Auld Acquaintances

I had always been a fan of Robert Burns, the Scottish poet and writer. Despite growing up hundreds of miles south of the Scottish border, in the North West of England, I just felt a connection somehow. As an aspiring writer, I admired his mastery of language. I admired Robbie Burns as I did Walter Scott, William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. To me these were the greats, the giants of literature.

I always celebrated Burns Night, usually finding a pub in the area that was hosting a special evening. I would always book a table for the celebrations. I just loved the whole ceremony of the evening, the language, the whisky and haggis, the bagpipes. It always touched me in ways I couldn’t begin to describe. 

This Burns Night I arrived at the pub just before seven o’clock with the two friends I’d dragged along. They were here more for the selection of fine Scottish whiskies and ales, than the culture, but they knew I loved this night of the year, so they accompanied me. They knew Robbie Burns was a hero of mine. Every New Year’s Eve I would point out that Robert Burns wrote Auld Lang Syne. 

We pushed our way through the packed pub, ordering our beer and whiskies at the bar, and finding our table. There was such anticipation in the room for the magical night that was about to get under way. I heard a few Scottish accents from the nearby tables. Imagine being able to claim a Scottish heritage on a night like this, that would have been just wonderful. 

Just before the ceremony was due to start, word went around the room, the bad news spreading fast, like a football crowd hearing results from another ground. The piper had cancelled last minute, not well apparently. The landlord had reportedly told the piper that he wouldn’t be feeling well, if any of the punters in the pub got hold of him. How could you have Burns Night without the bagpipes? It was like having an international football match without the national anthems. It just set the scene. When the bagpipes were playing, you could almost see the heather on the Scottish highlands, that was part of the magic of the evening. The landlord had spent the afternoon trying to sort out a replacement piper, but trying to find someone to play the pipes at such short notice, would have been like trying to find a Santa Claus on 20th December. Every piper this side of Gretna was booked up all week, especially on the big night itself. 

I shook my head, and decided another whisky was called for, purely for the disappointment, I said, as my friends laughed. 

The night went well enough, the haggis was brought in by a man in a kilt, and the Address was read out before the traditional toasts were declared. We had a good evening but it wasn’t the greatest night. On one trip to the bar, a guy in his eighties sipping a bitter gave me a nudge, telling me that I had to learn the bagpipes by this time next year, in case this happened again. 

As the evening and the ceremonies were drawing to a close, I ducked outside for a cigarette. I called my dad to fill him in on how the evening was going. I explained how the lack of piper had put a dampener on things but that everyone was making the best of it.

‘Did I ever tell you that you have Scottish blood in you?’ My father asked.

‘What? How do you mean?’ I asked, before taking a drag on my cigarette.

‘My grandfather, your great-grandfather was from Edinburgh.’

‘Really? How’ve we never had this conversation before? I’ve been quoting Burns and eating haggis every 25th January.’

‘Never really occurred to me.’ My dad replied. 

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, celebrating Burns Night, as I always did, and was now being told that I did have a small claim on the Bard of Scotland. I had Scottish heritage. This was just fantastic. This evening had suddenly turned into the most special Burns Night yet. I had a link to Scotland, to the Highlands. It was mine. Maybe, I wondered, deep down in my subconscious, I had been aware somehow of the connection. 

I laughed as my dad wished my Happy Burns Night, before hanging up the phone. I was reeling. I buzzed off Burns and the pipes and the whole atmosphere, and now, I had a link to it all, somehow. It meant more to me than I could ever describe. 

I was stubbing my cigarette out when I heard bagpipes. My heart just about exploded. I turned to see a lone piper standing silhouetted in the glow of a streetlight. He wore the traditional Scottish dress, with plume hat. The pipes rang out filling my ears. I turned to the woman in the doorway having a cigarette. She looked up from her mobile phone. I pointed to the piper. She just shrugged in confusion, her expression telling me she couldn’t see or hear the bagpipes that were ringing around my head. As I stared and listened in wonder, to the piper only I could hear, she went back to scrolling through social media. 

And then the piper was gone. The circle of light under the streetlamp was empty. Had I imagined it? Was the whiskey and the atmosphere playing tricks on me? I went back through and joined my friends for one last round of drinks. I didn’t bother mentioning the piper I’d seen. They wouldn’t believe me, anyway. I had the reputation of having an over-active imagination, and I would have never lived this down. My circle of friends always joked that I had a headful of magic. It was this imagination that compelled me to write my stories. Was I now seeing things? 

When my taxi arrived, I climbed in the back, and gave my address. As the taxi started driving away, I heard it again, the piper playing. I turned, glancing through the rear window, to see the lone piper standing in the streetlight, his features shrouded in shadow. All the way home, I could hear the bagpipes playing that traditional tune.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom