Bird on the Wing

BIRD ON THE WING
A short story by Yvonne Martin

Graham Byers Complete Guide to Being Branded a 'Lowlander Idiot'.

Tip One: On your journey to the misty Isle of Skye, you will come upon
a little town by the name of Kyle. [Best not to ask, however jestingly,
if it's named after Kyle MacLachlan. There's being a Lowlander Idiot
and then there's taking one's future existence not at all seriously.]
When the bus comes to a standstill directly adjacent to a car ferry
jetty, turn to the nearest islander and ask the seemingly rational
question&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;

"Is this where we get the boat then?"
Mo gave me a look. It was a look of such extreme disgust and contempt,
it made me wonder if what I'd actually asked was "Fancy cartwheeling
naked down the bus aisle?"
"Boat?" she said, in a tone one would usually reserve for the words:
"Are these blowfly larvae in my Chicken Kiev?" Clearly I had made a
faux pas of some description. Suddenly enlightened, I tried
again.
"Oh, right, ok, sorry - is this where we get the ferry then?"
The sneer didn't appear to have faded at all.
"Well," said Mo, "you can get off and wait for it here if you like.
I'll pick you up on my way back."

Confusion reigned and Mo was beginning to scare me. The thought
surfaced in my mind that perhaps once she set foot back on her island,
she would metamorphose into some evil, sadistic kelpie. That aside, I
was getting pissed off. The damn woman invites me to her precious
homeland but the minute we get anywhere near the place, she turns
MacBeth's witches into a quartet. I put voice to my thoughts:
"Eh?"
"Gray, I know you were a History of Art student but I have reason to
believe that you haven't actually been unconscious for the past five
years."
"I'm starting to wish I had been and still was."
Clearly my Grumpy Little Boy stance did something for her as she
snorted laughter and adopted a Primary teacher tone.
"We go across a bridge, you silly git. It's been there for five bloody
years!"
Highlanders - 1 Lowlanders - Nil
***
It seemed I had wrongly perceived the island to be small. Once we had
crossed the bridge, my concept of our ETA in Portree was 20 hundred
hours and five minutes. In the sense of:
20 hundred hours - halfway over bridge
20 hundred hours and five minutes - arrive safely, head for nearest
pub
Not so. After yet another blind corner round a mountain, some 45
minutes later, it became apparent (to me, at least) that we were really
driving round and round in circles&;#8230;.a trainee bus driver, in
all probability.

It took the last vestiges of my patience, machismo and fear of Mo's
scathing wit to prevent the words "Are we nearly there yet?" from
escaping my lips. Confident that Mo would mistake my desperate vigil in
search of signs of civilization for admiration of the admittedly
beautiful landscape, I continued to stare out of the window. I had
forgotten, of course, that she was now a malignant Celtic sprite with
psychic powers.
"Nearly there!" she said brightly, swatting me on the arm. "The
journey's gone past really quickly today, don't you think?"
Highlanders - 2 Lowlanders - Nil.

***

I'd lived in Glasgow for 99.99\\% of my life, even being as unoriginal
as to go to University there, so having a Hebridean girlfriend was
quite novel. While I'd often been on hand with jokes about sheep,
crafting and a lack of running water, I suppose I had never really
though about what it was like to live on a little island.

From first sight, Portree impressed me, and the view from Mo's alleged
Council house impressed me more. To actually be able to casually glance
out of your window and be met with picture-postcard scenery - sea,
rugged mountains, trees, sheep&;#8230;all that Scottish stuff - was
pretty unique. If you casually glanced out of the window of most
Glasgow Council houses, you'd as like be met with the scabby house
across the street, a local off-license or the face of the wee ned who
was about to break in and rob you.

