Girls Day Out
I never expected my day out with Annie to begin with me in grease up to my elbows, but, here I am, stooped over a not-insignificantly-elderly combustion engine, trying to breathe a bit of life back into it before asking it to take me, Annie and company into Cranesmuir. I twist my hands around, grasping the bit I know is broken.
"Would you hand me that spanner, Annie?" I nod at the tool in question, but Evanna elbows past her and picks the tool up instead, grinning while she pushes it at me, eagerly trying to be helpful.
"Is this th'un ye meant, Miss Claire?"
I nod, but do not answer otherwise, twisting up my face in pained concentration as I struggle with the stubborn bit of engine just out of my line of sight. Then I grab the spanner, transform it to clamp mode with one hand, and hustle it out of sight to try and do something productive, desperately determined to cobble together some kind of fix for this engine, and keep us on schedule into the bargain.
"Ye all right, Miss Claire?" ask Kenzie and Mai, in chorus.
"Oh, yes. . ." I manage. But I don't sound all right, and we all know it. "It's these tubes you see," I nod at Coira, the car's owner, "Or rather, you can't see, because the flipping thing won't - Jesus H. . . ."
I stamp my foot, and trail off into an increasingly profane string of mutterings. I only stop once I finally get the clamp placed properly. They all stare at me, impressed – either at my language or at the fact that I've managed to accomplish something with the car, I don't know which. It might be both, of course. I stand up then, and heave a great sigh, "I mean, it might only be a seal, but I doubt it. Really, you need a whole new set, but the only way that's happening is if I drop the engine, and we don't have time for that this morning. . ."
"Ha! Jus' like ye'er allus tellin' me, hey Ev?" laughs Coira.
The girls giggle at the reference to some inside joke I don't understand, and I go in to rummage through one of the stock shelves.
Annie had begun this morning's introductions with Coira MacInnes and Evanna Dunley - as "flatmates in from Cranesmuir". I recognized Ev as one of Mrs. Fitz's kitchen staff, but Coira is new to me, as are the two other young women – Mai and Kenzie. Those two must work in some part of the house I don't go to, since I've never seen them before. Annie didn't mention either of their last names, which I wondered at for a minute, but since this is Leoch, I figure they are both probably MacKenzies. And I do concede that if one of my friends was so unfortunate as to be saddled with the name "Mackenzie MacKenzie", I would also be quite reluctant to bring it up, especially when introducing them to a Sassenach. Briefly, I wonder if Mai is also a nickname for Mackenzie. . .
But no. That there is one person in this world called Mackenzie MacKenzie is bad enough - two would just be absurd.
I bring back several parts and a roll of heat-resistant tape, and set them beside me on the engine block.
"Agh, tha's a fair lot o' stuff fer this wee clunker," says Coira, not entirely suppressing a worried look, "S'like tae be a mighty big bill, aye?"
I smile grimly, "Don't worry – it's all old stock. I can give it to you at cost price, and the labour is already at a reduced rate."
She blinks, and gives me a strange look, but I duck my head to refocus on the engine. I don't give her or any of the girls much thought for the next fifteen minutes or so. By then, I've rigged up something at least mildly functional. It isn't a fix, just a stopgap to get us though the day – a depressing echo of my initial encounter with that blasted Rover. . .
I sigh and step back.
"Well, that's the best I can do on short notice, I'm afraid. Let me go get cleaned up, and then we can go-"
"An' if I gave ye longer notice could ye fix it up proper?" Coira says, the strangeness in her voice now matching her face, "I ken the auld thing is moor than I oughtae ha'e sprung on ye at this hour o' th'moornin'. . ."
"Oh, it's not that," I say, wiping my hands inadequately on my already blackened shop towel, "It's just that we're on a bit of schedule, and this car has to get us into Cranesmuir. If neither of those things were true, I'd have already shifted it inside and had the engine out of it, cranky old thing. . ."
"Aye, 'tis – sae ye mean ye could doo it ef I asked ye?"
I snort softly and shrug a bit, "Don't know why you'd want me to do it, but yeah, I could."
"An' ef I paid ye in advance, could ye-"
"Look, Coira," I sigh, "This is all as between friends, right? You don't have to worry about the money, honey. We can square it all up some other time, okay?"
"O. . .okay?" she says, still oddly dubious.
