A Year of Finding Happiness

by Lisa Hobman

  Ron, the old guy from up the road, was walking towards me, his newspaper tucked under his arm. ‘Hello there, Gregory. Have you heard the news?’

  I stopped in my tracks and waited to hear the latest gossip from the village know-it-all. ‘What news would that be?’

  ‘You know James McLaughlan’s old place, Sealladh-mara Cottage? It’s sold.’

  ‘Really? He will be pleased. Any idea who bought it?’

  He scowled and shook his head. ‘Therein lays the issue, Gregory. Apparently, it’s some young executive couple who are using it as a weekend and holiday home.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, great. This place’ll have no bloody locals left at this rate.’

  Ron wagged a wizened finger. ‘Aye. That’s exactly what I said. The last thing we need is more damned weekend interlopers who don’t contribute to the village.’

  ‘Well, Ron. Not a lot we can do about it really, I suppose. Did you see them?’

  ‘I caught a wee glimpse last week when they were here with the estate agent. He looked all businesslike and she was… well… she was a bonny lass, actually. Lovely long hair and very smiley.’ He shook his head as if trying to remind himself how pissed off he was. ‘Anyway, I’m not happy.’

  I huffed out a breath. ‘Well, let’s just hope they at least spend some of their executive pay-cheque money in the pub when they’re here on weekends, eh?’

  ‘Aye, we can hope, young man. We can hope.’ He went on his way back home and I smiled to myself and continued walking my dog.

  Young man. When you get to thirty-seven you don’t think of yourself as particularly young anymore; but I supposed to someone Ron’s age, however old that might’ve been, I still was.

  James McLaughlan was a nice old guy. He’d moved farther north to be with his family up above Inverness, and he’d been heartbroken when he left the wee cottage down by the bridge. As Angus and I stopped at the centre of the arched stone structure I glanced over to James’s old place. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing really, getting new blood into the village.

  Most of the people here had stayed at Clachan Seil all their lives, and when they’d passed away or moved on to be with family, tourists had cottoned on to how beautiful it was. I was an interloper myself. I’d only moved to the village after splitting up with my wife and leaving my old life behind. But I’d felt at home right away. Stella at the pub and Ron, bless his heart, had taken me under their wings. Despite my antisocial nature and lack of people skills, Stella had given me a job in the pub and I became one of the locals.

  Standing there on the bridge, I remembered back to when Mairi and I used to stand in the same spot, looking out over the Atlantic, and a lump formed in my throat. I’d considered moving away after she was declared dead in August the previous year – seeing as there was a memory of her around every sodding corner – but I’d never belong anywhere like I did in Clachan.

  Never.

  And so there I was five months on and still grieving.

  *

  Later on, I made my way down to the pub for the lunchtime shift. Stella was working in the kitchen, thanks to our chef’s leaving to go back to Australia. Well, I say chef. He was a bloody good cook, was Chris, but he wasn’t qualified. He was a young guy with a passion for food, but somehow he’d landed a job as a bloody underwear model. How to make Greg feel inadequate in one easy step. Anyway, he’d gone back to Oz to start working for some modelling agency even though his ultimate dream was to train at some flashy restaurant in Sydney called Alonzo’s. He seemed to think that being back home would improve his chances. Personally, I thought that getting experience actually cooking for a living was better, but what the hell did I know? I’d attended university only to end up pouring drinks, fixing taps, and taking tourists on boat trips.

  Anyway, I digress. So Stella was in the kitchen preparing her famous steak pie for the evening. There was no doubt about it: it was the best pie I’d ever bloody tasted. And the smell emanating from the kitchen was making my mouth water so much, I was on the verge of flooding the place. There was a lull in the lunchtime patronage, and so I picked up my guitar and went to sit by the fireplace. I’d been playing a lot since Mairi died; another method of distraction, I suppose.

