Where The Heart Is

Of course I had loved Canada. For the fifteen years that I had lived in Northern British Columbia, there was never a day that that I regretted being there. So why was I here in this soft, gentle and very Scottish twilight,walking along the edge of a loch?

It was a volatile and heart breaking relationship that had sent me scuttling back to the land of my birth. Like a little girl, I wanted to hide in my mother’s skirts and feel comforted. Unfortunately, both of my parents were long dead, but the need to come ‘home’ was still strong.

It was a beautiful May evening. I had checked into the hotel on the fringe of the village while I decided my next move. Currently I was near the place of my childhood, but not precisely there. The two Labradors dogs from the hotel, (aptly named Scotch and Soda), were delighted to accompany me on my evening stroll. They ran around enthusiastically, vying over ownership of a stick and splashing in the edge of the water like mischievous children.

My feet scrunched on the loose pebbles. The surface of the water was like a mirror. A rowing boat floated motionless, tied to the remains of a wooden jetty. Really, it was only a few broken planks held together by goodness knows what. The boat and wooden structure reflected in the still water as a perfect inverted copy. The dogs splashed near it and shattered the image into a thousand shards of broken glass. Across the loch, the mountains were reflected without a ripple to mar the likeness. Where was my camera when I wanted to capture these idyllic moments?

The mountains glowered darkly on the far side of the loch. A few pockets of late snow lay hidden in deep crevices untouched by the spring sunshine, but that was the only sign that the weather had ever been anything but kind. Perhaps it was my imagination, but my skin seemed already softer and more moist. It had been such a struggle to keep it nourished in the harsh Canadian climate. Many of my hard earned dollars had been poured into moisturisers, body lotions and face creams.

When I had left Canada a few short days ago, there were the usual pictures in the paper for the time of year. A bikini clad beauty reclining on a heap of snow depicted the sudden change from winter to summer. We had completely missed out on spring.

The winter had been unusually harsh this year. It had started to snow in October which didn’t relent untill April. In its defence, when it wasn’t snowing, the sky was an umbrella of brittle blue which hurt the eyes. The sun was a blazing orb, but without any noticeable warmth. Sun glasses were the norm, especially in winter. The snow reached a depth of twelve feet and lay like a heavy blanket, obliterating landmarks. The supermarket car parks were covered with waves of the white stuff cleared into rows to provide parking spaces. People were to be seen wandering around, immersed in huge puffas, woollen hats pulled down over ears and hands stuffed deep in pockets as they desperately tried to remember which row their car was in. The snow piles were so high it was impossible to see the cars from the door of the mall, so for those with faulty memories, it was a game of chance.

Cars squeaked along the graded roads on studded tyres, fishtailing on take-off from traffic lights and stop signs. Every available flat surface was sprayed with water that froze into instant ice rinks. No wonder the Canadians are world beating ice hockey players. Every child seems to be able to skate almost before it can walk.

The temperature had plummeted to below forty degrees Celsius on several occasions. The upside of this was that the moisture in the air froze, and when the sun shone it was like a world of dancing silver drizzle; so dramatic; so heart-stoppingly beautiful. The cars had to be plugged into an electrical outlet to power a heater on the engine block so that it would not freeze. I also had an in-car heater on a timer set for half an hour before I was due to leave for work, so that when I got into the car, the seats did not feel like blocks of frozen concrete.

Walking from the front door to the car was enough to freeze the inside of your nose; a strange feeling akin to badly blocked nasal passages. Walk any further and your eyebrows had an icy coating, giving your face a strange and alien appearance.

Every winter there was always at least one incident of someone drawing back the drapes and finding a bear on the sun deck. It would be rootling through the garbage, with an intrinsic knowledge passed from mother to cub that where there were humans there were easy food pickings to be had. The veterinary surgeon would be called out to tranquilise the beast. The dart would be fired and the magnificent animal would buckle and fall. Dignity gone, it resembled nothing more than an old moth-eaten hearth rug. The inert body was then scooped into something that resembled nothing more than my mother’s old string shopping bag. It was lifted by helicopter far into the bush, where it was hoped it would lose the inclination to come back to town.

We had to have the roof of the house cleared, as the weight of the snow could have damaged the joists. The cleared snow lay like a small white mountain on the front lawn and entailed squeezing between it and the front wall to reach the door. Normally, I loved the experience of the harsh winters. But this year, with all my other problems, I had struggled to cope.

