Ottilie Havers must have typed in a frenzy because her review of the Edinburgh’s Got Talent night appeared in the Saturday edition of the Examiner, which I hurried out to my local corner shop to buy half a dozen copies of. This time, I wasn’t worried when I opened the paper because I’d already seen her article online, the link to which had been sent to me by at least half a dozen people in the early hours, along with an imaginative collection of celebratory gifs and emojis. While the reviewer was a little sniffy about the washing up bowl method of selecting the running order, she declared the Cellar Bar to be a ‘dynamic new venue which looks set to nurture the next generation of Edinburgh’s performers.’ I was seriously considering cutting the article out and framing some copies, one to go up on the wall in the admin office for personal motivational reasons, and another for Ian’s desk as a gentle reminder to have faith in his staff.
An unexpected bonus was that Ottilie Havers had even gone on to write a few lines about how much she’d enjoyed what she’d seen of the impromptu ceilidh before she’d had to leave to file her copy. The new ‘Drowsy Maggies’ – working title – WhatsApp group was buzzing with excitement at her admiration of our ‘vibrant style’.
I was gratified by her praise, but I didn’t need her opinion to endorse my own review of the night, which was that it had been a huge success. I was part of something once again, and I was full of hope and excitement for my future, eager to continue making positive changes.
A little after midday, there was a knock on the door. I looked up from the set list which I’d started dreamily compiling. It was still very early days for my little ceilidh group, if it was even appropriate to call it that yet, but I was fired up with enthusiasm and keen to keep the momentum building.
Harry was standing in the hallway with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.
‘I believe congratulations are in order,’ he said.
Eliza and Fraser padded across the landing and made their way into my flat, casually curling up on the sofa.
‘Come on in. And thank you so much, that’s really lovely of you. How did you know that daffodils are my favourite? These will really brighten up the flat.’
‘I took an educated guess. Sunny flowers for a sunny person.’
‘It takes one to know one.’ I smiled back at him. ‘Now can I offer you a tea or a coffee? Excuse the mess with the newspapers. I couldn’t resist getting a few copies for posterity.’
‘I don’t blame you. I’ll have a coffee, if you’re making one.’ Harry carefully lowered himself onto the sofa, squeezing into the few inches of space which weren’t occupied by the two relaxing cats. ‘You did a wonderful job, Amy. I cannot remember when I last laughed so much. Those comedians were very observant, and as for the musicians, well, they were nearly as good as you.’
I hoped the steam from the boiling kettle would help explain away the warmth of my cheeks.
‘You’re too kind, Harry. And I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to speak to you as much as I wanted last night.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear. I didn’t wish to distract you while you were working, and besides, I had a very enjoyable conversation with your colleague Malcolm. Anyway, it was good to see you in your element. You’ve created something very special.’
‘Thanks. It was great to see the theatre full of life again.’
I carried the cafetière across and settled down on a bean bag, shaking my head at Harry’s offer to cede his position on the sofa to me.
‘I have no doubt,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t the Variety I was referring to, although admittedly the Cellar Bar is going to be a wonderful addition to Edinburgh’s cultural scene. Thank you, but no, they were a treat for you,’ he added, as I offered the box of chocolates to him. ‘No, it was the supportive atmosphere I was referring to. I have a feeling a lot of performers will be grateful to you for giving them that confidence-boosting leg up into a challenging industry.’
‘I hope it has made a difference to them. And as long as they keep wanting to perform at the Variety, that’s good enough for me,’ I said, although even as I said the words out loud, I realised that they weren’t completely true. I was delighted with the success of the opening night and what it could mean for the future of the theatre and the job security of those who worked there. But while I’d enjoyed the challenge of reviving the venue, the satisfaction it had given me was nothing compared to the thrill I’d experienced while playing my violin in the scratch ceilidh afterwards. Creating music made my heart soar. It was time to stop settling for good enough, and continue pushing myself to take risks in order to find the true happiness I knew I deserved.
Somehow Harry seemed to know what I was thinking about.
‘And has it made a difference to you?’ he asked.
I gazed into my coffee mug as I thought, swirling the liquid around and watching the little bubbles forming and popping on the surface of the drink.
