|
 |
Bow Fiddle Rock
Families & Skeletons
To the young lad from the country, summer holidays spent with his grandparents in Portknockie were adventures in another world. Just about the time he became aware of the heartbreak involved in adopting baby wild rabbits he realised that crabs and starfish, although smuggled home in a big jar of seawater, would not survive in a fresh water environment.
His lasting impressions were of the generosity of his seaside relatives and their fondness for wearing black. Although he delighted in the visits, even as a child he was acutely aware that compared with his home environment, an overwhelming mood of sorrow pervaded the fishing village, most noticeable on Sundays when the entire population appeared to attend Kirk or the Plymouth Brethren Meeting Hall.
David, given his father's daily lectures on the wages of sin, honouring of father and mother, and insistence that children should be seen and not heard, was no stranger to the Bible. But having led a restrained and practically sin-free life, in his late teens he found himself rebelling against what he felt were unwarranted reprimands fettering his natural instincts. Why, he argued, carry a burden of guilt for just thinking about things others regarded as normal human behaviour? He left home in his late teens and found work in Glasgow.
A further five years passed before he became sufficiently self-confident to renew his association with his parents and Portknockie. The city life had been a revelation to him forcing him to adopt tolerance and compassion in place of his inherent instincts to moralise and condemn. He felt at one with the easy-going Glaswegians and their disarming sense of humour. Sampling previously forbidden fruits he wondered why such natural pleasures should be denied. Was it really God’s will? Or had churches like his that supplied kneeling pads graded in thickness according to social status lost touch with the real message of Christ?
Homesickness is a powerful force and distance colours and deceives the memory. In her letters his mother pleaded with him to come home and after a particularly stifling romantic liaison he agreed to give it a try.
His father and mother now occupied the old bow-windowed house in place of his late grandparents and he wondered whether the estrangement had mellowed his father’s attitude towards him. The peaceful fishing village was as he remembered it; the almost empty streets, the harbour where he fished for flatfish with a taymet and spent an eternity throwing back unwanted geeks or disentangling the hook from greedy conger eels. The ebbing tide at the nearby creek left the same rock pools, smaller now it seemed, but with the familiar mixture of miniature sea life, which never failed to fascinate him. He even located the hidden underwater rock crevices where his granddad used a cleek to land large pink crabs he called partans.
Further along the coast he sat at the top of the cliffs overlooking the excrement-whitewashed Bow Fiddle rock as noisy fulmars and terns screeched while diving cormorants fished the easy way. They brought to mind childhood sightings of Gannets, Guillemots and Kittywakes and the realisation that the unspoiled beauty of the place and his affinity for it had influenced his decision to return.
He found the first sign of human life on a bench near the coastguard hut.
“Watching the ships?” he asked. He had been sitting next to the middle-aged man for all of five minutes and although unperturbed by the silence, his curiosity and friendly nature prompted the question.
“No.”
David frowned. “Sorry, I didna mean to interrupt your…”
The man turned to face him revealing a slightly chubby weather-beaten face and alert, searching eyes. “It’s a peaceful place t’ think. I d’ a lot o’ thinkin’ these days…”
“I used to come here when I was a wee loon. Stayed wi’ my grannie and granddad in Gordon Street.”
“Let me think noo… you’ll be the young Findlay lad?”
“Aye, that’s right, but I canna remember…”
“No, I dinna s’pose, but there’s nae secrets in Portkockie y’ ken. I’m a ‘Knocker’ born and bred but I’ve been bidin’ in Cullen since Elsie and me wed. Lately I’ve taken t’ walkin’ here every Sunday afore I get ready for the boat. I’d buy y’ a drink at the Vic but you’d get a reputation you’d never live doon.” He managed a weak, reluctant smile as he trampled out his cigarette, “I’ll toast your health at Jenny’s Well on the way back instead, how’s that? We sail oot o’ Buckie at midnight.”
“You must miss Portknockie a lot t’ walk so far…”
“No, I just miss my wee lassie since they took her here.” His eyes misted over and he turned to look out to sea again.
“Aye, well, I’d better be off…”
His companion turned towards him and stood up, taller and stockier than he had previously appeared. “I’m sorry Davy, it is Davy, isn’t it? My name’s George… George Kyle. I enjoyed oor wee chat. Tell me lad, are y’ religious?”
