Page 91 of Duke It Out
She wanders through to the kitchen and returns with a roll of red ribbon and a pair of scissors. I was expecting another bottle of wine or a bar of chocolate or something. I think my face says it all.
Kate grins and brandishes them in the air, her eyes bright with mischief.
“Let’s make it official. We’ll go to the clootie tree.”
Bert clambers off the sofa and pads over to his mistress, his tail wagging hopefully.
“See, he’s ready for an adventure. Here, I’ll get you some walking boots. What size are you?”
Five minutes later, in a pair of slightly too-big boots padded out with thick socks over my bobbly joggers, I’m following Kate out through the back gate of her garden and across a heather-covered moorland path.
“So, the clootie tree is an old Scottish tradition – they’ve got them all over the Highlands,” Kate explains, marching ahead of me. She turns and passes back a pewter flask full of whisky. “Drink that.”
I’m already a bit tipsy from half a bottle of wine and my blood alcohol levels probably haven’t settled after last night, but I take a swig then screw the lid back on. “Are you sure you’re not making this up? I grew up near Edinburgh and I’ve never heard of a clootie tree.”
We scramble over some rocks and slide down the other side where we meet up with the path again.
“It’s a thing, I promise. You’ll see. It’s up there past the river. People come from all over to tie a ribbon and make a wish or a resolution, or a vow.”
“This is surprisingly hippyish for someone as practical as you,” I pant, as we slip down through a tangle of coconut-scented gorse bushes.
“Oh, we contain multitudes,” Kate says airily, waving her hand. “Nearly there. Well, nearly-ish.”
It’s another fifteen minutes before we reach the river – the moors have a weird way of stretching out. My feet – aching after trudging along the road this afternoon – are slipping about inside the too-big boots and I can feel a blister threatening at the back of my heel.
The sun is long and low, spilling gold over the distant hills. Midges swarm in angry clusters but Kate’s home-made repellent spray seems to be doing the job – they hover, but we’re not being bitten. The dogs are trotting along ahead of us, Kate’s singing to herself and I’m beginning to feel like I’m on some sort of epic Tolkein-esque trek. Only with copious amounts of whisky, which burns my throat but keeps me going.
The track by the side of the fast-flowing river is narrow and muddy from the earlier rain. I see the tree root a moment too late and my foot catches, sending me flying forwards.
I land with a squelch at the end of a puddle and the impact knocks a gasp out of my lungs.
“Shit, Edie,” she says, turning back and rushing to haul me to my feet. “Are you okay?”
I giggle despite myself. “Wet and muddy but fine. I’m not giving up now. Where’s this clootie tree?”
Kate points over the stone bridge ahead. “Just over there.”
It’s ancient and twisted, with scraps of cloth and pieces of faded ribbon fluttering in the breeze like long-forgotten spells. Kate passes me a piece of red ribbon, and I tie a piece around a bare branch with shaking fingers, making a wish with my eyes screwed tightly shut, like a child on Christmas Eve.
“Whatever you wish for, it’ll happen.” She folds her arms and watches as I step back.
I feel a tiny flurry of butterflies and hope in my stomach and watch my ribbon dancing in the wind for a moment before we turn for home. We walk back as the light fades – it’s late now, and the sun is setting over the hills. We stroll back, chatting about nothing, watching the dogs as they chase rabbits and disappear down tracks in the heather. I haven’t checked my phone once. I hum to myself as the lights of Kate’s cottage come into view as we climb up the twisting hilly path in the twilight. It’s home for now, and that’ll do – I’ll let the clootie tree wish do the rest.
35
RORY
Jamie’s been goneten minutes when Janey barrels into my office as if she runs the place. Her normally sunny expression has been switched for one I know all too well.
“Have you completely lost your mind?”
I don’t look up. There’s a bottle of Finn’s whisky open on the desk and an empty glass. Part of me wants to down the lot, sleep until tomorrow and pretend this day hasn’t happened. But that’s not going to solve anything.
“I assume this is related to Edie.”
Janey stands in the doorway, arms folded. “What on earth were you thinking.”
I raise my eyebrows for a moment and say nothing.
