UNFORESEEN EVENTS III ~ PART III 

The Long Road to Glasgow ~ Part III

The  MV Belfast steamed across the Irish Sea. Ethan leaned against the railing on the starboard side of the top deck. He watched past the ship’s stern as the green hills of Ireland receded below the horizon. Then turning he saw the Coast of Scotland in the distance. He felt the soothing flow of contentment that always attended a sea voyage. The bracing winds, the dissonant sounds of hovering seagulls, the deep rumbling of the ship’s engine, it’s pitching hull cutting though the water, it all conjured up passions like no other. 

Two decks below the ship’s canteen served up drinks and snacks for the scores of passengers who were traveling that day. Ethan came down from the top deck in search of a cup of coffee. Carrying his backpack he was dressed in his road worn dungarees. His ‘UCLA’ branded sweatshirt had the sleeves cut back just below the elbows, Steve McQueen style. He often wore the sweatshirt on the road, believing it helped him catch rides. 

Three young women approached Ethan at his table, one of them saying, “Are you a ‘Bruin’?” The term referred to UCLA students.

He looked up in surprise and glanced down at his sweatshirt. “Well, that’s a bit of a story.”

A second young woman said,”We’re UCLA graduates. We live in Westwood.”

“Is that so?” said Ethan. I’m from the Palisades. When did you graduate?”

“Two of us last year and Betsy in ’62,” said the second woman.

“What a small world. My name’s Ethan Wells,” he said as he stood up and extended his hand. 

The ladies smiled. The older one said, “Hi, my name’s Betsy Rigby,” as she shook his hand. Pointing to her left she said, “These are my sisters Patricia and Madeleine.” Ethan shook their hands in turn.

“Would you care to join me?”

“Sure,” said Betsy. “But first we’ll get our snacks.”

“I’ll be here,” said Ethan.

The women walked over to the counter. They had no luggage with them. Ethan figured they probably came in a car.

Betsy returned to the table with a cup of tea. The other two followed with their items. 

Ethan spoke first. “At UCLA, did any of you know Kate Asher?”

The three gave each other quizzical looks, shaking their heads.

“How ’bout Barbara Austerman?”

“I had a couple classes with Barbara,” said Betsy. “We were well acquainted, even socialized a little but not close friends.”

“When were you there?” said Patricia.

“OK,’ said Ethan. “Now I’m busted. I actually went to SMCC but usually spent my weekends at the UCLA library doing research and studying.”

“What about your upper division?” said Madeleine.

“Didn’t happen,” said Ethan. “I joined a touring orchestra and went out on the road.”

“You’re a musician?” said Patricia.

“Yah, a drummer. I played with rock bands and jazz groups.”

“Wait a minute,” said Betsy. “You played at Barbara’s graduation party back in ’62. I knew you looked familiar.”

“Boy,” said Ethan. “That’s quite a memory.”

“Talk about a small world,” said Madeleine.

“So you didn’t go back to college?” said Patricia.

“Well I toured with a dance band all over America for a year and a half before I burned out.”

“What was that like?” said Patricia.

“Touring or burning out?” said Ethan.

“Both,” said Betsy.

Ethan was used to the cache of being a seasoned, professional musician. Particularly a drummer. It carried a mystique, especially with the ladies. He had learned not to trade on it. That usually ended badly. At this point he knew to stifle himself.

“The music business has a lot of glamour. But on the working end it’s a hard road. You eat, sleep and live the shows and rehearsing for them. At least I did. After play dates in three dozen cities it all became a blur.”

“So what did you do?” said Patricia.

“I decided to embark on a long slow journey around the world. I figured this would be my upper division.”

“Goodness,” said Betsy. “How long have you been traveling?”

“Going on two years now.”

“Where have you been?” said Patricia.

“Oh gee,” said Ethan. “Ah… well, the broad strokes. When I left the band in New Orleans I worked on freighters, y’know ships, down along the eastern seaboard of South America and over to South Africa. Next, up through Africa by land and then by ship again over to Spain. After a six month stay in southern Spain, I made my way to Ireland and now here.”

“That’s quite a journey,” said Betsy. “But why the sweatshirt?”

