Page 50 of The Typo

I gazed into my coffee mug as I thought, swirling the liquid around and watching the little bubbles forming and popping on the surface of the drink.

‘Yes, I think so. Opening the Cellar Bar has pushed me out of my comfort zone. But I think there’s still work to be done. Room for growth, if that doesn’t sound too much like some kind of inspirational post on social media. My next project has to be focused on me, rather than my day job. Maybe I’m trying to run before I can even walk, but I’m already starting to think about how I can make a living from my music. That was always the plan before the self-doubt stole it from me. But now I’m playing again, I can’t help starting to dream again.’

Harry nodded. ‘Take it from an old fogey like me that the day you stop dreaming is the day you stop living life to the full. Yes, we should all take the time to appreciate the blessings we already have, but we shouldn’t let fear hold us back from striving for what our hearts desire.’

Fraser rolled onto his back, letting out a sleepy mewl as his sister tried to steal his sofa space. I smiled at their antics.

‘You’re right. I’m getting better at being brave. Before, I was always focusing on the negative “what ifs”, but I need to remember that “what ifs” can also be positive.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Harry. ‘Goodness, is that the time? I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you to it. Malcolm has kindly invited me to lunch with him and his wife. And I think it’s about time these reprobates returned this sofa to its rightful owner. See you later.’

Thrilled that my friend-matching plan for Harry had done the trick, I decided to do a little more on my own behalf and sent a speculative message to my new ceilidh WhatsApp group.

Hi guys, who’s up for another session? Guess we’d better stick with the Drowsy Maggies name now we’re famous!

The messages pinged back almost instantly.

Count me in #DrowsyMaggiesrule

Where and how soon? I’m bringing food.

Yaaas friends, let’s play!

Friends. Life was good. We arranged to meet on Sunday morning, and I filled out the new online booking form I’d set up for community groups to hire the Cellar Bar. What better way of testing the system than with my own folk band?

The weekend passed in a whirl of talking, laughing, and lots of violin playing. By Monday, I was exhausted, but happy, and full of plans for my future. The only cloud on the horizon was that I hadn’t heard back from Cameron yet, although given that he was working his way through the final days of the Antarctic voyage, he probably had little time to do anything outside of his photography responsibilities.

When I arrived at work, I was pleased to see a couple of tourists at the box office booking tickets for the next open mic night at the Cellar Bar. There was no sign of Creepy Colin who seemed to have reverted to his usual work-shy ways, but the member of staff on duty was doing a great job, persuading the tourists to buy seats for a show in the main auditorium as well. I made a mental note to speak to the finance manager to see if we could come up with a pricing plan which would reward people for booking for both venues.

‘Are you going to do a lunchtime concert?’ asked one of the tourists, catching sight of my violin case which was slung across one shoulder. ‘We saw a video online of the folk band playing here the other night. You were one of them, right? I can’t stop humming those tunes. How do you play so quickly?’

I laughed. ‘We got a bit carried away with excitement. The speed tends to build along with the enthusiasm of the dancers. I didn’t realise someone had filmed it, but I’m glad you enjoyed the tunes.’

‘When’s your next gig?’ pressed the tourist.

‘Keep an eye on social media,’ I said. ‘We’ll post all the info on there. Search for the Drowsy Maggies.’

As soon as the two happy customers had departed, I pulled my phone out of my bag and tapped out a quick message to the group.

How would you feel if I set us up with a couple of social media accounts? People have been asking about our next performance!

For a brief moment I wondered if I was being too pushy and letting myself get carried away. After all, we’d only met for the first time on Friday. But then the replies starting pinging back.

Fine by me.

Fab idea. The Drowsy Maggies will take the internet by storm.

Yes, but don’t give me the password, even if I ask for it! Once I start chatting on socials, I lose hours of good practising time.

Great, was going to suggest that because I might have booked us a gig already…

I sent a couple of broadly grinning emojis in response. Now I was definitely going to have to do extra practice during my lunchbreak.

Smiling to myself, I collected the post from the Variety’s mailbox and headed up to the admin office, ready to start the work that I was actually paid for. As I sorted through the pile of correspondence, still half daydreaming about all things ceilidh group related, one item brought me back to my surroundings. In among the junk mail and the flyers and the bills addressed to the boss, there was a long narrow postcard. The picture on its front captured my attention instantly, making my heart accelerate. It was a photograph of a pair of single-storey wooden huts, the frames of their small windows painted a cheerful red, the same colour as the big barn door of the hut in the foreground. The huts were perched on a rocky, snowy foreshore which gave way to glistening, mirror-clear water, while behind them ice-capped mountains towered into the sky, its pure blue only interrupted by the faintest wisps of a delicate cloud. The setting was so beautifully pristine that it almost looked like a perfectly painted backcloth on a stage set. I peered more closely and realised the small black and white shapes in front of the huts were a colony of penguins casually going about their day-to-day business, completely unbothered by the distant presence of the photographer who’d taken this picture.

I turned the postcard over and clocked the postmark which said, ‘British Antarctic Territory Port Lockroy.’ Underneath it, the postage stamp showed a picture of a fluffy baby penguin, its wings raised in a gesture uncannily like a small child joyfully racing down a hill. It was only once I’d examined every detail of the other-worldly images, that I allowed myself to read the postcard’s contents, wanting to eke out every moment of this unexpected correspondence.

British Antarctic Territory Port Lockroy 29 Jan

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