What Scotland Taught Me

by Molly Ringle

  “It is pretty confusing,” Shannon said.

  Laurence snorted. “No, it isn’t. He doesn’t want you to cheat. Period.”

  “Is that the guy-speak interpretation?” Shannon asked.

  “And the Tony-speak interpretation. ‘Keep this or end it,’ that’s what he says.”

  “But,” Amber pointed out, “he also says, ‘It’d be okay if you flirted and never told me.’ And then says, ‘Have fun.’ I think she’s free to take that as a green light, since he wasn’t clearer.”

  “Since he wasn’t clearer,” Laurence said, “she should ask him to clarify.”

  “No,” I said. “No way. I am not bringing this up with him again. There’s no need yet, right? The thing with Gil tonight, it’s just dinner.”

  “And what are you going to say,” said Laurence, “when he asks you if you have a boyfriend?”

  Jerk. Always cutting right to the sensitive heart of things. “I’ll say I do,” I snapped. “But that maybe six months apart will have an effect on that relationship. Which it might, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged, returning his attention to his oatmeal. The rising sun lit up the ends of his bed-tousled hair. “It sure will at this rate.”

  I took my phone back from Amber, and looked around the table in desperation. “Guys? Final verdict?”

  Amber yawned, flexing her arms across the table, almost knocking my oatmeal into my lap. “Do what you want. He gave you a ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ clause.”

  “Break up with him,” said Laurence. “If you’re going to chase guys here.”

  “He did say ‘Have fun’ and ‘Of course I’ll take you back,’” mused Shannon. “I figure, as long as your thing with Gil--or whoever--doesn’t get too serious, it shouldn’t hurt.”

  “I can live with that compromise.” I glanced at Laurence. “Provided someone doesn’t take it upon himself to tell tales.”

  He ran his spoon around the bowl, collecting the last oats. “Why would I do that? I don’t want to crush Tony’s little world.” He licked the spoon, and smiled at me. “I do, however, reserve the right to taunt you for this. Daily.”

  Exhaling in a gust, I stood up and slammed my bowl onto the table. “Fine. I’ve got to go to work.”

  “Good luck tonight,” Amber called after me.

  “Text us!” Shannon added.

  * * *

  I spent the day learning where all the dishes went in the Monteith Hotel, and how to serve coffee and tea. The novelty and bustle soon dispelled my anxiety-induced headache. Though my boss, the housekeeper, was brusque, her Scottish accent charmed me, as did the ancient stone building I worked in. I enjoyed looking up from the sink, breathing cool breezes from the open window, and gazing into the hotel’s courtyard. Its small trees, cherries or plums of some sort, had already lost their leaves in this northern climate. In addition, an oven mitt in the hotel’s kitchen featured the same yellow, blue, and red tints that were splashed all over Gil’s shirt last night. It made me smile.

  I dried teacups with a pulse of girlish excitement I hadn’t felt in a long time. It had been many a month since I’d waited for a boy to call. And with that one (Tony) I hadn’t really been in suspense; he exuded trustworthiness, so when he kissed me after school that spring day and told me he’d call, I knew he would. And of course he had.

  Before him, with my first boyfriend Wilson Krauss, I had felt these jitters, and rightly enough, as Wilson turned out to be a head case. Here follows a sum-up of our relationship:

  Wilson: You’re checking that guy out. You’re cheating on me!

  Me: No I’m not! I love you.

  Wilson: Prove it. Take off your pants.

  (Repeat the above scene eight or nine times.)

  Being young, and fearful of never obtaining another boyfriend if I lost Wilson, I had complied with his gross requests. He pressured me, yes, but sometimes I actually enjoyed our twisted experimentations. The enjoyment decayed into resentment, though, and leaving my virginity in his unworthy hands, I finally broke up with him after we had dated for one year and two months.

  After that, I considered it a sign of my supreme health that I had experienced happiness with someone as stable as Tony--or lust for anyone at all.