“Yes,” said Ethan, “I hitch-hike a lot and it helps me get rides.’

 “You’re a sly one,” said Madeleine.

“Hope you’re not offended,” he said.

“Of course not,” said Betsy. “Maddy, give him a break.”

“Sorry Ethan,” said Madeleine.

“No problemo,” he said.

The ship’s horn let out a long blast.

“We must be coming into port,” said Ethan.

“We better get down to the car,” said Betsy. “Ethan, where are you going today?”

“Glasgow,” he said. “That’s the plan.”

“We’re going to Glasgow too. Would you like to ride with us?”

Careful not to appear needy, Ethan remarked, “Oh that’d be great.”

‘C’mon then,” said Betsy, “let’s get down to the car deck.”

The sisters traveled in a 1966 Volkswagen Squareback. This was a brand new VW model, a compact, two-door station wagon. It seated four people comfortably with an ample storage area behind the rear seat. Six weeks earlier they took delivery of the vehicle at the factory in Wolfsburg, Germany. 

When the sisters and Ethan got to the car he observed that it was tightly packed with the ladies luggage and there was no room for his backpack. The ships ramp had lowered onto the dock and the cars were beginning to disembark.

“Oh goodness,” said Patricia. “What are we going to do?”

Observing  the factory roof rack he said, “I’ll need to lash my pack down on the roof.”

“But we’ll block the traffic while you do that,” said Madeleine.

“Not to worry,” he said. “I’ll walk out ahead and meet you on the other side of customs.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Betsy.

Ethan went through customs before the sisters. This gave him time to remove his rain poncho and tie it around the pack, this in case the weather turned on the trip to Glasgow. He always kept short lengths of rope for such occasions. When the sisters drove up to the spot where Ethan was waiting he lashed down his pack on the roof and got into the car.

“Nice touch with the rain gear,” said Betsy.

“But there’s not a cloud in the sky,” said Patricia.

“Around here the weather can be fickle,” said Ethan. “Y’know, just in case.” 

Unlike America and Europe where people drive on the right side of the roads, in the British Isles people drive on the left side. Betsy commented “I just don’t understand why the British drive this way? Why are we driving on the opposite side of the road?” 

“You don’t know the story?” said Ethan.

“What story?” said Patricia.

“It goes back to the early nineteenth Century, when Napoleon was conquering most of Europe. In those times when everyone got around on horseback it was a more dangerous world. Whenever two riders would encounter each other sometimes things could fall into combat. As most were right handed, if they needed to draw their swords it would be better to pass the oncoming rider on their left so they could fight more effectively.”

“Makes sense,” said Betsy. “I suppose this was true of people on foot.”

“Of course,” said Ethan.

“So what happened,” said Madeleine.

“When Napoleon consolidated his rule over Europe, he declared, “Now we will all be brothers. Henceforth, as a sign of our peaceful intentions, we will always pass each other on the right. This to demonstrate our universal fraternity.””

“Ok,” said Madeleine, “but why not England?”

“Napoleon never conquered England.”

“Wow,” said Patricia. “How do you know these things?”

“I read a lot,” said Ethan.

“No doubt at the UCLA library,” said Betsy. They all smiled.

On the road they spoke of many things, having a good time of it. An hour into the journey Betsy saw a road sign and said, “We’re here girls.”

“Oh yes,” said Madeleine. “Ayrshire!”

Ethan said nothing.

“Do you know about this place?” said Betsy.

“I don’t,” he said, “should I?”

“We’re about to arrive at the cottage of Robert Burns.”

“The poet?”

“Yes.”

“Magic,” he said. He closed his eyes and with a sigh tilted back his head.

Madeleine looked over at Ethan with affection.

Inside the cottage Ethan and the Rigby sisters viewed the many display cases that contained illustrations, old photos, aged books and some of Burn’s hand written manuscripts. An original draft of Auld Lang Syne held their attention for a time. As the ladies continued to study the displays Ethan excused himself and stepped outside. He sat down on a bench in the yard. A few minutes later Madeleine came outside and asked to join him.

For long moments they sat in silence.

“You seem sad,” she said.

“I suppose I am.”