‘Yes, I think so. Opening the Cellar Bar has pushed me out of my comfort zone. But I think there’s still work to be done. Room for growth, if that doesn’t sound too much like some kind of inspirational post on social media. My next project has to be focused on me, rather than my day job. Maybe I’m trying to run before I can even walk, but I’m already starting to think about how I can make a living from my music. That was always the plan before the self-doubt stole it from me. But now I’m playing again, I can’t help starting to dream again.’
Harry nodded. ‘Take it from an old fogey like me that the day you stop dreaming is the day you stop living life to the full. Yes, we should all take the time to appreciate the blessings we already have, but we shouldn’t let fear hold us back from striving for what our hearts desire.’
Fraser rolled onto his back, letting out a sleepy mewl as his sister tried to steal his sofa space. I smiled at their antics.
‘You’re right. I’m getting better at being brave. Before, I was always focusing on the negative “what ifs”, but I need to remember that “what ifs” can also be positive.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Harry. ‘Goodness, is that the time? I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you to it. Malcolm has kindly invited me to lunch with him and his wife. And I think it’s about time these reprobates returned this sofa to its rightful owner. See you later.’
Thrilled that my friend-matching plan for Harry had done the trick, I decided to do a little more on my own behalf and sent a speculative message to my new ceilidh WhatsApp group.
Hi guys, who’s up for another session? Guess we’d better stick with the Drowsy Maggies name now we’re famous!
The messages pinged back almost instantly.
Count me in #DrowsyMaggiesrule
Where and how soon? I’m bringing food.
Yaaas friends, let’s play!
Friends. Life was good. We arranged to meet on Sunday morning, and I filled out the new online booking form I’d set up for community groups to hire the Cellar Bar. What better way of testing the system than with my own folk band?
The weekend passed in a whirl of talking, laughing, and lots of violin playing. By Monday, I was exhausted, but happy, and full of plans for my future. The only cloud on the horizon was that I hadn’t heard back from Cameron yet, although given that he was working his way through the final days of the Antarctic voyage, he probably had little time to do anything outside of his photography responsibilities.
When I arrived at work, I was pleased to see a couple of tourists at the box office booking tickets for the next open mic night at the Cellar Bar. There was no sign of Creepy Colin who seemed to have reverted to his usual work-shy ways, but the member of staff on duty was doing a great job, persuading the tourists to buy seats for a show in the main auditorium as well. I made a mental note to speak to the finance manager to see if we could come up with a pricing plan which would reward people for booking for both venues.
‘Are you going to do a lunchtime concert?’ asked one of the tourists, catching sight of my violin case which was slung across one shoulder. ‘We saw a video online of the folk band playing here the other night. You were one of them, right? I can’t stop humming those tunes. How do you play so quickly?’
I laughed. ‘We got a bit carried away with excitement. The speed tends to build along with the enthusiasm of the dancers. I didn’t realise someone had filmed it, but I’m glad you enjoyed the tunes.’
‘When’s your next gig?’ pressed the tourist.
‘Keep an eye on social media,’ I said. ‘We’ll post all the info on there. Search for the Drowsy Maggies.’
As soon as the two happy customers had departed, I pulled my phone out of my bag and tapped out a quick message to the group.
How would you feel if I set us up with a couple of social media accounts? People have been asking about our next performance!
For a brief moment I wondered if I was being too pushy and letting myself get carried away. After all, we’d only met for the first time on Friday. But then the replies starting pinging back.
Fine by me.
Fab idea. The Drowsy Maggies will take the internet by storm.
Yes, but don’t give me the password, even if I ask for it! Once I start chatting on socials, I lose hours of good practising time.
Great, was going to suggest that because I might have booked us a gig already…
I sent a couple of broadly grinning emojis in response. Now I was definitely going to have to do extra practice during my lunchbreak.
