What Scotland Taught Me

by Molly Ringle

  I had thought myself a music fan before I met Gil, but lately I saw what an amateur I was. Me, I just liked the tunes, sometimes a musician’s looks. But in the solar system of Gil’s existence, the popular music industry blazed as the sun, feeding all plant and animal life and directing the dance of the planets.

  What was I to him? I wondered, following him out of the station into the clear, frosty night. Some temporary distraction, probably. A comet? A satellite? A shooting star?

  “Come, tourist. Have a look at this.”

  A tourist. Perhaps an alien, then.

  I trudged up the sidewalk after him, onto North Bridge. At the center of the span he peered into the depths. I gripped the railing with my gloved hands and looked down. Railway tracks gleamed below; we were almost directly over the station. “A fellow jumped off here once and actually survived,” Gil said. “Walked away without a scratch, even. It was back in the thirties or forties.”

  “Lucky,” I said. Quite so. It was probably a hundred-foot drop.

  “Aye. Or was he, I wonder? I’ve thought on that often. Probably he wanted to die, if he jumped.”

  “True.”

  He rested his chin on his gloves. “I used to consider it. Jumping here. Or I did once, at least.”

  Unsettled, I scooted closer. “What for?”

  “Was when I lost my job at the studio. I couldn’t bear the thought of telling my parents what happened, or the thought of finding something else to do. There was nothing else I liked.”

  “Yikes.”

  I’d been nearer to the mark than I realized with my idea of his world revolving around music. And how much did Miss Shelly Davis have to do with that despair, as well?

  I looked sideways at him. As he often did lately, he appeared more delicate to me than when we first met. Not less healthy, but now I could see past the Scottish smart-arse bluster and recognize a lad who sometimes hadn’t a clue what to do with himself.

  “Was the traffic that stopped me,” he said. “Really, I was going to catch the bus from over near the studio, take it here, and jump. I actually bought the ticket and got on and everything. But there was a crash, and a junction got blocked up, and we had to wait in traffic for over an hour. In that time I came to me senses and got off, and walked home.” He folded his arms on the rail and readjusted his chin into his purple coat sleeves. “I often wonder what would have happened if that bus had got to where it was supposed to.”

  I leaned against him. “I don’t think you would have done it. You like living.”

  “I had a plan, if I survived the fall.” He nodded downward. “The railway tracks, you know. I was going to stretch myself across them, and sure a train would come by before long and squish me.”

  I shivered at the thought of my poor Gil doing away with himself in such a lonely and ugly manner. I hugged him, and neither of us said anything for a while.

  Did I love him? I had to ask myself that. Many nights I had searched my heart for a “yes” answer to that question, and hadn’t found one. Tonight, closer to his secrets and desolations than ever before, I also found myself closer to love.

  If I was going to knock Amber for mixing up gratitude and love, then I had to be careful not to mistake sympathy for love myself. But I was getting there, I acknowledged, as I rested my nose below his ear. I was entering the confusing territory of prospective love.

  At the very least, I hoped to discourage him from offing himself.

  “If you could have any wish right now,” I asked, “what would it be?”

  “My old job,” he said instantly. “Back recording again.”

  Well, he failed the Perfect Date test, wherein he would answer, “To have you stay here always,” or something sappy like that, but at least he was honest.

  “Then look for one,” I said, meaning a new job.

  He chuckled and lifted his head. The wind blew his hair away from his face. “Will you help me find a proper suit to wear, if I get an interview?”

  “Of course.”

  He slid one glove-clad thumb down my nose. “Thank you,” he almost whispered.

  “Anytime.”

  He wound his arms around me, turning me so my back fit against his chest. We swayed from side to side, watching buses and cars race past on the streets.

  “Bloody cold out here,” he said.

  “True, that.”

  “If you still want...” He let the words hang a moment before completing the thought. “You could come home with me.”

  While adrenaline seared my veins and temporarily silenced me, he added, “Not tonight. It’s late and they’d scream at me. But, emm...what’s today, Monday?”

