Chapter 30
Lesson 29: When people care for you, they will find ways to show it. Foster those friendships.
Reading List: Selected Poems by Robert Burns (not read)
Bridget Jones Tally:
surprises—1
stories—8
unforgettable nights—1
pints—who can remember
With so much going on within and without, it’s no wonder I lost my sense of time and date. It came as a blindsiding shock,
then, when the group surprised me for my birthday.
Once back in Scotland, we had stopped in Dumfries (home of Robert Burns) on the westerly side of the Scottish Borders, and
went straight to the Globe Inn for supper at a time that was nearer to lunch.
It seemed a bit early for a pint, but everyone else at the table had ordered drinks, and it took me no time at all to decide
to follow suit. I chose a deliciously nutty milk stout to go with my wild mushroom, thyme, and Wensleydale pie that was so
decadently savory I nearly blacked out at first bite.
The conversation over dinner bubbled like a brook in a hurry. I wondered if perhaps it was just the booze, but it felt like there was a buzz of excitement coursing through our little gaggle. It was all I could do to keep up with the messy flow of several diverging and converging conversations. It was fun! I buzzed right along with them. Looking back on that first day in Edinburgh, I wondered how I could have peered into that fluffy cloud of white hair and seen tired and boring. They made me feel more alive just to be around them, reminding me every day that life is for the living.
After dinner, rather than going back to the B&B, I followed the crowd into another cozier room in the pub, ordering another
round and settled in by the fire—lit and fully roaring, despite it being the raging ides of spring (this was Scotland, after
all). We sipped our drinks and chatted away, and after some furtive glances between the ladies that confused me, Madge stood
up and parked herself in front of the fire, warming her hands, clearing her throat, and then turning around to address us.
“Right.” Her voice was loud and definitive. She looked squarely at me for a beat, during which I feared that I had perhaps
been found guilty of some heinous social crime or other and was about to be publicly exposed. Did I use the word pants incorrectly again?
“Today is our Alice’s birthday.” I gasped and put my hand to my gaping carp mouth, and everyone giggled delightedly. How on earth did they know? How on earth had I forgotten? Once everyone quieted down again, she went on. I flushed with emotion.
“And so we thought, what better opportunity than tonight to take a moment and enjoy how lucky we are to have her?”
“Hear! Hear!” someone shouted. Others hooted, and there was an uproarious noise of adulation, tapping on glasses and stomping
feet. You would have thought I had just ran and won the Kentucky Derby topless in flip-flops.
I felt a prickle behind my eyes. Some of the strangers in the pub joined along in the clapping and shouting, seemingly unbothered by the scene we were making at 6 p.m. in this otherwise perfectly respectable pub.
“So we’re going to start by embarrassing you. Alice, you are an absolute ray of sunshine! Even when shit gets bad, and we
all know that the shit got bad for you on this trip”—unreserved laughter at my expense—“you somehow manage to keep laughing. You are helpful, thoughtful,
caring, intelligent, and generous, but most of all, you like to listen, and boy, do we like to talk!” More hooting. “You’ve
made each of us feel as if you truly care about our lives and our stories, and that’s why we came up with this little idea.
Well, it was collaborative, really—we all put our heads together to make it happen.
“So for you, Alice, for one night only, The Moth —UK amateur edition—comes to Dumfries!” I gasped again. The ladies went wild with applause. I was laughing so much that my
face hurt.
“Alice, we all know your life has had some ups and downs lately, and we’ve all felt the pain you have gone through—all the
more keenly because, in our many, many combined years, we’ve been there several times over. Spending every waking hour in one another’s pockets the way we have these
past weeks, we’ve all seen you grow during this trip. We know you like to have things organized and under control, with a
plan firmly in place, but as I’m sure you now know, life doesn’t seem to care much about your schedule. But when plans get
ripped asunder, that’s the best time to start fresh, to build something beautiful from the wreckage. And we can all see that
you’re well on your way!” A lump started to gather in my throat.
