ONE
“I love the hat,” I said, trying to ease my way into this unexpected conversation.
“Aye, it’s a tam o’shanter.” Clarinda repositioned it on her head full of dark curls.
It was like a beret, only poofier.
“It suits you.” I smiled.
“Have you read the poem?” she asked, her voice airy and almost whimsical. Or maybe that was just the way it reverberated off the walls of the small old building we sat in, facing each other over a messy desk.
She was asking if I’d read the poem for which the hat had been named, “Tam o’Shanter” by Scotland’s Robert Burns. It’s the story of a hat-wearing farmer named Tam who comes upon a coven of witches and is then pursued by one of them. Though it was written in 1790, it’s still a Scottish favorite. All of Burns’s works were almost as beloved as he himself.
“I have,” I said. “Well, I’ve read through it a few times now, but I can’t say it’s an easy read for me. There’s so much of the Scots language, and I’m still … well, I’m getting better at understanding, but it’s slow going.”
“Aye. You’ll get it eventually.”
Given long enough, I might fully understand it without needing translation. Maybe I would someday finally comprehend all the Scots I heard spoken in my everyday life, had heard for some time now. But certainly not yet.
That was only one of the reasons I didn’t feel worthy of the invitation that had led me to this meeting with Clarinda. The building, the House of Burns, named for the esteemed poet, was ancient, with chipped paint and weary furniture. It was also chock-full of interesting things—well, just papers, really, but probably fascinating ones if I could take the time to look closely at any of them. How could a bunch of pieces of paper inside a place called House of Burns not be?
“Can you imagine being so popular or writing something so beloved that they name a hat for it?” She readjusted hers again.
“I can’t.” I folded my hands on my lap, more to try to warm them than to strike any sort of ladylike pose. Despite all the interesting things on the shelves around us, I didn’t sense any heat coming from anywhere, and there was no fire in the oddly large fireplace along one wall. I could still see my breath.
The House of Burns had been difficult to find. Tucked next to the entrance of a deep-set close, similar to an alley but usually much more interesting in Scotland, in a part of Cowgate I had yet to explore, sat this tiny stone building. It was maybe only five hundred square feet inside, with a peaked roof and a carved wood sign hanging outside above the front door. I had been both happy to find it and a little scared to enter.
It wasn’t until I’d moved to Edinburgh that I became aware of Robert Burns societies, clubs formed to honor the Scottish bard. In fact, they were everywhere, including some long-standing ones in the United States. Hearing about them, along with so many other people who simply celebrated Burns with a yearly dinner, made me feel like I’d missed something good for the first few decades of my life. How had I not paid better attention?
The society headquartered in this paper-filled building wasn’t the first one formed in Edinburgh. The Edinburgh Burns Supper Club was originally founded in 1848 by the author’s friend and publisher George Thomson. It had been suspended in 1986 but reintroduced in 2007. The one I’d been invited to, however, the Cowgate edition, named for the area of Edinburgh it was located in, had only begun in the late 1990s. I wondered why it had formed in the first place—though the bigger mystery was why I’d been invited to be a part of the group at all. I couldn’t imagine how the members of this group (only one of whom I’d now met in person a few minutes ago) even knew who I was or thought I would fit in with the rest of them.
I didn’t have the answers yet, but maybe Clarinda would tell me, hopefully today, or at least before the annual dinner that was being held tomorrow night. I wasn’t going to just show up to the dinner without understanding a little more.
I rubbed my hands together and blew on them.
“Oh, the heat. I always forget to turn it on.” Clarinda stood and went to a machine attached to the wall.
It was a similar setup to the electrical unit I’d had in the cottage I’d lived in when I first arrived in Scotland. Coins had to be inserted for it to work. I smiled as I watched her gather some change from her sweater—or, as I’d come to know it in its Scottish form, jumper—pocket and plug the change into the meter before she turned the dial.
Quite a bit had happened since the days I’d done the same, but I was still just as close with Elias and Aggie, the owners of the old cottage, as I’d been since practically the day I’d landed in Scotland and Elias had been at the airport with his taxi. In fact, they were joining me and my husband, Tom, for dinner at our house this evening. Though also old, our place was at least updated enough to have a modern furnace.