  The only problem was that everything I ended up learning to play was melancholy, which didn’t exactly help me achieve the goal of distraction. A glance around the room assured me that I was alone. After taking in a deep breath I began to strum away the chords to ‘Disarm’ by Smashing Pumpkins. The lyrics spoke of loneliness and denial and they tugged at my heart, resounding all too much with my situation. A familiar lump lodged in my throat and my voice cracked as I sat there, eyes closed, pouring my heart into the empty room. When the song came to a close, I heard someone clapping. Horrified that my pain had been heard by someone, I snapped my head up in the direction of the applause.

  Stella stood there, tears streaming down her face. ‘Oh, Gregory, that was so beautiful.’

  I cleared my throat and wiped the back of my hand across my damp face. ‘Ahem… oh… I had no idea you were listening. I wouldn’t have—’

  ‘No, no. I’m glad I heard you. I have a proposition for you.’

  I scrunched my brow. What the hell could she be talking about? ‘Oh?’

  She walked carefully towards me as if I were a horse about to bolt. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting some live music in. You know… not every night, but maybe once a month or something? Maybe you could be it?’

  ‘Me? Play? Here? To actual people?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sure Angus is a great audience, but maybe actual people would like to hear you play too.’

  ‘In front of… people?’ The words weren’t really registering in my brain. Looking back, I know I sounded like a complete tit.

  The smile on her face widened as she stood beside me and shook her head. ‘You really have no clue how talented you are, do you, Greg?’

  I frowned and cocked my head to one side. ‘But I can’t play in front of actual, real people.’

  She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Well, I don’t really fancy filling the place up with mannequins. They don’t tend to drink much.’

  ‘But… I don’t know many songs. And the ones I do know make you cry, by the look of it. And me? That’d be a great draw for audiences. Come and see the grumpy-arsed Scotsman cry all over his guitar. It’ll be a hoot.’

  She chuckled at me. ‘Well, perhaps you can think about it, eh? I haven’t seen you smile in the last five months, and it’s a shame. You’ve such a handsome face. Have a go at some other songs that are maybe a bit more… uplifting. It may actually help you, you know.’

  She had a point. ‘Okay. I’ll have a wee think about it. But I’m not promising. And the answer’ll probably be no.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, like I said, have a think.’

  Just then a couple walked in through the door and made their way over to the bar. I stood and carried my beloved Rhiannon round to the back and propped her up against the wall out of the way. By the way, in case you’re wondering, Rhiannon is my guitar. And I don’t really give a shit if you think I’m a fuckwit for naming her. She is what she is. And right then she was the love of my life.

  Chapter Three

  I arrived home after my lunchtime shift. It was around five in the evening. Not really caring whether it was too early, I opened the latest bottle of single malt and poured two fingers of the amber liquid into a glass. After lighting the fire I sat there a while, watching the flames dance. Mairi and I used to sit for hours just holding each other and staring into the flames. She always said there was something hypnotic about fire, and I think she was right. Sometimes I’d come in from work and she’d be lying asleep on the rug, her head on Angus’s furry body as he slept too. He’d always look up when I walked in and wag his tail a couple of times very gently as if he didn’t want to wake her. He’s a sweet thing for such a big dog.

  As I sat there drinking and reminiscing, I began to
think about what Stella had suggested. Could I do it? Could I get up there in front of a live audience and play? What was more, could I sing? My voice was okay, I suppose, but I was no Eddie Vedder, that’s for sure. I saw Pearl Jam live many years ago and, let me tell you, the way he sang ‘Black’ sent shivers down my spine and brought tears to my eyes, I don’t mind admitting it. Such raw emotion oozed out of every syllable. I could never be that good.

  Anyway, I picked up Rhiannon and began to think about the stuff I used to listen to with Mairi. Stella wanted uplifting, so I racked my brain for songs that took me back to happier times. I smiled as the perfect song sprang to mind and I began to play Semisonic’s ‘Closing Time’. Well, I potentially was going to be playing in a pub, so it was probably the most fitting song I could close a night with.

  And the song made me think about Mairi.

