The Scottish Heart

Chapter 2-1

The old MFV ferry took them across the river, cruising through the gentle swell of the ebbing tide and they surrendered to the rhythmic pulse of the diesel engine. They were happy sitting for"ard on deck, the sun and the breeze in their faces, Dorothy, resting her head on Nathan"s shoulder for much of the crossing.

It was five weeks since they met: the best time in their lives. Nathan had never known such openness and affection as came from Dorothy. He was falling in love with her.

He"d never said that he loved any woman and lacked the confidence to tell Dorothy that he loved her though he wanted to, and tortured himself about when he might tell her.

Songs often brought thoughts of Dorothy. When he listened to Billie Holiday sing Body and Soul he thought he could tell her that was how he felt, but he didn"t. Nathan knew Dorothy had affection for him, but dreaded that she"d tell him they were just good friends. He couldn"t go on with her if that happened, so he hung on, skirting around his growing love for her, dreaming that Dorothy might say she loved him. He was glad that Dorothy idealized his welding skills and the romance of being a Jazz musician.

They disembarked, walking from the pier to the beach, hands touching. Nathan suggested a place among low rocks surrounded by clean sand for their picnic. The spot had good views across the river to Westburn.

They walked to the edge of the water and shaded their eyes. Westwards lay Dunoon and the Argyll hills; to the south, opposite, three miles across the river the Esplanade lined by grand Victorian villas.

“Westburn,” Nathan said. “It looks all right from here, doesn"t it?”

“Yes, it does look rather nice,” Dorothy said. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

Nathan expertly skimmed flat stones across the smooth surface of the water unable to resist showing off a little.

“It"s a beautiful trumpet you have,” Dorothy said. “When did you get it?”

“Its American. A Bach Mercury, a present from Mr. Monty when I got out of the Army. Bach instruments and mouthpieces; they"re so well designed and the quality is wonderful. I look after it.”

“When did you become a Jazz musician?”

“I started young.”

When he was ten, Nathan began playing the cornet in St Michael"s Silver Band sponsored by his parish church. He stayed with the band until he left school and gave up the Faith.

“It was Monty Solomon, Mr. Monty, got me interested in Jazz. He"s a great friend. Ma used to work for him.”

Mr. Monty heard from Ma about Nathan"s love of the cornet and lent him records. At fourteen life was never the same after Nathan worked his way through the recordings of Louis Armstrong"s Hot Five and Hot Seven. He and Mr. Monty enjoyed a good-natured dispute about the greatest Armstrong record. For Mr. Monty, it was Potato Head Blues; Nathan said it was Muskrat Ramble.

Mr. Monty loaned Nathan the money to buy his first instrument, an old silver Conn trumpet. He made Nathan a present of a new mouthpiece. Nathan acquired enough playing technique and reading music in the silver band to make progress on his own.

“Monty Solomon, Mr. Monty,” Dorothy said. “They"re funny names for a Scot.”

“He"s Jewish from Odessa. His family came here when he was a child.” Nathan said. “He"s been very good to us and Ma is fond of him. I"ve got a lot of time for Mr. Monty.”

“Can I meet him?”

“Sure. He"ll be coming soon. We have a meal, sometimes a wee party. Ma makes special food for him. He likes to hear the band playing. It"d be nice if you"re there.”

“The band is wonderful,” Dorothy said. “You never play a song the same way, and the music swings. It"s exciting and puzzling. Chris is such a good player, but you"re right up there beside him.”

Nathan grinned, flushing, embarrassed but pleased too. “If we"re getting it right, every time we play a song it"ll be different.”

“You always get it right.”

“We"ve been playing together for two years, and I don"t know how long it can last. It"s very intense, and Jazz wise, we couldn"t be closer. I mean Leo isn"t Art Pepper and Chris isn"t Coltrane, and I"m not Freddie Hubbard. But we"re playing good things; the music, it just hangs together. We understand one another, and there"s trust. Right now, we really know what we"re doing; and we"re doing it well for its own sake.”

“It"s just wonderful.”

“It"s a long way from the rough gigs in the clubs and lodges when I started. I put in the hours with the band, Dorothy. I know the Bach; it"s a part of me. I know where it can take me, and I reach for that.”

Dorothy drew him out, creating her personal mosaic of Nathan Forrest, Jazz musician. He"d caught her up in the music. One day soon, he"d tell Dorothy that he loved her.

“You"re a Romantic, Nathan.”

“A Romantic? Never heard of it.”

“They were artists and intellectuals; eighteenth century people. I studied them in school. They adored emotions and imagination and hated rules. Rebels, I suppose.”

“Me an artist; a rebel? You must be kidding. Anyway, I don"t hate rules, not the rules of music. I go to work, I mind my business, and everything else is Jazz.”

“Oh, I don"t know. You care so much about Jazz. I thought you might be a Romantic. Someday you might want another kind of life. More music and less shipyard, if you see what I mean.”

