The Shetland Gypsy

By Kayrin McMillan

Have you ever wondered what it's like to live on a remote island? Step inside and meet Susan Erskine and her onward struggles to find her much desired equilibrium. A city woman who finds herself surprisingly residing in the beautiful Scottish island of Shetland. Share the experiences, the beauty of her new home, the fun, tears and heartbreak of emotional loss whilst her journey continues in the vain hope of ever settling "just for life". What is the secret of The Shetland Silence? The Gypsy searched but did she loose something more valuable in the process? This is a story of never quite fitting in. However giving up, is not an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kayrin McMillan
• Release date: Jan 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370452675

Kayrin McMillan

Hi I am the author of the Bluebell Wood and currently writing The Shetland Gypsy, on this page you can step inside my very first novel. There are songs and poems and you can also comment or email me direct. Thank you and welcome.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

~ in no particular order ~

Chante Bleu—Four points off genius

Shetland for everything—I am glad I was there for a while

My beach as always—Unconditional love

Marlyn Bain—Support so much more than you realise

Kim-Marie Rendall—Had so much patience and calmness always

https://www.facebook.com/ShetlandonCanvas/

Ivan John Hawick—Silent talent, the best

https://www.facebook.com/ivan.hawick?fref=ts

David Wishart—The Shetland Silence was perfection

Ryan Leith—Kind and creative

NorthLink Ferries—That journey!

The man who played chess—You absolutely got me started, thank you

Wee Gorgeous and Mini Gorgeous—There are no words for unconditional love always, no matter what or where

Harry and Angie Hatton—Support and friendship

Desley Stickle—A real star

Sylvia Priest—Calming and listens

Charles Bain—Always just being there for me in the background

Son and Mum—Me and my stories and so like Grandpa.

Susan Buchanan—My brilliant editor (http://www.perfectproseservices.com)

Yvonne Betancourt—Makes it happen (http://www.ebook-format.com)

Stan Fachie—Artist and Cover, inspirational

Carol—Always there, never far

Friends, friends and friends, near and far, who I relentlessly updated on my book, thanks for just listening to me chatting so enthusiastically.

This book is dedicated to and in memory of Jennifer Tait Adamson. A gifted, talented lady and musician.

Isle of Gletness

To Jennifer and Family

Verse

Take me, far from here, to the place where you know I want to be,

Where wild daffodils and bluebells grow in springtime right next to the sea.

On a boat or on a plane, where the sea meets the sky

I need to be back there again, the years have moved on and time is going too fast, ticking quickly by.

Chorus

Take me home, please I beg of you, just please can you take me home,

I need to be back there again and free to wander, be free as a bird to roam.

Each year is slipping past and I can’t ask my heart to suffer any more of this pain,

Yearning, suffocating, wishing that I could be on my much-loved island just one more time again.

Verse

Now I have travelled and at last I am here,

Looking over the misty waters of Gletness. Can’t speak a word, heart is full of unshed tears.

I came by to see you but you were no longer there, disappeared like a ghost of yesterday

It didn’t stop me from coming back though on a cold summer’s night to hear what you had to say.

Chorus

Take me home, please I beg of you, just please can you take me home,

I need to be back there again and free to wander, be free as a bird to roam.

Each year is slipping past and I can’t ask my heart to suffer any more of this pain,

Yearning, suffocating, wishing that I could be on my much-loved island just one more time again.

Verse

On a cool night, whisked away in a dusky evening, we head to the south one more time.

At first slow, realisation strikes that you are not with me and no longer mine.

We move so fast and I wonder if we will ever be back again,

But the past is for the old, and the now is for the young and our love nothing but a memory, of way back when.

Chorus

Take me home, please I beg of you, just please can you take me home,

I need to be back there again and free to wander, be free as a bird to roam.

Each year is slipping past and I can’t ask my heart to suffer any more of this pain,

Yearning, suffocating, wishing that I could be on my much-loved island just one more time again.

Mum says that life is all about phases…

Windows to the Sea

The gypsy was found as a constant, on the beach, alone, listening to music. The ambience was perfect, and she imagined she was flying like a bird in springtime, longing to be released from these chains tied so tight, hoping that one day soon at last she’d be set free.