  Not that Tony succumbed to my advances. A proper Catholic all around, he still held his own virginity intact. He knew about Wilson, but never so much as grimaced in disapproval. He only admitted to a smidgen of jealousy. I sometimes suspected God, or genetics, had assigned him an abnormally low level of hormones--or an immense amount of willpower.

  At this rate I’d have to wait until our wedding night to find out. I smiled dryly at the idea as I wrung out a green sponge in the Monteith Hotel’s sink.

  “That’s five o’clock, then.” The voice of the housekeeper startled me out of my thoughts. “You can be off.”

  And just like that, it was time to go meet Gil. My heartbeat took off like a skyrocket.

  Chapter Six: Girlfriend-Boyfriend Stories

  I climbed to the Royal Mile, the low September sunshine spilling orange between dark buildings. My knees wobbled as I ascended the steep streets, both from the lack of traction in my navy blue flats, and from the thought of seeing Gil. I admired the old stone buildings I had only seen in moonlight, and while slightly drunk, the night before. I peered shyly into gift shops, bakeries, and restaurants. Outside St. Giles Cathedral I found the paving stones arranged in a heart, where people were supposed to spit as they walked by, for luck. From the look of it, the citizens duly observed this custom. Yuck.

  I arrived, panting for breath, at Borthwick’s Tavern, which lay at the high end of the street, a few hundred yards from the castle.

  Gil waited there, leaning on the wall. “Oi, tourist.” He strolled to meet me, denim jacket open to the autumn air.

  I smiled. “Hi. Right on time.”

  Today his hair swung loose around his neck, the brown locks tinted orange by the sunset. He was attractive enough to have caught my attention even if I hadn’t known him, despite the shirt he wore, which featured a paisley motif containing every shade of purple known to man. I tried not to giggle.

  “How was work?” he asked.

  “Not bad. I did spill coffee on one table, but not on anyone’s lap.”

  “No harm done, then. I’m famished. Shall we have our tea?”

  “Sure.”

  He swung around, and I followed him back down the street, past a spiky black church. “I wouldn’t think tea would satisfy hunger,” I added.

  “Ah, no. Tea, it’s a nickname for dinner here. ‘Eat ma tea,’ all that. Means having your nightly meal.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Stupid American.”

  “It’s all right. I’m used to it.”

  A girl could have taken that as an insult to her country, but his cuteness inclined me to forgive him.

  We sat down with a plate of fried fish and curry-flavored chips at a table so small our feet overlapped beneath it.

  “This boyfriend, then,” he said. “What’s that about?”

  “Tony. Um...” I wiped grease off my fingertips with a napkin. “We’ve only been seeing each other four months, and I’ll be here six months, so, you know, there’s a good chance he’d understand if I sort of saw other people, for the duration. Though I don’t think he wants me to tell him if I do.”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him?”

  “I don’t like thinking of it that way, but, yeah, I guess.”

  “Only fair. Six months is a long while.”

  I nodded, and gave in to the urge to spin the spotlight upon someone else. “So, what’s this sad story about a girlfriend?”

  He bit into another chip. “Wasn’t even a girlfriend, really,” he said, chewing. “I’ve only worked at the pub four months, right?”

  “Have you? Okay.”

  “Before that, I was an assistant techie sort of person at a recording studio here in Edinburgh.”

  I thumped down my cup of watery Coke in
surprise. “Seriously?”

  He leaned back in his chair, squinting out the window. “Started as an unpaid intern when I’d finished my college courses on sound editing and such, over a year ago. Then they hired me afore long.”

  “That’s awesome. Why did you quit?”

  “Didn’t quit. I was fired.”

  “Oh.”

  His feet slid out further, arranging themselves next to the legs of my chair. “There was this girl I worked with--a bit older than me. I’m twenty; she was twenty-five. More than that, she was the boss’ daughter. Now I liked Shelly, but nothing came of it. I never said anything I shouldn’t have to her, only sometimes flirted and that. I thought she didn’t mind.”

  “Doubt she would’ve,” I said, attempting to flatter.