“I used to be, but I’m nae sae sure these days…”
George grinned. “Well, best to keep an open mind son; steer clear o’ the bigots if y’ can. I’ll be seein’ y’, nae doubt.”
“Well, aye.” David shook George’s outstretched hand warmly. “Aye, I hope so.”
David was never keen on mixing butter and jam but this was Binview Farm at harvest time when appetites were sharpened by heavy toil. Hepburn’s daughter Isobel brought the sandwiches to the corn yard and a giant kettle of tea was carried by an attractive, fair-haired lass she introduced as Nancy. “Me and Nance were best pals at Portknockie School but we lost touch since I’ve been at college. She’s a hairdresser in Buckie, y’ ken.” The workers nodded and mumbled a greeting while Isobel prattled on, as was her way. Nancy blushed a little as her pal added, apologetically it seemed, “Aye, but she’s since joined the Brethren.”
David, deep in thought as he watched them depart, finished his tea and reached for his pitchfork. But instead of following the others he rushed after the girls. When they turned he seemed lost for words. “Em… I was just wondering if they cut men’s hair as well in your shop, Nancy…”
“Och aye,” came the answer immediately. Nancy was blushing again but smiling broadly. “We’re nae fussy y’ ken.”
“Good God Davy,” Isobel cut in, “y’ dinna waste time, I’ll grant y’ that.”
He found the shop on Buckie’s Cluny Square on Saturday morning but didn’t count on it being mobbed by women so it was a while before he was attended to.
“Dinna be a bairn noo, I’ll nae hurt ye,” Nancy said as David flinched from the touch of the cold metal on his neck.
It was his turn to go red in the face, the only male in an all female establishment. “Force o' habit,” he replied. “My father cut my hair when I was a 'loon. He might as well’ve been sheering sheep.”
He warmed to the jovial environment and the real Nancy. “Can I see you later?” he ventured as he left.
“Whit for?” she teased.
“Well…” he blushed again, “ach… whitever y’ want; the pictures, a coffee at the Kings Cafe or jist a stroll roon’ the harbour wi’ a fish supper… up t’ you.”
He watched as her smile faded. “Oh Hell! - oops, sorry - I jist remembered, I’ve a Bible class at seven.”
David nodded resignedly and left the shop. Collecting his thoughts while watching the bowlers on the green below he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. “It only lasts an hour, then I might tak’ a stroll t’ Jenny’s Well.”
“That’s fine... OK, see y’ then,” he answered as she retreated hastily to the shop.
The tide was in when he reached the rendezvous and the thrashing of the waves as they battered their way through the hollow rock of The Whale’s Moo nearby never failed to stimulate him. Nancy was but a few minutes late, flushed and breathless from negotiating the overgrown rocky path, her eyes bright and eager, her innocent dimpled smile just too inviting.
He resisted the temptation to gather her up and hold her tight - you’re not in the Glasgow Locarno, he told himself. “There wis nae need t’ rush,” he said, “you’re worth waiting ages for.”
She retained her smile as she reached for the tin cup by the well’s gushing spout. Then the grin faded. “I… wisna sure you’d come. Lads often think twice when The Brethren is mentioned.”
“Well, we’re a’ different. It’s the person nae the religion that counts. But there’s a lot mair tae life than bible-thumpin’, honest.” David cheekily cocked his head to one side as she betrayed a grimace. “Besides the meetings, Nancy, how d’ y’ pass the time? Dancing? Music? Sport? Maybe I could tak’ y’ t’ the pictures some nicht?”
Her eyes widened as David spoke of the films he’d seen and celebrities and comedians he’d watched at the Glasgow Empire. She even laughed out loud as he described some of the amusing characters he’d met or worked with, but each time he moved closer she retreated a little. “Whit’s the matter lass? You’re nae scared o’ me are y’? If y’ like I’ll go…”
“No! No, dinna leave, it’s nae you I’m scared o’ it’s my auntie. She’d have a fit if she knew I was meetin’ somebody.”
He hesitated, frowning. “I’m nae good enough for y’… is that it?”
“It’s nae that; Ach y’ ken whit I mean…”
The spell was broken. “I dinna understand why y’ bothered comin.’ Maybe y’ dinna ken your ain mind. I widna tak' liberties - I respect y’ too much. But I canna help whit I’m thinkin’ - maybe y’ feel the same, but there’s a limit t’ a lad’s self-control, y’ ken.”
