Sitting in a bothy, on successive autumn solstice nights Aurora watching, was not Kirsty’s idea of fun. Quite why she had volunteered to be secretary of the climbing club was a mystery, to her at least, given that at the time she didn’t even own a pair of walking, never mind climbing, boots, but it’s the sort of thing that can happen if your live-in boyfriend is club president, and the AGM is barely quorate.  She had only gone to the meeting in the first place because Alistair was wearing a surgical boot and couldn’t drive himself, but then had allowed herself to be co-opted before she could even stand for unopposed election.  Somehow she felt that supporting Alistair, if not the club itself, was expected of her, and she had spent her life, to that point, doing what was expected of her.

She was the late arriving and only child of older parents, but the pressure to repay their well-meant but overbearing and unctuous affection, by being compliant, had taken its toll on her independence of spirit and any thoughts of putting herself first.

A better than fair fiddler, she had wanted to be a musician, but they had been against what they saw as the uncertainties of a working musician’s life and, though they had never said so, fearful of the doubtful associations she might find there.  “You need something steady to fall back on” they’d said, and enrolled her on a secretarial course instead.  An ember of individuality smouldered, and she still managed to drop in on pub gigs and ceilidhs without them knowing, and that is how she had met Alistair. 

Big Al, as he was known in the club, was more subtle than her parents in manipulating Kirsty, he may not even have realised he was doing it.  He was certainly not a misogynist, or even sexist per se, but at 6’5” his physical presence alone was enough to be persuasive to his point of view.  He was not a violent man, in fact he was rather gentle, but he just assumed that he would lead and she would follow, and she needed his affection.

So, here she was, waiting for Alistair to come down from the tops with his photos of the Aurora; he would be excited and sure that she would be too.  But the waiting for hours, with only cocoa and shortbread for company, had effected a damascene moment for Kirsty. She knew she was invisible, unless in roles defined by others. 

Alistair was nonplussed by the incomprehensible note, very deliberately propped up against a cold cup of cocoa in a bothy also chilled without someone to keep the fire going.

“Al, I’m sorry but I’ve decided to pack it in. TBH I’m not really interested in the lights, pretty though they are.  We’ll talk about it tomorrow, but there are going to have to be changes.”  The only part he understood was her signature, and the three Xs at the bottom.  The rest was in shorthand.