A Year of Finding Happiness

by Lisa Hobman

  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 whisky 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 my spare room. I’d always taken pride in my physique – and let’s face it, it was another great way to release some of the tension and anger lodged deep inside me since Mairi disappeared on K2. I was carrying the pain, bottling up so much grief and anger that at the beginning of the December after she died I made a decision that would stay with me permanently.

  *

  In early January I was 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 had ever really appealed to me before this shit had happened in my life.

  I’d been thinking long and hard about designs throughout the rest of December, and I’d settled on two. If I was going to go through the pain of permanent scarring, I figured, sod 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 that 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 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 my God 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.

  The tattoos looked amazing. It was definitely the right decision.

  When I got home I stood in the bathroom, removed my T-shirt and the coverings, and stared in the mirror, focusing on the new ink. I had my permanent reminder. Not that I thought I would ever forget, but the memorial service her friends held had felt inconsequential and so this had felt necessary. It was cathartic somehow. It was my own personal tribute to Mairi and what we’d shared.

  After the utter bitch my ex-wife had become, Mairi was the light in the darkness. She was the one person to make me hope again. To love again. I doubted whether I would ever love as strongly again, but… as my tattoo reminded me: Love conquers all.

  As I stared at my sore and bloody reflection, my lip began to tremble and my eyes stung with tears. Barbed wire was a fitting symbol of the agony I had gone through in the last four and a half months. Barbed wire that sliced into my heart and tore at my insides as I grieved without really knowing the truth and without being able to say goodbye.

  I re-covered the newly inked wounds, taking care not to catch the raised lines where it was sorest to the touch. A sob ripped from my chest and I hung my head as I let my grief pour out once again. How could this have happened? Mairi was an experienced climber. I just don’t bloody get it. I clenched my fist and slammed it onto the tiled surface surrounding the sink. The pain of the impact was a distraction from the aching in my chest, but it was only fleeting. A growl erupted from deep within my body and I smashed both fists down this time as I let a guttural, incoherent roar free from my throat. The noise sounded completely alien to me, and shivers vibrated down my spine.

  Why? Why did this happen to Mairi? Where’s the justice? She was so young, so beautiful, and so special. And she’s fucking gone! Ripped from me far too young and I can’t handle it.

  I just can’t bear it.

  I dropped to my knees on the cold, tiled floor and held my head in my hands. My stomach knotted; and as I clenched my eyes closed the dreaded images from my nightmares came back to haunt me yet again, assaulting my frontal lobe with such vividness. The fear in her eyes was more than I could take. Her outstretched hands reached for me as she fell. Was this how it actually happened? Her falling, terrified, to her death? Oh, God, I hoped not. Why did my psyche insist on torturing me in this way?

  I tried to breathe deeply, and, after eventually gathering myself, I staggered downstairs to grab the half-empty bottle of single malt from the kitchen countertop. I didn’t bother with a glass this time. I flicked on the CD player and turned up ‘From Where You Are’ by Lifehouse as loud as it would go. I kept on torturing myself with music and lyrics that reminded me how much I missed her, but it felt necessary. I felt closer to her when I listened to my innermost feelings expressed in music. The songs became a soundtrack to the less painful memories I held dear.

  I needed to get out of my head. I dropped onto the couch as the lyrics seeped into my mind and took hold of my heart, making my chest ache. The harsh sting of the tattoo was nothing compared to the nagging throb of emptiness inside me. I needed to numb the pain, and whisky was the only way I knew how.

  Chapter Five

  The nightmares continued and I found that whisky helped but it didn’t block out the terrors completely. January ran into February and my routine continued. Work, get drunk, sleep, have nightmares, wake, and the whole cycle would start over.

  One such morning after, I was woken by an ear-piercing, high-pitched ringing. At first, I presumed it was just my dehydrated brain rattling around in my head on account of the whisky consumption of the night before; but… as it continued, it registered in my foggy consciousness as the telephone.

  Oh, fuck. Who the fuck is bothering me at this fucking time? It’s the middle of the fucking night. No one ever fucking rings me unless I’m feeling like shit! What the fuck?

  I dragged my arse off the sofa where I’d crashed out and rummaged around with my eyes half closed until my hand located the cold plastic casing of the landline phone.

  ‘What?’ I barked down the line.

  ‘Gregory? Are you okay?’ a worried voice asked.

  Shit.

  ‘Oh… erm… hi, Stella. Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Sorry for snapping at you. What’s up?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that it’s gone twelve and you’re supposed to be at the pub for your shift, hon.’

  ‘What? It’s gone twelve? Midnight?’ Why would she want me in when the pub was closed?

  ‘No, hon. Midday. You were supposed to start at half eleven today to stock up the bar.’

