Not for anything in the world, 1972

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It’s this cigarette, this one right here – the first one you light up in the morning. I’ll never give it up, not for anything in the world. Even before I’ve had my first sip of tea in the morning, that first smoke is ready to be lit up. But listen, I'm no fool. I’m seventy-five years old, and I count on living a few more still. There are some secrets you just don’t talk about. There are people who’ve never smoked and they still have bad lungs, trouble breathing and all the rest. Me, I’ve smoked exactly the same number for sixty years. Five a day, no more, no less. I smoke with the sun. What little there is, here in Scotland. I listen to the clouds, and I feel the cold air whip against my cheeks. When the breeze picks up in the hills, I light myself a wee fag. It’s the British way. It’s never affected me; never had trouble breathing. Not me, and not my ewes either. I’m a shepherd, you see, and I’ve driven flocks from one end of Scotland to the other. I watch them grazing. Every jumper I have is made from my own wool. Our wool, I should say. Scottish wool is the most prized, and the warmest. Keeps those folks down in London warm all through the grey winter.

I like to rise early in the morning and admire the hills around the farm. As long as it rains in Scotland, there’ll be grass for my ewes to eat. Nature is clever that way. She’s untameable, which makes me vulnerable. At this age, I’m never bored. I take my time in the mornings. Each breath of air is precious, and nourishing. Sometimes I think about Chatterbox, the toughest old ewe in the flock. She still listens to what Buggy tells her, though. Buggy’s my dog. When he barks, Chatterbox is the first to heed his call, and the rest of the flock follows after. She’s the boss; a leader and a brave soul. Mornings in Scotland are cold, not that I worry about the chill when I pull on my kilt. These days most Scots only wear their tartan for special occasions – weddings, parties, parades and the like. I haven’t been invited to one of those in a long while now. My wife passed on six years ago. I miss her. We had two boys together. They both work in London now, one in a bank, and the other one does something with stocks. They go up and down, he says. In one of his letters he told me he was a broker. Manages money for rich London families. He’s doing well, it seems. I sent him a woollen jumper not long ago. “Cover up in winter, lad, it gets cold down there,” I wrote.

My dog’s barking, and there goes Chatterbox like clockwork. She’s always ahead of the rest. In winter the sun goes down early. The clouds gather, and the wind picks up. No better way to keep warm than with my third cigarette. I strike the match and take the first few draws. The herd moves gently over the hillsides. My dog’s running ahead. “Oi, Buggy! Where are you off tae?” I call him back to his duty. He sniffs at the wet earth, wagging his tail, then darts back to the flock. The wind whistles between the hills. My cigarette’s almost done, down to its last few puffs of smoke. I’ll never give it up, not for anything in the world. The sun’s gone down. I tell Buggy to bring the sheep home to the farm.

We amble along the path, and nearing home I open the letter-box. The postman’s been; there’s an envelope from London. I’m eager to read it. The sheep are in their pen. “Home Buggy, home!” The hound follows me. I sit down in my chair, and take my glasses from the drawer. I open the letter. It’s not long.

“Dad,

I miss you. I miss everything down here in London. I miss the smells and the Highland air. It’s cold as ice here, and the streets are dead and grey. How are the sheep? Is Buggy still sharp? I’m sure I’ll make it back for Christmas. I want to see you. I wear your jumpers nearly every day. When I’m back we can have a good long talk, drink a dram together, and walk with the ewes. It will be Christmas soon.

See you soon,

Your son.

PS: Have you stopped smoking yet?”

Not for anything in the world, I tell you!

Alan Alfredo Geday