The Burning Pages, page 1
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For Tyler and Lauren
and their wonderful adventure ahead
ONE
“I love the hat,” I said, trying to ease my way into this unexpected conversation.
“Aye, it’s a tam o’shanter.” Clarinda repositioned it on her head full of dark curls.
It was like a beret, only poofier.
“It suits you.” I smiled.
“Have you read the poem?” she asked, her voice airy and almost whimsical. Or maybe that was just the way it reverberated off the walls of the small old building we sat in, facing each other over a messy desk.
She was asking if I’d read the poem for which the hat had been named, “Tam o’Shanter” by Scotland’s Robert Burns. It’s the story of a hat-wearing farmer named Tam who comes upon a coven of witches and is then pursued by one of them. Though it was written in 1790, it’s still a Scottish favorite. All of Burns’s works were almost as beloved as he himself.
“I have,” I said. “Well, I’ve read through it a few times now, but I can’t say it’s an easy read for me. There’s so much of the Scots language, and I’m still … well, I’m getting better at understanding, but it’s slow going.”
“Aye. You’ll get it eventually.”
Given long enough, I might fully understand it without needing translation. Maybe I would someday finally comprehend all the Scots I heard spoken in my everyday life, had heard for some time now. But certainly not yet.
That was only one of the reasons I didn’t feel worthy of the invitation that had led me to this meeting with Clarinda. The building, the House of Burns, named for the esteemed poet, was ancient, with chipped paint and weary furniture. It was also chock-full of interesting things—well, just papers, really, but probably fascinating ones if I could take the time to look closely at any of them. How could a bunch of pieces of paper inside a place called House of Burns not be?
“Can you imagine being so popular or writing something so beloved that they name a hat for it?” She readjusted hers again.
“I can’t.” I folded my hands on my lap, more to try to warm them than to strike any sort of ladylike pose. Despite all the interesting things on the shelves around us, I didn’t sense any heat coming from anywhere, and there was no fire in the oddly large fireplace along one wall. I could still see my breath.
The House of Burns had been difficult to find. Tucked next to the entrance of a deep-set close, similar to an alley but usually much more interesting in Scotland, in a part of Cowgate I had yet to explore, sat this tiny stone building. It was maybe only five hundred square feet inside, with a peaked roof and a carved wood sign hanging outside above the front door. I had been both happy to find it and a little scared to enter.
It wasn’t until I’d moved to Edinburgh that I became aware of Robert Burns societies, clubs formed to honor the Scottish bard. In fact, they were everywhere, including some long-standing ones in the United States. Hearing about them, along with so many other people who simply celebrated Burns with a yearly dinner, made me feel like I’d missed something good for the first few decades of my life. How had I not paid better attention?
The society headquartered in this paper-filled building wasn’t the first one formed in Edinburgh. The Edinburgh Burns Supper Club was originally founded in 1848 by the author’s friend and publisher George Thomson. It had been suspended in 1986 but reintroduced in 2007. The one I’d been invited to, however, the Cowgate edition, named for the area of Edinburgh it was located in, had only begun in the late 1990s. I wondered why it had formed in the first place—though the bigger mystery was why I’d been invited to be a part of the group at all. I couldn’t imagine how the members of this group (only one of whom I’d now met in person a few minutes ago) even knew who I was or thought I would fit in with the rest of them.
I didn’t have the answers yet, but maybe Clarinda would tell me, hopefully today, or at least before the annual dinner that was being held tomorrow night. I wasn’t going to just show up to the dinner without understanding a little more.
I rubbed my hands together and blew on them.
“Oh, the heat. I always forget to turn it on.” Clarinda stood and went to a machine attached to the wall.
It was a similar setup to the electrical unit I’d had in the cottage I’d lived in when I first arrived in Scotland. Coins had to be inserted for it to work. I smiled as I watched her gather some change from her sweater—or, as I’d come to know it in its Scottish form, jumper—pocket and plug the change into the meter before she turned the dial.
Quite a bit had happened since the days I’d done the same, but I was still just as close with Elias and Aggie, the owners of the old cottage, as I’d been since practically the day I’d landed in Scotland and Elias had been at the airport with his taxi. In fact, they were joining me and my husband, Tom, for dinner at our house this evening. Though also old, our place was at least updated enough to have a modern furnace.
Almost as soon as Clarinda turned the dial, I could feel heat cut through the chill. I squelched the urge to rub my hands together again. Clarinda sat back behind the desk and switched on a lamp that was perched on its corner. The light from the small fixture didn’t illuminate so much as cast a few small shadows on the desktop and at the edge of Clarinda’s face.
“You’ll be surprised tomorrow night. This place will be transformed into a dining hall.”
“About that…,” I began.
“Oh no,” she rushed in, “you’re going to tell me you won’t be able to attend? It’s the biggest night of the year! Please say you’ll be here.”