The summers were a round of barbeques by the lake. Hot, dry weather that fooled you into thinking the rigours of the winter had been but a dream. Swimming in water fed by glaciers; it was said the lakes were drown proof, as you would die of hypothermia first. There were, however, mosquitoes the size of jumbo jets, and we would sit surrounded by burning coils in order to avoid being eaten alive. But I also knew that in a few short weeks, the banks of this gorgeous Scottish loch would be alive with clouds of midges. I clearly remembered they seemed to have teeth bigger than their bodies. They attack the hairline first, then any other patch of available flesh. Ah well. Nowhere’s perfect.

This last winter in Canada had been desperately unhappy. A relationship of five years had deteriorated to two people living under the same roof, but following different paths. We had been so in love, (we thought), but once the passion had diminished, we discovered we had little in common. But instead of parting on amicable terms, we stayed together and tore each other apart emotionally. Why do people do that to each other?

Many a night I would stare out of the window; not seeing the dramatic snow covered landscape but watching for James’ car driving up the road. I knew he would be drunk and belligerent and spoiling for a fight. On the nights when I had also indulged in a few, or let’s be honest more than a few, glasses of wine, we would have the most dreadful scenes. I shuddered in embarrassment at what the neighbours must have thought.

The morning after, we would slink from our separate bedrooms. It had been a while since we had shared a bed. We avoided speaking and eye contact before we left for work, nursing our separate hangovers. So, of course, my work suffered. It was impossible to get involved in clients’ trial balances and profit and loss accounts when my head was thumping fit to burst, and I seemed to have this overwhelming urge to burst into tears.

I knew that if I didn’t get out of the situation, I would really descend into alcoholism. My only goal in life would be to observe life through the bottom of a glass. I had seen a friend of mine go down that road, and knew it was not to be recommended. But I lacked the energy to pull myself out of the situation and make a decision.

It all came to a head one evening when it was my turn to go out and hit the bars in the company of one of my girl friends. She had called a cab and gone home, but I wanted more drink so I staggered into one of the beer parlours. Now, these places are not normally frequented by women on their own, so there were a few quizzical glances thrown my way. As I sat nursing my beer, a man came and sat by me. We chatted and he bought me yet another beer. I remembered nothing else until I woke in a strange bed beside a strange man. I thought I would die of shame; what had I descended into?

Luckily it was Saturday, so no one was expecting me anywhere. I drove home, dropped my clothes into the linen basket and stood in the shower, trying to scrub away the shame. I thought about unprotected sex, pregnancy and AIDS. My head thumped fit to burst, and my stomach felt as if I had been drinking paint stripper. I tried a sip of water but immediately gagged. I wrapped a towel round my hair, slipped on a clean t-shirt and crawled into bed. I hadn’t thought it possible to be so low, so dirty, so shamed by my own actions. I felt like something you would find in a gutter full of garbage. Something some people might prod tentatively with the toe of their boot, but most would avert their eyes and walk on. I did what so many people do in times of enormous need. I prayed.

"Please God, help me," I whimpered. But of course there was no answer, no thunderbolt and no great revelation.

Gradually,like a worm in the depths of my mind, a thought squirmed into my consciousness. It was my own actions and choices that had brought me down to this level, and only I could help myself.

With that thought uppermost in my aching fuzzy head, I dozed off. When I woke it was afternoon, and darkness was already pushing the daylight from the sky. I felt marginally better, got up and pulled on my dressing gown. I made myself a cup of tea. Nursing the piping hot liquid, I sat at my computer and before I could have second thoughts, I booked my ticket from Vancouver to Glasgow. I arranged to have my meagre possessions packed and shipped out, then prepared to face James.

If we were truthful, it was a great relief to both of us that I had made a decision. In the end we parted as friends, although I knew we would never meet again. The house was rented furnished, so there were no assets to be fought over or divided.

Now, here I was on the shores of a familiar loch, in the company of two dogs who were happy to be in my company. They made no demands, and certainly made no judgements.

I had always loved dogs - another difference between James and I was his disregard for animals. I was a country girl at heart and he craved city life. Looking back, it seems ridiculous that we couldn’t see right from the beginning that we had very little in common. But lust seems to block all rational thought.

I looked out over the loch and saw the tell-tale ripples that were a sure indication that fish were rising. I knew from being born and bred in this part of the world that the fishermen would appear at any minute brandishing rods and an amazing selection of flies.