  I cleared my throat. “Monday. Yep.”

  “Wednesday would be good. Around five, say. If you want to warm up a bit, is all. See the horrible mess that is my room.”

  I sensed every thump of my heart in my breastbone. I appreciated his arms around me for holding me steady, though at the same time I felt a bit imprisoned.

  “Sure. Wednesday.”

  Good God. I said it, just like that.

  “All right.” He let go of me, sounding chipper. “How about a wee nip tonight? Something warm, perhaps. Whisky and coffee.”

  He linked his arm into mine, and we strolled away from the jump-off point.

  If you think I remember anything about the rest of the evening, other than staring at him over my coffee and wondering what in heaven’s name we were going to do on Wednesday around five, you obviously have never been in lying, cheating, sort-of-love before.

  Chapter Seventeen: Slippery Slope

  Sitting beside Gil on a squeaky vinyl bus seat on Wednesday, I couldn’t tell if I was numb because of the pouring sleet we had just sprinted through, or because of what we were about to do.

  He gazed at the graffiti in black marker on the seat in front of us. “‘Your mum shags cows,’” he read. “That’s nice.”

  “Seriously.” I smiled, with effort. “So, your folks will be around?”

  He unzipped his purple coat. “Mum probably. Me sister maybe too.”

  “Do they have the slightest clue who I am?”

  “I’ve mentioned you. My American friend, I’ve said.” He nibbled at a hangnail. “Haven’t told them all we get up to, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Since getting on the bus he hadn’t looked at me for more than a split second. I decided to voice the topic that hung in the air between us like a misty ghost. “So, what are we going to get up to?”

  Now he looked at me, letting his gnawed hand drop to his lap. His brow crinkled in anxiety. “Dinnae ken. What do you think?”

  Lest you wondered, “dinnae ken” does not signify a kinky sexual activity; it’s merely the Scottish version of “don’t know.”

  I laced my cold fingers together between my knees. “Well, I’m not a virgin or anything...”

  “Me neither. Girlfriend, a year or so back.”

  “Oh. Good. But the thing is...” I had mentally rehearsed this conversation so often while at work that the image of tea-stained cups and bleached dishtowels jumped into my head as I spoke. “I’ve never done it with Tony. So, I know it’s weird, but I don’t think I ought to do it with you either.”

  “Ah. All right.” He actually sounded cheerful.

  I looked over. His face had relaxed into a smile. Feeling insulted even though I was the one issuing limitations, I asked, “You don’t care?”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want to rush things.” He dropped his arm around me. “Besides, I’ve stacks of CDs I’d like you to hear, and we couldn’t have you being distracted from that.”

  I grinned. “Of course not.”

  He leaned into me so our sides pressed together, and as I took a breath I caught his scent: subtle spicy deodorant mingled with the melted sleet in his long hair. My insides melted a little too, and I remembered to add the rest of my speech. “Granted, I only mean we shouldn’t do anything that requires birth control. There are other thi
ngs...”

  I let my sentence trail off to make sure he understood. Judging from the slow, heated kiss he slid onto my lips as his answer, he got the picture.

  After we stepped off the bus, he led me along a quiet winding street to a narrow townhouse. On either side stood half a dozen buildings identical to it, all connected at the shoulders in one long row. Each house had a little square front yard--garden I reminded myself. No one said yard here. An overgrown rhododendron dropped water and yellow leaves on me as I brushed past.

  “Mum! Hello!” Gil hollered, shutting the door behind us.

  The old walls bore new floral wallpaper. The carpet was beige and knobby. In front of us, the stairs climbed to a second story. Loosening my coat in the warmth of the house, I sniffed the air and identified the smell as curry.

  Gil hung up his coat, turned to get mine, and plucked a leaf off it before hanging it on a peg. “Mum? Amy?”

  “God, yell louder, Gilleon?” A blonde girl in her early teens wandered out of the kitchen. Steam uncurled from the bowl in her hand.

  “Amy, my friend Eva. Eva, my horrible so-called sister Amy.”

