Page 2 of Geordie

Chapter two

Teaghlach

Geordie

Thefirstfewglimmersof sunrise follow me as I push open Lochlan's dark apartment on the grounds of MacTavish Cellars winery. I stifle the tickle of a sneeze as the staleness of the place hits me. It's been closed for months, since we went to the Isle of Skye for a weekend vacation with friends and family. That was the last time we were both in the apartment.

After setting my laptop and a brown, battered album on the dining room table, I turn on lights, dial up the heat, and make a mental note to have someone come in for a cleaning. The place is in order, but there's enough dust to make a few wee bunnies.

The kitchen is my next stop. Pulling down a bottle of fine MacTavish whiskey and a glass, I then return to the table, slide into a chair, and open the laptop as a photo of Dunrardarie lights up the screen. It doesn't take long to find the program I need. I'm sitting in an online room waiting for Lochlan to appear. He comes into view as I pour myself a finger of whiskey. “How are you, cousin, and how is the bonnie Kenzie that you don't deserve?”

He balks, shaking his head. “We're both fine. Kenzie and her partner won a spot on the Olympic team; now it's a year-long slog to the games.”

“Tell her I miss her and that I know she'll make a fine showing.”

“I will,” pouring himself a whiskey.

“I'm glad you could make it, even though you're still in Brazil.”

He leans back into his chair, absently scooting the glass closer to him. “We've never missed a time to remember the anniversary of our parents’ deaths since we started the tradition in primary school.”

I open the old album that belonged to my parents, fat with yellowing pictures of my family and their friends. I have a story for each, even if it's something I invented to fill in gaps. On the last page, I pull out a picture of Maw, Da, and me. It's a studio portrait. We're in front of a country scene, Maw seated with me in a suit on her lap and Da standing with his hand on her shoulder.

I take it out of its plastic sleeve, setting it against the salt and pepper shakers on the table. I know Lochlan is doing the same as we begin this painful, but necessary, memorial for parents who died when we were wee bairns.

Our fathers were brothers working in the family business, MacTavish Distilleries. They were with their wives on an island in Thailand celebrating the establishing of a new branch of the business, a winery in Australia, when a tsunami hit the island on the last day of their visit. All four died, along with several others.

I glance up from the picture. Lochlan holds up a similar-looking studio photo of his family. “What would our lives have been like if they had lived?” he sighs. “Maybe we would have been different.”

I grin at the wistful thought. “Maybe not so much. They were raised by Granda, so some of the same child-raising notions would have filtered down to us, but you're right, somehow I think it would have been different.” I trace a finger over their faces. “In every photo, they seem young, close to our age, happy to be together.”

We tell the story of how each couple met, courted, and fell in love from the recollection of our Granda, who told these tales when two anxious wee boys wanted to know about parents they only knew from photographs.

“We will do this, you and I,” Lochlan says when he finishes his family's saga, and there's a respectful lull as we reflect. “We will fall in love, court, marry, and have a family,” the statement made with deep conviction. “There will be many children to carry our legacy.”

I give a laugh. “You, cousin, are far ahead of me. Although, if I had to bet months ago on your chances of finding someone like Kenzie, I would have placed money on you dying alone because you chased all the respectable women away.”

When his mood grows dark, I stop his torment. “You're a lucky man, Lochlan. I see many children in your future.”

“I see the same for you.” He nods, earnest in his wish for me.

My cousin is more confident about the future. I wonder if I'll die alone without a wife or children who will carry my legacy. I stand and raise my glass. The sound of a chair scraping the floor tears through the speakers. We end this memorial with a dedication.

“A toast,” Lochlan shouts as emotion overtakes him.

“A toast to our parents,” I add, taking a breath to steady myself.

Together we recite a tribute, now by memory, which we wrote during our childhood.

“To the parents who gave us life.

To the clan men and women, whose blood runs through us.

To Scotland that nourished us.

To our ancestral lands of Dunrardarie, County Argyll.

We vow to follow the proud traditions of clan MacTavish.

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