"Right then," I whip off my shop apron, "Now I simply must go clean up, and then we can get on our way."
I practically flee the little circle of profoundly concerned faces huddling near the car, and sequester myself into the garage office's toilet station for a few minutes.
It's been a while since I've had much to do with a group exclusively of women. A long while. Too long.
Perhaps that's why this encounter seems so intensely odd. . .
I shrug in front of the little mirror, and steady myself, determined not to let it get to me. I pull myself upright, and walk confidently back into the office proper, wiping the last residue of engine grease from my forearms as I go. I take a small bit of the delightfully scented skin-protecting cream Jamie gifted me yesterday, and absently rub it into the heels of my hands, trying to figure Coira out.
Annie, and her motives, are as plain as day, as per usual. Ev, Kenzie and Mai seem perfectly content following either Annie's or Coira's lead, depending on which of them ends up heading any particular situation. But Coira herself. . .
Annie has invited me to go along with them on their day-off shopping trip, and has asked Coira to drive us there. They have all agreed, either neutrally or quite cheerfully from what I can see, and here they all are, ready and willing, even eager to be friends with me.
It's all a perfectly normal set of group dynamics, all things considered. Coira is the only note that doesn't ring entirely true. She wants something. . . or is trying to do something – with me? To me? About me? Until I can figure out what exactly it is, I had better be on my toes.
After all, Dougal hasn't struck back at me for the soot in his cap yet. This could be the first stages of an attack. . .
And even if it isn't, I'm less certain how to deal with women being friendly than I am with men being antagonistic. Groups of men make you fight them - which I've done so often, I've very nearly standardized my approach to it. I do have to admit, on the whole, being compelled to exert dominance in a social situation is simple and straightforward, even when it's difficult or unjust.
Groups of men just make you fight. It's a surprisingly low bar for entry, once you figure out the requirements.
Groups of women, though. . .
Women usually want you to establish kinship. To prove not only your benignity, but your active defense of the group as a whole, and of every individual within the group personally.
There's more to it than just that, of course, but that's usually the core of it.
I don't know if Coira is deliberately pushing me to establish kinship or not, but there is something very calculated in her actions, and until I know what is behind it, best to make no assumptions. . .
"Miaow!"
An imperious, repetitive whine calls me out of my thoughts.
"Miow. Maow!"
"Alright, alright Adso, I'm coming," I say, jumping up from my desk and going over to the pair of small ceramic bowls that have taken up residence in this corner of my office.
Some time in the middle of last week, Adso decided I would make a good source for his breakfast, and despite all my protests, he has shown up every day since, continuing to insist I provide him with food. By this point, I've given up trying to argue with him. After that first day, even Mrs. Fitz didn't dare contradict his wishes. . .
I pull a single-serving packet of dry food, and a tiny pouch of wet food out from a nearby cupboard, along with the extra thermos of fresh milk Mrs. Fitz has taken to sending out with me each morning, and crouch down to feed my little gray-furred tyrant. He has to have the dry food put into the bowl first, with the wet food heaped on top of it, or he won't eat a thing. And he does drink water, but only after a bowl of milk, and that only after his specially-prepared breakfast.
"Here you go, you great spoiled baby, you." I push the bowl with the layered food towards him, and he gives it a delicate sniff. The first couple of times I did this, he wasn't satisfied with my efforts, and stalked off to sulk behind the arm of my couch, as though determined to starve. . . for a few minutes or so, at least. The food was always gone when I got back from my morning round of the fields, regardless of his initial reaction to it. But nowadays he seems quite pleased to eat in my presence. I fill up his other bowl with milk, just as he takes his first dainty bite of wet food.
"You're quite the lily of the field, you know that, Adso?" I ask, fondly.
He looks up briefly, licking all around his mouth and up to his nose before dipping his head into his breakfast again.
"You toil not – and you certainly don't spin – and yet Solomon in all his glory, etc., etc. What do you have to say to that, you ridiculous creature?"
Adso doesn't respond, being busy crunching on a nubbin of dry food.
I shake my head at myself, surprised - yet not entirely displeased – at how quickly this animal has become a person to me, to be talked to and cared for, like a sort of child.
Or, perhaps, a friend.
I scritch him lightly near the root of his tail, and he sets up a loud purring while wolfing down the last bits of his food. He continues purring while settling down to his morning milk, even though he pulls away from my fingertips at the same time.
