Page 19 of The Typo

Cameron

PS: Not trying to hassle you, but if you do have any tips to help counteract my nerves during lectures, I would appreciate them. George has made the executive decision that I’ll be taking a lead role at the round-up talk when we’re heading across the Drake Passage back to port. He claims it’s to help me stop feeling seasick, but I have this horrible fear I’m going to vom in the middle of the lecture, which is making me somewhat concerned.

PPS: I promise I’ll get on the door if the worst comes to the worst in the storm. And to reassure you, we have state-of-the-art lifeboats. They look hellishly uncomfortable, but a damn sight better than the alternative, that’s for sure. Ironically the passengers had a movie night last night, and would you guess what they chose to watch? Funnily enough, lots of the crew made their excuses not to join in. It’s probably not like saying ‘Macbeth’ in the theatre, but why tempt fate?

ChapterTen

‘My Crap Life: A Memoir in Five Acts’ went on for half an hour longer than it was meant to. The audience was larger than I’d expected, although this was mostly down to the actor’s extremely vast family who didn’t seem at all offended to see themselves unflatteringly portrayed on stage. According to the ushers, only a couple of people walked out, and even they whispered apologies to the staff, saying they were worried about missing the last train home. Ian was apparently enthused enough by the show to stand up at the end to deliver a speech about the importance of nurturing young talent. I was glad I hadn’t stuck around to endure that hypocrisy.

The next day, I kept checking theExaminer’s website and doing keyword searches on social media, but however hard I looked, there was still no sign of a review by Ottilie Havers. Good or bad, I really wished the paper would get on with publishing it. Any longer and by the time the review came out—if it came out—the run of ‘Crap Life’ would have ended and we’d be onto our next questionable performer and miss out on any surge in interest generated by it. I was letting myself get carried away. The more realistic answer as to why it hadn’t appeared was that she’d decided it wasn’t even worth her time to write the review. I tried to focus instead on writing copy for the autumn brochure, but given the theatre’s precarious position, it felt pretty pointless. By lunchtime, I’d had enough, and decided to head out for a wander.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 25 Jan, 13:43

Subject: Sláinte Mhath!

Hi Cameron,

In case you’re wondering about the subject heading, it’s the equivalent of ‘cheers’ in Gaelic and it’s how we’re traditionally meant to greet each other on this most famous of Scottish occasions, Burns Night. Only it’s not actually night yet, and that is pretty much the sum of my entire Gaelic knowledge as sadly it wasn’t offered at my school. I found myself with an unexpected hour in the city centre, so I decided to go in search of some Scottish novelty tat to inflict on Cass (she’s the one who’s moving to Australia) so she doesn’t forget her roots. But as I was shuddering my way through the bobble head pipers and tam-o’shanters with terrible ginger wigs attached, I heard a kerfuffle outside. There was a guy dressed as Rabbie Burns himself declaiming the poem ‘To A Mouse’. As you can imagine, he gathered quite a crowd, myself included. We all followed him, like children marching behind the Pied Piper, and he led us to the Writers’ Museum, which I’m ashamed to admit I’d never previously come across despite my years in the city. In my defence, it’s hidden away down one of the little alleyways I told you Edinburgh is famous for. The museum is gorgeous, a small castle-like building of weathered red stone, complete with a turret at one end. I instantly thought it was the kind of place you’d enjoy photographing. They’d set up a table outside serving miniature helpings of a traditional Burns Night supper. I’m afraid I'll probably have to forfeit my Scottish identity by admitting that I really can’t stand haggis (even thinking about what it contains—sheep’s heart and worse—makes me feel somewhat queasy) but thankfully they had lots of cranachan (imagine a dessert consisting of cream, raspberries, honey, toasted oatmeal—basically, all the good stuff!) so I happily tucked in while ‘Rabbie’ entertained everyone with a further recital. It was a real treat to play tourist and enjoy such an unexpected performance. I was full of admiration for the guy because while the pop-up event outside the Writers’ Museum was a fairly controlled environment with an appreciative crowd, it must have taken quite some guts for him to march up and down the busy shopping street beforehand, in full historic garb, as he gathered the aforementioned audience.

Which reminds me, I should be sticking to the topic I had intended to email you about before I got distracted by yummy cranachan—the dreaded lecture nerves. The advice I’ve always been given about any kind of performance is to imagine your audience is naked, but I’m not sure that’s particularly sensible. Because if the whole audience was naked and I was the only one standing there clothed, maybe I’d feel like the odd one out, and that could be somewhat awkward. Another ‘helpful’ tip I’ve received is to believe in myself, because I wouldn’t have got the gig/role in the first place if I wasn’t capable of doing it. I’ll say that to you, but I know it’s easier said than done. I think ultimately the only thing you can do is focus on what is within your control, i.e. your knowledge of your subject and how much you’ve prepared for the lecture, and try not to let yourself get het up about the stuff that isn’t – the audience’s reaction, and the state of the sea. Being nervous is a sign you care, and it will give you that extra edge to get through, but don’t let the voice of your inner critic take over. It doesn’t have anything helpful to say at this stage, and it’s only going to sap your energy and try to sabotage you. Instead, treat yourself with the kindness you would give a nervous friend, and let that bullying inner critic float away into the distance on an iceberg where it belongs. You’ve got this!