David broke the long silence. “I’ll be here next week, if y’ feel like comin’. As he walked off slowly towards the golf course and Cullen beach, he turned briefly, chuckling. “It’s at least mair fun than my father preachin’ the wages o’ sin.” Two steps later, he turned again. “I’ll even buy y’ a chastity belt, if it’ll help.” Her raised fist told him she’d be back.
David stayed on to help out at Binview Farm after the harvest and about two months had passed before he met George Kyle again on the same bench by the Bow Fiddle Rock. “How’ve you been George?”
“Fine, and yersel?”
“Oh well, nothing changes at hame, may father and me are aye squabblin’ aboot something, mainly religion.”
“Aye. I knew him and his brother John well; we went t’ school together. He got the religion from his mother, a fine woman but strict and pious. She was quite young when she died. It would be her that sent him t’ England t’ learn t' be a minister but he came hame for the funeral and never went back. He got married a wee while later and moved up Speyside way.”
“A brother? Are you sure?”
“Aye, they baith went t’ sea when they left school. John was in the merchant navy and on the Atlantic convoys I believe. He came ashore and ended up in a mental home. He died there, they say.”
“Bloody hell, George, that’s the first I’ve heard o’ it! How did he die?”
His companion looked embarrassed. “Better ask your father, lad; I thought y’ knew. They say he drank himsel' to death, but y’ ken how village gossips like t’ embroider things. ”
They sat in silence for a while then David spoke. “Well, well... my saintly and zealous father… who’d’ve thought, eh? A would-be minister wi’ a skeleton in the cupboard. Still, it’s nae worth another row; I’m thinking I’ve outlived my welcome here anyway.”
“That a pity. Maybe if you had friends o’ your ain age.”
“Well, I know this bonny local quine, but we can only meet in secret when she can sneak away and that’s nae very often. Stays wi’ her aunt and uncle she said. I thought we hit it off fine but she canna relax. And nearly everything she says has a reference t' the bible in it. It’s like she’s lost the ability t’ think for hersel’. I give up George, I’m leavin!”
A small lobster boat was bobbing about in the inshore waters near the Bow Fiddle. “They say ‘faint heart never won fair lady…”
“They say ‘know your limits,’ too, George, and I’ve nae intention o' joinin’ the holier-than-thou brigade jist because I’d like t’ wed the lass. Lately I’m thinkin’ this place’ll drive me t’ drink.”
George turned on him angrily. “And who are you t' judge us, Davy? Whit d’ you ken aboot fisher folk? There’s hardly a family here that disna know the despair o’ loosing husbands, sons and fathers t’ the sea. Fishin’ is in their blood and they learn t’ live with it. Two o’ my school pals gave their lives for their country in the war. Think aboot that, lad, a wee place like Portknockie. They’ve nae much t’ be happy aboot, have they?”
David gazed out at the vast Moray Firth and listened to the waves crashing on the rocks below. He turned slowly to face his companion. “Aye, you’re right, I never looked for a reason, George; I’m sorry.”
“People need hope, something t’ believe in… that’s why religions flourish in fishin’ communities. A faith makes life bearable for some.”
“But nae for you, George?”
The fisherman smiled, slowly choosing his words. “Let’s jist say I’ve seen the cruel side o’ it. My wife’s family are died-in-the-wool Brethern; they took our daughter away to live wi’ her brother and his wife here when she was still at school. I was a bad influence they said.”
“Bloody hell, George, your ain flesh and blood! How in God’s name could y’ let them dae it?”
“I understand your anger, Davy and maybe I’m as much t’ blame as them, but when your brother-in-law skippers the boat and the rest o’ the crew are your wife’s family...” George was gazing out to sea again, lost in thought. After a while he shrugged his shoulders. “We fished oot o’ Yarmouth in England a while back. I met this woman I got very fond o’ - it’s nae as if Elsie an’ me were sharing a bed even then - I could easily’ve jumped ship there an’ then but I decided t’ bide close to Nancy jist in case she needs me as she got older …”
“Nancy? Your lass is called Nancy?”
“Aye… but I seldom see her - Elsie sees t’ that.” He raised his hand and slowly rubbed his eyes.
