What Scotland Taught Me

by Molly Ringle

  Shannon and Amber had done likewise in terms of quality, though they landed different job titles. Having reconvened, we now sat in Borthwick’s Tavern on the Royal Mile, the medieval high street that ran from Edinburgh Castle down to Holyrood Palace. We hadn’t seen Laurence all afternoon, so we’d texted him with our news and sallied forth without him.

  The pub looked like the British pubs I’d seen in movies: dark paneling, dim lights, a fire in the fireplace, a long mirror behind the bar, and posters for whisky and beer on the walls.

  “What’s the name of your place again?” Amber asked me, raising her voice to counter the jukebox, which was playing a ’90s hit by Blur.

  “The Monteith Hotel. Scrubbing dishes and serving coffee, baby.”

  “Sweet.” She turned to Shannon. “And you’re at the MacCloud or MacClap or...”

  Shannon speared a maraschino cherry with her umbrella’s toothpick. “McCreadie Guest House. Chambermaid.”

  “And here’s my scene.” Amber lifted her gaze to the rows of whisky bottles over the bar’s mirrors. “Pub life. Guess I’ll finally have to learn what goes into a Long Island Iced Tea.”

  The pub that hired Amber, she reported, was smaller, quieter, and drearier than this one--“a local favorite of the Bingo crowd,” she claimed. But it was only a five-minute walk from the hostel, and didn’t require her to get up before ten a.m., which sold her on the prospect.

  We sipped our drinks for the next half hour, yelling comments to each other and rating the music. Blur, U2, and Arcade Fire, we approved of. Journey, Spice Girls, and Matchbox Twenty, not so much. A few good-looking guys hung around the place, but we didn’t approach them; we just nudged each other and giggled.

  Then, horror of horrors, a man approached me. Shannon had gone to the restroom, leaving only Amber to defend me. He was at least thirty years old, with a missing tooth, a beer gut, and a carpet of chest hair spilling from his rugby shirt.

  He slouched on the bar beside me. The smells of alcohol and armpit wafted off him.

  “How ya doing?” he asked, in a broad Australian accent. Now that I was in Scotland, I was meeting more Australians than ever.

  “Swell,” I said.

  “I think you’d want to come home with me, you know,” he said. “My music’s better than this.”

  “Mm.” I studied the Guinness poster on the far wall of the pub.

  He tugged my braid. “I like your hair. All blonde and soft, like.”

  And freshly contaminated with sleaze cooties. I slid away, nearly falling off my barstool.

  Amber blasted him with a glare, which he didn’t notice.

  “Aren’t you going to look at me?” my swain persisted.

  As I calculated the nicest way to say, “Get lost,” a crisp Scottish voice behind me spoke up.

  “Don’t mind him, love. He’s guttered.”

  I turned. One of the bartenders, a lad about my age with a wildly patterned shirt, leaned against the brass rail and smiled at me.

  His hair was shoulder-length and brown, with the top half pulled back into a ponytail. When we had ordered our drinks, I muttered to Shannon that it was the stupidest possible way a guy could wear his hair. We also agreed nobody should wear a shirt like that, which looked like a traffic signal thrown into a blender. But now, noticing his lovely blue eyes and clean teeth, I felt inclined to be more generous.

  “Just thwack him one with a chair if he keeps at it,” he added, and scooted off to fetch someone a drink.

  He didn’t actually pronounce the final t’s in “at it,” nor had he pronounced the double t in “guttered”; he sort of skipped over them. During my job hunt today, I’d noticed that pattern in casual Scottish speech: a disregard for t’s, made up for by an extra roll of r’s.

  “Thinks he’s a big man or something,” said the Australian. “Ter, fine, just ’cause I don’t fancy trouble...” He lurched off and presumably found a table to sleep under.

  I spun on my barstool to smile at the lad who had come to my defense. “Thank you.”

  He scooped three pound coins off the bar and brought them to the cash register. “Aye, not a problem. He’s in here constantly, seems. I say he needs deporting.”

