He looked on the address he had scribbled on the paper, before stepping out of car. Yes, this was the right address. He inhaled the heavy Edinburgh air; it smelled of rain and soon enough, the grey clouds, which currently encircled the sky, would bring true Scottish dreich.
He went up the stairs to the second floor, and stopped in front of a particular door. MacTavish the doorbell said. He pressed it and waited as he heard it ring inside.
A woman opened the door, a pretty thing—ginger hair, blue eyes, soft freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks; and she was heavy with child. She looked at him with startled and weary gaze. A boy of five was peeping from behind the door, blue-eyed and brown-haired. He took after his father.
"Captain Price," she said, surprised. "I wisnae expectin' ye. Or anyone for tha' ma'er." she said in thick Scottish accent.
"I'm sorry, ma'am MacTavish, I should've called."
"It's quite alright. Would ye like tae hae some tea, captain?" she offered.
"It would be my pleasure, ma'am." he nodded, stroking his moustache.
"Please, it's juist Abigail tae ye." she turned to her son. "Kenneth, would ye be sae kind as tae show Captain Price inside, I'll go mak tha' tea."
And the boy did.
Captain Price seated himself in the comfortable leather armchair and looked at the boy that sat on the couch on the opposite side of the tea table, a cat settled on the boy's lap and he stroked her fur gently. He was an exact copy of his father, Price thought.
"Ma says ye kent da." the boy spoke up. "Da wis a hero. Ane day I'll be like 'im."
"That he was, laddie." Price nodded.
That was the moment when Abigail walked in, carrying a tea-tray, on which stood a steaming kettle and a plate with some cookies. She laid it on the tea table that divided the space between the armchair and the couch, which were at the moment occupied by Price and Mrs MacTavish's son respectively. She offered both the man and the boy a smile, but Price couldn't help but notice that the smile never reached the rest of her facial features. To be frank, she seemed hopelessly tired, and after further inspection of her features he did notice that her eyes were still a bit puffed. He then realised that watching her like that was not the proper behaviour, and turned his gaze upon the boy with the cat, as she proceeded to pour some tea into the cups.
"Ken, be a good lad an' tak the tea tae yer room, I'd like tae talk tae Captain Price alone." she beckoned the boy and he obeyed without objection.
"He takes after him." Price remarked, sipping his tea.
"Tha' he daes." she sighed. "He's guid at sports. One day, he'll be a soldier, I think. Juist like his father."
"And grandfather." Price added.
"He came tae visit me a few weeks ago, brought me his tags." she touched the chain that hang around her neck, that Price didn't notice before—Soap's tags hanging on it. "He told me he would avenge him himsel' were it no' for his leg. We argued an' then he left. Ye ken hou he is."
Price nodded. He knew Major General MacMillan only too well; Glaswegian still owed him for that one time when he carried him out of Pripyat on his back.
"I remember whan John asked him for ma hand, hou furious he was. Och aye, tha' quiet fury o' his. He was juist standing there, his eyes like daggers; I thought John was goin' tae rethink his proposal the way ma father stared. An' I thought da wis goin' tae tak his old hunting rifle and put a couple o' shots through his head for daring tae tak his daughter frae 'im. An' then John mentioned ye and ma father laughed an' agreed. As if kennin' Captain Price wis the best recommendation one could ge' for marrying his daughter." she smiled, her eyes drifting to the mantel where a group of framed photos stood: photos of her and Soap's wedding day, their son as a new-born baby, Soap playing with Ken and countless others.
"I miss him." she continued, her eyes fixed on the image of her deceased husband. "He wisnae hame very of'en, but he wis a great father. Ken loved 'im. Sometimes he screams for 'im durin' the night, but, o' coorse, he never comes, only I. I cannae blame 'im, the pain is still fresh, for me e'en mair sae. But I have tae be strong, for 'im, for the girl in ma belly."
"You're a MacMillan, girl. You MacMillans don't give up so easily." Price chuckled.
"I would gae tae the hell an' beyond an' slap him back intae this world if I could. But e'en the pouer o' the MacMillans only gaes sae far. Well, maybe except ma father. I hae suspicion tha' e'en the God is afraid o' ma da." she smiled.
"John once made a joke that his father-in-law died a long time ago, only the God's too afraid to tell him." Price said, stroking his beard nervously before he lifted the cup from the table and carried it to his lips, sipping the dark liquid as he did so.
"Tha' is probably mair truthfu' than he might hae imagined." She chuckled in response to the joke, but it was just as hollow as her smile had been. Her eyes about all betrayed her true emotions—a spark of unshed tears
"I am so very sorry, ma'am. I should've spared you the silly jokes." he said.
"I appreciate the attempt, John." They shared the name, and when she spoke it, she did so reverently her eyes distant as if they have just seen a ghost—and indeed, for Abigail it sometimes did feel as if Soap was still with her, looming over her shoulder as she read a book, pinching her cheeks to wake her up from her midday nap, during which Kenneth usually snuggled to her form in a foetal position as he was now counting on his mother to protect him. Sometimes she smelled his cologne too, as well as felt his presence. But she has wandered too far away from reality again, she realised, Price was talking to her yet she caught no words. She cleared her throat. "Sairy, I wis juist…"
He cut her excuse short by a movement of his hand. "It is alright, Abigail, the pain is still fresh in your mind, just as the memory of him." When she only nodded in response, shading her eyes from his sight so that he would not notice the pearly tear rolling down her cheek, he added: "I should go."
"Tha' is no necessary, John; ye should finish yer tea first." she tried to insist, but he would not have it. Price believed that it would be better to leave the young widow to her grief.
"I'm a terrible host." she concluded, when he stood up and she mimicked his movement to show him to the door at least.
"I am terribly sorry for your loss, Abigail," Price spoke, "You have my sincere condolences, and apologies."
"None are needed, John, I ken thare wis nought ye could dae." the widow said, her hand resting upon the door-handle as she did so. The door opened soon after her words and the old soldier stepped outside, saying his goodbye, his back now facing the widow as he took first few steps downstairs. It was Abigail that stopped him, the words she spoke almost a plea: "Thare's a funeral on Friday, I'm shuir would want ye tae come, ma da as weel."
His gaze returned to her once more, giving Soap's late wife a nod. "I'll be there. Goodbye, Abigail."
"Goodbye," she said back, this time closing the door, her over-encumbered legs moving stiffly under the weight of her and her unborn child. It was a girl, doctor told her, and Abigail still wondered what name to choose for her, one thing, however, was certain and she lend her voice to the utterance as she seated herself upon the sofa again. "I hae tae be strong—for Kenny, for the bairn. Thay are aw tha' remains. Aw tha' ma'ers."
And the spirit that lingered smiled at her.