"Still feedin' oor wee cheetie then?" asks Geordie, coming into the office with his usual mid-morning mug of tea, "I ha' thought ye'ed be well on yer way inta Cranesmuir by now."
"Oh, I would be – except I had to clean up a bit. I almost had to gut Coira's old beast of a car just to keep the thing running long enough to get us out of here."
"Oh, aye," he chuckles, "That auld car of hers is notorious. Nevar goes annywhere wi'out breakin' doon."
My vague suspicions return with treble force. "Oh, really?"
"Aye. It must be sheer force of tradition that keeps them askin' her tae drive them inta t'village evary coup'la months. They save up royally for their excursions, that they do – sae why tek the risk o' no' bein' able tae spend it thanks tae a comically unreliable car? I'd heard they'd asked Ev's uncle Richard for the loan of his van the last few times they went out taegether, but he must be usin' it this week."
Realization breaks with a thunderclap in my mind.
"Yes. He must be," I say, somewhat absently, "Thanks for taking up the slack here for today, Geordie."
"Nae problem. Happy tae." He settles down behind the desk, and bends his head to deal with the morning's paperwork.
I grab the small cloth sack I've rigged up so I can comfortably carry things on my back as I walk the fields, sling it over my shoulder, and turn to go, "See you later then."
"Aye. Have a good time."
"I'm sure we will."
And now that I understand, we will have a good time, I'm certain of it.
It was all a scheme – all of it. Coira, her car, all that talk about the bill – it was all a set up.
But it's nothing sinister, or even antagonistic.
They, or more specifically, Annie, is trying to give me money.
A great weight lifts from my heart. Money. That's all this is about. Only money.
Aside from Jamie, Murtagh, Colum himself, and possibly Geordie, Annie is practically the only one here who has spent enough time with me to know that Colum isn't paying me to be Farm Manager, and that my only source of income is the thing I do with visitor's cars. And she also knows I've only just started doing that, barely a week ago. Take all these things together, and Annie's logic is charmingly easy to follow. She and her friends save up for these excursions, so, she must suppose that every cent of the money I've earned, even totaled up, could only be a pittance in comparison, at best. And she'd be right, except, I have managed to scrape together enough to buy myself the two needed essentials I've not been able to borrow, trade for, or improvise – a pair of galoshes, and a properly fitted brassier.
But, even I will admit – such purchases as those are hardly in the spirit of a girls' day out. Today is a day for fun, even frivolous shopping, and I'd be the first to admit I can't afford that. Again, Annie's reasoning is plain. I must not feel left out. But I also must be given the money in a way that isn't suspicious or insulting. There is only one way I have been earning money, and, fortunately, Coira has a car almost comically prone to breaking down. . .
I smile softly at their plan. It was never Coira I had to figure out. Only Annie. Dear, darling, cheerful Annie, obsessed with propriety, but still generous beyond measure. She has been as an open book to me from the first moment we met. She could hardly be anything else, considering how naturally transparent and artless she is. In her eyes, I've been a part of the group since day one, no extra effort required in the least. Doubtless she's been trying to come up with a way to offer me money ever since she invited me on this trip. Coira merely agreed to be the conduit.
That means I might still have to establish myself with the rest of them, but Annie's plan means the first few steps are already done. No matter how things go today, it will never be "me versus all of Leoch", like it was between me and the men.
I'm simultaneously relieved and strangely disappointed about that. . .
In truth, I only occasionally think about the disparity between myself and all the other women here. Having solidified my place among the men, there is little reason for me to do so - but there's no denying the difference is fairly stark, even at a glance. Like Mrs. Fitz, I'm in a management position, and like Leticia, I'm not being paid for my presence, but functionally I couldn't be in a more different place from either of them, both socially and financially. As both Sassenach and official Guest, my position is much vaguer, far more precarious and undefined. I'm not a distant family member, or a locally-born employee, or any of the other usual types of woman found here at Leoch. So, as a woman, where do I fit? Certainly not among the young wives and single women I've seen crowded into the common rooms at tea time, knitting and sewing!
Of course, there's not much I can do about any of this, and so, thankfully, I haven't let myself dwell on it. But, it appears some part of myself had been. . . well. . . looking forward to it, somehow.