Strolling aimlessly, thinking way deep in her head, craving peace and contentment, each day she walked along by the coastal road. She stopped by often, just to think of life really as she stood right next to one of her favourite places in Aberdeen, which had been named, rather fortunately…the windows to the sea.

Prologue

May 2016

The night promises easy sailing through flat calm. The early evening sky reveals its golden secret. Twilight intended and the night promised a leaden sea bathed with ripples that mirror the speed of my beating heart.

As I stand on the upper deck, my company is the great magnificence of space. My knuckles as white as the ship’s balustrade, I am suddenly filled with a feeling of panic as the chariot completes its final preparations to glide into the expanse before me. A heady concoction of anticipation, excitement and dread. I gaze fondly at the large buildings and shopping mall ahead. I see the great neon sign of Starbucks stating We are open with a garish neon sign. I reminisce whilst embracing at the same time my love for the Granite City. Surprisingly, emotion wells up and threatens to spill over. My eyes, replaced by great puddles, confuse me. Where has this emotion come from? I embarked only moments ago, having made my way from the lower deck where my car will sleep safely for the night.

Excitement surged and subsided, what am I to do? For a suitcase so carefully packed it is now carelessly cast aside in the cabin, and now coming onto the deck, the waterworks almost burst and threaten to spill out and run absently down my cheeks. But underneath I am acutely aware, too, that I will not actually weep. I am strong now inside, I remind myself. Firstly, there are many people around and I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself, and secondly, perhaps it’s a tad vain, but I would not want to ruin my carefully applied make-up. I am a city lady again; I hail from sooth (the mainland) and therefore must take great care of how I look.

It has been almost two years since I arrived back in Aberdeen, from the very same ferry that I am now on. It was 6 June 2014 at 7 a.m. I don’t know why but I recall the exact date very well. Even in the oil capital of Europe, it’s reasonably quiet at that time of day, especially on a Sunday. I had eased my car out from the lower deck of the boat and made my way from the ferry terminal, wasting no time at all. I was dripping with excitement as I turned the car to face away from the harbour area, then took a right onto Market Street, right again at the roundabout, and then onto Beach Boulevard, which at last meant that I had reached my beloved beach.

I had parked at the very same spot I had for years, right beside the stone sculpture which had been named Windows to the Sea. Sculpted by Lourdes Cue, it was donated by Mobil in honour of the tragic Piper Alpha oil platform disaster in 1988 where one hundred and sixty-seven men lost their lives after a gas leak caused the platform to explode into a massive ball of flames. The stunning sculpture had been inspiration for many poems I had written during the periods that I had spent wandering around for hours, down by the beach, when I lived in Aberdeen in my previous life. There were years and long phases where I constantly searched desperately for inner peace and my much-needed equilibrium. I smile in a bittersweet way. I am still searching and I wonder if I will ever feel fulfilled.

That first morning back, I felt there was no time to waste and I needed to go out walking. A new day, a new phase in my life. The instant the car was safely parked and locked (I was back sooth again now so precautions had to be taken), I hastily pulled on my waxed jacket, got eagerly out of the car and walked for miles. I remember relishing just the simple things in life, like breathing in the cold, fresh sea air of what I considered my very own beach. I stopped and admired the fairground, better known as the carnivals in this area. Impulsively, I got my phone out, switched it to camera mode and began taking a photograph of the big wheel as it stood motionless, resting and silent. Soon it would creak into life and its busy working day would begin. There was something delicious and decadent about being down by the sea when it was quiet.

I had an appreciation of everything immediately. It was like a head rush, feelings of euphoria at being back in the city. Generally, I was enjoying the elation of being free and was thankful at the realisation that at last I had come home. There was also incredible guilt. I had very secretly waited for this day for a long time, and I could not help but savour every second and relish the fact that I had escaped the restraints of my life on the island. Yet, I knew there was no one really to blame. It was the curse, the gypsy curse that had come back to haunt me yet again. My life was set to go into turmoil just when I thought the days of constant angst had left me for good. The free spirit which had been my downfall in life many times before, had chosen to return with a vengeance.