Love,

Amy x

I felt like a massive hypocrite sending the email. It was so simple dishing out advice to somebody else, much less easy to follow it myself. But then again, Cameron had an advantage over me in that he was still following his dreams and obviously had the talent to continue doing so, whereas I wasn’t and didn’t. I didn’t deserve his friendship, but I really wanted it, and the only way I could keep it, was to stop him finding out that I was a fraud, which meant digging myself deeper into my deception. I was stuck in a trap of my own making.

I didn’t expect Cameron to reply immediately, but when it reached Saturday and there was still no email from him, I could no longer ignore the voice of insecurity which told me that this was only what I deserved. Instead of moping around in my flat alone, I hopped on the train home to North Berwick to get what I hoped would be a bolstering dose of parental love.

Much as I loved living and working in Edinburgh, there were times when I felt like the bustling streets were closing in on me and I needed to escape to somewhere more peaceful to recharge. As the train trundled through the countryside, I felt a slight easing of the tension in my shoulders. Hopefully a change to my usual solitary weekend routine would do me the world of good.

North Berwick, like many coastal towns, always seemed to have its own microclimate, and when I arrived it was cold but bright, a contrast to the cloudy gloom of the city I’d left behind. I took the long way round from the station to my mum and dad’s house, relishing the chance to soak in the tang of salt in the air as I walked along the front. It wasn’t like I lived far from the sea myself, but sometimes I felt trapped by the scale of the city, the hundreds of thousands of people going about their lives, while I scurried unnoticed among them, so many obstacles standing between me and whatever it was I was looking for. At least by the coast, the big skies and big sea helped me to breathe more freely.

The tide was coming in and a few brave souls were running along the low wall which created a shallow sea pool on the beach. They were trying to time their run to avoid the spray from the waves which were already lapping up against the wall, but the laughing shrieks suggested they’d not been successful in avoiding getting splashed. I watched as a boy pretended to be about to push his friend into the cold water, grabbing his shoulders and making a juddering motion before grasping him closely so there was no real danger. The shout of faux indignation from the victim made me smile. I remembered doing something similar with the girls when I invited them to stay with me during one of our university holidays. Of course, it had ended up with all four of us plunging into the water, the freezing waves of the North Sea momentarily snatching our breath away. Meg had been indignant, Cass had taken it as an invitation to swim fully clothed across the stretch of the bay, and Jodie had laughed, kicking water high into the air so a rainbow briefly shimmered between the droplets. I missed the spontaneous fun we used to have.

I walked up the beach to the Seabird Centre where the solitary statue of The Watcher was keeping a careful eye on the Bass rock, the vast outcrop which was home to thousands of birds during nesting season. Some people said the statue of the man with his binoculars cut a lonely figure, standing there by himself, an observer, only able to watch and not join in. But I always liked the stillness of the figure, the gentle reminder to keep looking and recognise the wonder of our surroundings. I thought Cameron might appreciate it. I took a quick snap on my phone. Perhaps I would send it to him, even though he wouldn’t be able to download it yet. Maybe it would remind him of our correspondence when he returned to normal life and forgot all about me.

I wondered what views he was seeing through his lens today. Since I’d watched the films about Drake Passage, the YouTube algorithm had started recommending more and more Antarctica related videos to me. I reckoned I could probably find my way around the Amundsen Scott South Pole Base now. But my favourite footage was of the wildlife: majestic whales surfacing in the petrol blue water; skuas swooping in the breeze then diving down to seize scraps; the ubiquitous penguins, busily waddling around like black tie-bedecked waiters serving at a fancy function in Morningside. I walked past the statue and patted it gently on the arm.

‘Hope you’re having a good time, Cameron, wherever you are today.’

I shivered as a blast of salty spray carried on the breeze stung my cheeks. Time to tear myself away from the beach and head home.

* * *

‘Kettle’s on, pet,’ called my mum as I opened the door, which was unlocked, as usual.

‘How do you know I’m not a burglar?’ I responded.

‘In which case, burglar woman, would you like a cup of tea? All that housebreaking must be thirsty work.’

I laughed, although I did worry about my parents’ lax approach to security.

‘Go on then, it will refresh me before I tackle my next heist.’

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