I was crazy to refuse a drive, but my backside was tired from all the sitting, so it was a relief to stand up on the pedals and stretch out my legs. It looked like it might have been raining earlier in the village, but the evening brought a light breeze that cleared the sky, and a blanket of stars lit my way home.
The clean air smelled like spring, and I thought about sneaking some of Morag’s leftover bannock for a midnight snack before bed. My stomach rumbled at the thought.
I’d made it just past the outskirts of the town when I bumped through a pothole in the dark and my front tire began to make an ominous hissing noise. I tried to keep pedaling, but after a revolution or two the tire was completely flat. I hopped off and rolled the bike forward, hoping the valve had just been pinched or something, but the evil shard of green glass gleaming up at me from between the treads removed all hope.
At least the rain stayed away. I contemplated pushing the bike back to town, but with Hamish away with Geordie, the garage would be locked up tight. I decided to finish walking the route to Morag’s and beg a ride in her truck in the morning to get the tire repaired.
Even at that late hour, the inky sky was tinged purple at the eastern edge, and, with a strange pang in my gut, I thought about leaving. Another month and I would likely have enough money saved for my return ticket. As comfortable as I felt with my life in Nairn, I could hardly bear the thought of returning to all the unknowns back in Chicago. I’d sold everything. I had no apartment to go back to. And what about my life in Nairn? Even just imagining the return home made my stomach ache.
As I pushed my bike along the edge of the road, bits of gravel shot into the ditch with little tings as the rim rubbed against the road. I pulled my hood up against the evening breeze and leaned forward to flip the headlamp on. Its comforting beam shone a clear path down in front of my wounded wheel as I pushed the bike along.
My mind wandered back to Hamish. With his broad shoulders and long, muscular frame, he was everything I’d dreamed about when seeking my Fraser. His hair was fair, not red, it was true, and the baseball hat was not a look I’d choose, but he could be talked out of it eventually. Maybe. He was kind and funny, and I was pretty sure he liked me as much as I liked him.
Pretty sure.
In spite of my best efforts, his erratic work schedule meant we’d not managed enough alone time to prove his interest without a doubt. I’d not seen him in a kilt yet, either, but if he pulled it off half as well as Jack Findlay had, I was ready to have my socks knocked off.
Anyway, if he was content to take things slow, I was happy to oblige. I was only really worried about one thing. He’d made it clear since we’d met—really even from that night in the bar in Edinburgh—that his ultimate goal was to make it to America.
That should be a good thing, right? I had to go home soon, myself.
Didn’t I?
My bicycle rim thudded rhythmically on the road, as I tried to sort out what I was really feeling. I hadn’t come to Scotland planning to stay. But now that I had to seriously think of leaving—well, it had me feeling panicky. The irony of panicked thoughts at a return to the US wasn’t lost on me, either.
A set of headlights washed over me from behind, and I automatically moved off to the side of the road. Luckily it wasn’t too deep a ditch. And I was at least halfway home.
Home.
My stomach clenched. It was the first time I’d thought of my little place at Morag’s as home. Chicago seemed in another lifetime. A whole world away.
I realized then that the headlights hadn’t swished by me, as expected. I turned to look, shading my eyes from the brightness, to see the vehicle had slowed to a walking pace directly behind me.
I lifted my hand to wave. “Hamish? Thank God! I’ve blown a tire. I’m so glad you’re here!”
No answer.
I stopped, and the van slowed to a stop, too. Right in the center of the lane, idling.
My heart started beating a little faster. If not Hamish, who would stop behind me? The road was not a minor one, but it was nearly midnight on a weeknight. I’d seen fewer than a handful of vehicles, mostly heading to local farms.
I stared into the headlights long enough that they left twin spots on my retinas.
Something wasn’t right.
I turned and started pushing the bike again, my whole body tingling with adrenaline. The van didn’t move—just sat behind me, idling. I started to run, still pushing the bike. It didn’t even occur to me to leave it behind.
I’d been running a full ten or fifteen seconds when I heard the van’s engine rev. My heart roared along with it, especially when I heard the gravel spitting out from under the huge tires. In less than a second, the van was beside me.
My legs turned to water. I had time to be grateful that I hadn’t tossed the bike in the ditch, as without it I could never have remained standing when the window rolled down.
Hamish stuck his face out.
“Hey babe,” he said. “Thought ’at might be you. Want a lift?”
It on
ly took a few minutes to sort out. I was furious—beyond furious—that he would frighten me like that, and told him so, in no uncertain terms.