Not since leaving Central have I needed or wanted to rely on any aspect of my social status commonly backed by women - homemaking, childrearing, cooking, home economics, and all the usually unpaid labour that goes into such things. I can do all of it, of course, but while living in the common townships, it doesn't give you any special standing or social clout – it's just what people have to do to survive. In Central though, there are fashions, frills, and all kinds of performative rituals done with nearly every aspect of even basic things - like cleaning, or laundry.
As I close the office door behind me, I sigh a bit, weirdly confused at myself. I always hated that part of life in Central. All the unnecessary ceremony and empty pomposity – not to mention the snobby classist stratification that bordered dangerously upon bigotry everywhere you looked. So what on earth was I looking forward to here?
I shake off my confusion with a wave of my hand. Frankly, things at Leoch are blessedly simple in that regard, and I've been delighted to ignore social conventions and class boundaries, no matter where I've happened to find them. And to a man, everyone here has only respected me more for doing so.
The fact that Annie actually cares about my social face warms my heart exceedingly. I realize I have been pretty consistently leaving her out of my list of allies whenever I think of my situation, and underestimating her even when I don't. Clearly, that was a grave error on my part, and quite unjust of me too.
Well. High time to put a stop to that.
My mind races to come up with something that will let their scheme succeed. It isn't about the money – it's about what it means, the respect it shows. I owe them a reciprocation of grace, at least, if not a great deal more. For Annie's sake, but also for their own good selves. They've gone to meticulous lengths to keep from insulting me, and that's great deal more than nothing.
It's only a few meters over to the car, but I must and will find a way to accept their gift without my insulting them.
After several uncertain and agonizing seconds, an idea finally occurs to me, and I decide to run with it.
"Coira!" I call, striding up to the group and urgently hustling her away – I make a show of trying to be private with her, but I don't actually remove us far enough away to obscure our voices all that much - "I'm sorry to ask this, but since you live with Ev I have to – did Annie ask you here for any other reason than to drive us to Cranesmuir?"
She knits up her forehead in confusion, "Nae. Jus' that."
"You're not here delivering anything – you're not under contract to Leoch in any way?"
"Noo."
"Well, then I'm afraid I'll have to charge you full resale price for those parts, and union minimum at least for the labour – and possibly more, since I'm technically off duty at the moment, and that means the overtime rate. . ."
"O-oh. . ." a half-dozen emotions cross her face in rapid succession. "Oh," she repeats, "Why is that, now?"
She tries to ask the question normally, like an ordinary garage client concerned over her car's welfare – but now that I'm listening for it, I can easily hear the cautious triumph in her tone.
"Because I'm an official Guest of Clan MacKenzie, not an employee - but Annie and Ev are." I take a deep breath, hoping desperately I can make this next part sound credible, "There's some fine print in the new business regulations passed because of the Clan Restoration Act that make it. . . well. . . not exactly illegal – inadvisable, let's say – for an unpaid volunteer to offer in-house rates to anyone not under contract to the business in question, at least nominally." She takes a breath to reply, but I quickly continue - "Normally I wouldn't be such a stickler for the rules, but you see, I'm a Sassenach, and more people than I'd like are just waiting for me to mess up in some way. . ."
I trail off. I haven't actually gone into the business regulations that resulted from the Clan Restoration Act all that closely yet, but it is the kind of annoying and nit-picky thing such regulations are known for. . .
"Och, then have nae worries ower any o' it, hen," Coira says, her features and posture softening, "It's all as between friends - jus' like ye said." She holds out a small drawstring bag to me that faintly clicks and rattles as she handles it, "Lucky fer us booth I never go annywhear wi'out being prepared tae pay double fer auld Misty. If there's any left over out o' that lot, donate it tae the next auld clunker that comes through here, aye?" She gives a relieved look over my shoulder – at Annie, I assume.
"Misty?" I ask, taking the pouch and discreetly slipping it into my pack. I won't do any of them such a discourtesy as counting it in front of them, but by the weight and shape alone, I'd estimate there are probably fifty New Pounds in the little bag – and by the sound, all of it is in the brass-gilded plastic coinage I've come to expect from this place and time.
Which means they've given me about double – and very likely more than double – what I've managed to save on my own.
My effusive thanks freeze in my throat. They must never know I know. . .
"Oh aye, after Misty Velour, ye ken – since shee's allus breakin' doon!" Coira steps past me, and gives the car's bonnet an affectionate pat.
