The bomber jacket, p.8
The Bomber Jacket, page 8
“You’re very droll,” Robbie chuckled.
“But you don’t see him at all? Really?” She was more serious now.
“We encounter each other occasionally in Edinburgh and at the holidays at home. Let me tell you a story, and maybe it’ll explain our relationship.
Beth nodded. Robbie told such wonderful stories.
“I was a first-year student at the University of St. Andrews…”
“I thought you went to Cambridge and Oxford.”
“I did. Transferred to Cambridge in my junior year. Did my graduate work at Oxford.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, go on,” Beth nodded encouragingly.
Robbie continued. “Over the Christmas holiday, I’d decided to tell my father that I was switching to history from engineering. The science and math classes had been torture, as they had in prep school, but the history classes made my brain come alive.”
Beth smiled. “I’m a dolt at math. I can sympathize.”
Robbie launched into an apparent simulation of his father’s voice. "I shoulda sent you to the public school in the States like I wanted to, where you'd have gotten a decent education.”
“Public school is what we call private school here in the U.K.,” Robbie said, in an aside, then returned to his story, continuing in his father’s voice, "But your mother insisted. Said you should experience life as an ordinary American. Even the schools in Australia were better than those American schools."
“You lived in Australia, too?” Beth interrupted, surprised and envious.
Robbie nodded but didn’t break his story. “And what did you get for your American education? Why you had to make up for it in that preparatory school? It woulda been cheaper to send you to one in the States.”
“I pointed out that I’d been accepted at St. Andrews, but he said he practically had to grovel for them to hold a place in the engineering school, promising I’d prove myself in first year.”
"Well, Da,” I said, “maybe engineering isn't the best choice.”
"What the hell are you speaking of, boy? Look what it’s got you. Travel to places you’d have never been if your father had been something else, like a broke historian.”
“But, Da, you love history. Why you named me for…”
"Robert the Bruce and Robbie Burns both. Aye. A proud heritage we Scots have. But you can’t get rich on heritage unless you own a castle and make it into some damn tourist site. We McLeods made our own way in the world. There are no lords to hand you down a peerage.”
Fascinated, Beth leaned forward as Robbie’s story unfolded, resting her forearms on the table.
“I argued that there were lots of jobs to be had in history, and he replied, ‘If you want a job with the National Trust, volunteer to clean bird shait off St. Kilda’s over your summer holidays.’ So I went back after break and dutifully tried to get excited about the math and science classes that were the prerequisites for acceptance into the engineering school.”
“But it didn’t work, did it?” Beth interjected sympathetically.
He paused as the waiter brought their after-dinner beverages. Robbie took a sip of his coffee then replied to her question. “As always, it was history that enthralled me. And it was my father's fault. Hadn’t he used every school holiday to take us all over Europe, visiting everything from prehistoric burial mounds on Orkney to Winston Churchill’s tomb in Westminster Abbey, the cave paintings in France to Hitler’s lair on top of a mountain in Berchtesgaden?”
Beth listened to Robbie tick off places she had only seen in books and said, “Oh, I’d love to go back to Westminster Abbey.”
“It’s impressive, no matter how old you are. We’ll go sometime.”
Beth rather liked the sound of him making casual plans for them.
“My classmates, in whatever part of the world we were living,” Robbie continued, “would be at the beach or mountains or a city for holidays, but my family would be trudging across battlegrounds, climbing over cathedral ruins, and learning about life in colonial settlements.” He paused for another sip of his coffee. “This is probably boring.”
“Oh, no!” Beth replied enthusiastically. “It’s better than a movie. Or a novel.”
Robbie chuckled. “Glad to be entertaining,” he said, then went on with his story.
“Later that year, in April, my father was driving me back to school on the last Sunday of my spring holiday, a trip of about six hours. I decided to use that time to convince him of the value of a history degree.”
“Oh,” Beth shook her head. “Six hours to fret about the conversation.”
