Chapter 2 #2
Roz McIntyre rubbed at her young protégée’s arm, knowing Peaches was mostly talking about her.
Since Roz and McIntyre’s adult son, Murray, had moved into his own little townhouse down the road with his mountain ranger boyfriend, Finlay Morlich, she’d been glad of a project to really dedicate herself to.
The truth was, Roz was grateful to have the repair shop and the sweet and ditzy Peaches and Willie to distract her from her empty nest. These two fashion students had been coming here from the earliest days of the fixing barn, having responded to her advert for volunteer sewist-apprentices to help out with alterations on Saturdays.
It was three years since the shed opened its doors and that very first morning when the two awkward undergraduates had arrived to help out and learn as much as they could from Roz, who’d been sewing and knitting, darning and pattern-cutting as a hobbyist since her own student days in the early nineties.
The truth was, as her protégés excelled in their degree course, their skills had outstripped Roz’s and a slow role-reversal had taken place until they were the ones teaching her new techniques.
Neither Willie nor Peaches, however, had been astute enough to pick up on another shift taking place in Roz’s world; one that had seen her slowly sinking into herself.
They couldn’t know – because no one knew – that Roz was viewing her life in Cairn Dhu as though from behind thick glass, not quite connected, never fully present.
‘And you’ve got your essay written for the college too?’ Roz asked, the master of hiding her feelings.
‘You mean her assessed design statement?’ Carenza crowed. ‘Tell them the title, Peach, darling.’
Peaches reached for her phone, finding her notes.
‘It’s called Project Preloved. A creative reflection on the design ethics and artistic processes behind my Master’s year project, a collection of sustainably sourced and thrifted garments, deconstructed and remade, integrating mixed media including scrap fabric, paper and other non-plastic “junk” materials and embellishments. ’
Carenza tried to initiate a round of applause at this, but Peaches cut the smattering short. ‘My collection’s still got to be assessed at the uni showcase on the thirtieth, don’t forget.’ Peaches’ tone was cautioning, deflecting the excitement. ‘I still might not pass.’
‘Nonsense!’ Carenza tutted, doing what she did best and shutting down what she saw as unnecessary negativity. ‘The showcase is a mere formality, surely. You’re on your way to great things.’
‘Walpurgisnacht is nae night for an exam!’ Senga pitched in, in a voice so needlessly dramatic everyone stopped to stare at her once more.
‘Wal… what?’ asked Willie, who wasn’t up to speed with Cairn Dhu’s seasonal rituals.
‘Walpurgisnacht,’ Senga said again. ‘The last night of April. That’s when your showcase is, aye?’
Peaches nodded. ‘The thirtieth, that’s right.’
‘I’m no’ saying it’s a bad time for it, only it’s a wild time for it!
’ Senga was enjoying herself immensely. ‘Saint Walpurga’s Night, and cross-quarter day following it, only hours after?
’ She sucked air through her dentures. ‘That is the very moment the year crosses from cold and dark to light and warm, a time of curious happenings. Beltane is a strange in-betweeny time. Not a time for taking risks. You remember May Day last year, do you no’? ’
This prompted mutterings of ‘How could anybody forget?’ and some of the group – guiltier than others of having let the town’s Beltane bonfire celebrations take a turn towards the hedonistic – shuffled their feet and gazed at the floor.
‘Minister Meikle had doused that spiced apple punch with whisky!’ Rhona Gifford protested, and from the looks on everyone’s faces, the image of Rhona dancing so hard she’d lost not only her good sandals but her varifocals as well was indelibly inked in their memories.
‘I thought you laced the punch with rum, Cary?’ Sachin said, puzzled.
‘Aye, well, that too,’ the carpenter replied.
‘We certainly won’t be repeating scenes of that nature this year,’ boomed Carenza.
‘Not now I’m heading up the organising committee.
My Beltane bonfires and sausage sizzle will be a traditional Scottish celebration with music and food, and not a wild rumpus!
Got that? And’ – she fired a warning glance in Cary’s direction – ‘you’ll be pleased to know I’ve put myself in charge of the punch cauldrons. ’
This prompted an audible groan and many slumping shoulders.
‘Your sandals are safe this year, Rhona,’ whispered McIntyre, and the younger Gifford sister suppressed a cackle.
Evidently, Carenza wasn’t finished yet. ‘I’ll circulate a rota in the coming days with everyone else’s jobs on it. Together we can ensure this is a dignified observance of the spring rites.’
‘Well, here’s to spring, and to moving on,’ Cary said sensibly, raising his glass, and since he spoke so rarely, everyone took this as the last word on the subject and drank deeply.
Peaches and Roz chinked their glasses together as the repairers repeated Cary’s toast.
Outside, the early April sunset was glowing apricot amidst the watery blue, and thick damp clouds snagged the craggy tops of the purple mountains that flanked the Cairn Dhu river valley.
The town stood poised on the cusp of a new season, and although its residents couldn’t possibly know it yet, two amongst their number stood on the precipice of new seasons in their lives as well.
Roz McIntyre and Peaches McDowell, whose smiles refused to betray how they felt themselves suspended precariously on the brink of unmapped futures, gulped down their drinks, along with their nerves.