“Are you homesick?”

“Not really. Are you?”

“I miss Saturday nights with my friends in the Village. I miss Sunday drives out Sunset Boulevard to Malibu beach. You know, the little things.”

“Not so little,” said Ethan

“Yes, I guess so. But what’s your sadness about?”

“Oh… I don’t know.”

“I’m a big girl Ethan. You can tell me.”

“Well,” he paused, “One day when I was hitchhiking in Ireland I caught a ride with two Irishmen just outside of Killarney. A father and his son. Such fine fellows they were. And as we rode on we had a lot to say to each other, you know, laughing back and forth.”

“That must’ve been nice,” she said.

“It was. I thought that was going to be a day to remember.” He looked down at the ground.

“What happened?”

Moments had passed when he said, “A freight truck crossed the centerline and hit us head on.”

“Oh no. Were you badly hurt.”

“Somehow not that bad. But the father and son were killed.”

“Oh my God!” she said. “Oh…”

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have told you this.”

Madeleine responded with gravity. “I’m glad you told me Ethan. I knew something was haunting you.”

“Can you keep this to yourself? I don’t want to trouble your sisters. Not today.”

“I won’t say anything, but will it be alright if I tell them later.”

“At your discretion.”

“Of course,” she said. “The thing about a tragedy is that we never get over it. As time goes by we puzzle and reflect over what happened. We replay the event or the episode in our minds in a thousand ways. It eventually gets down to acceptance, I suppose.  Somehow over time we become more human for the experience.”

“Maddy, how old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Do other people comment on your wisdom?”

“Are you flirting with me now?” she said. Ethan smiled.

Just then, Betsy and Patricia emerged from the cottage.

“C’mon you kids,” said Betsy, “let’s get back on the road.”

Ethan and Madeleine rose to the occasion, smiling and composed.

The ride into Glasgow went smoothly. Ethan learned that the sisters grandfather came from Glasgow and they planned to stay in town with cousins. Betsy said it wouldn’t be proper to bring Ethan along and suggested Charing Cross as a good area to find lodging.

“Oh that’s fine,” he said. “I’m grateful you’ve allowed me to share in your journey. And isn’t that the way it is with with those who wander?” 

“How’s that?” said Patricia.

“We meet,” said Ethan, “and for a time we are companions in friendship and adventure. And when that time ends it’s gone forever.”

“Except in our hearts,” said Madeleine. 

At a city park in Charing Cross they all got out of the car for a brief walk and a proper farewell. Betsy and Patricia warmly shook Ethan’s hand. Maddy presented him with her copy of Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”.

“I want you to have this to remind you of your time in our midst. I think you’ll find  “Song of the Open Road” to be special. Then to Ethan’s surprise Maddy hugged him with a full body embrace and kissed him on the lips. The two sisters exclaimed “Maddy!”. She blushed and hurried back into the VW. Ethan stood still, stunned by the moment. He smiled and waved as the sisters drove away.

Two blocks from the city park there was a tree lined street with four story Victorian town houses. Ethan found one that was a boarding house. It’s faded glory was a perfect fit for him. The sturdy, middle-aged landlady was Mrs. Campbell. She was like a dorm mother to the mostly young men who were staying there. The only room available to Ethan was the former butler’s quarters in the attic. He was fine with that and proceeded to climb the three flights of stairs.

The compact room had a vaulted ceiling and a large window with interior shutters. It was furnished with a full bed, a chair and a small table. An old brass lamp was placed on a shelf next to the bed. When night fell Ethan found that closing the interior shutters would affect total darkness. The thick walls provided silence that corresponded with the dark. ‘This is a proper sanctuary,’ he thought. Then he turned out the light and laid down on the bed. 

Slowly he felt himself untethered, almost floating, as if he were at sea again. Hoving to and fro, detached and drifting, he was far from the shores of sorrow and regret. Figments of Tom and Patrick emerged in traces of gladness . The essence of the sisters, and Madeleine, beckoned to hm. Visions of Mijas came and went with notions of Sally and Carmen, Pierre and Rebecca. Then flying in old Jack’s Gypsy Moth, bound for North Africa with it’s boundless mysteries. He drifted further into abstractions that only dreams provide. Ethan transcended time and space. The galaxies were like vast lily ponds as his dissembled essence, skimmed and vaulted across great draughts of space, traversing lightyears in moments. He was far, far away, immersed in the nexus of eternity. 