“Fret I did. Thing was, I had already spoken to my advisor and switched my concentration to history for my second year. I figured the car would be the safest place to bring up the subject. The ride was quiet, except for when my father was doing his usual traveling history lesson as we went through, near, or by various historical sites. It was like being on a family vacation again, except we didn’t stop.”
Beth laughed sympathetically. “But think what you learned growing up.”
“Aye, that’s true,” Robbie snorted. “But look where it got me. It wasn't until we were an hour from the university that I finally took a deep breath and marched onto the battlefield. I decided on an all-out frontal attack. We had left the A9 and were headed east on local roads to St. Andrews. The road was busy with Sunday drivers, but that didn't slow my father down.”
"Da, I said, and my voice was aggravatingly wavering. I distinctly remember twisting my Philadelphia Phillies cap in my hands. My father hated that hat, and I wore it just to annoy him. “Da, I said, I’ve made a decision about school, and there’s no talking me out of it. And it's your fault anyway. You're the one who made me fall in love with history, I mean all those trips to Culloden and Glencoe and the Orkney Islands. I could feel his eyes boring into me, so I stopped rambling and got right to the meat of it. I told him I’d switched my major to history."
Robbie stared into his coffee cup. For a moment he seemed lost in memory. Then blinking, he smiled wryly. “I have to tell you, the silence in the car fell like a death sentence. I tried to breathe, reminding myself that I was twenty, old enough to make up my own mind. I awaited my father's reaction. Anger. Fury. A storm of protest. But there was only silence.”
“Oh.” Beth shuddered. “I know all about that. That’s my grandmother’s favorite weapon. Silence, cold enough to freeze your bones.”
Robbie chuckled. “You do understand then. So, I glanced out of the corner of my eye to gauge my father's facial expression. It was as chiseled and cold as the Callanish standing stones on the Isle of Lewis. I’ll take you there sometime. My father stared straight ahead, continuing to weave in and out of traffic, passing the slower drivers, and keeping his BMW in top gear.”
“For the next forty-five minutes, my father said nothing.” Robbie shook his head at the memory. “The silent treatment is my father’s preferred punishment, and it can go on for days. But he always shows his immediate anger by driving at ridiculous speeds.”
Beth gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. “Oh, Robbie, it must have been awful.”
“It wasn't until we reached the outskirts of St. Andrews that my father spoke. So you’re saying, my father said in his most sarcastic voice, that you’re giving your heart to history.”
"Aye, I replied, struggling to control my words in the face of my father's sarcasm.”
“Well then, perhaps you'd be a bit more faint of heart if the coins were not flowing.”
“I told him I didn’t understand what he meant. He replied, What I mean, Robbie, is that if you're so in love with history, maybe you need to find a way to make it pay for you.”
“I said that of course, I'll be looking for teaching jobs and maybe work with The Trust or Historic Scotland.”
“I don't mean when you finish your studies. I mean now, my father said.”
“We had pulled into the parking lot which served the dormitory complex. Dusk was setting in. My father was already pulling suitcases out of the boot, that’s the trunk, by the time I grabbed my coat from the back seat.”
Beth loved the pictures Robbie painted with his words; the scene was so vivid, she felt as if she had been riding along with him in the car and was standing next to him by the trunk. He could be a writer, too, she thought, admiring his easy way with words.
“I told him I would prove that history was a good choice, that I could get a good job. His answer was to tell me that he wasn’t going to contribute anything more for my education costs after the end of my first year, and I was lucky the Scots pay the college tuition for their students, so I’d only need to come up with funds for housing, meals, books, and transportation, plus any entertainment I chose to indulge in.”
Beth could hear the growing thickness of his voice. The story was surely painful to tell and difficult to relive. She felt a new tenderness toward him, recognizing some hidden place of vulnerability, and knew an unexpected longing to comfort him.