  We’d been at a club in Oban with some of her friends. It was a kind of indie-rock club that had an open mic night every so often. They were a loopy bunch, that’s for sure. I was leaving my car at the club, and we were staying with the crazy crowd that thankfully lived within staggering distance. They’d all had a bit to drink, and Mairi had told them that I had Rhiannon in the back of the Landy. So the group encouraged me to get up and sing a number. Luckily I’d had a fair few bevvies too, and so I was relaxed enough to think it was a great idea! Anyways, I got up and played ‘Closing Time’. The whole place joined in at the chorus, but I was aiming those particular words right at Mairi as she danced with her eyes locked on mine. She was the one I was going home with and home was wherever she happened to be so it all worked out fine. It was such a buzz and I was all hyped up when I got off the stage. My performance had quite an effect on Mairi too, and she dragged me into what turned out to be a broom closet to ravish me. So as you can imagine, the song has a special place in my heart and always brings a smile to my face.

  So I had one song.

  Great.

  But one song does not a performance make. Placing Rhiannon down safely, I decided to go through my CD collection – I’m old school and still like CDs even though I have joined the twenty-first century with my iPod, in case you were wondering – and pick out some more songs that I could play if I were to do a gig. Which I wasn’t, of course. I’d already decided not to. But it wouldn’t hurt to listen to some music, would it? And if I happened to learn a few more songs on the guitar, where would be the harm in that, eh?

  An hour later I had the makings of a set list. I’d chosen ‘Trouble’ by Ray Lamontagne, ‘Caledonia’ by Dougie MacLean because of its connection to my homeland, and ‘Chasing Cars’ by one of my favourite bands and also Scottish, Snow Patrol. Another hour and I’d found a few more songs that I could play fairly easily without much practising: a bit of Fleetwood Mac, some Oasis, and a few other tracks that made me smile. The more I played, the more I got lost in the music and the poetry of the lyrics. Maybe Stella was right after all. Maybe playing music in front of an audience whilst I was sober wasn’t such a bad idea. I resolved to give it some serious thought.

  As I restrung the E that had snapped when I got a little overzealous – playing à la Jimmy Page and making rather a poor attempt at an acoustic version of Zeppelin’s ‘Dazed and Confused’ – although I blamed the crap sound on the fact that the tuning was slipping – the landline rang. My brow furrowed in confusion. No one ever rang me. I reluctantly placed Rhiannon down again, deciding that maybe she needed some work and that I’d have to take her in to get her looked at.

  ‘Hello?’ I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice at being disturbed on my evening off.

  ‘Gregory?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me. Who’s this?’

  The man at the other end of the line cleared his throat. ‘It’s Duncan… Mairi’s father.’

  My stomach dropped. The last time he had called me was to tell me that Mairi wasn’t coming home and that they’d called off the search.

  I swallowed hard. Five months had passed since he had dropped that bombshell, and I was dreading the reason for his call. I inhaled a deep, cleansing breath as quietly as I could.

  ‘Duncan… hi. What… what can I do for you?’

  ‘I… erm… thought you’d want to know that some of the equipment belonging to Mairi’s expedition team has been recovered.’

  Fuck! ‘I see… I see. Anything else?’ My heart was hammering so hard, I felt sure he could feel the vibration all the way down in Dumfries.

  ‘Nothing else. Just some of their smaller items. Due to the location they were found in, it appears they may have fallen from higher up the mountain. There was no sign of – of bodies.’

  The word bodies made my head swim, and suddenly I felt overcome with nausea. I had to lean on the windowsill and breathe deeply. ‘Okay. Thanks for letting me know, Duncan. I appreciate your call.’

  ‘That’s okay. And, Gregory?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m… erm… very sorry about what Paula said to you last time we spoke. She knows deep down that none of this was your fault. She was just looking for someone to blame. Mairi was her only daughter and losing her…’ he cleared his throat again ‘… was so very painful for her mother.’