  “Well. Her dad, John, he minded. Called me in one day, having overheard me make some remark about her arse to another bloke I worked with.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Aye. It turned into a great rabble--him bringing up all the things I supposedly did wrong, me losing my temper and saying things they were doing wrong as well. And so he sacked me.”

  “And Shelly?”

  He grimaced, spinning the empty chip plate with his fingertip. “Unfortunately I bumped into her on me way out. I was still absolutely furious. She asked what my problem was, having no idea what her dad had just done, and I, erm...not so wisely I told her, ‘Fuck you and your dad both.’”

  I handed him one of my last chips, in sympathy. “Yeah. I’ve said a lot of stuff I shouldn’t have, too.”

  “Haven’t talked to any of them since. Cheers.” He ate the chip. “It’s too bad. The Hammer Mountain Valentines were to record later this year. Would have loved to meet them.”

  “Hell yeah. Me too. I have at least five of their CDs.”

  “Ah well. It’s over now.”

  “So you found the pub job after that?”

  “Aye. My friend Dave works there, and took me on. That’s been that.”

  “Huh.” I sipped the remnants of my Coke. Ice rattled. “So if Shelly walked in and said, ‘I forgive you and want to be your girlfriend,’ would you take her?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. Easy to say as it’s not about to happen. Anyway, she’s likely found someone else by now. And you? You’ll return to this, eh, Tony after your time’s up?”

  “That’s the default plan.”

  “Good. We know the situation, should we ever need to know.”

  We exchanged shy smiles. His foot shifted and rested against mine, as if by accident, but he left it there.

  I broke the silence by remarking, “I bet the pub job’s not as much fun as the studio.”

  “Not by half. I miss the work more than the girl, truthfully.”

  “You could get another job like that again someday.”

  “Only if neither John nor Shelly is asked to speak of my performance on that one.”

  “Still, is that what you want to do? Something at a recording studio?”

  “Oh aye, definitely.” He perked up. “You’d not believe the bands I got to meet.”

  That started us on a music discussion that lasted nearly an hour. My proudest moment was when I named a Scottish band whose CDs I owned, and he beamed, snapped his fingers, and said, “They’re brilliant! Their drummer’s from the town me dad grew up in. Ah, I’m fair chuffed you’ve heard of them.”

  I then asked whether “chuffed” meant “surprised” or just “happy.” The latter, he informed me.

  Long after dark, when the time came to go our separate ways, he walked me to Waverley Bridge, where I could get down to Princes Street and the hostel.

  “Me bus comes in a few minutes,” he said. I’d learned over dinner that he still lived at home with his family, a few miles from the center of Edinburgh. “I hope you’ll be all right, walking down there alone.”

  “I imagine so. Thanks for dinner. I’ll buy the next one, okay?”

  “Aye, it’s a deal.” He grinned, standing a few feet from me, swinging his arms. Then he lurched forward and caught me in a hug.

  I embraced him, feeling thin bones and warm flesh, smelling clean hair laced with the smoky-whisky Edinburgh wind. Oh, dear. I could get used to this.

  He bounced backward again. “Talk to you soon. Text you, perhaps.”

  “Okay. Goodnight.”

  As I walked down the sidewalk along the bridge, I opened my cell phone and checked my new texts. Shannon’s said, “Going OK?” Amber’s simply said, “WELL??” Laurence, mercifully, hadn’t contributed anything.

  I put away the phone. I’d be back soon enough to tell them in person.

  And what would I tell them? Well, the truth: I hadn’t kissed Gil, we hadn’t become lovers, we hadn’t done anything naughty. And enjoying a little hug wasn’t wrong, was it? At any rate, it certainly wasn’t cheating.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Chapter Seven: The Castle Tour

  My friends had built up my “open relationship” into such a scandal that they seemed a little disappointed when I told them I had neither kissed Gil nor reserved a motel room with him for next time.

  “Jeez, you guys, first date,” I said.

  “Yes.” Laurence sprawled on his bunk, turning pages of a newspaper. “Give her at least the second date before she gets pregnant.”

  Sitting on the floor, I kicked his bed. “Shut it. So what’s new around here?”