  Amy had applied too much blue eye shadow, and a halter top was uncalled for in cold weather like this. But she was still cute--a feature that ran in the family, evidently. Stirring her food, she said, “Hi. Staying for dinner?”

  “Hi. Um, I don’t think so, but thank you.”

  Gil already had one foot on the stairs, his hand holding mine. “Amy, where’s Mum?”

  “Shopping. Got nothing to eat. I bought this on the way home.”

  “Right. We’re upstairs. Leave us alone or die in a nasty fashion.” He tugged my arm and up we went.

  “Nice to meet you,” I called down, and heard her giggle. Apparently, snickering at your sibling’s love interests was a universal phenomenon.

  In Gil’s room, rock-band posters covered every inch of wall and ceiling, and his shelves sagged under stacks of CDs.

  He shut the door behind us. I pretended not to notice our newfound privacy, and inspected his possessions more closely.

  Sandwiched alongside the CDs were a few paperback novels by people I’d never heard of. Against the wall a dark brown desk held an old laptop computer and a pair of drumsticks. One snare drum and one cymbal perched on stands beside the desk. His bed, which I tried not to look at, was twin-sized and rumpled with a black and red checkered duvet over orange sheets. Good to know his clashing color sense extended into his home decor.

  Gil popped a CD out of its case and slid it into his laptop. “Here. Name the band.”

  The music kicked in through the speakers, sweeter than I expected, a jangly pop tune with a husky-voiced male singer. “Hmm,” I said. “Travis?”

  “Aye, very good.” His hands slid onto my waist from behind. “They’re Scottish, you know.”

  “I remember. Haven’t heard this one, though.”

  “It’s a B-side collection. I’ll burn you a copy.” He bent his head to nibble my ear and cheek. His fragrant hair tickled my skin.

  I turned, smiling. “Thought you didn’t want to distract me.”

  He chuckled, the sound vibrating through my jaw as he nuzzled my neck. “Eh, just keep listening and don’t mind me.”

  In a few stumbling steps we toppled onto his bed. With an alignment of limbs I wound up lying on top of him, my hips moving to find the most delicious angle against his body.

  His fingers, still cold from our walk, pushed up my sweater and unhooked my bra, sending shivers across my back. He rolled me onto my side and captured my breasts in both palms.

  I closed my eyes. “I apologize.”

  “Hmm?”

  “They’re dinky. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s all right. Me hands are small too.”

  While we kissed, I unbuttoned his jeans to slide my hand beneath them, and felt him catch his breath. Okay, I had never done this with Tony, either. But drawing the line at going “all the way” counted for something, right?

  Tony probably sat in class at Wild Rose High right now. Did he add eight hours to the clock and imagine what I was doing? Could he have possibly fathomed it would be something like this? He was on close terms with God; would God tell him?

  And for some reason I thought of Laurence, a mere few miles away, who probably did have a good idea what I was doing. Imagining the guilt he would happily inflict upon me if he found out, I almost stopped, almost pulled my hands and boobs and dangling bra away from the grasp of this Scottish boy I’d only met a couple of months ago.

  But wasn’t this what I had daydreamed about since before even meeting Gil? Wasn’t this the experience I had intended to acquire, so I could become worldly and make more informed decisions about life? Wasn’t this the fun I had longed to have?

  Did I love Gil? I had to ask myself again. Tonight, with the music and the bed and the warmth and his scent, I whispered to myself, Almost. I almost love him.

  That was enough. Our connection felt good--ultimately the simplest but strongest factor in why I didn’t stop.

  In my head I conjured a transparent magical sphere that I flung outward to surround Gil’s bed, shielding us from the eyes of anyone in this world or the next. We were invisible and we could continue and nothing was wrong with it.

  Or so I let myself believe.

  Chapter Eighteen: History Lesson

  On Friday evening, Thomas Chester-Brighton met the four of us at the hostel’s front door. Shannon, giddy at how well our collective Shakespeare date had gone, had corralled us all into going to dinner together.