Contrary to the opinion of my mental faculties I may have hitherto
acquired, I did not say, "This is nice for a Council house" to Mo's
mum. The anxiety of the parental introduction was already reduced by
half, given that Dad was out of the picture. Mum, or "Call me Clare"
was cheerful, easy-going and undeniably charmed by my dashing self.
Only one serious complaint: she insisted on pinning the 'rag' to the
end of the 'Mo'. I shuddered involuntarily every time she did it and I
could almost hear 'Morag' growling. When it suited her, Mo loved to
play up the idea of being a fresh-faced Heeland lass who stood atop
cliffs, her hair blowing romantically in all directions. When it came
to her fresh-faced Heeland name, however, she was something of a
traitor to her roots. She'd have undoubtedly been quite eager to
exchange names with Moon Unit Zappa.

"Morag!"
Replying snarl.
"What are you going to do with Graham while he's here?"
"Hmm, let's see&;#8230;" mused Mo. "Ok, I'm not going to show him
endless sets of baby photos, we won't be visiting Gran, and we
definitely won't be taking you on in a squash tournament."
"You won't be having any fun then," she said dryly. "But really, Morag,
while I fully endorse non-visitation of your gran, the baby photos are
so cute&;#8230;.they're very entertaining."
"Well," Mo returned immediately, "you'll have something to amuse
yourself with while we're at the pub."

While we're at the pub. I was soon to learn that if I needed a phrase
to sum up the entire trip, that would be it.
***

Mo and I decided to go out for dinner and I was surprised and delighted
to discover that Portree had an Indian restaurant. When I expressed
this, I was met with just a touch more scorn.
"Yes," Mo said with mock enthusiasm, "and we even have
a&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;wait for it&;#8230;" lowering her
voice conspiratorially, "&;#8230;..a CHINESE TAKEAWAY!"
"Alright you sarcastic wench, I expected it to be a lot
smaller&;#8230;.not as, er, culturally diverse."
"What - one pub and a Post Office sort of thing? You've heard me talk
about the place."
This was true enough but you can't help the pictures that form in your
head. My experience of islands came mostly from watching Father Ted so
you can imagine what I'd expected. As yet, I hadn't spotted a
rough-looking local with an "I Shot JR" t-shirt but I lived in
hope.

After dinner we went to meet a couple of Mo's friends, Zara and
Ruaraidh, who were also up from Glasgow visiting the folks. The pub in
which we were to rendezvous had the exotically foreign name of 'The
Camanachd Bar' (pronounced exactly as it's written, without the 'd'!)
and sat in a prime location, overlooking the town square. From the
outside it looked very respectable, annexed to the Portree Hotel, the
doorway small and neat.
Inside&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;.

"MO!!!"
I was bowled straight back against the closing door as a large, red
satin creature hurled itself into my girlfriend's arms. Fortunately, Mo
had appeared to expect this and had clearly braced herself for the
force of the greeting - in that she managed to remain upright.
Unfortunately, the weight of my flailing body had battered the door
backwards against a bloke using the payphone in the porch. It was even
less fortunate that he was bending over to inspect his kneecap at the
time and the door bashed him squarely on the top of the head.

"AAAAAAAAAGH!!! Ya *&;^@!=+ *\\%$&;*** (insert expletives of your
choice)"
Many apologies and a lager-on-me later, 'Spock' (this being his name
among locals) was fairly well placated.
"Bloody Glasgwegians," he sighed, with a wry grin, "they manage to nut
you now without even getting their own heads involved. Neat trick." And
off he wandered to the pool room, pint in hand.
Highlanders - 3 Lowlanders - Nil

The red, satin creature who had cost me a pint, and was cheerfully
oblivious to it, went by the name of Lizzie. She was another Skye girl
who had removed herself to Glasgow but had come up with Zara and
Ruaraidh for a surprise visit. Indeed, Mo had not expected her but I
fully maintain it was I who was more taken by surprise. The last thing
I had expected was a large, satin Jack-in-the-pub to come hurtling
towards us as we opened the door.