“So without further ado—I’ve always wanted to say that—the theme tonight is ‘When Life Didn’t Follow the Plan.’ All the ladies
have been notified in advance and prepared something for you.”
Madge addressed the other patrons then.
“Thank you, to all you poor bystanders out there who are tuning in, whether or you want to or no. We’re all going to tell some stories from our lives. They can be no longer than five minutes. Chatty ladies, you know who you are , we will be tapping our glasses like so at the three-minute mark”—Madge paused to lightly clang a glass—“and then again at
four, and finally we will drag you off by your hair at five. Now, all these stories are one-hundred-percent true, but you
don’t have to take our word for it—just ask our therapists!”
Madge was loving this, which made it all the more fun to watch. There was lots of applause, both from our group and outsiders.
Then Madge took Robbie’s flatcap from the table, dropped in slips of paper, swirled them slowly to great dramatic effect,
and finally pulled one out.
“Well... the lovely Lorna, looks like you’re up!”
“Oh heavens,” she said. “Up first?” But up she stood, and moved into position in front of the fire. Then she walked back to
her seat, picked up her pint, and took a giant swig as she brought it back to her position, to the sound of cheers from the
ladies. It was a good start. I held my breath. I couldn’t believe they were doing this for me.
“Well. I’m going to start the night with a serious one,” she said apologetically. “This may come as a shock to all of you,
but...” She paused for a beat. “I’m gay.” We all laughed at her delivery.
“Some of you look surprised,” she lied. “...so was my husband.” From that point, the story took a turn and became more
sincere, and deeply moving. They had gotten together very young and stayed together for thirteen years, tried to start a family,
miscarried. She wove us through love and loss, and the unforgettable and unforgivable feeling of breaking another person’s
heart. In the end, she told us that if she had it all to do over again, she would do everything just the same, and not change
a thing, because we are what love and pain and joy makes of us, and she was a product of a beautiful life, flawed though it
was. All of it had brought her to Madge and the happy life they had shared together for nearly thirty years.
When she was done, I really wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I had to wake myself up from the story. I felt like crying, but somehow found myself smiling instead. When she left the spot of privilege to regain her seat, I stood and swept her up in a great big hug.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “That was beautiful. You’re beautiful.” She stroked my hair until her applause died down and then
sat next to me, her hand on my knee, as we waited to see who would be called next.
Doris was next. She told a hilarious story about her great-grandson’s eighth birthday, when she had planned to take them all
to the city to visit an escape room as a birthday surprise. Upon arrival at an establishment called the Booby Trap, they emerged
through a dark mysterious hallway to find themselves at a strip club at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon, where a woman was entertaining
“naked as a jaybird.” Of course, little Artie saw everything.
Doris had clearly told this story many times before, and her comic timing was impeccable. We were wild with laughter. When
she finished, I swept her up in a hug that shook with giggles.
One by one they went up, and I fell forward into their stories, feeling their joys and sorrows along with them: my friends,
my role models. Then I gathered each one into a hug and tried to press all my gratitude into them.
When Flossie got up, I thought it would be another wild mermaid story, but while some of it did seem to be a tall tale, a strong thread ran through it that was remarkably poignant—about the loss of her first love. She said that she had run away from home and a tyrannical father at sixteen and was found by a sultan. They toured the world together, she said, and she spoke of tents and lanterns, a large menagerie of wild beasts, and the beautiful glittering gowns that he had given her to wear. After they had circled the globe and returned home to her father, the sultan had asked for Flossie’s hand in marriage. But her father had flown into a rage and threatened to kill the sultan, and they never saw each other again.
It was a beautiful, sad story. The way she spoke about falling in love and having it torn away sounded every bit as real to
me as anything else. I’d never seen Flossie look hurt or sad, but the emotion washed raw across her face and left me quite
moved.
“Maybe she’s remembering past lives,” I heard Lorna whisper. When I hugged Flossie she clung to me, and I clung to her too.
When it was Agatha’s turn, she got up and told us that Flossie’s story was “hogwash,” which felt unfair but not unexpected.