When he awoke Ethan observed darts of light piercing through cracks in the shutters. Morning had broken. He reached over to turn on the lamp.”Goodness,” he said seeing he was on top of the covers, still fully clothed. He opened the shutters and observed a grey drizzle falling over all that he saw. After pulling on his boots, he put on his coat and paddy cap then proceeded down the stairs and out into the weather. 

Three blocks away Ethan found a cafe that seemed to be from another time. The Old Kings Cafe dated back to the First World War but appeared to come from the time of Shakespeare. He found a small, empty booth and ordered a coffee.

“Would you like anything to eat?” said the waiter.

“In a little while,” said Ethan. 

“Of course, sir. Milk and sugar with your coffee?”

“Please.”

He opened the small, spiral binder he purchased in Dublin and began to write down his thoughts and impressions. He tried to describe the dreams he had in the night but was unable to language what he felt. He realized that sometimes, some things were beyond words. He found himself thinking about Maddy. “It’s amazing what one kiss can do,” he wrote. ‘Everything you are, or thought you were is eclipsed in a moment. It’s nothing, really…  yet it’s everything.” He gazed about the cafe for a minute then wrote, “I wonder if I’ll ever see her again?”

The waiter brought a tray with a mug, a small decanter full of coffee plus small containers of milk and sugar. He quietly placed the items on the table. 

“Let me know when you’re ready for your breakfast, sir.”

“Whats your name,” said Ethan.

“Robert, sir. I’m Robert Stewart.”

“Thank you Robert. My name is Ethan.”

“Very good sir.” Robert turned and went about his work.

Ethan ate a proper Scottish breakfast that morning. Bacon, link sausages, fried mushrooms, fried tomatoes, fried eggs and toast. Afterwards, he set out to meet the day. An old sea dog he worked with on the SS Inchcape was from Glasgow and told many tales about the shipyards along the banks of the River Clyde. Some of the greatest ships of the 20th Century were built there.

From the Old Kings Cafe he strolled a dozen blocks to the banks of the Clyde River. Then walking for miles along the shores he came to the great shipyards. What he saw there gave him chills. A dozen vessels were under construction, some of enormous dimensions. Ships the length of two city blocks and the height of twenty story buildings were lined up in various stages of construction. Thousands of workers labored away on them. From where he stood the men at work appeared as ants moving about on the great juggernauts. 

It was hypnotic. Compelling. Ethan spent the day walking back and forth along the docks. He kept looking, watching and observing this colossal human activity for which he had no reference. From time to time he would stop to sit and rest on a public bench. At length he thought, ‘this must be what it was like to see the workers building the great pyramids.’ It occurred to him that maybe one day his travels would take him to Egypt where he would see those pyramids. Then he fell back into puzzling over his dreams in the night. ‘God,’ he thought, ‘I think I may be losing my mind.’

“You like what you see, laddie?”

The voice came from behind him. He turned to see who it was. An old, weathered Scotsman stood there dressed in tattered work clothes. He had an impish grin and piercing grey eyes. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s alright. I’m not startled. And yes, I like what I’m seeing. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life. Have you worked on these ships?

“For fifty years lad. I built the Queen Mary, the Queen Elizabeth, and the HMS Hood, which the bloody Bismarck sank. I worked on ’em all.” 

“I’ll bet you have a story or two,” said Ethan. “What’s your name?”

“I am Angus McDuff… Shipbuilder. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ethan Wells, of late a Merchant Seaman.”

Old Angus extended his hand, “How do you do Ethan Wells.”

Taking Angus’ hand, “I do alright, sir. Do you still work on these giants?”

“They made me retire when I turned seventy five. But I miss it every day.”

“How old are you now, Angus?”

“I’m eighty two. How ’bout you?

“Twenty two.”

“You look older,” said Angus.

“And you look younger,” said Ethan

“Yes sir,” said Angus. “We’ll get along fine.”

to be continued…