“But babe, I was just listenin’ to a song,” he said, “on mah way to see yeh.”
He pointed to his iPod, sitting on the dash. “Beachboys ‘Surfer Girl’—look, yeh can see for yerself.”
Sure enough, the menu was still rotating across the screen.
“When I spotted yeh in the road, I slowed down righ’ away.”
“I waved to you and called …” I said, still feeling wobbly-legged, even though I was sitting down.
“And I waved back, and pointed to mah headphones. I didn’t know yeh couldn’t see me. I didn’t even realize you were frightened until I had to hoist yeh into the van because yer legs gave out.”
At least I didn’t wet myself, I thought, grateful for small favors.
We drove on in silence until his headlights lit up Morag’s farm sign in the distance. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I said, at last.
He nodded affably. “I understand. You were frightened. Look, let me make it up to yeh. I’ll keep the bike in the back and we’ll mend it in the shop in the mornin’. And I’ll come back and drive yeh in to the cafe, aye?”
As it was long past midnight by that time, I nodded gratefully. Hamish pulled his van into the yard, and I jumped out to get the gate, but he put a hand on my arm.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ll leave the van out here on the road, and tha’ way it won’t wake the old lady.”
I felt a strange tingling somewhere south of the pit of my stomach. And the wave of tiredness that had washed over me receded instantly. The bit of my brain that was still angry at him for the stunt on the road called out weakly in protest.
“So—ah—you want to come in, then?” I said, my mouth strangely dry.
He grinned. “Well—if you’d care to show me around …”
I was out my door in a flash, the tiny, admonishing part of my brain instantly crushed by something that had nothing to do with logic.
He took his time, putting on the parking brake, and checking the bike was safely stowed in the back before he walked around the front of the van to meet me by the gate.
He took one of my hands in his. “Emma, I’d like to formally apologize for frightenin’ you,” he said.
I looked up at him. “Accepted. And I for yelling.”
“Aye,” he said. “Our first fight, resolved.”
He leaned down and kissed me then, slowly. The tingly feeling took up permanent residence.
This was Not a Bad Thing.
Stepping quietly, our fingers still twined together, we walked through the gate and up the path directly to the barn, skirting the farmhouse. There were still lights burning in the kitchen. As we walked, I realized that Hamish’s lips had been on mine while I leaned against Morag’s kissing gate. I felt that somewhere, someone was ticking an item off a list with my name on it.
We walked through the barn, giving it no more than a cursory look.
“Yep,” he said, as I pointed out the stalls, “Hay, animals, smells like shite—it’s a barn a’right. Where’s your digs, lassie? Is tha’ it?” He pushed me up against the door to my room and kissed me again.
Then he undid the top button of my coat.
I grabbed his lapels and pulled him inside.
The thing about getting naked fast in a late Scottish springtime is—well, it really can’t happen. There are just too many layers. And multiplied by two people who are in somewhat of a hurry, but still mindful of not being quite in the financial position where torn clothing can be easily replaced ….
Let’s just say that in seconds, there were raincoats on the floor at my feet, and shoes, and his shirt and my sweater. Hamish had made his way down at least three buttons of my uniform, when the door behind me flew open.
Morag stood in the doorway, the light from the barn framing her Mackintosh-clad form. Her hair was sticking straight up and she had a streak of blood down one side of her face. “Emma,” she said. “Allison has a problem. I need yeh.”
I clutched the top of my uniform closed as her head turned to take in the pile of clothing at our feet. She looked up at Hamish.
“Ach—nice tae see yeh, young man. We might have use fer a man who’s good wi’ his hands. Ye’d best come, too.” She thrust a flashlight at him, scooped up an armful of dry hay and headed out the door.
“Who’s Allison?” hissed Hamish, as we scrambled back into our coats.
“I’m not sure,” I whispered back. “Maybe one of her cows is stuck in a ditch …?”
But we followed Morag’s bobbing flashlight upward, so there could be no ditch involved. It was hard going with the ground covered in prickly heather bushes, chasing a farmer who was deceptively round. In pitch-blackness.
Perhaps she could move so quickly because she was low-slung.
In any event, we made it, panting, about half way up the big hill behind the barn to the spot where Morag’s flashlight had stopped moving. We found her on her knees, spreading the straw she’d been carrying on the ground. She had propped her flashlight against a heathery shrub and the light shone down on a small sheep, lying on its side and clearly in distress.