My mind gradually jolts back into the present time. My journey will take approximately fourteen hours. Tonight, the ferry travels via Orkney, which it does four days a week from Aberdeen, making the journey slightly longer than the evenings it sails direct. I will sleep in a 2-berth cabin, complete with sea-facing window. My cabin, although small, is perfectly compact and clean. It comes complete with en suite, TV, and coffee- and tea-making facilities. I will sleep well as on nights like this when the sea is perfect for sailing, from where I am standing now, the gentle rocking of the boat is like a lullaby sending me into a sound, deep sleep within minutes. After we set sail, I shall have a hot shower, then I plan to watch a little TV as I relax on the bed, but I know I will drop off within minutes. Before I know it, it will be 6 a.m., I will be abruptly awoken with the shrill, tinny noise of the tannoy bellowing into every one of the one hundred and seventeen bedrooms, announcing that breakfast shall be served at 6.30 a.m. and that we shall be disembarking from the ship on schedule at 7.30 a.m. When I open my coortin (window curtain) and gaze still half-asleep out to sea, there will be nothing in front of me except the vast miles of choppy, cold, blue, empty, intense, deep water. By then I will not be far from the island where I spent five years of my life. Just thinking about going back means in that very instant, I can almost feel the essence of the island flooding its way into my system, making its presence known. I am acutely aware of a cold, shivering sensation running through my entire body, although the sun is high and warm on my face on this very early May evening. Luckily I have packed lots of warm clothes. Tonight I am dressed in my long hiking boots, polo neck and woollen leggings and my waxed jacket. I have my warm Fair Isle hat and matching gloves knitted and purchased from the very same place that I am heading to this evening. I know what to expect where I am going, even in Scottish springtime.

I can feel the very gentle swaying of the boat, even though we are yet to leave the harbour. I know that departing is imminent. Most of the time, the boat leaves exactly on schedule. I know this because I have taken this journey many times before. I continue to stare out from the top side of the boat, gazing absently into space, practically oblivious to the other passengers around me. Although I am aware of eyes boring into me: locals, who although I may know their faces, I am not entirely sure who they are, but they know me; a sooth wife always stands out, and they are wondering what I am doing, going back. My immediate thoughts turn very fondly to the other countless islanders I came to know during the five years when this island was my home. In an instant, I see them in the shadows of my mind, under photographs placed in my memories, of snapshots in my life, and warm-heartedly recall the times they explained the same tale when talking about their beloved island. They told me, with such a faraway, almost dreamlike look in their eyes, that I would one day discover that the land got into your system, ran through your very being, and once this happened you would for the rest of your life have a desire to return time and time again.

During these conversations, I had been adamant in my thinking, expressing always to the locals that I was from the mainland, had lived there all my life until these past few years, and had added strongly, on numerous occasions, that it would be incredibly unlikely that I would ever receive such a calling. The local people had said nothing at my defiance, only smiled without feeling the need to speak. This expression became what I still affectionately think of to this day as the Shetland Silence. What is the Shetland Silence? I hear you ask. Well, perhaps one day, like me, you may if very lucky come to understand.

The trip down memory lane is abruptly interrupted; I am jolted back to the present as the ropes that hold the boat firmly in place at Aberdeen Harbour are now being untied. The loud noise the engine makes is like a great tin drum beating out in the wilderness; it’s most unsettling, yet at the same time there is a feeling of euphoria from the tourists and other passengers as the obvious excitement for the impending trip increases and people begin to talk faster. They chatter in jubilation in all different accents and languages. We are heading to somewhere which although extremely remote is also cosmopolitan, and so many different types of people from all over the globe go to visit it for all different reasons. Those, however, like me who are regular travellers on this journey and have completed it countless times before understand that now the ropes have been set free and the great ship is free of restraints, the time is drawing near for the three hundred and fifty passengers on board tonight to set sail. The boat holds up to six hundred passengers, but the volume changes each evening depending on the seasons, and the workloads from local industry, such as oil and gas, fishing, not forgetting the talent for crafts like knitting and sewing and the wonderful creativity within music and film too.

And so it begins. As we silently and effortlessly begin to float gently out to sea, the reality of what I am about to do hits me. It is almost like a sting from a sudden slap on the face and the aftermath of the shock lingers. I appear for what seems the first time since I booked my trip to fully comprehend that I am about to set sail and, more significantly, that I am going back.

I had been proven