I smile as I turn to face the group, but it takes me a long few seconds to recall the existence of "Misty Eyed" Annah Velour – Sob Queen Of The Screen. Not many of her movies survived nuclear Armageddon, and I've only seen a couple of those that did, since relentlessly dark, tear-jerking romances are hardly to my taste in entertainment. But I recall that she was very popular in this century, as were the Italian Renaissance-themed historical dramas that were her bread and butter.
"Ah yes, Misty Velour," I say, deliberately complacent as I settle into the car's surprisingly comfortable back seat, "We must find her a dashing Italian car to fall in love with. . . and then have it tragically crash over a cliff into the starlit sea, just as Misty drives up, desperate to meet him by moonlight. . ." I let my voice trail off with a cheesy, over-dramatic intonation, but the girls pick up the thread without missing a beat.
"Aye, an' all on the day befoor their weddin'," says Kenzie, dreamily, "An' her already expectin' his child-"
"But when she sees 'im going ower t'side, she thoughtlessly throws herself in after 'im!" interjects Mai, "And they perish taegether in the cold embrace of th'sea."
"Are we still talking about cars?" I ask, buckling the safety harness around me. I hope my cheerful tone conceals the reflexive disgust I feel at such a story-line for a movie. Such heartless, fruitless tragedy doesn't make me sigh – it makes me angry. And I certainly don't find it romantic.
"Och, I hope not!" says Annie, "I've nevar yet wanted a car tae bend me ower the back of a couch, and tha's a fact!"
And with that, and a car-wide giggle, the conversation moves on to other things.
Coira starts up the car, crowing joyfully at the smooth purr of the engine, and the rest of us cheer as she pulls us out of the yard. A few seconds later, we clear the rows of balsam firs that line the drive, and turn onto the road to Cranesmuir. I look back at the solid bulk of the house, so washed-out and gray in this clouded-over morning light, but still looming impressively behind the bright evergreen of the surrounding trees.
It's my first trip away from Leoch since I got here, and at this moment, in a strange place back behind my heart, I feel almost more reluctance to leave it than I did Skycity 15.
I very much wonder why. I know it isn't because Leoch feels like home to me now, because it certainly does not. Nor is it that I'm dreading this trip into town, because I've been looking forward to it for days.
It might be the stability I've achieved, I think, as we drive past the wide, sleeping fields I know so intimately now. Perhaps it is the fact that at least I have a sort of refuge here, with a clean space about me, and more than one ally strong enough to shield me, should I need it.
Perhaps it is that at Leoch, there is steel-gray sky above me, and firm, immovable land beneath my feet, both of which contain a history and promise a future that no Skycity has ever possessed. The very stones here know their ancestry, the air itself breathes with the savour of ages past, and both together promise faithfully that they will still be here, a thousand, two thousand, ten thousand years from now.
Here, and warm, and alive. . .
"Sae what flavour are ye goin' tae get at the sugar house, Claire, hen?" asks Coira, breaking into my thoughts.
I blink, and gape a little bit, not knowing what on earth to say to such a question. The sugar house? She doesn't mean we're going to a. . . no! Annie would have said if. . . if. . . she would have told me.
Right?
And besides, surely – surely that phrase doesn't mean the same thing here as it does on the Skycities?
Right?
"Och, ye cannae spring such a question on the lass, Coi," says Annie, as reproachfully as her cheerfulness lets her get, "Wi'out explainin' the tradition of it, what can it mean tae her – aye?"
Oh, you sweet girl, you have no idea. . .
Annie turns around in the front seat, to face me as nearly as she can, "We allus stop by auld Fischer's sweetshop furst thing – his is the furst store in the row, sae we c'n excuse it, y'see."
Well, that sounds innocent enough, but I still hold back feeling relieved just yet. . .
"I. . . think so?" I say, hesitantly.
Annie chuckles, "He stocks sevaral dozen flavours of American-style saltwater taffy, y'see, an' this lot have made it their mission to try evary one of them," she shoves Coira playfully on the shoulder, "Sae we'ev made it our tradition tae each of us choose one piece right away, and whoevar finishes theirs furst pays fer tea. Whoevar finishes last gets tae choose where."
I smile, soothed and charmed by her explanation. "Oh. Well, in that case, I'd like to try pineapple. . ." I pause a second, "If you think they have it?" I ask, since pineapple is the most exotic fruit I've always wanted to try that I think they still might have heard of. . .