  Shit. I’d overslept… no… no, hang on… I’d actually slept.

  No nightmares.

  ‘Oh, fuck. Shit, sorry for swearing, Stella.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve heard much worse from your mouth, Gregory. So, are you coming down?’

  ‘Erm… yeah, sure. I’ll have to shower and… I probably shouldn’t drive, so I’ll walk down. Give me an hour or so and I’ll be there. Sorry. I had a really shitty night.’

  ‘So I gather. Don’t worry. I was just worried you’d disappeared into
your own head again like you did at Christmas.’

  ‘Na’… nothing like that.’ My stomach rolled and bile rose in my throat as my mind flicked back to why I had drunk so much the night before. ‘Just… thinking too much, that’s all.’

  ‘I see. That’s what I was worried about. You’re not helping yourself, Gregory. You’re spending too much time on your own. It’s not healthy to do that when you’re grieving.’

  Grieving. That damned word. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I used to spend time alone before… before she—’

  ‘Look, love, I don’t mean to interfere, but I really think you need to stay busy and… and be with people. I can give you some extra shifts at the pub or… or you could come and play at the pub on an evening like I suggested to you. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, Stella. I just don’t know if I’m cut out to be a performer, you know?’

  ‘I’m not asking for you to be Freddie Mercury, love. Just sing and play like you did that time I was listening. It was lovely. You’re a natural.’

  ‘I’m still thinking on it. I’ll let you know, okay? Look, I’d better go get ready before the lunchtime rush, eh?’

  ‘All right, hon. See you in a wee while.’

  After I hung up, I rubbed my hands over my face and made my way up the stairs to the bathroom. I downed a couple of painkillers then turned on the shower and waited a few minutes for the water to run hot. After stripping out of my jeans and boxers, I flung them into the laundry basket and climbed under the cascading water. Drained of energy and emotion, I easily could’ve fallen back to sleep on my feet. My muscles ached as if I’d been fighting, and my head throbbed as if bloody Riverdance were going on up there.

  *

  About an hour and a half later I arrived at the pub. I glanced over at the bridge, where a young couple was standing looking out at the view, arms around each other. For a split second I was filled with envy at how happy they seemed to be. Laughing and pointing out into the distance.

  For a split second I hated them.

  I pushed through the door and made my way through the crowd of tourists to take my place behind the bar. A blonde woman sitting on her own was eyeing me up as I began to take drink orders from the busload of tourists that had descended upon the place. I’d noticed the coach parked over by the little shack across from the pub, and I hoped I’d arrived in time before Stella got pissed off with me for abandoning her on such a busy day. But I mean, come on, who goes on a bloody coach tour in the Highlands in February? Apparently Londoners who like to ski do.

  The blonde woman was wearing a low-cut sweater despite the winter chill and was eye-shagging me from the far end of the bar. I glanced over to make eye contact. She gave a sultry come-get-me smile and licked her full lips as she held her empty glass aloft. What the fu-u-u…? I finished serving the tourists and made my way over to her.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I asked in my usual surly manner.

  She leaned forward, giving me a full view of her cleavage.

  ‘What do you recommend?’ Her accent wasn’t Scottish but I couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘Well, that depends on what your tastes are like,’ I said, propping myself up on the bar before her.

  ‘Oh, I have very… how should I put it? Hmm… varied tastes.’ Her eyebrows rose infinitesimally. The innuendo wasn’t lost on me.

  I swallowed hard. She was an attractive woman, but she was no Mairi. Blonde hair in a flicky kind of style just above her shoulders. Nice figure, if a little too thin for my taste. But as I watched her, I wondered if maybe what I needed was uncomplicated, no-strings sex. Would that help? Probably not in the long run, but it was clearly being offered on a plate – and I am a hot-blooded male after all.

  ‘I can recommend the Oban single malt. It’s very smooth going down.’ What the hell was I saying?

  She bit her lip. ‘I like things that are smooth… going down.’ I poured her two fingers of the amber liquid and handed her the glass. She pouted. ‘And one for yourself. I don’t like drinking alone.’

  I poured myself the same and took a mouthful, hissing as the warmth coated my throat. ‘So, what brings you to Clachan Seil?’

  ‘I’m here with those guys.’ She gestured with a nod of her head. Her expression told me she was none too pleased about the fact. ‘I live in London. I was supposed to be here with my boyfriend, but he broke up with me two days before the trip so I figured sod it, I’ll go anyway. I thought perhaps I might meet someone to help me take my mind off things.’ She swirled the liquid in her glass and looked at me from under her long eyelashes.

  I dragged my cloth across the bar in front of her. ‘You’re not a Londoner though, eh? What’s that accent?’