  My lower lip began to tremble as Paula’s words echoed in my mind and stabbed at my heart all over again. ‘If you hadn’t encouraged her, she’d still be here. You should’ve stopped her from going. You obviously didn’t love her enough. And now she’s dead thanks to you!’ I closed my eyes and chewed the inside of my cheek, fighting the despair tugging at my insides.

  ‘Aye, Duncan. I know that. Thank you.’

  ‘Right… well… if I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Duncan.’ I ended the call and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. More shit had been found but still no sign of my Mairi.

  The fact that Mairi’s mother had blamed me for the death of her daughter five months ago had saddled me with a heavy weight of guilt that I was struggling to shake. How could I move on with my life when things kept reminding me that I was doing so alone? Without her.

  I needed some air.

  I grabbed my iPod and my thick jacket. The sky looked heavy with snow, but I needed to get out and clear my head. I pulled on my hat, scarf and gloves and called to Angus. He’d go out whatever the weather.

  We walked down the lane from my house towards the main part of the village. I stuck the buds into my ears and hit play. ‘Set Fire to The Third Bar’ by Snow Patrol filled my head as I walked. The lyrics about distance tortured me and visions of Mairi out there in that icy landscape all alone plagued my frontal lobe but still I listened. The words took on their own meaning just for me and I wished more than anything that I could hold Mairi again; be transported to where she was just like the song said.

  Huge, glistening flakes of snow began to float to the ground, twisting and turning as they made their descent. Gazing up into the dark sky, I watched their journey. There would’ve been snow at the high altitude of Mairi’s climb. The fact that she would have been so frightened, cold, and maybe even physically hurt twisted at my gut and my eyes began to sting. Was it my fault? Could I have done anything to change her mind?

  No.

  And if I had stopped her, she’d have resented me, and I would’ve lost her anyway. It was a lose-lose situation whichever way I looked at it, and I knew I had to work on the blame I was piling onto myself.

  Pulling the chilled air into my lungs, I hoped that I could somehow exhale all the anguish that I was holding onto. But instead when I reached the centre of the arched stone bridge, my legs almost gave way as I stopped and listened intently to the heartbreaking lyrics being played directly into my brain. Like a blade the words pierced me to the core, reminding me yet again that I was, in fact, without the woman that I loved and that the situation would never improve. I would never see her again.

  She was gone forever, and forever was a hell of a long time.

  Chapter Four

&
nbsp; By the time I arrived back home, there was a thick covering of white over the road. The garden looked like an iced Christmas cake waiting for its holly and berry adornments. A veritable Christmas card scene, in fact. The thought made me snort derisively.

  That was another thing that irked me: Christmas had always been my favourite time of year. Mairi was such a kid when it came to gift giving, and she always went over the top. She never spent lots of money or anything, but you could hardly move in the house for bloody paper chains and tinsel. There was always the biggest tree we could find, taking up half the lounge and decorated in such a way that made it look as if we’d hired five-year-olds to do it.

  We had every crass singing Santa figure she could find and a life-size inflatable snowman for the front yard. She was so thoughtful when it came to gifts too, and there were always lots of daft things for me. I’d received things like a key ring with a photo of the two of us on it, a guitar-shaped air freshener for the Landy – ’cause she always said it stank of wet dog – charming, eh? There was always a T-shirt of one of my favourite bands and usually some chocolate novelty thing like a Santa or reindeer. One time I got a photo collage she’d made of us in all our favourite places throughout the Highlands – that gift was my favourite. Aye, she never failed to make the festive season special.

  We’d usually defy convention and have something completely different from most Scots at Christmas. There was no turkey, no haggis, and no stuffing. Instead we’d have something like curry or kleftiko – just because it was fun and different. My favourite was the Mexican food we had at Christmas one year. She’d put too much chilli in the fajitas and they were almost inedible, but it was hilarious seeing the rainbow of colours our faces turned as we tried to get them down. I think we went through more beer in that one meal than we did the rest of the season put together.