“The last thing he said was, I brought you up to be glad of your Scottish heritage, not to make a fool of yourself over it. Then gave me one last cold look, walked around the side of the car and got in, slamming the door like an exclamation point, and pulled off, leaving me and my suitcases in the car park.”
With a deep sigh, Robbie swallowed the rest of his coffee and signaled the waiter. “I’ll have a dram of Glenlivet,” he said. When Beth shook her head at his look, he said, “And the tab.”
While Robbie waited silently for his whiskey, Beth wondered about her own parents. What might they have thought about her choice to go abroad for a semester and to pursue a degree in British Literature? According to Henry, Suzanna had studied art and anthropology in college. But those were useless thoughts, as she’d never met either of them. Both died when she was an infant.
Beth waited quietly for Robbie to go on. After a sip of his whiskey, he smiled wearily, “So, that’s the story.”
“And what happened after that?” Beth asked softly, leaning across the table.
“My mother says he had the same conflict with his own father about a career, but in that case, Grandda won. I never met Grandda. He died before I was born. Working too hard, my mother says. Building up that engineering firm with his brother Clement, the firm my father eventually took over after Clement died.”
Robbie made a grunting noise. “My father thought I'd come around, but I didn't. I worked really hard to put myself through school, giving tours to rich Americans who came over for golf. My buddies who'd be doing the caddying would say, Hey, if your wife or kids are bored, I've got a friend that does these personalized tours. I wasn't one for caddying or golf. It was my grandfather's game, and my father's. Not mine. I prefer a pick-up game of football or rugby, or biking, or hiking up Ben Nevis, or hill walking in the mountains west of Tain.”
“When I won a partial scholarship to Cambridge, he didn't even congratulate me. Just made some stupid remark like, A scholar would have earned a full ride.”
“You must be brilliant to have won a scholarship to Cambridge,” interjected Beth.
Robbie shrugged. “I've had to work hard and study hard. I liked living in the States. Wouldn't mind going back again to teach for a while. European history. Put on the Scots brogue, and the students would believe anything I said.”
They laughed for a bit before Robbie said, “Listen to me blathering on and on.” A slight flush tinged his cheeks, but it could have been the whiskey, she thought.
“Do you see your father in town, ever?”
“You'd think we'd run into each other, but we move in different circles. It's helped at times being his son, to get some clients and contacts with the Trust. He is a donor. I’ve friends who work for the Trust and for Historic Scotland, and they send clients my way. But then, my father wouldn't know the staff. He'd only hobnob with the moneyed crowd. The crowd my mother always hated. She'd rather share tea from a crockery pot at the kitchen table.”
Robbie swallowed the last of his whiskey.
“I live in the same town as my father. He's here five days a week. But we never see each other. He's never forgiven me for proving him wrong. My summer tour business is picking up again, now that I’m back from my year at Duke, and of course it’s my first year as a professor. When I do go home for some of the holidays, it's really to see my mother and sister Caitlin. My father and I just talk about the weather or politics or sports. He never asks about my schooling. Or even my job here at the university.”
Beth heard the hurt beneath Robbie’s bitterness and thought of her grandmother’s often cold indifference. We have something in common, she mused.
Robbie grimaced. “So, good lord, I’ve told you my whole life story. Let’s get out of here. How about a walk? Put that new Scottish cloak to a test, aye?”
“How’d you know it was new?”
“Didn’t think you brought it from the States.”
When she tried to pay for her share of dinner, protesting that he hadn’t even let her chip in for gas the previous weekend, he said she could get their next meal. They walked around the crowded streets of downtown Edinburgh for nearly an hour, Robbie tucking Beth’s arm in the crook of his in an old-fashioned gesture that she found very touching. She finally had to say, “Robbie, I’m nearly frozen.”
He took her to another restaurant, where he ordered her hot chocolate laced with Drambuie, and he had another shot of whiskey. They shared a piece of Dundee cake and spent another hour talking about history, politics, and the state of the world.