Then she told a story about a neighbor who moved into the cottage next door and was sneaking over at night to cut Agatha’s
roses that she had grown for the flower show. I was surprised and touched that Agatha had actually played along. I hugged
her stiff little body that seemed to be all elbows and shoulders before she waved me off, but I thought I caught a small smile
on her lips when she thought no one was looking.
Berrta told us a thrilling story about coming across a bear in the woods when she visited Canada on a wilderness tour, very
much to her surprise and to the bear’s. Berrta did not need glass-clanking reminders to finish her story on time.
Helena’s story was about a mishap in her university years that saw her going to the wrong room for a life drawing class and
disrobing in front of an architecture seminar. Once the professor arrived, she realized her mistake. She was mortified, but
had refused to show it. Instead she had slung her robe over her shoulder and walked out naked with her head held high. It
was a hilarious tale.
I could not get enough. I wished I had time to write everything down.
With only two stories left, Madge got up and told us about discovering the child abuse of a young Glaswegian girl that led her to work in social care, where she would spend many long and reward ing years looking after people who could not speak for themselves. I cried, and when I hugged her, I sobbed more into her scarf.
“Thank you, ladies,” Robbie said as he walked to the fire. “It’s the end of the night, and I won’t take much of your time,
but I thought I’d let you know how we all ended up here. Now, most of you know that I live a very adventurous life filled
with danger. As is the case for most historians. But what you might not know was that I was originally on track to be an astronaut. Yes, a real-life astronaut with grand plans to travel to outer
space and discover new planets, make friends with aliens, and fly through a black hole. I was ten at the time, but I could
wait.
“That year I begged and begged my mother to let me go to space camp. I had asked around and done my research, and I discovered
that there was a space camp down in Gloucestershire.
“Now, at ten years old, you’ll no be surprised to hear that I was a selfish wee bastard, and it had never occurred to me that
my single mum and I didn’t have a whole lot between us, and that she may not be able to afford a fancy weeklong space camp
in England.
“When my birthday came round, she told me the news, that I would be going to summer camp. And there was much rejoicing. But.
I would not be going to space camp. I was going instead about an hour away to the ruins of a castle in Dunure, with two very old archeologists
and six other nerdy weirdo kids. We’d be there for five days, and we’d camp out in tents on the rocks in the cold sea air
and spend our days learning about stupid history that I didn’t care a damn thing about, and digging in the dirt for old junk.
And get this—we weren’t even allowed to keep the old junk we found! It was history camp. And it was the very worst thing I
could imagine.
“I moped for a full month. That’s probably where I got these wee scowl lines right here. I begged my mum not to make me go,
but nothin’ doing. I dragged my feet and whined the whole way there.
“Well, we camped, we cooked outside, we played games and dug for treasure, we made hot chocolate over the fire, and we learned a lot about history. And to my surprise, I loved every damn minute of it.
“It was a fluke. Mum couldn’t afford space camp, so she picked something cheaper. I was pure gutted. It was the most devastated
that I had ever been in all my ten years. But it was when I was denied what I wanted most in the world that fate—and my mum—instead
gave me a smack on the backside that changed my life forever. History became my passion. That trip set my life on a different
course. That terrible summer—when I had the worst luck, when I drew the short straw—it changed my life forever. After that,
I went to more history camps. I made history friends. I went on to read history at university and eventually to start my own
historical tourism business.
“But luckily for you ladies, there’s no camping outside, and Percy is the only one who digs in the dirt for buried treasure.”
Everyone roared with applause. It was the last tale, and we were several pints in. It was a sweet end to a magical evening.
I couldn’t help but picture a whip-smart, grumpy little ten-year-old with big blue eyes and messy hair.
I had loved his story. I had loved all the stories. There was so much wisdom there, so much laughter and pain, and so many
things that I wanted to write in my notebook and never forget. They had all given me pieces of themselves as birthday gifts,
and they were more precious to me than they could imagine.