"Och," says Mai, "Be surprisin' if they don't. They have kiwi and lychee and marula flavours – dinnae ken why they wouldnae have pineapple."
I blink. I've not heard of two of those.
Right. Far past time to stop underestimating these allies of mine. . .
Their chatter moves blithely on again, and I gaze out across the fields, watching the landscape slowly change from arable tilth, to grazing lands, to wild scrub scattered with copse after copse of sudden, clustered trees, to full, looming forest, and back again – open fields under plough, and cropped, bleached pasture, interspersed with wild scrubland full of the black, untamed chaos of winter bushes and briers, and long, cold stretches under the shadow of innumerable trees, either grasping and skeletal with winter, or brilliantly dark green with their undying leafage.
Every bit of it is alien, stark, imposing, and utterly, utterly magical. A land of dreams and fairies, of ancient rites and myths and legends. . .
Suddenly, I understand what the feeling is behind my heart. I'm homesick.
It seems entirely absurd to long for the narrow, cramped and rusty streets of Skycity 15, and the desolate, howling void of the world as it is in 2279, but it is still the place I was born, and the world as I have always known it. Life two hundred year ago is undoubtedly richer, smoother, simpler – quantitatively and qualitatively better, in almost every way – but it is still a world I don't know, and do not belong to.
Trees. Land. Rivers, animals and grass. Clear skies, and sprawling, open towns.
Really, this whole place might as well be some alien world from a distant galaxy, as far as I'm concerned. I feel further away from my home than I would if I were floating alone in the midst of stars. . .
I sigh a bit, and pull myself back into the interior of the car, and the funny, light conversations happening around me.
The world has changed throughout the ages - as it always will - but Humans, now. . . Humans will always be the same.
Yes, that's the problem and you know it, Beauchamp!
I clench my jaw, trying to force myself to cheer up.
Time enough to be gloomy, Beauchamp. Be in the moment with these girls right now. They went to a lot of trouble for you. . .
I paste a smile on my face, and dive into the discussion of porridge with fresh versus preserved fruit that Mai and Coira are currently hashing out between them.
"Does brown sugar count as a fruit?" I ask, wryly.
The resulting good-natured debate brings us all the way into town.
A very small town, is Cranesmuir, even I can see that. Small, but well situated, well tenanted, and clearly self-sufficient. Shops of all types and description line a wide village square of generous proportions. I only catch a glimpse of it all before Coira pulls in to a parking space very near the small field in the middle of everything – the "village green" I recall Jamie calling it. A cold day in November it may be, and the central lawn bleached and browned, but the few pavilions set up on it are still quite unmistakable.
This must be the "farmer's market" that both he and Geordie have mentioned to me several times. It is where Leoch will, in due course, sell a large portion of its sheep, cattle, pigs, geese, ducks and other fowl, feed potatoes, silage beets, and vegetable haulms. It is the local market hub for professionals and businessmen – rather than the general "open fair" sort of event that I normally associate with the term "farmer's market". Both Murtagh and Jamie have offered to introduce me there in the spring, since we have little business to do there now. A few stock purchases, a few minor feed sales – but apparently Marc saw to the majority of this winter's business transactions there some three weeks ago. In the spring there will be many more of the wide, white pavilions too. Now, there are only four, and none of them looks busy.
The girls eagerly jump out of the car and, arm in arm, laughing, we all troop into the nearest building along the nearest row. Above the door is a sign, saying in fancy, curlicue letters - "The Sugar House". More laughter ensues while we are inside, and more teasing and jibing happens than any actual shopping, but eventually we all emerge into the square again, each of us with a sticky, flavoursome sweet tucked into our cheeks, and two or three of us with small bags of treats to take back with us to Leoch.