The setting sun bathed Nancy’s delicate features in a warm pink glow as she stared out across Cullen Bay. Jenny’s Well had been one of David’s favourite haunts; even before they met he would wander there simply to calm his mind. As he supped the cold crystal clear water from the protruding pipe he often wondered how it would mix with a pure malt whisky. Nancy on the other hand, believing the spring to be sacred and the water to possess healing qualities, would refer to it as the Holy Well. He sat on a rock drinking in the beauty of her face and figure, marvelling at the rare combination of good looks and naiveté and knowing that she would always be beyond his reach. “I’ve been thinking aboot things,” he said gently, “and it looks like I’ll have t’ leave Portknockie.”
Her head swivelled round as if she’d been slapped. “No… Where will y’ go? Why would y’ go?” Then she saw his resigned expression and grabbed hold of him, the closest they had been physically since they met. “No Davy, I’ll nae let y’!”
Instinctively he responded, struggling with his resolve. “It’s for the best lass, there’s nothing for me here noo. I found oot my father’s been lying to me all those years and I canna be bothered confrontin’ him wi’ it.”
“There’s me, Davy, I want - I need y’ to stay.”
“No, y’ dinna need me Nancy. You’ve got your family and your religion,” He eyed her up and down once more, “and I’d be banned fae your faith jist for whit I’m thinkin’.”
This time she didn’t blush. “I’ve been considerin’ the things y’ say… aboot makin’ my ain decisions. The quines at work think the same. Honest, I’ve never felt like this aboot onybody.”
He stepped back and gently placed his hand under her chin, forcing eye contact. “You never mentioned your surname, Nancy, is it Kyle?”
Her eyes widened. “Aye, but you never asked. Whit’s wrang?”
“My father’s a religious bigot, I know that, just as he believes I’m a hopeless sinner. But the way your mother and her family treat George is a heartlessness I’ll never understand.”
“I dinna ken whit t’ think, whit t’ dae… Help me, Davy,” she pleaded through her tears.
“I’m thinkin’ the least y’ can dae is speak t’ your father.”
What’s known for certain is that David left his work and his home at short notice. More surprising and upsetting to those who knew her was the sudden disappearance of Nancy a few weeks later. The mysterious manner of her going sparked a search of the harbour and local coastline, particularly in the region of Jenny’s Well. Less newsworthy and almost unheralded was the departure of George Kyle who, having completed a week’s fishing out of Fraserborough Harbour, announced to a bemused crew that he “needed a break” before asking a taxi driver to take him to the station.
Rumour has it that the postie mentioned a Yarmouth postmark on letters addressed to David’s mother and Nancy’s aunt and uncle – but, as David's mother used to say, if y' believe a’ you hear you’ll eat a’ y' see.
© 2007 Eddie Bruce
***************************************************************
TARRADALE'S OPTION
The perfect peat bank is one that will yield an ample supply of coke-hard burning material and be sited not too far from home. One such place had been unknowingly overlooked by generations of crofters. And who should find it in the end but a renegade, a deserter you might say. A man who had squandered so much of his adult life down south chasing dreams that he was hardly entitled to call himself a Highlander at all, in spite of his highly respected ancestors who had been happy to cut theirs on the customary inland plot since the Clearances. Typical of him to find the better option. Aye, God moves in mysterious ways indeed.
In the Crofting Township of Borganhill, almost every household has its own source of winter fuel. These plots are located “up the hill,” which is local speak for a large valley some distance into the moors. There they toil at regular intervals throughout the spring and summer, cutting, lifting and stacking their peats to ensure a cosy fire when the short summer ends. The trail, fit only for tractors, leads off the Tongue to Thurso road, twisting and slanting its way through heather and over rocks for three miles, then it stops abruptly as it meets the loch that supplies the rambling village with peat-flavoured, whisky-coloured tap water.
But over to the left, just as you leave the main road, there’s a rocky mound flanked by a clump of shrubbery and beyond that, hidden from view, a small sunken glen. A lochan no bigger than a duck pond forms a centrepiece and the level ground around lies mysteriously denuded of heather.
Soon after this prime site was discovered, there was talk of a burial ground there. Wags were saying things about Tarradale’s wives. That would be jealousy; he would hardly spread that kind of rumour about himself; then again they could never be sure, knowing him. He was bad enough before he got corrupted down the line, but even so it was known that both women brought John’s children back to visit him regularly and you can’t argue with that.
Students of archaeology from Aberdeen University, on a working break at Borganhill at the time, meticulously cleared an area of fifty square metres or more. Nothing of any significance was ever found, but the removal of the top divots, the most backbreaking task in peat cutting, uncovered a dark, heavy peat of perfect consistency, that dried as hard as coal briquettes and burned just as slowly. This is Tarradale’s bank, the envy of smallholders for miles around.
