Free Beneath the Abbey Wall by A. D. Scott

see you’re laden. Would you like help with those?”
    â€œThanks, but I’m not going far. I work down the street at the Highland Gazette .” This was said with obvious pride, and she was delighted when he whistled in appreciation.
    â€œA journalist, eh? I was a journalist before becoming an academic. Started at my hometown newspaper in Nova Scotia; now I live in Ottawa.” He glanced up at the Church Street clock tower. “Have you time for a cup of tea? I’d love to pick your brains about the town.”
    â€œI’d love to. But I’m late and it’s crazy in the office right now . . . why don’t you call me at the Gazette ?”
    â€œI’ll do that.” Again his smile. “So, what do I call you?”
    She saw him glance at her wedding ring.
    â€œI’m Joanne Ross.” It was suddenly important to her to state the facts. “I hate the Mrs. Ross bit—I was married, I’m now separated, and I want to be known as me .” Even saying the words felt daring.
    â€œPleased to meet you, ‘Me.’”
    It was a silly joke, and she was glad of it. Again he offered his hand. Clutching her books in the crook of her elbow, she took it. “Pleased to meet you too.” She smiled back. “Sorry, but I must get back to work.”
    â€œCan we meet again?”
    Yes. Yes please, she was thinking. “Call me at the Gazette office,” she said, and hurried off, anxious to hide her embarrassment.
    Did I really do that? Ask him to call me? Joanne was amazed at herself. Anyhow, I don’t suppose he will.
    *  *  *  
    Neil Stewart had worked and planned and saved for this journey for seven years. He had arrived in Scotland two months ago and had spent the time in Edinburgh, mostly in the National Library. But the focus of his journey was the Highlands.
    Expecting Scotland to be like the stories that permeated his childhood—stories from school, from books, stories told by his émigrée mother—was, he knew, unrealistic. But from themoment his train had reached the lowland hills to its steady climb up and across the faultline of mountains, his enchantment with the highland scenery grew and grew. He felt, right to his bones, the visceral pleasure of a prodigal homecoming, knowing that passing burns, rivers, crags, glens, were as much a part of him as that other indelible mark of a true Scot—freckles.
    And from the moment he arrived in the Highlands town, stepping off the train and crossing the station square with its statue of an unknown soldier from a forgotten war and seeing the stone terraces lining the wide street, Union Street, aware of the air and the harsh light and the faces and walk and dress of the passersby, familiar yet poorer than he had imagined, he felt he belonged here, because that was why he had come—to belong.
    â€œWhere to?” Even the accent of the taxi driver was familiar. It was his mother’s intonation, cadence, the way the wh in “where” was pronounced as softly as a whiff of wind.
    â€œSeventy-three Crown Terrace, please.”
    â€œYou’ll be staying wi’ Mrs. Wilkie then.”
    It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. The way the man said it, as though he was announcing the Apocalypse, did not fill Neil with confidence.
    â€œSo where are you from?”
    â€œCanada.” He wanted to say, From here.
    His name—Neil Stewart—came from here in the Highlands. He knew his late mother, Chrissie, was born in Sutherland but not where. She had always been reluctant to talk of the details of her past. His dark sandy hair, his hazel eyes, and his freckles were marks of a Highland man and although he did not know it, having been born and raised after the diaspora of Scots to Nova Scotia, he had the trait of those raised in a time warp; they did not recognize that their homeland had changed and moved on. Brigadoon was Scotland to many