Scotland has a centrifugal pull on lives and friendships. My greatest friend is my husband, and this is true of our story.
Friends made in Scotland remain permanent. Others made in far-flung posts where haggis comes in tins are just as hardy. It isn’t about politics. It’s about vernacular, common ground, love of hills and mist, and a dry sense of fun to counteract the days of downpour. Now, at an age when friendships matter more than before, and where their longevity stops in farewell, we can remember with affection our good fortune to have experienced those relationships. Split into two, ‘friend’ and ‘ship’ share the collective noun. I imagine a ship of like minds, humour, nuance, dependency, and hope. If the vessel is tossed in despair, we cling together. If sailing on a mirrored calm, voices will carry. How often, when phoning a friend, is the response,
‘I was just thinking of you?’
I was 5, with two younger sisters, when a young French woman came to live with us to learn English. At 18, I went to France and spent the happiest year with her family, her husband, and six children (later to be seven). Those 12 months have been fundamental to my thinking throughout my life. The role of mentor and advisor changed in small and subtle ways as my French improved, and a firm friendship was forged. She showed me the fun in child rearing, the boundaries of flexibility, the art of good, uncomplicated food, and the myriad varieties of French cheese. She combined all this with unforced chic, wonderful, almost Celtic, auburn hair, and natural charm. Her 80th birthday was an example of the extent of her maternal role. Each family member, each spouse, each grandchild, shared a story of Maman, Janine, or Boubie. We, too, had always known ‘Va’, our attempt at Mademoiselle all those years before. Her letters in a firm and artistic hand, which never altered, arrived every New Year. This year, we had a phone conversation, each vowel enunciated in that mellifluous and unforgettable voice. She told me of her many great-grandchildren and another on the way. A short time ago, I received a gentle email from her daughter that, at 98, she had passed away in her sleep.
This connection of almost 80 years began in a small village in Lanarkshire.
Nothing is finite, but my memory of her will never be that.
I met my husband in London. We found we were both brought up in Edinburgh, and even had mutual friends. He also would know Va. After 30-plus years living close to London, we moved back north of the border. We were married here almost 46 years ago, years full of laughter and fun, with our four children a wonderful bonus.
Magnetism, homecoming? There are many descriptions of that innate sense of who we are, who we meet, and why we connect.