  I hadn’t seen Gil since that fateful visit to his room two nights ago, but I called to tell him I was busy tonight. He said it didn’t matter, as he was working late. Friday nights, you know.

  Just as well. I was trying not to think about our newfound intimacy. So I trooped out the door with Shannon, Thomas, Amber, and Laurence, hoping I didn’t look any different for my furtive experience.

  We had kept to our promise and didn’t actually have sex--not the traditional “part A in slot B” type of sex, anyway. But let’s just say I now knew more about foreign relations than I used to.

  Our group settled down at a cafe for appetizers and drinks. I ordered Coke, feeling tired and not wishing to enhance the sensation with booze. Turned out the conversation alone was disturbing enough to keep me awake.

  Ghosts, murder, and mayhem were the day’s topics, thanks to Thomas and Amber. They were a match made in heaven, or possibly purgatory. He, as a history major studying in Edinburgh, knew practically everything about the city’s gruesome past, and she swilled at the fountain of his knowledge for hours. After dinner he dragged us to several spots in the city where blood had flowed, and told us all about it.

  A few blocks below the castle, he led us into a creepy, high-walled alley--a “close,” it was appropriately called.

  “Beneath our feet,” he said, “lies the underground city. They lead tours into some of it, but there are parts they don’t dare break into. There are probably bodies under there yet.”

  “Poured into the cement, like the Mafia does in New York?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Locked up there to suffocate or starve. When the Black Plague swept the city, the officials decided that these lower levels and narrow passageways, where the riffraff hung about, were a health hazard. Poor drainage; really unsanitary. So they built up the street a couple levels, sealing off the under-layers with lots of said riffraff still inside. Some of the passageways weren’t opened again for centuries.”

  I shivered, and Laurence glanced into the shadows around us with new interest. Amber and Shannon, who already knew this story from one source or another (from books or from Thomas), watched us with darkly complacent smiles.

  “So!” said Thomas. “Who fancies a drink?”

  I didn’t exactly fancy a drink, as it was already 9:00 p.m. I was tired from all the walking and the stressful week, and I had to work in the morning, even though tomorrow was Saturday. B
ut for the sake of being polite, I went along with the crowd.

  Too late I realized we were walking into Gil’s pub. Gil, who was working tonight. Gil, whose half-pulled-back ponytail and familiar profile smacked me like a wet towel when we entered.

  He didn’t notice us at first. He was counting change for somebody. He wore a red shirt with green three-quarter-length sleeves, and a threadbare white apron tied around his waist. Thomas led us across the crowded room to a booth. I ducked my head and prayed that maybe, somehow, my friends wouldn’t recognize Gil, or that he would be called into the back to wash dishes for the rest of the evening. I couldn’t face the questions and teasing, not tonight.

  But luck had deserted me. For one thing, our booth stood all of ten feet from the bar. And we had thumped ourselves down and been arrayed for about five seconds when Amber craned her neck and said, “Hey, Eva, your boy’s working tonight!”

  Laurence swiveled in his seat to look.

  I picked up the menu from between the saltshakers. “That’s right, he said he’d be here.” I hoped I sounded nonchalant.

  “Wow, that really is a gross shirt,” said Laurence.

  “We should invite him over,” Shannon said.

  “No,” I said. “He can’t. When he’s working, he’s not supposed to. And he hates how his co-workers razz him. So let’s not.”

  Amber lifted an eyebrow, reached across the table, and plucked the menu from my hands to look at it. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Since when have I been in paradise?”

  “Right.” She smiled brightly at the others. “Who wants drinks?”

  Thomas bounded over to the bar to order us a few pitchers of ale, or cider, or mead, or whatever history majors from England ordered. Even from there I could hear Gil answer, “Aye, I’ll fetch those for you.”

  His gaze tracked back to Thomas’ table to see where the order would go. Our eyes met. The notepad he was tucking into his apron stopped in midair. Then a flat smile stretched his lips, and he sent me a nod.

  I returned the smile weakly, flopping my hand off the table in a wave. It must have looked like the year’s least enthused greeting.