Almost as soon as Clarinda turned the dial, I could feel heat cut through the chill. I squelched the urge to rub my hands together again. Clarinda sat back behind the desk and switched on a lamp that was perched on its corner. The light from the small fixture didn’t illuminate so much as cast a few small shadows on the desktop and at the edge of Clarinda’s face.
“You’ll be surprised tomorrow night. This place will be transformed into a dining hall.”
“About that…,” I began.
“Oh no,” she rushed in, “you’re going to tell me you won’t be able to attend? It’s the biggest night of the year! Please say you’ll be here.”
“It’s not that, exactly.” Actually, it was exactly that, but she seemed nice enough, so I thought I’d ease into declining, if that’s what I ended up doing. “I guess I just don’t understand why I was invited to be a part of the group.”
It hadn’t been a handwritten invitation. Clarinda had called me at the bookshop where I work, the Cracked Spine, yesterday morning.
“Delaney, hello! This is Clarinda Creston, and I’m a local solicitor, but I’m also part of a fun group that’s been together for a while. We celebrate Robert Burns. You’ve heard of him, aye?” she said, her voice ramped up to extra-cheery.
“Of course.”
“Anyway, twenty-five January is his birthday, and we have a dinner every year. That’s two nights from now. Please join us.”
“I…”
“Here’s the address. Everyone else will be in costume but you won’t be required to this year. Next year, of course, but this year, just come eat and meet our small but lively family.”
She proceeded to give me the address. I jotted it on my hand, using a pen that had been in my pocket. “I…”
“Oh dear, I must go. So much to do. I’ll see you on the twenty-fifth, though I’ll be at the house tomorrow if you’d like to stop by. Farewell for now.”
At my current admission, genuine surprise widened Clarinda’s eyes. “Oh aye, well, I’m not sure why you were invited. Let me think a wee bit.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “It was a vote from last month’s meeting, that much I know. It was my duty to call you, but I forgot all about it until yesterday. Apologies. I’ve been very busy in court lately. Anyway, someone mentioned you in that meeting, though I can’t remember who. You work at the Cracked Spine, aye?”
“I do.”
“That must be where or how someone, though again I have no idea who, heard about or met you. We are a bookish group, though that’s of no surprise.”
“I suppose not. And you can’t remember who recommended me?”
“I can’t think of who it was, and I don’t have the minutes of the meeting here with me.” She lifted her hands.
I bit my lip and felt my eyebrows come together. This place was packed with pieces of paper. Wood shelves overflowed with it. There were stacks on the desk, piles on the floor next to it.
“This is the … place where you meet, right?”
“It is.”
“And in all these pieces of paper, there are no minutes from the meetings?”
Clarinda laughed. “Gracious, no.” She reached for the top piece of paper on the stack nearest her, turned it over, and showed it to me. “These are just my doodlings. Someone else keeps the minutes.”
I looked at the paper. “Calligraphy?”
Clarinda smiled proudly. “Aye. Look closely.”
I took the piece of paper and held it under the weak light from the lamp, reading the words at the top of the page.
THE BANKS O’ DOON
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
“A Burns poem,” I said.
“Aye, one of my favorites. Well, they’re all my favorites.” She took the paper from my hand and read the words aloud, her normal light accent now thick and reminding me again of Elias and Aggie’s accents.
I smiled. “I can tell you love it.”
“Don’t you?”
I almost said that I didn’t, not as much as she did, at least, but that seemed rude, and as she’d spoken the lines aloud I’d been reminded that, yes, if I cared for anything other than the people I loved so deeply, it was words, and Mr. Burns certainly had a way with them.
“I guess maybe I do, some,” I said.
Clarinda smiled big. “See, whoever nominated you, and I really wish I could remember who that was, knew that about you. You are perfect for our group.” She folded the paper and handed it to me. “Take it. I have others.”
A moment later, I took the paper and opened it, again reading silently the words she’d just said aloud. There was more on the page, but I didn’t take the time to decipher all the scribbles. I refolded it. “You said these were your doodlings. Are all of the pieces of paper covered in your calligraphy of Burns’s words?”
Copyright © 2022 by Paige Shelton-Ferrell