I was born in Scotland in 1936 near Inverness, a MacTavish. My name is Simon after my father. The men in our family had come down to a few. Many were lost in the Great War. My father and Uncle Brian were all that was left of the male line. After Culloden Moor, to survive the small families allied themselves with a larger clan. My family allied itself with Clan Fraser but our numbers were few and over time our name fell into disrepair.
When the war against the Nazi's began, my father and Uncle Brian stepped up and fought with their Clan under Lord Lovat, the great war chieftain, first at Dieppe and then at D-Day. My father was with Lord Lovat on the beach when Piper Bill, that mad, magnificent bastard, piped the men ashore. My father made if off the beach. Three days later, he was shot as Lovat pushed inland. Uncle Brian was killed with his mates, still at sea. A German artillery shell hit his landing craft. All I remember of my father was that he was big and warm and wonderful; I don't recall a face.
After the war, on a spring day my mother made me dress in my best clothes as an important guest would visit. He was a tall man and I thought he stood very straight. He presented himself at our door and waited for my mother to greet him. He had a nice smile, but I thought he looked sad. My mother was a strong, self-reliant woman and brooked nonsense from no one, certainly not from me and never before from a stranger. Yet, for this man she cast her eyes down and curtsied. She said something, a greeting or an acknowledgement, something that I didn't understand.
"MacShimidh." You say it as "
McShimi
."
She bobbed her curtsey and offered her hand to Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, the 25th chieftain of Clan Fraser of Lovat, heir and successor to men who had fought and died for Scotland for centuries. He took her hand and bowed slightly. My mother explained to me who Lord Lovat was, that the men of the Clan and their ladies called him MacShimidh and, as I was now the man of the family, I must do the same. At the time, I was ten.
My mother and I sat on the sofa and Lord Lovat took the good chair. He came alone. Lord Lovat told my mother about my father's life as a soldier, how he had been brave and did his duty. He told us of the other Scottish lives that my father saved. He knew my father and thought highly of him. He told us how my father died, holding off the Germans to give our boys a chance. My father saved the day, but it cost him his life. To my mother, Lord Lovat handed a medal. We buried it with her years later to give to her husband, my father, when she saw him again.
To me, Lord Lovat gave a small knife. I knew what it was when I saw it - my father's hidden dagger, a sgian dubh. A father passes his dagger to his first-borne son to protect the family when he no longer can.
I took the blade and put it in my knee sock the way I saw the men do. MacShimidh wished my mother well and told her that the manager of the bank in Inverness would be calling to offer her a position. She worked there until she died. To me, Lord Lovat wished a long life and many children so that the Clan could forever count on the MacTavish's to come when called. It occurred to me as he walked away that I was the last MacTavish male and that it was up to me to so as he asked. I never saw him again. In 1995 when Lord Lovat died near my parent's home, I cried as if he were my father himself.
About the time I finished at the University of Edinburgh a dozen years later, my mother remarried. It was 1958. That left me free to go and I traveled to New York City to join a large construction company. I was a civil engineer. The first few years were filled with the great adventure of seeing America. I was on a train coming back from site-seeing in Washington, D.C. I can still remember the very pretty girl as she sat that day with her female friends. I was drawn by her creamy pale skin, her hair a long dark veil and her luminous brown eyes. She said her name was Eileen O'Connell and she was an exchange student from Ireland. Everyone called her "Ellie" and I could too. Back home in Kerry, they called her "Eibhlín Dubh." Her ancestor had been a great Gaelic poet and everyone said that Ellie favored her.
Ellie was a Catholic and we were married as soon as I could get her to say yes in front of a priest. I got a promotion and we moved into a house that had four bedrooms to fill. The newlywed sex lasted for almost three years. We used no protection and still my beautiful Ellie had not gotten pregnant. The doctor said not to worry. Such things can take some time. She recommended we take a long vacation and give nature a chance. A year later, we were in the specialist's office, having tests done. They weren't sure. My sperm seemed okay, but Ellie might have issues. Eighteen months later, we still didn't have an answer and Ellie wasn't pregnant. We kept trying. Ellie would call me at work to say that she was ovulating. I'd race home; it would have been fun if we weren't so worried.
My boss, Jimmy Muir, thought I was sneaking out for a drink. When I told him what I was really doing, he laughed. Jimmy was a former captain of marines. He ordered me to keep reporting to my "superior officer" for duty "above and beyond." Jimmy's wife later sent us a lovely card and two baby blankets - one blue and one pink. The both of them are gone now. Ellie would be there with the thermometer, checking herself, and I'd strip down. We'd have sex and I'd slip a pillow under her hips to keep my sperm in her. We tried that and so many other things so many times. Nothing worked, not the shots, nothing at all, but Ellie never lost hope and never gave up.
I was made a project supervisor, which put me on the road. I got my boss to agree that I could stay close to home when Ellie was likely to be fertile. Otherwise, I was away too often; I regret those lost days. There was an article in the newspaper about a clinic in Chicago that developed a new technique for diagnosing fertility issues. We flew out and they looked at us over. We'd get the results in about two weeks. Considering the distance and cost of travel, we agreed that they could tell by phone.
I was driving to Annapolis for a meeting and was coming up on the next rest stop. My beeper went off and I saw Ellie was calling. I pulled off and found a pay phone. Ellie answered on the first ring; it wasn't good. There were malformations in her uterus that made pregnancy almost impossible. She was not a viable candidate for in vitro fertilization. There was no way she could have children. Ellie was distraught. I kept telling her that I loved her, that it would be okay, that our love was strong, that we would get past this. I would call her as soon as I got to the hotel. Maybe I could cancel and come home. I'd see what I could do.
The thing is, I had never told Ellie how my father died, that the men of my family were gone - all but me. I never told her of Lord Lovat's wish or my father's dagger. She had her own struggles. How could I put that burden on her?
The bar was filing up and my head was filled with crazy ideas. I remember thinking that I should bed a cheating wife and knock her up (of course, she'd pregnant). I would recognize the bastard and give him my name, something more than one Fraser chief had done. I was pretty well drunk when I wondered whether my bastard should have my name from the start or the cuckold's name? I would announce myself as the sire and descend on the house where my bastard slept. I would identify myself and ... what? I lost my hold on my fantasy and saw myself in this sordid bar, broken.