  I required a second’s delay after each phrase to translate the words under his accent, but I didn’t mind the difficulty. He had the prettiest accent, and one of the prettiest voices, I’d ever heard. A quieter jukebox song--“Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House--made it easier to hear for the moment, too.

  “We just got into town,” I told him. “Yesterday. Didn’t know we’d be meeting so many Australians.”

  He nodded. “Can’t walk round a corner without falling over one. I’m a rare beastie, an actual Scotsman working at an Embra pub.” “Embra” was more or less how Scots said “Edinburgh.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Kell,” he answered--or something like that.

  “Kell?”

  “Gil. G-i-l. Short for Gilleon.”

  “Oh. Unusual.”

  “Aye. It’s an ancient ancestral sort of a name, like.”

  Amber, still studying his shirt, asked with concern, “Are you colorblind?”

  I snorted and tried not to succumb to a giggle fit.

  “Cheeky lass.” He rested his chin on his hand. “Who are you two troublemakers, then?”

  “My name’s Amber. And I’m just kidding; I like your shirt, really.” She spoke dryly, so I knew she didn’t like his shirt, really. This made me giggle even more.

  He looked at me. I sobered up and said, “I’m Eva. Short for Evangeline.”

  “Fancy name for a wee lass.”

  “It’s ancestral, like yours. It was my great-grandmother’s name. She whacked two intruders over the head with a rolling pin. Killed one of them. Everyone called her a hero for it. The courts were a lot more sensible back then.”

  Oops. Too much information, or at least badly chosen information. He pulled away, keeping an eye on me, then shrugged and whipped a dishtowel onto the bar to wipe up a wet ring. “I’d say something about the violence of Yanks, but truthfully she sounds rather Scottish.”

  “How did you know I was American?”

  He shuddered. “Oi, with an accent like that?”

  “I don’t have an accent, you do.”

  “Aye, you’re the center of the universe, aren’t you, now?”

  We volleyed this banter back and forth for the next hour. Whenever he didn’t have his hands full serving other customers, he returned to me, leaned on the rail, and picked up our conversation. Meanwhile, Shannon stopped to talk to some university students on her way back from the restroom, and Amber asked a local couple for directions to the site of the old Tolbooth Jail. My two companions took turns pulling on my arm at about nine o’clock.

  Mr. Gilleon Leslie had engrossed my attention thoroughly (we had established each other’s last names by then), but I decided it would be unseemly to protest. Felt a little early to claim I’d found my one true Scottish flirtation, especially since I hadn’t broached the topic with Tony yet. So I put on my coat, and lingered until Gil sauntered over.

  “On your way out, then?” he asked.

  “Yeah. My friends want to see ghosts.”

  This apparently didn’t strike him as unusual. “Ah, right. The underground tours and such.”

  “I don’t know if we’ll catch a tour. Amber just sees ghosts.”

  “Does she now? Not a skill I’d like to have.”

  “Me neither. Oh.” I fished a pound coin out of my pocket and slid it across the bar to him. “Almost forgot. Good service deserves a good tip.”

  “Hmm. Listen, come here, I’ll tell you something.” He leaned across the bar. I leaned close enough to count his eyelashes. “Tips aren’t expected at pubs,” he said. “Restaurants, aye, but not bars. See, I’m honest. I could’ve said nothing and cheated a tourist.” He slid the coin back toward me.

  “I see.” I plucked it off the bar and place
d it flat in his palm. “Then as a reward for telling me, you get to keep this.”

  A waver in his eyes suggested that some streak of male pride in him wanted to refuse the coin, but he let my monumental charm win him over. “Thank you,” he said.

  I began to pull away from the bar, then stopped and drew out my new cell phone. “Here.” I spun it to face him. “Enter your number.”

  His smile spread, lifting the ends of his slender eyebrows. “All right.” After tapping in a few digits, he hit the Call button, and a ringtone sounded from within his clothes somewhere--the opening bars to the Beatles’ “Day Tripper.”

  I definitely approved.

  He extracted his phone from his back pocket, and thumbed the hang-up button. “There. Got yours now, as well.”

  Heart galloping in triumph--with a touch of panic--I retrieved my phone and stepped back. “Cool. Thanks.”

