I, and the rest of the group, raise our glasses in response.
‘Mìle fàilte!’
It doesn’t take long for the twelve aspiring poets to get settled. I find myself seated on a large settee next to Dave.
‘More wine?’ he asks.
I nod and watch as he tops up my glass, the ruby liquid shimmering in the firelight. I recline, rest my head on the back of the settee, and close my eyes. This is not at all how I expected it would be. I had planned to be detached, even methodical in my dealings with the other students. They are simply a means to an end; no need to be friendly. What I hadn’t anticipated though, was how nice they would be, and even after just a few hours together, how much I would like them. The maternal Marie-Claire and puckish Julia have been warm and friendly, already offering to host me at their flat in St Andrews after the course. Dave has demonstrated a wise benevolence to balance the highly competitive natures of some of the other students.
‘Not all of us are published,’ he had said quietly at dinner to four twenty-somethings who had broken off into an elite group and were debating whether to have a private meeting in the common room instead of attending the evening session. ‘Sharing your experience with the rest of the group could be very beneficial.’ With a tone of wry humour, he added, ‘And we may even teach you a thing or two.’
Even Sally kept the table laughing with tales of her recent and short-lived foray into the world of golf.
‘God forbid you try and bag a table by the window,’ she says, regaling us with the complexities of club house etiquette. ‘They’re only for the established members. You can imagine their faces when I told them to stuff it and walked out, never to return.’
I find my cheeks aching from laughter, something I haven’t experienced in years. I feel the settee next to me give, and opening my eyes, am surprised to see Caleb sitting down beside me.
His voice is deep, hesitant. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not.’ He smells of fresh air and sandalwood and I find myself discreetly studying his profile. He must be in his early thirties; fair-haired and with eyelashes so pale they are nearly invisible. Though quiet, he has an intense, almost anguished air about him. He catches my eye and I recognise something in his uncertain, yet open, expression. He looks nothing at all like Michael, yet … I shake my head clear. I have made a deliberate decision not to impose my experiences and the pain they have caused me on others. Caleb may just be shy, or even uninterested. It isn’t for me to decide.
‘There’s a note here,’ says Sally, reading from a laminated card on the table, ‘that suggests we go around the room and say a little bit about ourselves and what we hope to get out of the week.’ She looks around the room. ‘Is that okay with everyone?’ There are a dozen nods of assent. ‘Well, if we’re all happy to go, I guess I’ll start. As you know my name is Sally. I’m an accountant. Well … I was an accountant. I wasn’t very happy in my job or my marriage, and after my two sons left home, I decided to leave my suburban bungalow with its fading wallpaper and infidelities – his not mine – and try something new. That something new involved going into partnership in an organic restaurant in Gosforth which just recently has been bought out by a national chain.’ She raises her shoulders in a who would have ever believed that gesture. ‘So, what do I do now?’ she concludes. ‘Well, I go on a fabulous residential poetry retreat!’ There are low cheers from everyone around the table. ‘As for what I want from the week, well … really I just want to improve my technique and maybe get a good sense of how to prepare for publication.’ She turns to Marie-Claire who is rolling a cigarette. ‘Are you okay to go next?’
‘Of course,’ she replies, licking the cigarette paper and sealing it tight. ‘My name is Marie-Claire and I’m originally from Montreal. I studied Urban Design at McGill where I fell in love with a poet.’ She takes a sip of her wine and continues. ‘The relationship didn’t last, but my love of poetry did. I was completing my masters at the University of Toronto when I met my lovely Julia, who was doing her PhD in Global Health Studies.’ She takes Julia’s hand. ‘It was love at first sight, so here I am in Scotland planning our wedding.’ There is a round of applause and cries of congratulations.
Julia, it turns out, is a lecturer at the University of St Andrews School of Medicine, and is slightly ambivalent about writing poetry, but as both she and Marie-Claire have decided to write their own wedding vows, thought the summer school was a good idea.
‘Hi, everyone,’ says Dave, continuing the round-robin introductions. ‘I’m a retired solicitor from Durham who has always enjoyed dabbling in a bit of poetry.’ He clears his throat and seems troubled. ‘I was due to attend the course last summer as a sixty-fifth birthday present from my daughters,’ he adds, smiling, ‘but unfortunately my wife Alice was diagnosed with dementia a few months before, so, well, you can imagine.’ The room is silent. ‘Alas, her condition has deteriorated to the stage where she now requires residential care.’ His sad eyes glisten in the flickering firelight. ‘And my children, they, er, insisted I have a break and do something for me. So here I am.’ He gazes around the room, seemingly surprised by his fellow students’ reaction. ‘Oh now, come on everyone, don’t look so glum. I’ve
