June, Reimagined (24)
Now, a month in, June sat in a quiet corner of the café after closing, a pack of fifty thank-you cards spread out on the table before her, along with a cup of tea. It was just past four in the afternoon, but night had already fallen on Knockmoral. June yawned into the back of her hand. The February deadline for sending the cards was approaching. If June allowed herself to go back to the inn, she would not write a single letter. She would push the chore to another day and spend the rest of the evening watching reruns of Absolutely Fabulous with Angus. Yet another day would slip by, just as the previous three weeks had, the job left undone.
June wiggled the pen in her hand. Today she was determined to tackle the annoyance head on. She would not leave her seat until she had crossed off and completed at least half of the list sent by the Women’s Club of Sunningdale. It was an easy enough task, and one that secured her scholarship, which June desperately needed if she intended to return to Stratford College. And she did. She reminded herself daily.
June eyed the camera among the other items on the table. The roll of film was half-used, practice pictures June had snapped around Knockmoral. Each shot she’d taken over the past three weeks had refined her vision, old instincts remembered, as if her eyes were seeing her world more clearly. She had forgotten how much she enjoyed capturing people on film—an older gentleman sitting serenely on a seaside bench or Hamish singing into a spatula, beard braided, a red bandana holding back his long hair. She had even started to pick up the daily newspaper on her way to work, to inspect the photos, trying to glean something of the art form from them, a task Ms. Flores had assigned to her years ago. A few of the photos she had even cut out and taped to her bedroom wall for inspiration.
June wanted to take pictures with her free time, or run with Max, not write thank-you notes. But what she wanted mattered little when it came to her future. She would buckle down . . . after another cup of tea. June went into the kitchen, filled the kettle, and opened the fridge, looking for a snack while she waited for the water to boil. Hamish’s office light was still on.
As she approached the door to let him know she had stayed after hours, she heard not one but two familiar voices inside. Amelia, who must have come in through the back door, was in Hamish’s office. June was about to interrupt when she noticed the cautious sound of their voices. She peered through the cracked office door.
“He said I could take down the wallpaper, Hamish.” Amelia sat on her uncle’s desk, her long legs dangling. “In five years, that’s never happened. This might actually be working.”
“God willing.” Hamish looked to the ceiling. “It’s been too long as it is. We can’t live like this forever.”
“I can’t live like this forever. I’m wasting away here.”
“Go on, Amie.” Hamish patted his niece’s knee. “He’d understand.”
“I can’t. What if it happens again? What if he . . .”
“It’s been years,” Hamish said.
“But you remember how awful it was?”
“Aye. Can’t forget something like that.”
“I can’t leave ’til I know he’s alright.” Amelia pulled a long blond wig from her purse and put it on Hamish’s head. “I have a plan.”
“What are you up to, Amie?”
“Just trust me, Uncle.”
The kettle whistled, startling June. She ran to turn the burner off and acted casual when Amelia and Hamish emerged from the office, Hamish still wearing the wig.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Amelia said.
“I had some extra work to do.” June’s heartbeat was in her throat. She examined Hamish. “I had no idea you were moonlighting as a Vegas showgirl.”
Hamish chuckled and pulled the wig from his head. “Ack, it’s for Up Helly Aa.”
“Is Up Helly Aa the local strip club?” June teased.
“Have you never heard of it?” Amelia asked.
June had indeed never heard of the Highland fire festival, a day in early February when, for twenty-four hours, the small, quiet town of Knockmoral was transformed into a Viking festival.
Hamish held up a finger, then disappeared into his office. He returned with a large coffee-table book and placed it on the kitchen counter before June. A group of men dressed as Vikings surrounded a galley on the book’s cover. Hamish pointed to the man in the middle, the clear leader. “That was my da when he was Guizer Jarl twenty years ago.” Then he pointed to another, similar-looking, younger Viking. “That’s me. Barely had a beard back then. Grew it out for an entire year.”
As she flipped through the book, June learned that the Guizer Jarl was the head of the Up Helly Aa celebration, which the town spent an entire year putting together, from costumes to torches to the gigantic wooden galley. The lucky few appointed to the Up Helly Aa committee wore proper Viking clothes, crafted by hand, while the rest, broken into squads, were relegated to other, usually hilarious themes—hence, Hamish’s wig.
After winding the large ship through the streets, singing and chanting and carrying torches, the men burned the galley to the ground. Celebrations followed at different halls around town, where every squad was required to put on a show as an expression of gratitude for the party. The festival sounded to June a little like Greek Week at Stratford College, but with more costumes and a huge fire hazard.