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It’s such a cocky response that it startles a laugh out of me, and I nudge him with my shoulder. “Happy new year, Fin,” I wish with deep affection for my chaotic Scotsman, and press a kiss to his temple.
He takes my hand and raises it to his lips. “Happy new year, Jessa Weir.”
14
“Can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave last year behind.” I’m shouting as we touch concrete. The crowds have spilled into the rest of the city, craving an extension to their night. I’m almost knocked off my feet by the amount of staggering, drunken stragglers. Bars and pubs blast thumping dance music from their overflowing doors. Everyone’s happy and off their head, and there’s a great spirit in the air. It contrasts with the serenity of Arthur’s Seat, where the sound of our soft kisses could have been detected yards away. Now I have to raise my voice just to be heard over honking traffic. “Let’s keep all that shit firmly in the past, yeah?”
“It willnae,” Finlay predicts curtly, and I shoot him an exasperated glare. “Look, generations o’ Presbyterian shite means we’re all dour-faced pessimistic bastards. We like tae keep things real.”
I frown at him. “No, I don’t think that’s true. I think deep down you’re one of the most optimistic people I know. You just keep it under lock and key to protect yourself.”
Finlay quietens for a moment before adding in a rough voice, “Fine, sassenach, whitever ye say. Just dinnae tar my bad boy image when ye psychoanalyze me, aye?”
The main area where the street party had been has opened up, the metal gates and fences hauled to the side by the stewards in reflective jackets. Loads of revelers are still hanging around, some literally so against the railings, and I have to be careful where I step in case I trudge into one of the many pools of vomit decorating the road.
Pockets of partying have sprung up all around. Some small, unofficial gatherings are taking place, and Finlay and I take a moment to enjoy a fiddle band merrily playing traditional Scottish folk tunes. People dance and cheer around them. They finish withAuld Lang Syne, where Finlay demonstrates the customary dance. As instructed, I cross my arms and link hands with him on one side. I hold hands on my other side with a studenty-looking guy, everyone else doing likewise, until we’re all one big, swaying, misshapen, laughing circle. As the music speeds up, we all crush into the middle and back out again. It’s ridiculously good fun.
When the music ends with a final bright vampy chord, I applaud heartily and Finlay wolf-whistles his appreciation. We’re all grinning ear-to-ear, breathless and happy and free.
And then the guy I’d been holding hands with cups his palms to his mouth and yells, “Do the Antiro anthem!”
The atmosphere’s sudden shift is like the impatient lurch of a kaleidoscope. Nobody speaks. The only sound that can be heard is the whooping from other partygoers in the far-off distance.
“Nah, this was oor last song, pal,” the accordion player eventually rebuffs with a bright smile, and I’ve been in Scotland long enough to know that ‘pal’ can be a subtle threat to an arsehole. Eyes flick from the band to the man, and tension creeps across the frosty air.
“Och, c’mon. You know it’s been mandated by the king, aye? All music performances have to end with the national anthem.”
“And we played ‘Flower o’ Scotland’ earlier,” the violinist says, and a few people in the crowd titter awkwardly. The man’s eyes narrow. I watch as several people drift away, sensing the unease in the air. The band members ignore the guy and begin to pack away their instruments.
“Thenewnational anthem.”
In a bored drawl, someone in the crowd growls, “Oh, fuck up, ya fuckin’ walloper. Lickin’ the arseholes o’ the English monarchy. You should be ashamed o’ yerself.”
“King James is forallof us!”
“Scotland hasneverwanted the monarchy!”
And so it descends. I gawk as the two men scrap openly in the street. Punches get thrown, fists collide with flesh, and at one point I’m sure I hear the wince-worthy crack of bone. The band looks on, stunned, but Finlay, I note, is quietly entertained, his lips twitching. He watches them brawl for a few long moments before, with a sigh, striding confidently between them. The two men are so surprised by his interruption that they part almost instantly.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Gentlemen,please,” Finlay says in a clipped, overly polite tone, his palms separating the two men. One has a split lip and the other nurses the side of his cheek. “Have some decorum — for we are in the presence o’ladies.” And here he gestures to the few disgusted women who have chosen to remain in the crowd. Finlay shoots me a mysterious smile. “‘Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,’” he begins coyly, “‘the Rights o’Womanmerit some attention.’” He glances pointedly at the two men, as though they’ve in some way disappointed him and the whole of mankind.
I blink at Finlay, bewildered, my expression mirrored on the faces of everybody else. I try to cast my mind back to how much Finlay had to drink, but his voice is clear, his manner lucid, and his words beautifully eloquent as they carry through the cool air.
Finlay meets the eye of the baffled accordionist, and some kind of wordless communication passes between them, the musician nodding slightly. I watch as he slowly draws out his accordion again, fastening it around himself. Following Finlay’s careful counting of the beat, he begins to play a simple background chord progression.
To my utter astonishment, Finlay starts to reel off a poem by heart.It’s Burns, it has to be Burns, I think to myself, knowing how much a fan Finlay is of Scotland’s national poet, recalling the familiar lilts of language he’d recited to me at the Munro manor. If it were a written piece, I’d struggle to decipher some of the old turns of phrase, but Finlay unpicks it masterfully, performing the poem not like a poem at all, but a philosophical rumination monologued from the heart. It’s casual, playful, and there’s a twinkle in Finlay’s green eyes as he commands the curious crowd.
“Here, listen tae this…” Murmurs of interest bloom around me and I eavesdrop on the people surrounding us. The crowd, which had splintered in the presence of the Antiro supporter, gradually reforms and expands. I observe their intrigue, their laughter as Finlay manages to make an eighteenth-century pun modern. His performance has everyone eating from the palm of his hand, including the two brawlers, and I think to myself that there’s no end to my boy’s talents.
“‘Let Majesty your first attention summon,’” Finlay concludes heartily, directing a scolding look at both men. “‘Ah!Ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman!’” The accordionist finishes with an elegant trill of keys, and the thronging audience bursts into heartfelt applause. Finlay takes a swift bow, clapping instead in my direction and anywhere else a woman stands, and I watch in bemusement as tourists flock to take selfies with him. Once he’s freed from his new fans, he makes a beeline for me, dashing over with a large, wholesome grin on his face, and kisses me sweetly on the cheek.
Breaking up a fight with nothing more than his wit? Reciting poetry promoting the rights of women? Modestly accepting roaring applause? Kissing me in front of all these people?
I’m not sure what just happened, but I think I fell a little bit more in love with Finlay tonight.
“Welcome tae Scotland!” he shouts, waving at his new admirers. “Haste ye back!” He kisses my cheek again, and the crowd coos at the gesture. I try not to flush at all these people taking pictures of us together, instead focusing on the Antiro guy slinking off, perhaps feeling a tad less brave now he’s outnumbered.