It is only on the way to our next stop that I really have a chance to look at this village square. The wide variety of stores and cafs is impossible to miss, given all the excellent brightly coloured signage, but the specifics have had to wait until now. Next to The Sugar House, there is a caf called "Hunan Tasty Pot", selling I know not what kind of food, but it smells good, at least from here. Then there are two residential houses, each set well back from the sidewalk with tiny garden plots, and both crowded with screening trees and bushes. Then there is a long, low building, subdivided into offices for a chiropractor, a dentist, a lawyer, and a podiatrist. Then, there are three tiny stores, all huddled very close together, and fronting directly onto the street – a baker, a jewelry shop, and a kind of supply store I have never seen before, called "Bait And Flitch". There are guns in the front display window, and tents, and long poles with very long spools of string attached to their bases, and knives, and boxes full of sharp little hooks, and dozens upon dozens of things "guaranteed to start a fire", and a large rack of various types of vacuum packed desiccated food. I stare at all these mysterious things for quite a while, wanting to ask every sort of question, but knowing I can't.
"Och, thinking of goin' on a camping trip, eh?" say Mai, elbowing me cheerfully.
"No," say, casually, "just interested."
Aside from the tent, the dried food, and possibly the knives, nothing in this window seems necessary for camping, as far as I can see. . .
Beyond this, there are four more residential houses, a small, elegant shop selling handmade lace, and then, finally, our current goal – a large, pastel establishment called, somewhat incongruously, "Brilliance". By the beautifully flamboyant displays in the windows, I can see this place sells cosmetics, bathing supplies, toiletries, and – discretely, of course - a certain amount of fabulously expensive lingerie. I enter the store somewhat hesitantly. Even when I lived in Central, I was never interested in these particular kinds of frivolities. A good skin cream, a flavoured lip oil, and a set of high quality nail clippers were about as far as I ever went.
But, in Annie and Coira's company, I am not allowed to be hesitant for long. In a very few minutes, I have purchased an essential oil aromatherapy set, a large pot of something called a "relaxing hair masque", three different flavours of lip balms, a small box of things called "bath bombs", three different lotions – one for feet, one for hands, and one very specifically for cuticles of all things – and one long-handled brush with very stiff bristles, made for scrubbing the middle of your back.
I and the rest of the girls make our purchases in a flurry of sweet scents, and then hustle off to our next destination – which is, mercifully, just next door. It is a dress shop. When I ask, the girls give me to understand that they also sell shoes, boots and other working clothes, and everyday ladies' underclothing – for which I am highly thankful. While my friends browse the dresses on special, and see what deals are to be had on stockings, I find the small booth near the rear of the store that measures and fits brassieres. The device has only changed superficially after 200 years, rendering it quite easy for me to operate. While it is altering the three bras I chose, I look around the racks of things stored nearby. I select two very nice, sturdy pairs of working jeans, appreciative of the large triple pockets down both legs, as well as the built-in tool belt. I find a good half-dozen flannel shirts on special, and grab them, eager to at last have a few things not in the MacKenzie tartan. I'm quite unable to resist a gorgeous deep maroon sweater, hat and glove set whose tags proudly proclaim they were knitted locally, and by hand. I find just the pair of galoshes I wanted, and am busily trying on Macintosh overcoats when the brassiere machine beeps to tell me it has finished. I take my specially-fitted bras out of the delivery slot, and lay them on top of the pile of things I mean to buy. I choose my coat, and then see there is a special on combo packs of cotton socks, underwear and t-shirts. I push five sets of them in behind the large armful of my other things as I go to check out.
"Stockin' up, I see," says the attendant, smiling.
"Yes," I say, smiling back, but not inviting any other comment.
When we are back out in the chilly air, our purchases all tidily folded away in bags, Kenzie announces she has finished her piece of taffy, and offers, therefore, to buy us all an ice cream at our next destination. Everyone agrees while chaffing her noisily, and we all cross the street to begin perusing the next side of the square.
With my tongue, I touch the little piece of pineapple flavoured candy still sitting comfortably in my cheek, and smile a little. Then, completely unexpectedly, the sharp, bittersweet feelings of homesickness come over me again, clouding my view of the picturesque village before me, rendering everything grey, stale, and unappetizing. This place is nothing – nothing - like my home.
Home. . .
I gaze around me, quite suddenly deeply forlorn, and trying desperately to stave it off. No. No, I mustn't slide into a depression. Not here, not now. What did I do last time, to prevent it? I had. . . I had. . .
I had held on to Jamie. . .
I take a deep breath, and remember the feeling of his hand, rough and big and warm, engulfing mine. I make a fist, tying to ape the pressure of his fingers on my palm.
"Steady now, lass. I'm here for ye."
I seem to hear his deep, gentle voice, whispering in my ear.
"This place isnae as alien as ye think. Take a look again, aye?"