Smiling to myself, I collected the post from the Variety’s mailbox and headed up to the admin office, ready to start the work that I was actually paid for. As I sorted through the pile of correspondence, still half daydreaming about all things ceilidh group related, one item brought me back to my surroundings. In among the junk mail and the flyers and the bills addressed to the boss, there was a long narrow postcard. The picture on its front captured my attention instantly, making my heart accelerate. It was a photograph of a pair of single-storey wooden huts, the frames of their small windows painted a cheerful red, the same colour as the big barn door of the hut in the foreground. The huts were perched on a rocky, snowy foreshore which gave way to glistening, mirror-clear water, while behind them ice-capped mountains towered into the sky, its pure blue only interrupted by the faintest wisps of a delicate cloud. The setting was so beautifully pristine that it almost looked like a perfectly painted backcloth on a stage set. I peered more closely and realised the small black and white shapes in front of the huts were a colony of penguins casually going about their day-to-day business, completely unbothered by the distant presence of the photographer who’d taken this picture.
I turned the postcard over and clocked the postmark which said, ‘British Antarctic Territory Port Lockroy.’ Underneath it, the postage stamp showed a picture of a fluffy baby penguin, its wings raised in a gesture uncannily like a small child joyfully racing down a hill. It was only once I’d examined every detail of the other-worldly images, that I allowed myself to read the postcard’s contents, wanting to eke out every moment of this unexpected correspondence.
British Antarctic Territory Port Lockroy 29 Jan
To: Amy Cameron c/o Edinburgh Variety, Edinburgh
Dear Amy,
I’m sending this to you from Port Lockroy, home of the world’s most remote public post office. The staff here tell me it’ll take a few weeks to reach you, if this is even the right address to find you. Anything could happen in that period, and we’ve only been writing for a short time, but I’m taking a chance sending this now because despite the marvels of this trip, your emails are proving to be the real highlight. I’ve never been one to believe in fate, but it feels like there was some kind of force working behind the scenes to introduce us to each other, and now I’m hoping that our correspondence can turn into something more. I’m running out of space, hence the increasingly tiny handwriting. Meet me? 1st March 1pm Edinburgh Castle.
With love,
Cameron x
I ran my fingers over the postcard. Although I knew it would have passed through many hands since it left his, I still felt a thrill knowing that I was touching something which he had held too. I traced the ink of his neatly looped blue script, trying to read beyond what the written words were spelling. They say you can tell a lot from a person’s handwriting. My own almost illegible scrawl would reveal that I’m mostly in a rush, and perhaps even hint at my recurring fear of making my thoughts heard. But Cameron’s writing was clear and relaxed, giving no sense of hastiness or doubt. Did it perhaps reveal a man who was confident in his choice to make himself vulnerable, his decision to put his hope for something more out there?
‘It feels like there was some kind of force working behind the scenes to introduce us to each other.’ In that sentence, he had articulated what I had been struggling to define to myself. The feeling defied all logic but it was there nevertheless, and he sensed it too. I clasped the postcard to my chest, and imagined him standing in one of those wooden huts pictured, carefully choosing every word and making the most of the small space he had to write in. Had he checked over what he’d written, holding the card close briefly, just like I was doing now, before attaching the stamp and posting it in the world’s most southerly red post box?
I still didn’t know what he looked like, so the film playing out in my head had me watching from a distance, Cameron a silhouette in front of one of the windows of the Port Lockroy post office hut, his features undefined. How I wanted that Cameron to turn around so I could see the warm smile which I knew would be on his face when I called his name. What would that first meeting be like?
Although Cameron had alluded in his emails to posting cards from Port Lockroy, he’d never mentioned that one of them had been sent to me. He must have clocked the address when I accidentally mentioned the Variety’s name in an email. I looked at the date on the postmark once again. The card had been posted at the end of January, less than a month after we’d started emailing. He really had taken a chance, both on whether our correspondence would continue, and whether the postcard would actually arrive in time for the suggested meeting. And I was so glad he had. For a few moments, I basked in the glorious sensation his words inspired in me, warm and happy at the prospect of finally being able to meet him, and full of anticipation of how our relationship might develop from there. Never had anyone deemed me worthy of such a romantic gesture.
And then the floaty sensation of sheer happiness abruptly vanished as I had a horrible realisation. The postcard wasn’t really intended for me at all. It had been written for the alternative version of Amy, the one I’d promoted at the beginning when I had spun so many little white lies with the false tales of my amazing life. It was telling that he’d not repeated the invitation to meet in any of his more recent emails when I had taken on my policy of telling the truth about what I was up to. Would he still have sent the postcard if he had known the real me? And what if he had changed his mind about meeting up since he’d sent it?