Having said that, composure regained, it was difficult not to take to
the big and buoyant Lizzie whose cheerful enthusiasm seemed to set the
tone for the rest of us.
"I'm a wee bit tiddly already, guys - I've had a head start. Mum and I
had a bottle of wine with dinner to celebrate her new job."
Mo and Zara exchanged an amused glance, as if to say 'typical
Lizzie'.
"I don't know why it's affected me so much," Lizzie continued,
unawares, "it's probably coz I haven't eaten much today."
"What have you had?" asked Zara, seeming-innocent although I detected a
small degree of mischief in her tone.
"Mmmm," Lizzie pondered, "a packet of crisps, a Scotch egg and some
lasagne and chips."
"God!" exclaimed Mo, eyes wide. "Are you on a starvation diet or
something?"
My girlfriend is an evil, satanic, sarcastic wench. I love her to bits,
man!

The four of us managed to get a table, which was apparently a rare
achievement in the Camanachd on a Friday night. It was only because
we'd come in so early, allegedly, which puzzled me somewhat. I didn't
think 9pm was particularly early and, as yet, there were few signs of
life. Spock and a mob of Pantera-t-shirt-wearing sulky types inhabited
the pool area right at the back, a sprinkling of tourists and locals
sitting down at tables and a line-up of well-greased blokes at the bar,
who'd undoubtedly been there since five.

I wasn't in any way bothered by this - the 'Quiet Island Pub' was quite
what I'd expected and I was relieved that Mo's friends were so easy to
get along with. Zara cracked me up - she was very amusing, once you'd
adjusted your receptors to cope with her Olympic speed of talking and
actually caught what she was saying. Ruaraidh, nice as he was, wasn't
quite the laddish partner-in-crime I'd hoped for, however. I tried, now
and again, to engage him in some quiet 'man talk' but he was far more
interested in gossiping with the girls.

My vague comments about football did not go completely unnoticed,
however, as it turned out that Lizzie was also an avid Rangers fan.
Sadly, this revelation did not prompt a conversation about football.
What followed, instead, were Lizzie's declarations of undying love for
Ally McCoist and subsequently the girls engaged themselves in degrading
banter about sponging down sweaty footballers. Disgusting.

Now&;#8230;back to the 'Quiet Island Pub' deal. When the clock
struck ten, there was a dramatic transformation in atmosphere, the pub
going from empty to hoaching in the space of five minutes. Spock and
co. lost their domination of the jukebox and we were permitted to hear
some music not performed by Cypress Hill. It was at this point, also,
that I was made aware of the crucial difference between nightlife in
Skye and nightlife in Glasgow. I had assumed that it would just be the
five of us all evening. I forgot that Mo probably knew every damn
person on the island.

"Mo, you old trollop!" came the gentlemanly cry from behind me.
"Pete! Hiya! I thought you might be here."
Pete, a tall, gangly chap, curiously tanned for a Hebridean, was a
school friend of Mo's who had also been a Uni friend until he'd dropped
out to go home and work on his dad's croft.
"Who are you out with, Pete?" asked Zara.
"Wee Neil's up at the bar getting the drinks in," Pete grinned, "and
we're waiting for Donald 'Bull' and Donald 'Dog' to get here."
I tried to hide a snort of laughter and ended up choking on my pint.
Zara clattered me across the back with Lizzie's handbag in a misguided
attempt to help.

I asked Mo later if it was a requirement to follow the name 'Donald'
with the name of an animal. She looked at me rather distastefully, said
'No' and that was the end of that conversation.

Peter asked us if we were going to 'Elgol'.
"Why? What's on?" asked Ruaraidh.
"The Gala Day dance!" Peter said, in a rather indignant tone, which
suggested we should all have known.
"Oh God!" said Mo, "Is it that time of year already?!"
"We HAVE to go," Lizzie declared in a tone of finality that said we
were going and that was that.
"Ok, listen," said Pete, "if there's you guys, me, Neil and the two
Donalds, we can all get a taxi together and it'll cost very
little."
"Taxi?!" I blurted. "Taxi for bloody ten??"
"Yes, stupid, we get the minibus," Mo returned.
"Oh."

