Maggie and David spent their wedding night in the guesthouse. William set two new fans in the bedroom; they were already on. “Thoughtful of William,” David said as Maggie and he were stepping out of their wedding clothes.
“And knowing—” she said.
“It’s all right. It’s fine. Besides”—they were kissing deeply—“the need right now is, don’t give anything a second thought.”
They didn’t sleep, and at 5:30 A.M., mist over the pond, they went skinny-dipping. The swans hardly bothered waking.
Honeymoon
WHEN THE Fasten Seatbelt signs blinkered out twenty minutes from Heathrow, William leaned across the aisle, said to Maggie, “Marrying your mother — rest in peace. Your birth. Your wedding. Those occasions notwithstanding. I’ve looked forward to meeting Mr. Aston more than anything else. I’m allowed just two hours of his time. But lord’s sake, I’ve got a list of questions a mile long.”
“I’m happy for you, Pop,” Maggie said. “Things will turn out well.”
“And I’m happy for you,” he said. He looked at David, asleep in his window seat. “Happy for David, too, that he married so well.”
In London, Maggie and David got situated in their room at Durrants Hotel; William went directly to his bed-and-breakfast near the Kensington Market. First thing, he left a message with Reginald Aston’s secretary, confirming the appointment.
The next morning William slept late, then set forth being a tourist. His happiness at wandering the streets of London was tempered by his wife’s absence. They’d not traveled much together. Still, over the next ten days he found it satisfying to jettison his habitual frugality and splurge, going to restaurants, the theater (seeing two plays by Harold Pinter, commenting during the one Islay-to-London call from Maggie, “His characters all talk pared down, like Newfoundlanders. Wonderful stuff”) and museums. He spent an afternoon in Regent’s Park. He visited Churchill’s underground war headquarters. He didn’t know a soul in London; his days and evenings were solitary; he enjoyed himself immensely.
The newlyweds had hired a car to take them to the early afternoon ferry from the Caledonian MacBrayne terminal at Kennacraig, on the Argyll mainland, which docked at Port Askaig on Islay. Isador Tecosky met them with his car and drove them to Port Charlotte, where they checked in to the Port Charlotte Hotel. Beautiful sea view out onto Loch Indaal. They spent the next afternoon with Stefania and Isador at their house, in the village of Eilean Dubh. It was of course the first time David had met them. That night, sitting on the rim of the bathtub in their hotel room as the bath filled, Maggie said to David, sitting cross-legged on the floor, “They’ve never been not kind. Never not, and I must’ve tested their patience, being a stubborn kid. I caught myself staring at them today, sort of a trance of remembering. I didn’t even offer to help with coffee. I haven’t seen them in quite a while. Especially Stefania, but both are slowed down so much, those creaky old bones. Stefania forgets things left and right. And I do not like Izzy’s cough, either. But they are dear, dear people. The dearest to me. They gave my mom and dad a life in so many ways.”
The next morning broke sunny and clear. Their waitress in the hotel’s dining room said, “Weather might change momentarily, but we try to enjoy what’s given.” She put in their order.
“Quit your job, Maggie,” David said. “I know you like it. I know it’s a good job, you’ve worked hard at it, but quit it. I told the Tate I’m moving to Halifax. I gave notice. But let’s not go to Halifax. You give notice to Dalhousie. Let’s stay here.”
“And do what?”
“Not leave.”
“And after that?”
“Keep not leaving.”
They moved on to David’s book proposal (he hadn’t mentioned it all summer), then to their plans for the day, unfolding the map of Islay on the table, folding it back up when their breakfast was served. Just as they’d left a tip, they looked out the window and witnessed a kind of incident: a vintage black sedan, an ornamental silver bugle fixed to its hood, passed by on the road in front of the hotel. An elderly woman, black hair cut to just below her ears, her somber attention aimed straight ahead, was behind the wheel. A live swan was in the back seat, also facing forward. The waitress, come to fetch her tip and clear the table, saw this too. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Robert Campbell,” she said. “That swan’s got clipped wings. Mrs. Campbell found it injured near her house and nursed it back to health. She’s devoted to it beyond the logical, and why? Because she thinks the swan’s her dear departed husband. What’s the harm, I say. And besides, when Mrs. Campbell looks at that swan, who’s to tell her Mr. Campbell shouldn’t come to mind? Who’s to judge?”
David said, “We should all be so lucky,” clearly surprised at himself, as if he’d stated a belief in the afterlife he didn’t know he held. He looked at Maggie, who said, “Now that’s a topic of conversation, isn’t it? For later, darling.” The waitress went to another table.
Such an odd sight might have conveniently convinced a tourist of the general notion of Scottish eccentricity, or in this case, eccentricity on Islay in particular. But for all David and Maggie knew, the waitress considered the sight of Mrs. Campbell chauffeuring her swan-husband as merely familiar.
“Well, my part of Nova Scotia’s got its share of people equally fixed in their beliefs, of this and that sort,” Maggie said.
“You’re not homesick, are you?” David said.
“Not in the least. Not here. Not now.”
After breakfast they called on the Tecoskys again, inviting them out for a walk. They’d strolled along the cliffs for only ten minutes or so when Isador got winded and began coughing. They returned to the house. “Some days are easier than others,” he said. “What can I tell you?”
“You live in a beautiful place,” David said. “Your house is the most comfortable I’ve ever been in in my life. I mean that.”
In their kitchen Isador presented them with a pair of binoculars. “May we suggest your going to look at swans,” Stefania said. “They’re called whooper swans, and they arrived early this year. You can see them at Loch Gorm. Please use our car. We aren’t driving anywhere all week.”
They visited the Round Church in Bowmore, built in 1767, one of two round churches in Scotland. The medieval ruined chapel and grave slabs at Finlaggan. The old Islay lifeboat station at Port Askaig. They drove all over the island. Lochs and harbor villages. But every day, too, they stopped at a different beach. The one at Lossit, at Kilchiaran, Saligo, Tayvulin, Aros, Traigh Bhan, Big Strand; much of their time made for a kind of gazetteer of beaches; the sea set up its lull and roar in their ears. Their map of Islay was creased, frayed, marked up with directions, blotched with tea stains.
They reluctantly left Islay on August 18, this time flying from Glendale to Glasgow, then to London, arriving at Durrants Hotel at 1 A.M. Since Maggie’s flight to Amsterdam (with connecting flights to Montreal and Halifax) was at 7 A.M., they decided to stay up all night, which they did. Then David drove Maggie to Heathrow.
David went back to the hotel. He slept till noon, waking because the telephone rang. It was William. He was in the lobby. David joined him for lunch in the dining room. William spoke excitedly about his appointment with Mr. Aston, asked after Stefania and Isador, of course asked after Maggie, and finally said he intended that afternoon to visit the Tower of London, then make an early night of it. David noticed that when William got worked up in his enthusiasms, his Scottish accent intensified. He also noted that William pointedly did not ask how “they” enjoyed their honeymoon — he’d phrased it, “And how’d Maggie like things on Islay?” He’s getting used to the idea of us being married, David thought. Nothing unusual there. On the other hand, William thought, Look at this, he lets me rattle on — politeness for the old father-in-law — he’ll learn how to speak up for himself with me — then it’ll be a real conversation — things take time. David picked up the tab without need of insistence. “Not much to spend your money on on Islay, is there?” William said.