School Days Scotland
The kitchen is warm, smelling of damp cotton and the metallic scent of the steam iron. James sits at the Formica table, his schoolbooks pushed to one corner, though he isn’t reading. He’s wearing a heavy, slightly scratchy “wooden” jumper—as he calls it—knitted by his Auntie in a shade of oatmeal that does nothing for his complexion.
His mother, her face set in a look of determined optimism, glides the iron over a crisp, sky-blue cotton shirt. Finally she snapped the iron upright and lifted the shirt with a flourish. “There we are. A proper shirt for a proper party. You’ll look very smart, James. Much better than those boys in their scruffy T-shirts.”
James pulled at a loose thread on his jumper, watching it unravel between his fingers. “I don’t think ‘smart’ is what people are aiming for at a disco, Mum. Everyone will be wearing Chelsea boots and corduroy. I’m going to look like I’m going to a Sunday School prize-giving.”
“Nonsense,” his mother said, snapping the shirt onto a hanger with practiced efficiency. “Blue is your color. And these jeans are sturdy—they won’t rip if you’re doing that energetic dancing. What do they call it? The Highland Fling?”
“It’s the Dashing White Sergeant,” James corrected her, “and the jeans aren’t the right shape, Mum. They’re too straight. They don’t…” he made a vague gesture with his hands, “flare. And I have to wear my school shoes because the soles are the only ones that don’t grip the hall floor too much.”
His mother came over and patted his shoulder, her voice softening. “James, love. You have a wonderful brain. Once people start talking to you, they won’t be looking at your shoes. Just find Melanie or that nice Kate girl and ask them for a dance. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”
“Delighted,” James whispered to himself, so quietly his mother couldn’t hear. “Right up until I step on their toes and my glasses fall into the punch bowl.”
He stands up, the heavy wool of the jumper feeling like a suit of armor he’s about to trade for a paper-thin defense. He looks at the “outfit” laid out:
The stiff blue cotton shirt, still warm from the iron.
The heavyweight denim jeans, dark and unwashed, lacking the trendy “hip-hugger” cut of the era.
The scuffed black school shoes, polished to a dull shine that only highlights their sensible, rounded toes.
He feels like a fraud. In his head, he’s a scientist, a researcher, a man of facts. But tonight, he has to be a “teenager,” a role for which he feels he hasn’t been given the script.
THE NIGHTMARE
The walk from the school gates to the main hall feels like a march to the gallows. The evening air is biting, and James has his coat buttoned up to his chin to hide the blue cotton shirt, which feels stiff and “new-smelling” against his neck.
As he nears the heavy oak doors of the school hall, the familiar smell of floor polish and old gym mats is overwhelmed by a new, heady mix: cheap perfume, hairspray, and the electric hum of a portable sound system.
James pauses at the door. Inside, the lights are already dimmed. The tall, arched windows of the hall are frosted with condensation from the heat of a hundred bodies. From within comes the rhythmic thump-thump of The Dave Clark Five, the bass vibrating through the wood of the door and into James’s palms.
He unbuttons his coat and hands it to a bored-looking prefect at the cloakroom table. He stands there for a second, tugging at the hem of his blue shirt. The jeans feel thick and unyielding, and his school shoes—polished to a mirror finish by his mother—look starkly utilitarian against the sea of Cuban heels and desert boots.
Through the doorway, he sees the hall. It’s a blur of movement. The “cool” boys are huddled in a corner near the stage, leaning back with practiced nonchalance. The girls move in tight-knit circles, their short skirts and colorful tights a dizzying kaleidoscope under the flickering lights.
He steps inside, trying to be invisible. He immediately maneuvers toward the long trestle tables at the far end, where the “refreshments” are laid out. As ever, he looks for comfort in food.
“Nice shirt, James. Is it your birthday?”
He turns to see Melanie and Kate standing near the orange squash. Melanie’s red curls are held back by a wide velvet headband, and Kate is wearing a shimmering dress that makes her look much older than fourteen. They aren’t laughing at him—not exactly—but their eyes are bright with the excitement of the night.