“It’s not that, exactly.” Actually, it was exactly that, but she seemed nice enough, so I thought I’d ease into declining, if that’s what I ended up doing. “I guess I just don’t understand why I was invited to be a part of the group.”
It hadn’t been a handwritten invitation. Clarinda had called me at the bookshop where I work, the Cracked Spine, yesterday morning.
“Delaney, hello! This is Clarinda Creston, and I’m a local solicitor, but I’m also part of a fun group that’s been together for a while. We celebrate Robert Burns. You’ve heard of him, aye?” she said, her voice ramped up to extra-cheery.
“Of course.”
“Anyway, twenty-five January is his birthday, and we have a dinner every year. That’s two nights from now. Please join us.”
“I…”
“Here’s the address. Everyone else will be in costume but you won’t be required to this year. Next year, of course, but this year, just come eat and meet our small but lively family.”
She proceeded to give me the address. I jotted it on my hand, using a pen that had been in my pocket. “I…”
“Oh dear, I must go. So much to do. I’ll see you on the twenty-fifth, though I’ll be at the house tomorrow if you’d like to stop by. Farewell for now.”
At my current admission, genuine surprise widened Clarinda’s eyes. “Oh aye, well, I’m not sure why you were invited. Let me think a wee bit.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “It was a vote from last month’s meeting, that much I know. It was my duty to call you, but I forgot all about it until yesterday. Apologies. I’ve been very busy in court lately. Anyway, someone mentioned you in that meeting, though I can’t remember who. You work at the Cracked Spine, aye?”
“I do.”
“That must be where or how someone, though again I have no idea who, heard about or met you. We are a bookish group, though that’s of no surprise.”
“I suppose not. And you can’t remember who recommended me?”
“I can’t think of who it was, and I don’t have the minutes of the meeting here with me.” She lifted her hands.
I bit my lip and felt my eyebrows come together. This place was packed with pieces of paper. Wood shelves overflowed with it. There were stacks on the desk, piles on the floor next to it.
“This is the … place where you meet, right?”
“It is.”
“And in all these pieces of paper, there are no minutes from the meetings?”
Clarinda laughed. “Gracious, no.” She reached for the top piece of paper on the stack nearest her, turned it over, and showed it to me. “These are just my doodlings. Someone else keeps the minutes.”
I looked at the paper. “Calligraphy?”
Clarinda smiled proudly. “Aye. Look closely.”
I took the piece of paper and held it under the weak light from the lamp, reading the words at the top of the page.
THE BANKS O’ DOON
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
“A Burns poem,” I said.
“Aye, one of my favorites. Well, they’r
I smiled. “I can tell you love it.”
“Don’t you?”
I almost said that I didn’t, not as much as she did, at least, but that seemed rude, and as she’d spoken the lines aloud I’d been reminded that, yes, if I cared for anything other than the people I loved so deeply, it was words, and Mr. Burns certainly had a way with them.
“I guess maybe I do, some,” I said.
Clarinda smiled big. “See, whoever nominated you, and I really wish I could remember who that was, knew that about you. You are perfect for our group.” She folded the paper and handed it to me. “Take it. I have others.”
A moment later, I took the paper and opened it, again reading silently the words she’d just said aloud. There was more on the page, but I didn’t take the time to decipher all the scribbles. I refolded it. “You said these were your doodlings. Are all of the pieces of paper covered in your calligraphy of Burns’s words?”
“Aye. All of them.” She looked around proudly. “I’m a wee bit obsessive-compulsive, and I like to spend some of my days off here. I just like the atmosphere, aye? Anyway, I knew I would have to do something with myself. I can’t just sit here. I can always read, but I don’t always want to read. This”—she tapped her finger on the stack from which she’d taken the single page—“felt right. I started, and I haven’t been able to stop.”
“I see.”
She laughed again, and I noticed ink-stained fingers on her right hand. “Delaney, I know I’m odd, and I simply don’t care. I work very hard as a solicitor, but my days here, covering and filling my soul all the way up with Burns’s words, are the days I most adore. I’m normally here on Saturdays, but this week is special, of course, and I have some people coming to help me prepare. Now, please don’t tell me you are going to decline our invitation. You will love the group. Give us at least the dinner to prove it to you.”
I wasn’t afraid, really, but I still didn’t quite understand what was going on, why I’d been invited. If Clarinda had been able to give me at least a little more, a name of who’d recommended me or even a story that someone had, indeed, come into the bookshop one day and thought I’d make a good addition, then maybe my hesitation would wane.
“May I bring a guest?” I said.
Clarinda’s happy features transformed immediately, falling into a frown. “Well, we are very particular about who we invite. If we’d wanted you to bring a guest, we would have mentioned a plus-one.”
I scooted to the front of the chair and opened my mouth to thank her for thinking of me but that I wouldn’t be joining them, when she smiled again.