  “I emailed my dad.” Amber looked surprisingly serene about it, filing her nails as she sat on her bunk.

  “Wow. Any answer?”

  “Yep. He said he’d be happy to come see me. Should be able to come meet me for lunch in a couple weeks.”

  “Oh, my God. That’s amazing.”

  “Maybe. I don’t want to build it up to anything yet.”

  “Sure, understood. Did he say anything else? What he’s up to, why he left you guys?”

  “Nah. Just ‘Great to hear from you, thought about you all these years, looking forward to seeing how you grew up.’”

  Shannon, stitching a Scottish flag patch onto her backpack, piped up, “I told her we want to meet him, too.”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  Amber shrugged. “We’ll see when we schedule something. He could still completely flake on me.”

  “True.” I looked at Shannon. “What about you, Shan? Anything new?”

  “Kind of. Remember those university students I talked to at the pub? One of them emailed me and invited me to come help with their theater costumes. They’re doing Much Ado About Nothing. I’m not sure I have the time, but still, the invitation made me feel warm and fuzzy.”

  “Applying a tape measure to Scottish actors? I’d be there in a second if I could sew.”

  “Too bad you have to settle for barkeeps,” Laurence said.

  I glared at him. “What about you, slacker? Accomplish any job-hunting, or did you just lie on your ass all day?”

  “I scoped out good lunch places and bookstores, if you want to know. No technical job-hunting, but I might already have a lead on a job anyway.”

  “Is it the Pizza Hut down the street? Because I think you’d look awesome in those hats.”

  “Funny girl. I’m saying nothing until it’s finalized.”

  “Yeah, okay, mystery man.”

  “So when’s the ghost hunting start?” Shannon asked Amber.

  She blew nail dust off her fingertips. “Whenever you guys have a free afternoon. I plan to drag you up to the castle. Ought to start at the site of countless tortures, imprisonments, and executions, right?”

  Which, you must admit, not every travel companion is likely to say.

  * * *

  We found time for the castle tour a few days later, when Amber and I had a day off and Shannon only had to work in the morning. Laurence, meanwhile, still lazed around at his convenience, despite this rumor of a job lead.

  “I just know I’m going to see something,” Amber said as we huffed up the hill. “My eardrums have been
doing the tingly thing off and on ever since we got here.”

  Amber’s ghost-seeing came with physical symptoms. First, she claimed, her eardrums vibrated as if someone were sending out a low-frequency sound at the edge of human hearing. If the ghostly presence hung around, her temples started aching next. Third and final warning came as a dizzy sensation in her stomach, which she compared to falling, or a sudden dip in the road while driving. Then, ta-da! Ghostly apparition.

  Or sometimes she just experienced the first stage or two, and then nothing.

  “So the famous ghosts haven’t shown themselves yet?” I asked.

  “Not so far, which is fine with me if I’m in the hostel basement doing laundry. But castle dungeons--ooh!” She shivered, grinning. “That’s the perfect place for them.”

  We paid our admission, crossed the dry moat via a stone bridge, and joined a group within the castle walls. Up here on top of the rock, the wind sailed over the open walls and whipped around the gray stone structure. The thirty or so people in our group pulled their coats tighter and clutched their baseball caps onto their heads. (Ah, American tourists. I prided myself at having left all my baseball caps and fanny packs at home.)

  Our guide, an old man with twinkling blue eyes, wore a red-and-green plaid kilt with a furry pouch slung around it, high white socks, and a fleece pullover stitched with the Edinburgh Castle logo. As he made preliminary small talk with the tourists, Amber hooked her arm into Laurence’s. “What are the odds we’ll get you into a kilt?”

  “Uh, let’s see. Eighteen thousand, four hundred and fifty-seven to one.”

  Our guide called us to attention with a booming welcome to the castle. He launched into the spiel of how humans had lived atop this rock and made it their fortress for well over two thousand years, before the castle proper was even built. He beckoned us to follow him within. As he led us through rooms, courtyards, and passages, he pointed out historically significant weapons stuck to the walls or chained to the floors, and told us who they were used by and against.