As we approached, the animal bleated a little and kicked her legs weakly. Morag ran her hand across the wooly flank and made soothing noises as she tucked handfuls of the straw around to make a bed.
Hamish shone his light on the tail end of the sheep, which was awash in mud and blood. He made a little gagging noise in his throat. Morag made her own disapproving Scottish noise in return. “Righ’ man, you don’t have to linger at that end. Jes’ hold her head steady—I can do the rest.”
I knelt down near the head. “Will she bite me?” I asked, a trifle nervously, and remembering my experience with Cara all too clearly.
“Nah—she’ll be fine. Jes’ take ahold of her front legs there, young man, and you grab her head, Emma, gentle now …” The rest of what she had to say disappeared in a flurry of grunting and bleating.
I couldn’t tell who was making which sound.
What I could tell, as I put all my weight down on the sheep’s head to stop her from whipping it around, was that Hamish wasn’t doing his job. I could tell this, because one of the legs he was supposed to be holding smacked me, hoof first, square in the ear. My glasses slipped dangerously down my nose.
“What the hell…” I sputtered. I leaned my left elbow down on the sheep’s head, and tried to feel for the damage with my right hand. My hand was mud-covered when I inspected it in the beam of the flashlight, but there didn’t seem to be any blood. Luckily it had been a glancing blow, and my glasses hadn’t broken either.
“Hamish,” I gasped, “Can you try to grab her legs?”
“Ugggh,” grunted Morag, and the sheep bleated anxiously in unison. She yanked her head out from under my forearms and I could feel the wind as her teeth snapped shut beside my right cheekbone.
“I thought you said she didn’t bite,” I yelled at Morag.
“We’el she never has done before,” came the tense reply. “But as I’ve got mah whole arm inside her now, I reckon she’s a mite uncomfortable, aye?”
She grunted again, and then the animal lay still for a moment, head down, flanks still trembling.
“Nearly there,” said Morag, through gritted teeth. “Yer boyfriend’s run off, then, has he?”
“What?” I yelled, whipping my head around. “Hamish?”
Sure enough, I could see a flashlight bobbing halfway down the hill.
“I’ll see yeh in the mornin’, Emma,” came his voice, floating through the cool night air. “Somethin’s come up!”
“Arsehole,” muttered Morag. “Men are useless at this sort of thing, anyhow. No stayin’ power.”
The sheep bucked its legs, but I managed to dodge beneath the hooves.
“Aye—atta girl,” said Morag, approvingly. “Yer learning, ain’t yeh?”
I didn’t h
ave even a moment to think about Hamish, as the sheep suddenly began whipping her head back and forth, frantically.
“Jes’ hold her head, luv,” Morag panted. She was on her knees by that time, her hands busy doing something I was just as happy not to see. The sheep stirred distractedly under my grip and then suddenly jerked her head as if to sit up.
“Hold ’er, hold ’er,” cried Morag. “Almost got it … now!”
The sheep closed her eyes and grunted, and the farmer was suddenly awash in a tangle of legs and head and blood and …
I focused on the mama sheep for a minute, until the night sky stopped spinning.
But Morag was beaming, and took up a great handful of straw to swipe the gore off a tiny, mini-sheep. When she’d cleaned it to the point of it looking more like a wet rat than anything, she lifted it carefully over the mother’s back leg and the baby immediately nestled in, nursing.
The mama sheep began straining under my grip again. “Ye can let ’er go now, Em,” said Morag, so I did. The mama nosed her new offspring with a tired kind of interest, and I felt badly for holding her away.
“Whoops,” said Morag, and vanished from out of the flashlight beam. The mama sheep and I both peered through the dark, trying to see what was going on. I got the impression of something whirling through the air, and when Morag reappeared, she was beaming and wiping off a second arrival. She placed the other wee lamb in beside the first, and leaned back on her haunches. She was bloody to the elbows on both arms, but she slapped her hands onto her knees and grinned at me.
“I should have seen tha’ comin’, but it’s such a late delivery and this mama’s so tiny. Couldn’t sort it out until the second wee one poked out his nose.”
Morag got to her feet wearily and I realized I could see her face without the flashlight. The sun was near to rising. She slapped me heartily on the shoulder.
“Feel like some breakfast? A good lambing always gives me a roaring appetite for eggs and bacon.”
I nodded and stood beside her, looking down at the new arrivals busily gobbling their own breakfasts. The mama sheep was flaked out on her side, nearly asleep with exhaustion, but all signs of distress gone.