“Well, I guess I should think about it.” He didn"t want to think about it. Despite its rough edges and the creeping decay, Nathan was comfortable in Westburn. He loved Ma and had a duty towards her. Nathan knew musicians reduced by the grind of a job down the yard and the artistic poverty of Westburn, but refused to change his life.

“Did you really mean it when you said that outside work, everything else is Jazz?” Dorothy said.

He let his guard down and surprised Dorothy by taking both her hands and kissing her. “The music; it"s important. You know that; but it"s just one thing. Days I don"t see you, well, they"re empty.”

“I know.”

They laid out the picnic. Nathan was surprised by what Dorothy had prepared: a wicker basket containing one thermos of coffee, another with cold, homemade lemonade, portions of cold, roast chicken and salad, crusty bread, already buttered, and melamine cups, plates and cutlery. There were dainty, blue chequered cotton napkins, a blanket to sit on.

“Did you do all this?”

“Yes, of course. I learned to cook in school.”

Nathan"s idea of a picnic was to wrap a couple of Ma"s thick cut sandwiches in grease proof paper, fill a thermos with strong, sweet tea and pack it in his old Army knapsack.

They enjoyed the food and the river views. “I went to the library and looked up your name,” Dorothy said. “I wanted to find out what it means.”

“Tell me.”

“It means a Gift from God. It"s from the Hebrew.”

“What about your name?”

“Well, it"s funny, but I looked that up too and Dorothy means a Gift of God. It"s from the Greek. Our names mean the same thing.”

“The same thing. I like that.”

“You"re not a bad present, not really; and I like it too, Nathan.”

They sat quietly until the position of the sun told them the afternoon was ending.

“Time for the six o"clock ferry,” Nathan said, as he packed the picnic basket and put the blanket in his knapsack and they walked back to the pier.

With Dorothy"s parents away in Istanbul, their attraction grew exponentially. For those few months, Dorothy was staying with her Aunt Zoë, her father"s younger sister. She knew that Dorothy was seeing Nathan and wanted to meet him.

“You"re invited to tea at Aunt Zoë"s on Sunday,” Dorothy said as they settled down on the ferry for the sail back to Westburn.

This would be the first time he"d meet anyone called Zoë. “Why? Does she want to see whether I"m suitable?”

“Please, Nathan. She"s a nice person, a free spirit. She teaches History at the Academy Grammar. It"s a small, private school for girls; quite posh; and she"s a passionate Socialist.”

“OK. I"ll be on my best behaviour.”

“Nathan, just be yourself.”

Nathan suspected that Aunt Zoë would be an aging version of the Rugby Club women: braying voice, drooping arse and sagging t**s; and determined to assess his worth.

Nathan crossed the threshold of Zoë"s house, tripped on the doormat, and stumbled into the hall. “Sorry,” he said.

Dorothy laughed, but it did not shift the frosty look on Zoë"s face. “Hello, Nathan. I"ve heard a lot about you,” Zoë said, from thinly parted lips, assessing him from hooded eyes.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss,” Nathan said, uncomfortable out of his milieu,

Zoë was about thirty-five, had Dorothy"s build and was dark. But, there was a look of Dorothy"s father that made Nathan uneasy. He liked her stylish, gamine Audrey Hepburn haircut; dressed like her too: white blouse with high collar, full, dark navy skirt, navy shoes with low heels. Zoë had shapely legs with fine ankles.

Zoë saw that Nathan was working class; probably a Catholic. His grey suit was of good wool and well made, but of vulgar cut. The button down collar of his white shirt was simply ridiculous, and the wine coloured wool tie, nondescript. Grudgingly, she approved of his polished shoes and she had to admit that in a coarse way, he wasn"t bad looking. Spitefully, Zoë concluded that his appearance was a crude attempt to look like one of those American Jazz musicians who appeared in the French films she watched.

Zoë was angry that Dorothy found this creature attractive. Why could she not have brought home a nice boy from the Rugby Club, or the Cricket Club? Someone dressed in tasteful, tweed hacking jacket and twill trousers; a nicely checked Vyella shirt complimenting the Club tie; and suede shoes: so middle-class and attractive on a man.

Zoë gave Nathan the imperious look that she used to reduce stubborn pupils. “Nathan, Miss will never do, I"m not quite the Maiden Lady yet. You must call me Zoë.”

Nathan saw Zoë"s look and heard the scorn. His school days were long over, and he resolved to give no ground to her.

“Dorothy,” Zoë said. “Please be a dear and see that everything"s all right in the kitchen.

“It is all right. I looked at everything just before Nathan came in.”

Dorothy"s refusal rattled Zoë. She hated having her strategy for dealing with this fellow deflected.

Dorothy admired her aunt, but had felt the edge of Zoë"s sharp tongue, and wanted to stay with Nathan. He felt the quiet stretching to sunset.

Zoë had a duty to perform. “Dorothy told me how good you were at the dance, rescuing her and taking her home. Thank you. I suppose my brother forgot to say so.”

“Yes,” Nathan said.

“You"re so discreet, Nathan. How tactful of you.” Zoë said. She waved her hand. “Dorothy said that you"re a welder. Are you a good welder?”