I asked a gentleman at a nearby table to take a photo of all of us by the fire. And it was only then, with a smile stretched
wide across my rosy cheeks, that I realized I had completely forgotten to be depressed about a day that I had been dreading
for nearly a year.
I padded sleepily back to my room across the carpet of the inn, smiling gently to myself. I had had a lot of wonderful birthdays
in my time, but none so deeply moving, nor so memorable.
I was grateful to Robbie and the ladies for caring enough to organize something for me and making it so special, and grateful to the ale that made me feel like I was floating along the hall like a feather caught in a lazy draft.
As I turned the corner, I stopped short to see Robbie by my door, straightening up after putting down a little parcel for
me on the floor. He took a step away and then came back to fix the bow, making sure that it looked perfect. Before he stood
up again, I had crossed the distance quietly and was standing just behind his shoulder. He bumped into me and then gave a
start and a sharp gasp.
“Bloody hell, Alice, you creeper!” He grabbed both of my arms and laughed. “What are you doing sneaking around in the shadows
like? Waiting to cut my heart out, I suppose.”
“Nah. The black market only wants healthy, red-blooded organs.” I smirked.
He laughed, then sighed. His warm breath carried with it the spice of honey and whisky. It stirred my messy wisps of hair
and made my skin tingle.
“Well, I just wanted to leave a little something for you.” He ducked his head and cleared his throat.
He hadn’t yet let me go. He was staring at me. And for a blessedly long moment I thought he was going to kiss me. And for
that moment, all the reasons why we shouldn’t completely disappeared.
But he didn’t.
“Did you have a nice time tonight, duck?” Each word was as tender and intimate as the kiss that I had hoped for. I nodded
silently. A few strands of hair fell into my eyes and he let go of me then to brush it from my face.
“Tonight was...” I sighed, unsure how to put it into words. I closed my eyes to remember, shook my head, and grinned like
a Cheshire cat without saying another word.
“Good. You deserve a bit of a spoiling.”
I tried to think back to the last time anyone had done something so nice for me, and he must have seen the shadow of it in my eyes, because he gathered me up into a hug. We stood there outside my door and held each other, breathing steadily, comfort and alcohol coursing through our blood. I tucked my nose into the hollow made by his collarbone and the crook of his neck. I inhaled him and forgot about time, perfectly content.
“Alright, madam. Off to sleep with ye.”
“Should I open this now?”
He looked away for a moment and sucked a bit of air through his teeth. “Nah. You open it on your own.”
“Is it anthrax?” I mumbled sleepily, and then yawned.
He laughed. “Close. Special edition of The Name of the Rose , complete with poisoned ink. Good night, you.” He kissed me on the forehead.
“Good night, you,” I repeated, and closed the door softly behind me.
I put on my new flannel pajamas, brushed my teeth, and then sat back on the bed to examine my gift more closely. It was charmingly
wrapped with a scrap of tartan fabric rather than paper, neatly folded around what was obviously a book. It was tied with
twine, and the knot held a small, fresh-cut thistle loosely in place. When I plucked it out, I noticed that the thorns had
been snipped off, and I smiled.
The wrapping came away easily, and my breath caught—it was the beautifully marbled Scott book that I had cherished at the
charity shop in Bath. He’d remembered, and had gone back to get it and surprise me. That day in Bath was the day everything
had changed between us. I slid my hand over the leather binding like caressing the skin of a lover and inhaled the smell that
wafted from the old paper as I flipped the pages. It was beautiful. And it would remind me always of that day we shared together.
As I was looking at the illustration and roman numerals on the front plate, I noticed a little slip of paper that came loose.
A note written in a neat, angular hand.
“Look back, and smile on perils past.” —Walter Scott
Dear Alice Cooper,
Your trip here has already been quite perilous, and we are not yet nearly finished with you. I hope that every time you thumb
through the pages of this book, or see its marbled binding out of the corner of your eye, that you’ll think of the time you
traveled across the sea to have an epic adventure. That you’ll think of us. That you’ll think of me.
With love on your birthday.
Yours, Robbie
I hugged a pillow and smiled myself to sleep.