When he put her in a cab after midnight, he squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Beth.”
“For what?” she asked, clueless as to what he would be grateful for.
“For listening. You are a natural listener. I can talk on and on about Scottish history or American history, but I don’t…well…not so much about my own.”
Nodding, Beth gave him an appreciative smile.
After the taxi pulled away, she realized that they had not once discussed the bomber pilot.
six
“You were unusually quiet today.”
Beth, putting on her bomber jacket at the conclusion of the Survey of Scottish History and Culture tutorial, looked in surprise at the boy standing next to her.
“Sorry?”
“Usually you have so much good stuff to say. You seem to know it so well.” The boy had an accent she couldn’t place. It sounded American, but not quite.
“Oh, hey. I’m Iain.”
She studied the hand he had thrust out, then, blushing, quickly put out her own to complete the handshake. “Yes, ah, sorry. I was daydreaming.” Fretting because I hadn’t had a dream about Colin since last Thursday, and I’ve been wondering if spending time with Robbie was the cause, she added silently.
“That doesn’t seem like you. I mean, you’re really right on top of the discussion. And I notice you sit right up front in the lecture, too.”
Beth frowned. He had noticed her?
“You’re Miss Schmidt.”
Beth looked at him, puzzled, but only for a second. Their professor called everyone by their proper names. “And you’re Mr. Frasier.”
The boy nodded. “It’s Iain, unless you’re a prof.” He had a head full of blonde, flyaway hair and intensely-blue eyes that went well with a blue parka and tailored jeans. “You’re American.”
She nodded. “You’re not?”
“Well, yes, North American, but you southern neighbors hog the American name.”
It took her a second to realize what he meant. “Oh, you’re Canadian.” That explained the accent. “Where from?”
He opened his parka to reveal a Toronto Maple Leafs sweatshirt.
“Yes, I see. Toronto.”
“And you?”
“Pennsylvania. Carlisle. Not too far from Gettysburg.”
“I’ve been there!” He smiled a somewhat toothy grin revealing slightly crooked teeth. “It was cool, but I liked the nighttime ghost tour better than the daytime stuff. I’m not really into battlefields or history too much. Except if they’re on a video game.”
“If you don’t like history, why are you taking this class?”
“Pretty much required for visiting students. Thought I ought to know about my heritage.”
“So, you’re Scottish?” They were following the other students out. “Oh, yes, I should have figured with a name like Iain Frasier.”
“Yes… way back. Family got booted out after Bonnie Prince Charlie lost at Culloden.”
Beth was awed. “You can trace your family history that far back? Wow, that’s so cool.”
Iain shrugged. “My immediate family’s not so much into it, but I’ve got a cousin who’s in a well-known Canadian pipe band. Wears the kilt and sporran and the whole thing.”
He held the door for her. “Thought it’d be cool to spend part of my junior year in Scotland, and the parents were all for it. Willing to dish out the money. I’m having a great time.”
They stood to one side of the door in the hallway, and the conversation suddenly lagged. She wondered why he had talked to her. She was about to say she had to get to the library when Iain started, “I was wondering…” and they were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Beth, how are you?”
She looked away from Iain to see Robbie standing in front of her, smiling warmly. Beth felt suddenly awkward. “Ah, I’m fine. And you, Ro… Professor McLeod?”
“I’m great, Miss Schmidt.” He said her formal name with a slightly sarcastic Scottish accent. “May I speak to you a minute?” He took her by the elbow. “Excuse us a moment, young man,” he said offhandedly to Iain and walked her to the other side of the hallway.
Beth pointedly pulled her arm away and watched the smile leave Robbie’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I… that was stupid. I didn’t mean to commandeer you, but I wanted to talk to you privately.”
Beth made a gesture at the students passing by. “This isn’t so private.”
Robbie looked across the wide hallway to Iain staring at them. “Is he a friend?” Robbie’s voice had an odd edge to it.