James adjusted his glasses, which were already starting to fog in the humid room. “No. My mother just…” He swallowed, running a finger along the stiff collar. “She thought it was festive.”
Kate tilted her head, her dark hair catching the light. “It’s a nice blue. Matches your eyes, actually.” She glanced toward the center of the hall where Mr. Davies was testing the microphone. “Come on, don’t just stand by the biscuits all night. The country dancing is starting in a minute.” A small, conspiratorial smile played at her lips. “You’re the only one who actually knows the steps without falling over.”
She reaches out and gives his stiff blue sleeve a playful tug toward the center of the room. James feels a jolt of pure electricity, followed immediately by the terrifying realization that the music is stopping and the PE teacher is picking up the microphone to announce the Gay Gordons.
The hall erupts into a frantic scramble as the PE teacher, Mr. Davies, bellows for everyone to “Find a partner! Longways sets, quickly now!”
The Gay Gordons begins with a skirl of accordion music from the record player. James finds himself swept into a set, his hand clammy as it meets the palm of a girl from 2C who looks just as terrified as he is.
Because he’s the only one who truly understands the geometry of the dance, he becomes a sort of human lighthouse. As the other boys stumble, going the wrong way and colliding like bumper cars, James moves with a surprising, mathematical efficiency.
His glasses slide down his nose with every “hop-step-and-jump.” His blue shirt comes untucked at the back, and his school shoes clatter loudly on the parquetry. He’s sweating, his face a bright shade of pink, but for a brief moment, his brain is in total control of the chaos. He even catches Kate’s eye as they pass in a “right-hand-star,” and she gives him a breathless, genuine grin.
Eventually, the fiddles fade out. Mr. Davies retires, and the lights drop even lower—down to a murky, atmospheric blue. The air is thick and sweet. The opening bars of Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale” begin to swell, the organ music casting a sudden, heavy spell of “seriousness” over the room.
The frantic energy dies. Couples begin to drift together, hands settling awkwardly on waists and shoulders. James retreats to his sanctuary by the orange squash, heart hammering against his ribs.
He’s watching the shadows sway when a figure detaches itself from the crowd. It’s Kate. Her dark hair looks almost black in the blue light, and her shimmering dress catches the faint glow of the exit sign. She sits at the table in front of him.
“You’re hiding again, Professor,” she says, using the nickname that makes his stomach flip.
James wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “I’m not hiding. I’m… hydrating. It’s important after physical exertion.”
Kate steps closer, invading the space he usually reserves for facts and figures. “Stop being clever for five minutes,” she says, her voice softer now. “This is a slow song. You don’t have to know any ‘steps.’ You just… stand there and move a bit.”
“I’ll step on your shoes, Kate,” he protests weakly. “They look expensive.”
She smiles, dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth. “Then I’ll step on yours back. They’re just school shoes, they can take it.”
She reaches out, and before James can formulate a logical reason to refuse, she takes his hand. Her fingers are cool against his palm.
They move to the edge of the floor. James feels like he’s made of wood. He places his hands on her waist—his fingers feeling massive and clumsy—while she rests her arms lightly on his shoulders.
At thirteen, he’s shorter than her, and the scent of her hairspray is overwhelming but wonderful. They sway in a small, shaky circle. The music is vast, the lyrics about “skipping the light fantastic” making no sense to him, yet feeling entirely right.
For three minutes, James isn’t the overweight, untidy boy who’s late to develop. He’s just a boy in a blue shirt, holding a girl who smells like carnations, realizing that some things in life—the best things—can’t be solved with an equation.
The final, haunting notes of the organ fade into the rafters of the school hall. For a second, the world remains suspended in that blue twilight. Kate doesn’t pull away immediately; she lingers for a heartbeat, her hands sliding down from James’s shoulders to his sleeves.
“It’s boiling in here,” she whispers, her breath warm against his cheek. “Let’s get some air before the next one starts.”
They slip through the side fire exit, the heavy metal bar clanking behind them. The transition is violent: from the humid, thumping interior to the sharp, crystalline silence of a December night.The school playground is transformed. The tarmac is silvered with a thin layer of frost, and the goalposts stand like skeletal sentinels in the moonlight.