Elgol. Did they say Elgol or Hell-gol? You see, you can be a smartarse
and make comments about bestiality and lack of running water before you
find out that Hebridean islands are just as civilised as anywhere else.
But&;#8230;&;#8230;that's all a trick, part of your punishment by
the locals for being a smug, city-dwelling git. You think 'Hey, they've
got decent pubs, no sign of any barn dances, no indication of
in-breeding' and you trustingly allow yourself to be spirited off to an
unspecified location.

Elgol was a good 40 miles away and this Gala Day Dance consisted of a
marquee in a very muddy field. There didn't appear to be anything else
in Elgol besides said marquee, a toilet-truck and a couple of burger
stalls. And, true to form, it was raining, so when I say 'very muddy
field' I mean VERY MUDDY FIELD. Woodstock was starting to look like the
Sahara desert.

Now, at this point, I can adopt the literary mantle of 'unreliable
narrator', given that I was getting fairly sozzled. This being entirely
the fault of Lizzie who could have drunk George Best under the table in
his glory days. It may sound like a pathetic excuse but really, the
girl was like a Drinking Drill Sergeant. You'd be facing her and she'd
have a full glass of Long Vodka in her hand, then you'd turn your head
to look at something for a second, turn back and her glass would be
empty.
"Drink UP!!" she'd then bellow, and wouldn't leave you alone until you
did.
So&;#8230;&;#8230;I was a wee bit maracked and being introduced
to about a zillion people, none of whose names I could remember. I made
a mental note that if I forgot a bloke's name, just to call him Donald
'Horse' or Donald 'Pig' or Donald 'Dingo' and I'd be in with a good
chance.

What was also troubling was that Mo kept saying "Ex-boyfriend" to me
after a few of said introductions. I'm sure she said it at least six
times. Having all your ex-boyfriends together in one place is just
plain weird. At one point, she left me at the bar with Lizzie while she
was off having a conversation with TWO of them&;#8230;&;#8230;AT
THE SAME TIME.
"Y'alright, Gray-YUM?!" I heard Lizzie slur. Turning to answer her, I
was taken aback to find she was no longer there.
"Graaaaay-yuuuuummmm&;#8230;.."
Except she was&;#8230;..only her head was not five feet and five
inches off the ground, as it had previously been. It was now about
level with my chest and I watched as her feet slowly slid forward from
under her and she sank gracelessly, still leant against the bar, to the
floor. Even sober, this would have struck me as incredibly funny and,
as drunk as I was, it graduated to the funniest thing I'd seen in my
life and I began to howl uproariously. As limp and lifeless as Lizzie
looked, the karate chop she delivered to my shins did stop my laughter
temporarily&;#8230;&;#8230;Temporarily.

The last thing I remember clearly is being bundled into a car, feeling
a sense of relief that we were going to be putting some distance
between us and Hell-gol. But
no&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;.another trick on the smug,
city-dwelling git. Given that there were about eight people in the car
and the one in the driving seat was not fully conscious, I surmised we
would be going nowhere. I ended up being squished up against a bloke
who was being referred to as 'Linda', curiously enough, which I
questioned tentatively. Thus followed a long, complicated, drunken
tale, the details of which entirely escape me but the crux of it was,
his real name was&;#8230;&;#8230;.yep, you guessed
it&;#8230;.Donald. And his alternative nickname, I learned, was
Donald 'Ram'. If I recall correctly, I laughed myself to sleep.

***

Sitting in my office, which overlooks Portree Harbour, I think about my
night in Elgol and have a little chuckle. Ah, the observant reader will
notice a significant point - the smug, city-dwelling git is now a smug
island-dwelling git.

It's not what you may think - Mo actually dumped me not long after my
fateful visit. At the time, I was gutted but I got over it, as you do.
Skye, however, well it actually stayed with me longer than she did and
I came back. Mo is off travelling the world at the moment, I think. For
her, Skye was always a place to get away from because she liked to
think of herself as a broad-minded, cosmopolitan woman of the world.
Personally, I believe that one day she'll realise she can still be that
person here and come back. Can't wait to introduce her to Kate.
Former Lowlanders - 1 Cosmopolitan Women of the World - Nil.