  “I’ll call you.” He made it sound beautifully casual, but looked into my eyes as he said it.

  “Thanks,” I repeated, like a moron. With a final wave to him, I left the pub with my impatient companions.

  Chapter Four: The Dreaded Question

  “Eva,” taunted Amber as we strolled down the Royal Mile in the cool night air. “Eva, Eva, Eeeeva.”

  “I know, I know. I’ll talk to Tony. I will.”

  “Gil is pretty cute,” said Shannon. “And that voice makes up for a lot of bad shirts.”

  “Nothing happened. We just exchanged numbers, that’s all.”

  “He’s going to call,” said Amber. “That lad did some major checking-out of the Eva.”

  “Really?” I was curious despite my better intentions.

  “Eyes on your ass the whole time when you walked to the bathroom.”

  “Oh. Then he’s probably disappointed.” My figure resembled a few yardsticks bundled together. Nothing at all for a tits-and-ass man to ogle.

  “Didn’t look disappointed,” said Amber. “So what are you going to say to Tony?”

  “Poor Tony,” said Shannon.

  Amber nudged her. “Hush.”

  “I can’t help it. He probably misses his girlfriend, and has no idea this whole thing is going on...”

  “This does not help,” I told her.

  “I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry. So what will you say?”

  “I’ll say...I don’t know. But I’ll say it by tomorrow. I swear. Okay?”

  * * *

  That night, after the others had gone to bed, I wedged myself onto the windowsill in the hostel’s kitchen, turned on my cell phone, and entered the text message I’d composed in my head.

  Dear Squirrel Teeth,

  Awkward, painful question. Would it be all right if I saw other people while I’m here? I want to be with you and go on seeing you when I get home, but it’s a long time, and it’s possible I’ll get lonely. Would it be awful? Would you approve? Please let me know your thoughts. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s okay to say no.

  Miss you lots and wish you were here so this wouldn’t even be an issue,

  E.

  I sent it off and put down the phone with a deep breath. He’d get it instantly. It was midnight here, thus four in the afternoon in Oregon. He was probably lounging at home on the sofa, flipping channels and eating chips and dip. His phone would beep...he’d pick it up and read the message...drop the bag of chips in shock...

  I shoved myself off the windowsill and stalked out of the kitchen. No point obsessing. Ought to change out of these interview clothes, at least, and get ready for bed while waiting for a response.

  The rest of Room 17 slept, so I had to fumble around in near darkness for the T-shirt and boxers I used as pajamas. I carted them, along with my toiletries bag, to the communal bathroom, and changed, shivering in the draft from the large old windows.

  Though I took as long as possible brushing my teeth and washing my face, my phone still didn’t chirp with any new messages. Making sure it was on vibrate mode, I climbed into bed with it, and cradled it against my chest like a favorite stuffed animal.

  My eyes were just drifting closed when the buzz against my ribs jolted me awake. I scrambled under the duvet with the phone, hiding the bright screen from the rest of the room, and read the message that appeared.

  Good to meet u. Care to have lunch sometime?

  Cheers

  Gil

  Well. Not what I anticipated, but a pleasant surprise. He probably thought I wouldn’t read it till morning...but why not pass the time texting until I heard back from Tony?

  Hi! Good to meet you too. I have to start work tomorrow, but maybe we can meet after? Dinner? Casual is fine.

  A few minutes later, his response came.

  You’re up late! OK, say 6 tomorrow? Btw didn’t you mention a b/f? Just meant to check.

  A boyfriend. Timely question, that. Yes. Well...

  I have a b/f at home but we may not last the whole time I’m here. Can discuss. 6 is fine. Where?

  Feeling treacherous already, I sent off the text.

  Almost instantly, another came in. Tony’s name on top stalled my heart for a moment.

  Wow. I don’t know how to answer that question. I can wait for you, but if you can’t wait for me, then maybe it isn’t meant to be. I guess I’d rather just keep it or end it. But I don’t want to give up on us that fast. I don’t know what to say other than that. Sorry, I know you’re being honest and that’s good, but I kind of wish I never read that message. I’d probably be happier if you flirted with people over there and then came back to me, and never told me. I’m not making sense anymore. Now what?