James feels the cold hit his damp blue shirt, making him shiver, but his chest feels tight with a heat that has nothing to do with the weather. He’s acutely aware of Kate walking beside him—not in the teasing way she did in the science lab, but with a quiet, shared gravity.
He can hear the Beatles in the background.
“You say, “Yes”, I say, “No”
You say, “Stop” and I say, “Go, go, go”
Oh no”
They walk toward the edge of the playground and sit on a low wall. “Look at the stars. You probably know the names of all of them, don’t you?”
James tilted his head back, his glasses catching the moonlight. “Some. That’s Orion’s Belt over there. It’s… well, it’s 1,300 light-years away. Which means the light we’re seeing left there before the school was even built.”
“There you go again,” Kate laughed softly, nudging his arm with her shoulder. “Turning a pretty view into a history lesson. But… I like it. It makes the world feel big.”
“I usually feel like the world is too big, Kate.” James’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Like I’m just… a small, untidy part of it that doesn’t quite fit the pattern.”
Kate turned towards him, her dark eyes searching his. “You fit the pattern fine, James. You’re just a different shape than the other boys.” She smiled. “More interesting, I think.”
The muffled beat of the music from the hall—with the Beatles still singing —sounds like a heartbeat from another life.
James looks at her, and for the first time, he doesn’t feel like a thirteen-year-old boy in scuffed school shoes. He feels like a man standing on the edge of a vast, undiscovered continent.
James swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Can I… can I walk you home? Properly?” The words tumbled out before he could reconsider them.
Kate’s smile widened, revealing the dimples he’d memorized during countless stolen glances in Science. She reached out, her fingertips cool against the sliver of skin exposed where his blue shirt had come untucked. As she slid the fabric back into his jeans, her touch lingered a moment longer than necessary.
“I thought you’d never ask, Professor,” she whispered, her voice carrying just far enough to reach him and no further.”
She leaned close and kissed him on the mouth. It was the first time he had been kissed other than by elderly relatives.
The moment seemed to stretch to Orion.
THE DOWNFALL
But just as quickly, Melanie appeared, her voice slicing through the night air. “Kate! We’re leaving. Now.”
Kate’s fingers slipped from his wrist. “I have to—” she whispered, backing away, the frost crunching under her shoes. In the moonlight, her smile trembled at the edges.
2026
In the quiet of the hotel room, the modern world feels very far away. James is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Olivia has pulled the small desk chair closer, listening with her chin in her hand. The glow of the bedside lamp casts long shadows, much like the ones James has carried for fifty-four years.
James looked down at his hands, his voice thick with the memory. “I walked her all the way to her gate. I even managed to say something halfway charming before I left. I floated home that night. I thought…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I thought everything had changed. That I was someone new.”
“But it didn’t stay that way?” Olivia asked softly, leaning forward in the desk chair.
James shook his head. “No. The sun came up, and the ‘Professor’ came back.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I went to school on Monday and I was terrified, Olivia. I was so sure that if I spoke to her, I’d break the spell. I’d say something thick or trip over my own feet, and she’d realize the boy from the dance was just a fluke.” His shoulders hunched forward. “So… I hid. I went back to the library. I ignored her in the corridors.”
“When we were doing games on the field, I spent my time watching her on the lacrosse field. Her energy. Her sense of fun. And I imagined the two of us – but I could not bring myself to talk to her”
“Oh, James. She must have been so confused,” Olivia whispered, her fingers twisting together in her lap.
“She was.” James’s eyes took on a distant look. “I saw her looking at me in the science lab, waiting for me to say something. But I just kept my head down.” He sighed. “When my father got a new job and we moved at the end of the summer, she signed my leaving card. She drew rows of little ‘x’s under her name.” His voice grew quieter. “I kept that card in a shoebox for twenty years before I finally lost it in a move.”
You say, “Goodbye” and I say, “Hello, hello, hello”
I don’t know why you say, “Goodbye”, I say, “Hello, hello, hello”
I don’t know why you say, “Goodbye”, I say, “Hello, hello, hello”
I don’t know why you say, “Goodbye”, I say, “Hello-wow, oh, hello”