I feel his thumb graze the side of my mouth, and the light press of his lips to mine.
"Dinnae fret, mo ghràidh. Ye'er in my hoom now. An' ye cannae be a stranger annywhear tha's hoom tae me. Ken?"
I press my lips together, and my eyes slide shut as I remember the scent and taste of him, and the bright, vibrant, living feeling his presence always gives me.
"Aye, tha's right, lass. Let me hold ye together. . ."
I imagine his arms going around me, and me burying my face in his chest.
The looming darkness retreats a little. When I open my eyes again, the colours of the world are a little warmer, the feel of everything a little more inviting.
Nothing is fixed, but. . . well, a stopgap is at least something.
Right?
By now the girls are far ahead of me, and both Annie and Coira are gesticulating wildly, encouraging me to follow them as fast as I can.
I take another deep breath, and deliberately look about me as I stride to catch up.
And it turns out Jamie is right. Or, at least my dream facsimile of Jamie is right. There is one important similarity between this village square and the Skycity marketplaces I'm used to, which, when I focus on it, makes this place seem far less alien.
I pass five residences, two cafs, an auto repair shop, another bakery – this one with an adjoining tea room - and a perfectly charming grocery/chemist, before joining the girls outside a milk bar. They've already ordered me a chocolate chocolate-chip double-scoop milkshake – whatever that may be - so I am still free to pursue my own thoughts. And it's funny, how I didn't appreciate right away just how similar this place is to the markets aboard New Oxford, since I've been literally repeating the evidence of that similarity to myself ever since we got here.
Neither this market square, nor the markets on Skycity 15, were planned.
Cranesmuir, of course, was established before city planning was a thing, and so it is perfectly natural for the buildings to be a haphazard blend of residences, businesses, and business/residences. And to be honest, I don't know what it's like on other Skycities, but on New Oxford, it turned out that our intended Citywide functions – education and information storage – were not what our allotted resources were best suited for. With our superior filtration systems, it just made sense for us to become a farming and food processing community. As our culture and economy developed, none of the intended meeting places and market squares were situated properly – or indeed were large enough – to comfortably house the crowds that needed them. Some markets sprawled outwards, enveloping side neighborhoods, and some markets moved entirely. In either case, instead of neat, planned rows of stores and cafs, our marketplaces are now surrounded by a totally random blend of homes, stores, cafs, entertainment centers, water distribution stations, schools and so on.
Such a setting gives New Oxford markets a spontaneous, yet welcoming and settled air about them, or so I've always thought. And yes, different as this place is, it has a similar air about it. Unpretentious, cozy – and yet deeply cultured, and housing quite professional craftsmen and businessmen.
Our milkshakes are served, and the girls start discussing where we should go when we have tea. One of the tea rooms is the obvious answer, but Mai prefers one of the sandwich shops, and Annie wants go to the nearby "pizza parlor". I speak up, casting my vote for that, remembering how good the pizza was at the concert, but Coira reminds us all that Annie and Mai haven't finished their taffies yet, and so which of them gets to choose is still up in the air.
I smile again at their quaint little tradition, and deliberately swallow the last tiny fragment of my taffy, so as to not complicate matters any further.
I enjoy my milkshake very much.
At last we stroll onwards, taking this side of the square much more slowly than we did the first one. We stop by a general store, and a bookshop, and a tiny place that sells herbs and candles and crystals, and smells ferociously of incense. Next to that is the post office, and next to that is farming supplies. Then there is the corner of the square, and this is filled with a quite lovely little stone church. The churchyard contains a fountain, and a few other relics from a bygone time, and the stone-cobble paving leads off into a small walled-off garden visible to the right.
If charm were granted on looks alone, this church would get full marks.
The girls are still debating where we will have tea when I pull my attention back around to them. I'm still hoping for pizza, and say so.
We're just passing "Duncan's Farming Supplies", and I'm looking absently into the empty doorway when, without warning, a figure suddenly appears there, giving me quite a start.
She appeared in the space between blinks. . .
Her eyes flash, and she smirks as she registers our conversation.
Then, without preamble or permission, she reaches into our group and grabs me by the arm.
"Weel, I dinna ken aboot th'rest of ye," says Geillis Duncan, pulling me up the two steps into her shop, "but Missus Beauchamp is havin' tea wi' me."