  T.

  Crap.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  What did that mean? I read it about twelve times, trying to tease out the message’s bottom line. Maybe because it was most convenient, I kept zeroing in on that sentence I’d probably be happier if you flirted with people over there and then came back to me, and never told me.

  Also, the final Now what?--that left it in my hands. Right?

  As I contemplated my response, Gil’s answer popped in.

  How about outside the pub since u know where that is? I don’t have a g/f right now either but that’s a long pathetic story. Looking fwd to discussing!

  I responded with the shorter, easier message first.

  See you at the pub, then. We’ll share stories. Night!

  Then, after much backspacing and replacing, I completed my answer to Tony.

  Oh T, I’m sorry. It was just a notion. Please forget I said anything. I’ll do my best to have fun here and still come back to you. If that’s okay? If you’ll have me?

  E., the dork.

  I tugged down the duvet for fresh air, and stared at the night shadows on the high ceiling until my phone buzzed again.

  It’s OK. You’re lucky I’m a patient and forgiving guy. Of course I’ll have you. Have fun, write often, and jeez, get some sleep! It’s 1 AM over there!

  Okay, that seemed promising. But was I only reading into it what I wanted to see?

  Chapter Five: Breakfast Round Table

  When my alarm clock woke me at 7:30, I staggered off to the shower, my eyes feeling grainy and my tongue dry. Those texts, on top of Irish cream, hadn’t contributed to the best sleep ever.

  Shannon was applying makeup in the bathroom mirror when I got out of the shower. She wore jeans and her fuzzy periwinkle sweater.

  “Hey,” I mumbled. “Are you going to work?”

  “Yep. They have a uniform for me, so it doesn’t matter what I wear when I walk over there.” She screwed the cap onto her lip gloss. “You?”

  “Yeah. I’m supposed to wear a skirt and tights, though.” Shivering, I applied deodorant under my bathrobe and stepped into my clothes. “So, I asked Tony about the open relationship thing in a text last night.”

  She spun around. “Dude! Any answer yet?”

  “Only the world’s most confusing answer. Come down to the kitchen. I need to wake up Amber and get her input, too.” />
  “I’m not sure I’d do that.” Amber’s late-sleeping habits were legendary, especially when propped up by a pub job that didn’t start till midday.

  “But I said I’d meet Gil tonight, right after work. I won’t have time to ask her later.”

  Shannon zipped up her makeup bag. “True. She’ll want to know. Let’s get Laurence, too.”

  “Ugh. Please.”

  “We need the guy perspective. Maybe he can shed some light on whatever’s confusing you.”

  I gave in. A few minutes later, we all sat with hot bowls of Scottish “porridge oats” at a table next to the kitchen window. The morning sky glowed foggy blue, silhouetting the castle’s ramparts.

  “So, does this turn you guys on?” said Laurence.

  I looked over to find him holding the box of oatmeal, which featured a ruggedly handsome man in a kilt and a white undershirt, flexing his bicep under the weight of a shot put.

  “Yeah, Laur, that’s serious hotness,” said Amber. She yawned, and narrowed her bleary eyes at me. “All right, Eve, give us the lowdown.”

  I passed my cell phone to her. “Get into the texts. The ones between Tony and me.”

  She punched some buttons. A smile developed on her lips. “Hm, sure are a lot between you and Gil. That was fast.”

  “Yes, another problem. Just read the Tony ones, please.”

  “Who’s Gil?” Laurence asked.

  “Bartender,” Shannon said. “Bad shirt. Pretty accent. Long hair.”

  Laurence grunted. “That’s the kind of thing that scrambles your eggs, is it, Eva?”

  I dealt him a lethal glare, and shoved oatmeal into my mouth.

  “Okay,” said Amber. “First, Eva writes...” She read my initial text aloud. Then Tony’s answer, my subsequent response, and his final message. She licked oats out of her teeth, studying the little screen. “Yeah, I’d have to agree that’s a mess of contradictions.”