Bridge of Hope

by Lisa J. Hobman

  Most of the people here had stayed at Clachan Seil all their lives, and when they 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 2010—seeing as there was a memory of her around every fucking 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 fucking 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. Some of the lyrics tugged at my heart and lodged a lump in my throat. 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 toward me as carefully 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 fucking 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.”

  “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 around 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 fucking 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’s more, could I sing? My voice was okay I suppose, but I was no fucking 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 fucking 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’d be 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 fucking 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. 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 ravage 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 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, w
ould 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, and “Chasing Cars” by one of my favourite bands, 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 a la Jimmy Page and making rather a poor attempt at an acoustic version of “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 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 ma 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 toward 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 tugged at my heart and mind as they took on their own meaning just for me. 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. 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 on to. 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

  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 liked 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 in 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 from 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 to 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 2009. 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.

  This last Christmas, however, had passed me by in a kind of drunken blur. There had been no tinsel or inflatable snowmen. No tree and no gifts. I’d been holed up in the house, drinking whiskey and wallowing in self-pity with no intention of venturing outside at all if I could help it.

  Stella and Ron had insisted on making the journey up the icy lane to bring me food and logs, despite my numerous protests. Stella had even warmed up a beef stew and stood over me to make sure I ate it. I had lost all the muscle definition that I’d spent time building up, and I was beginning to look anorexic. As a man who usually ate a tattie more than a pig does, I was very much aware that this was not normal; nor was it healthy.

  Since Christmas I’d been lifting the weights again in ma spare room. I’d always taken pride in my physique—and let’s face it, it wa
s another great way to release some of the tension and anger lodged deep inside of me since Mairi disappeared on K2. I was carrying the pain, bottling up so much grief and anger that I made a decision that would stay with me permanently.

  January 2011

  Sitting in the plush waiting area of the tattoo parlour in Oban, surrounded by black leather and images of the most intricate ink work imaginable, I bounced my knee up and down as my nerves jangled and my heart did its best to vacate my ribcage. Some of those tats must’ve taken hours upon hours to complete, and I could only imagine the pain that these victims—erm, clients—went through. I was no wimp, but electing to have someone stab me with a needle a few thousand times was not something that ever really had appealed to me before this shit had happened in my life.

  I’d been thinking long and hard about designs throughout the rest of January, and I’d settled on two. If I was going to go through the pain of permanent scarring, I figured fuck it, might as well get it all done at once.

  One of the tattoos was to mark the biggest loss of my life. But in complete contrast, the other one was a Gaelic phrase which roughly translated as “Love Conquers All”. A K2 wrapped in barbed wire would circle my bicep, and the Gaelic phrase would be printed across my chest in the hope that every time I saw it I’d be reminded not to fucking give up on love. I’d had shit luck with women in the past, that was certain. But I was still hopeful that one day, far off in the future—but not so far off that I was an old decrepit fart incapable of getting an erection—I’d meet someone who wouldn’t shag my best mate or die on a fucking mountain.

  One day.

  The artist called me over and I sat in the chair, bare chested and gritting my teeth. We’d discussed the designs and he’d shown me what he was going to do as soon as I arrived. To say I was shitting bricks was a major understatement. And fuck did it hurt. But a few hours later—and with my teeth surprisingly intact despite the fact that my jaws had been clenched the entire time—I was lathered in lotion, cling wrapped, and ready to go.