Created By

irwinwe

Rate this Story

Embed

I sat in an old wooden chair, playing with my black pearl bracelet.  They weren't real black pearls, but they were good enough for me.  Daddy had given them to me before I left to go to Scotland, and when I felt the slightest twinge of home-sickness all I had to do was look down at them to be reminded that I belonged there, and they would be waiting for me.  It is not in my nature to be homesick much, truth be told, for I consider myself rather adventurous and independent.  I had wanted to get away from home - I was 25 and I decided that I had the world at my feet.  However, being alone in a different country, without friends or family at any point near, could instigate these tenuous feelings rather promptly in any persona.  

The University of St. Andrews was a beautiful place, built in old stone and surrounded by mist, bordered by the old cathedral and castle ruins and the sea.  As I had entered the history building earlier, where I would be getting my graduate degree for the next four years, I was speechless with reverence over the antiquated allure of it all.  A historian loves all things old.  So as I passed hallways lined with artifacts, I felt as if I had entered a dreamland.  Now, I sat in a small, musty classroom.  I was early to my first class, one of my standard qualms.  There was a man my age sitting in the back corner desk reading a magazine, but he did not acknowledge when I walked in, and did not show any interest in talking to me, so I just sat there playing with my black pearl bracelet, bored enough to convince myself that I was homesick.  I counted the number of times the man's desk creaked when he moved. 

My trance was broken when the classroom door abruptly opened.  Four loud young men, highland brogue rather thick, entered the room laughing heartily.  One of them waited at the door and held the handle shut.  When a fifth man appeared at the door window he looked disdainfully at the man holding the door, then shook his head and gave him what I assumed was the Scottish "bird"...two fingers held up...just like the American peace sign.  I found this rather hilarious..."fuck off" in Scotland means "peace" in America.  I was smiling slightly when the guy holding the door relinquished his hold and turned to face the rest of the room.  He caught my eye, then winked and grinned.  Oh Lord, I thought to myself, here we go, I am surrounded by men and they intend to treat me just like a woman."  For any other girl that would have been a good thing.  But not for me.  I wasn't interested in a relationship now.  I was interested in getting my doctorate.  And if they were going to treat me like a woman instead of a scholar, they were in for a rude awakening.  

The fifth man entered the room.  He was red-headed and dressed in an argyll sweater and slacks.  I noticed that all of the men were wearing slacks.  Interestingly, I had seen practically no one wearing jeans since I'd been in Scotland.  It just surprised me because I suppose I nearly live in my jeans.  Jeans and black pearls.  The fifth man passed me and stared at me peripherally.  He raised his eyebrow slightly and then while smirking spoke, "Weel halo there lassie" in a lowered baritone.  His four friends guffawed slightly from their desks.  How old were they?  I just kept looking forward.  Not because I was being standoffish...just because I was trying really hard not to let them seeing me grinning.  Okay, so I was being standoffish.  I didn't know how long I could act indifferently.  I laugh at anything, so it was becomming quite an effort to hide my amusement at five very loud, accented, red-haired scotsmen cracking inane jokes and howling behind me.  If a Scotsman in a kilt came in, oh, I was more than likely to loose it.  And if the professor were to wear a kilt, I don't know how I would keep a straight face during class.  

On the night of my arrival in St. Andrews, I ran into a slightly intoxicated Scot at a pub near my flat.  He was a flush-faced chubby man, and he had come right up to me, very confidently, and asked me, "Lass...'ave ye seen the TRUE Scotsman?"  I narrowed my eyes but smiled and shook my head.  Then he proceeded to lift up his kilt and reveal to me what the "True Scotsman" really was.  His friend raced up behind him and yanked his kilt down for him, laughing whole-heartedly.  "Ah sorry lass," he said, "tha' is na a verra guud example of a True Scotsman...I should 'ave shone ye mine...now tha...would 'ave impressed ye...".  That was not the kind of apology I was expecting.  Nevertheless, these men had caused me to see kilts in an entirely new light.  

Four more people ended up entering the classroom, one of which was a another woman.  She smiled in my direction, but then went off to sit beside her boyfriend, or so I assumed.  Did they know that I was from America?  I wondered how much I emanated "tourist".  People's eyes were seering my flesh like it was no great secret.  Well, I was wearing jeans and black pearls.  Who does that in Europe?  

The door opened a while later, but I kept my head down, busying myself by writing in my day planner.  I assumed that it was just another student entering, but then I heard the professor's voice.  "Halo class, how's yu today?"   

The voice was deep and lazy, commanding attention though it tried little to do so.  I instinctively looked up, drawn to it.  The vision that met my eyes at that moment entranced me.  I was expecting the professor to be old, with a grey beard and bifocals, just like every history professor I'd ever had.  But this man was the quintessential anti-stereotype.  He was very tall, and dressed in black dress pants and a black sweater.  All black, she thought, strangely appealing.  His shoulders were broad, his features were sharp, and sharpened even further by the dark stubble that graced his jaw.  His hair was carelessly tousled, as if he had made no attempt to brush it after awakening, and behind his square-rimmed glasses shone a pair of very green eyes.  I guessed that he was no more than 30, and I concluded that he must be extremely intelligent to have landed a job with tenure at such a grand university at so young an age.  

The classroom quieted.  

"I am Kane MacKallister, yur professor, but yu can just call me Kane," he said as he reached for his roll-call list.  He called off names one by one, and I was the last one he called.

"Ellen Irvine?"  He asked, looking at me.  "Ah...and yu are the one from America are ye na?"  I smiled and nodded.  I heard the desks creaking behind me, probably because everyone was readjusting in their seats to get in better position to stare me down.  

"Weel," he said, "welcome to Scotland, then, and welcome to St. Andrews.  An' doona let those five boys intimidate ye" he added on a half-smile, looking with a raised eyebrow to the red-headed trouble-making bunch, and then he whispered, "they doona walk their talk."  

The boys protested in friendly tones from the back of the room, and Kane's half-smile became a wide grin, an appealing grin, and I had a feeling that the boys and the professor already knew each other quite well.  He must have tought them before.

His gaze fell upon me again, green eyes shining.  Perhaps he had been just like them a few years before.  "I am not intimidated" I said, and raised my left eyebrow.  His smile lessened, and he seemed to sense my dedication and fiesty will, as he merely stared at me for a few moments, rather pensively.  

"And I did not say you were." He said softly.  And then he turned to pick up his lesson plan.