  ‘I’m from Adelaide originally. I came to the UK with my family when I was around sixteen. I stayed. Never lost the accent though.’ She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

  ‘What do you do for a living, then? I’m guessing you’re a model.’ Oh, hell, seriously? Now you’re trying too hard, pal.

  She laughed. ‘Very observant of you. I am actually a model.’

  I felt my eyes widen. ‘Fuck, really? And here was I thinking it was a shitty pickup line.’

  She tilted her head. ‘And is that what you’re aiming for here? To pick me up?’

  I stopped wiping the bar in front of her and considered her question. Was I trying to pick her up? I’d thought it was the other way around.

  Stella came through from the back and made her way over to me. ‘Greg, I need you to change the Gairloch Grinder. It’s empty.’ She scowled at me as if she’d caught me doing something wrong.

  I frowned. ‘Aye, okay. Be right there,’ I told her before turning back to the blonde woman whose name I didn’t even know.

  She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Someone’s a little pissed off that you’re chatting to me.’

  I cringed. ‘Aye, well, she is ma boss so I’d better go and do ma job, eh?’

  ‘Okay, Greg.’ She said my name as if the feel of it on her lips turned her on. I nodded, at a bit of a loss for words. I was filled with a sense of relief that the conversation had been cut short. To be honest, I had no clue what I’d have done if I’d taken her home. No doubt I would’ve chickened out at the last minute and made a complete tit of myself.

  As I walked through to the back to make my way to the cellar, Stella grabbed my arm.

  ‘Look, Gregory, I know I wasn’t meant to interfere, but…’ She sighed as if unsure whether to carry on. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on with you and that blonde girl, but be careful, okay? Tell me to mind my own business, and obviously you do what you want to do. But you’re grieving, and I know from personal experience that silly mistakes can be made when you’re in the wrong frame of mind.’

  I nodded and she released my arm and patted it.

  As I changed the beer barrel down in the dimly lit cellar, I thought about what she’d said. She was right. I was a one-woman kind of guy. Sleeping with someone for the gratification of it just wasn’t me. I thought maybe I needed to keep that in mind when I went back up to the bar.

  The barrel was a tricky sucker, and I was down in the dingy cellar longer than anticipated. When I arrived back up at the bar, I spotted the blonde sitting on the lap of one of the other London tourists. Her tongue was stuck down his throat so I shook my head at my near miss and got back to work. Good to know I was so desirable, eh? Well, at least the experience taught me something. I wasn’t a one-night-stand type of guy. Never would be.

  Lesson learned. Thanks, blondie.

  Chapter Six

  February turned into March, and I was astounded at how life was going on as normal around me despite my grief. Stella gave me a weekend off, second weekend in March, and I decided to get out of the village. I packed up my Landy with my sleeping bag and a thick fleece blanket, a little stove, and some tins of crap I wouldn’t normally be caught eating. Angus and I got in the car and headed over to Etive Mor. We’d set off when it was still ligh
t, but it would be over a two-hour drive.

  As the Buckle came into view, my heart leapt at the stunning sight of the snow-capped mountain rising out of the bracken. I turned off down a little side road that I was very familiar with and pulled into my usual lay-by off to the left. Pulling my sleeping bag and other stuff from the car, I made my way down to the water and under the little bridge. Angus followed close behind. He knew the routine. I placed my sleeping bag and my stove on the ledge there and trudged back up to the road again. After gathering a few twigs and branches, Angus and I played for a while. He loved to fetch sticks, but he never brought back the one I’d thrown. Instead he always managed to find one that was far too big for his mouth and weighed far too much, almost toppling him over as he ran back to me. I couldn’t help but laugh at the crazy canine.

  As night fell, the temperature plummeted, and I sat myself on the little rock facing the craggy mountain where I’d met my true love a few years before. I pulled the flask of whisky from my coat pocket and unscrewed the lid. I took a long pull and gulped it down, appreciating its warmth. The complete disc of the silver moon was clear and bright, and it cast the most wonderful spotlight on my mountain.

  Our mountain.

  The night was cold but peaceful, and I stared upwards at the starry sky that surrounded the summit like a crown of diamonds. Was she up there, in the heavens, watching me? If she was, that would be the cruellest kind of torture. The familiar lump lodged in my throat, and tears began to trickle down my unshaven cheeks; the moisture left cold trails in its wake, but I didn’t much care.

  There was a sense of calm around the place. I felt at home despite my melancholy. Mairi and I had camped under the little bridge a couple of times, and it had become a special place for me. I felt her there. It was as if she was some otherworldly presence wrapping herself around me and comforting me.

  The trouble was, whenever I came here I didn’t want to leave.