“But I guess this one time it would be all right. I can’t promise you they will be invited to the group, but for this one time, this dinner, aye, please bring a guest,” she said.
I was still hesitant. I hadn’t liked her tone and, yes, she was odd. This was all very odd, but then again, I had come to Scotland for an adventure, and so far it hadn’t disappointed.
“Wonderful. Thank you, and I promise, we won’t eat too much,” I said.
Clarinda clapped once. “I’m so happy to hear that you’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” I said again as I stood and made my way to the door.
Before I could reach for the knob, the door opened, bringing in a cold, wet wind along with two young men.
Suddenly it was crowded inside, with the four of us.
“You’re here!” Clarinda stood. “Wonderful! Delaney, these are the strong boys who will be doing all the hard work to get this place in shape for tomorrow night.”
I nodded at the teenagers, neither of them as bundled up as I would be when I redonned my hat and scarf. They nodded at me as I made my way outside. Clarinda quickly moved her focus to supervising them and didn’t even tell me goodbye. To be fair, I only sent her another nod as I left.
I stuck the paper she’d given me into my coat pocket and met the cloudy January afternoon with a sense of relief. Though it was colder outside than in that frigid building, and while I usually enjoyed the scents that came with old paper and ink, the fresh air gave a welcome sense of freedom.
I crossed to the other side of the street and turned around to watch the goings-on. A truck was parked there. I saw one of the teenagers climb into the back of it and retrieve a chair, carrying it inside.
I heard Clarinda’s voice in my head again.
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon.
The words weren’t speaking to me in the way my intuition sometimes did. They weren’t trying to tell me something. These simply soothed and left me feeling curious.
If nothing else, it would be interesting to see how the space was transformed into some sort of dining hall.
I wished I’d asked more questions: How many people would be there? Should I bring anything?
But I’d been too distracted by the mystery to worry about logistics.
It was probably an honor and I was probably overthinking. I should just enjoy the ride, which was something I usually did well.
But the phone call, along with the visit with Clarinda, still felt strange, suspicious even. Originally I wasn’t even planning to show up, but when Clarinda told me that she’d be at the House of Burns today, and since it wasn’t a far walk from the bookshop, I decided it was worth a little exploration.
And now there wasn’t much more to see. I hurried on my way, back to work. The only real question now was, who was I going to take with me?
TWO
You’d think I’d take my husband, Tom, but he was also a pub owner and he had plans. A wedding reception had been booked at the pub for the next evening, for an elderly couple, both of whom had separately been going to Tom’s pub for years. They finally met a month ago. Since they liked each other so much and “time is a-tickin’,” they planned a quick wedding, with the reception at the only place they could see fit—the pub, of course, and, coincidentally, the same place Tom and I had not only met, but had our reception too. His pub. Our pub, actually—but I still couldn’t quite make that leap in my mind.
That still left a myriad of possible invitees. Everyone I knew enjoyed books, and Robert Burns was probably high on their list of favorite writers; I couldn’t come up with any other immediate eliminations. My boss, and the owner of the bookshop, Edwin MacAlister, was always a fun time. My coworkers, Rosie and Hamlet, were also great company. Then there were my previous landlords, of course, Elias and Aggie.
I’d made other friends too, but Brigid, a newspaper reporter and one of my husband’s former girlfriends, didn’t sound like a good fit, though Brigid and I got along very well.
I pulled open the door to the bookshop, always glad to hear the familiar ringing of the bell secured above.
Hector, the miniature Yorkie, whom Rosie took care of but whom we all loved, trotted from the back of the store to greet me. He seemed particularly happy that I had returned. I heard voices, but I couldn’t immediately see anyone.
I picked up Hector and held him to my cheek. “Hello, best dog in the world.”
Though he kissed my cheek quickly, he was more squiggly than usual. I sensed he wanted me to put him back on the floor.
“Okay, okay,” I said as I lowered him down again.
His tiny feet slipping a little on the old marble floor, he took off toward the voices. I figured I was supposed to follow.
I could distinguish Rosie and Hamlet’s laughs, but I couldn’t quite place the third person I heard, though he certainly seemed familiar.
I gasped when I came around the wall. I even put my hands up to my mouth as tears immediately filled my eyes.
“Hey, Sis,” my brother said. “Before you get all worried on me, Mom and Dad are fine. Everyone is okay.”
I was frozen in place, but Wyatt stood from the table and came to me. He pulled me into one of his bear hugs and held tight. Tears were now doing a free flow down my cheeks.
They were the happiest of tears. I missed my family terribly. Though I loved my new life in Scotland, I hadn’t seen my Kansas family since my wedding, which had been almost a year ago. Tom and I had planned a summer trip to Kansas, but seeing my big farm-boy brother—though he looked slightly more sophisticated than what I was used to—sent all my emotions into a spin.