My daydreams were interrupted by the barking of the dogs. They pricked up their ears and with enthusiastic woofs ran to meet somebody approaching from behind.

"I heard you’d returned from the colonies," said a familiar voice.

I turned and saw a stocky rugged man of my own age. He was wearing chest high waders over a checked shirt; the sleeves were rolled up to show tanned muscular arms. His green eyes twinkled out of a weather-beaten face. Sandy hair flopped over his forehead - my mind jumped back about twenty years and I remembered how he always pushed it off his forehead. As I smiled at him, his hand came up and the recalcitrant lock of hair was pushed roughly off his forehead. It immediately fell forward again.

Donald and I had gone to the village school together. My parents had tragically died when I was very young and I was brought up by an elderly, now deceased, aunt. We had been best chums. Every summer we ran barefoot through the heather on the estate managed by his father. We were inseparable. Even now, I can remember the cold clear water of the burn oozing between my toes. I remember the feel of the shiny round pebbles under my soles as we guddled for the trout that we never caught. We could lie for hours in the heather, watching the wildlife. We saw the deer with their fawns, the rabbits playing round their burrows, and the birds of prey circling menacingly overhead. With the benefit of rose-coloured glasses, I felt the warmth of the sun on my back as it shone throughout the long summer holidays. It was an age of innocence. I could never have imagined the depths to which I had plummeted in the past few months.

Donald’s father taught us to swim, fish and handle guns together. We were expected to attend the estate shoot; afterwards we would share the hot cottage pie delivered by Donald’s mother to the hungry shooters. It was an almost perfect and undemanding childhood. But it was long lost and until now almost forgotten.

In my teens I opted for university in Edinburgh to study accountancy and then remained in the city to serve out my articles. I was drawn into urban life and loved the theatre, the movies and the pub culture. Donald went to agricultural college and we drifted apart. My itchy feet took me to Canada, while he stayed to work on the estate.

"Well, Donald…I see that news still travels fast in this part of the world."

"Aw Jeannie, you know how it is round here. People know what you’re doing before you do it. Nothing changes. But what brought you back? I thought you were settled over there?"

"It’s a long story; certainly nothing to be proud of. Probably best forgotten for now. But tell me about you. Are you married? Children?"

"Never had time for all that. I don’t suppose you heard that Dad died not long after you left? 

Mum went quite quickly downhill afterwards. So I handle all the estate now. Full time job, no time for fun, and anyway….Well, never mind."

I looked out at the loch again.

"I’m so sorry about your parents."

In my mind, I was back in the kitchen of the estate cottage; my wet clothes were being stripped off and I was wrapped in a blanket. A mug of steaming hot cocoa was in my hand. The feeling of security and love washed over me. Oh, what I’d give to feel that again. Tears welled up as I thought of these kind people.

"They were very good to me. I’m sure your mother thought of me as that poor motherless bairn. Anyway, you off fishing?" I looked at his attire and the rod in his hand. "Sorry. That was an obvious question."

"Yes," he smiled. "I try to supply the hotel. The guests appreciate fish right out of the water that they can see from the dining room window. I usually take the boat out, but tonight I decided to fish from the shore. I can’t believe I fell over you. I see the dogs are delighted to have a walking companion."

He bent down and fondled Scotch’s ears.

"Do you want to try your skill again?" he asked, nodding towards the rod in his hand.

"Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve been more at home on skis recently. I can’t remember how to hold the rod, never mind cast."

He walked towards the edge of the loch.

"Come here, I’ll remind you. Stand in front of me and grasp the rod. That’s it…see…you haven’t forgotten everything."

The rod felt strangely familiar, even as I fumbled with the hold. I felt Donald standing behind me. His arms came over my shoulders and guided my hands into the correct position. I was aware of the sheer solid maleness of him. Long forgotten memories flooded into my mind. Our first tentative hand holding, our first teenage kiss. But it had all been so experimental. We were too young to experience the full flush of passion, so there had been no broken hearts when we went our separate ways. This was the first time that we had been in close physical proximity as adults.

He guided my hands back over my shoulder and cast. The line snaked out, fine as spiders’ silk, The evening sun glinted off it as it landed near to the concentric circles made by the rising fish.

I leaned into him; felt his strength and stability; felt his comforting presence; smelt the musky scent of skin that has been constantly exposed to the elements. I had indeed come home.

- THE END -