The crofter and the Canadian first met aboard a minibus at the Kyle of Tongue. John MacKay, commonly known as Tarradale after his family croft, had undertaken to drive some hotel residents on a sightseeing tour, since Dougal, the owner of the little school bus, had had a few too many whiskies the night before.
With the lambing season over, he was glad of the job; choices were few enough since he refused to work at the nearby Dounreay Atomic Power Station, the only source of regular employment in the area. In season he might have found work as a water bailiff but for his poaching conviction, so he compromised by netting the pools on the river at night and selling his salmon catch to the hoteliers in Thurso before daylight crept in. As he saw it, he had no alternative.
The landlady at the Borganhill Hotel had briefed John on places of interest he should visit, even rehearsing appropriate remarks for John to recite at each. But the crofter had been drinking with Dougal the previous evening and the resultant hangover was causing him worrying memory lapses.
He parked up at the causeway as advised, but as he pointed towards the towering and majestic Ben Loyal the suggested phrase, The Queen of Scottish Mountains, eluded him.
“Ben Loyal is famous as, as…” he searched the faces of half a dozen passengers for inspiration, then seemed to find it in the features of an elderly couple at the back, “the oldest mountain in Scotland.”
Some nodded acceptance and John’s eyes twinkled and he maintained his deadpan expression as he reached for the ignition switch. But the big man in the seat opposite strained against his safety belt in an effort to interrupt.
“That’s bullshit! I’m here to tell you driver, you’re talking absolute rubbish…and you know it!”
The wealthy Canadian and his wife were living at the hotel while the cottage they had bought was being renovated.
Stealing an appreciative glance at the passenger’s attractive blond partner, John stayed his hand on the switch. “Ah, you know an older one then sir? Well, so be it, I bow to your superior knowledge of history.”
“Geology, for God’s sake!”
John smiled broadly, slipped the gear lever into second, checked his mirrors and drove off west across the moor.
At Loch Eriboll the driver invited the passengers to eat their packed lunches although it wasn’t a scheduled stop. It came about because a tourist, his car pulling a caravan, overshot a passing place on the single-track road up ahead. The vehicles slowed to a halt facing each other a yard apart. John indicated the passing place, which the other driver had chosen to ignore, only to be answered by obscenities and abusive gestures. The car driver had killed his engine and lit a cigarette.
While they ate their picnic, with other travellers gradually converging upon the blocked road from both directions, Tarradale entertained his passengers with the story of Donald “Sailor” MacKay, a distant ancestor who, as a youth, had been kidnapped from these shores and press-ganged into service on a pirate ship. Eventually the car driver relented, but reversed his caravan into a deep ditch dragging the car with it. This mishap left the road and the passing place clear for traffic to flow normally as before.
At Durness Craft Village John described the merchandise for sale as pseudo-Scottish garbage, imported and assembled by failed art student refugees from Glasgow and Edinburgh, existing on a subsidy while pretending to be new age travellers.
Arriving back at Tongue too early, they detoured along Loch Loyal to Altnaharra then swung back towards the coast, along a valley peppered with small, dilapidated crofts, well off the tourist beat.
As the skies clouded over, John stopped at Syre church and spoke to his passengers about this glen, Strathnaver, and of man’s inhumanity to man. He told them about the crofters, his ancestors, many of whom died after being evicted from their homes by their landlord, The Duke of Sutherland. He spoke of the Highland Clearances and how sheep replaced humans. He spoke knowingly about those who perished on their journey to North America and other distant relatives who didn’t survive resettlement on the rugged coast. He ended his discourse with a moment’s silence and as he raised his head there were murmurings of approval and appreciation.
The Canadian extended his hand and gripped the driver’s firmly. “Put it there fella. I’m Bob Morrison and this is my wife Lois,” he said. “OK, so you’re no geologist, but you sure as hell know your history.”
John shook his hand then started the engine. “That’s oral tradition, Bob, there’s a difference; history books lie.”
Tarradale was less than a mile from the Canadian’s rebuilt cottage on the Borgan river estuary and so it was that in that scattered community Bob and Lois formed an uneasy friendship with John and his daughter Morag. The only thing the two men had in common was an appreciation of malt whisky and the love of a good argument, but for a while those similarities seemed enough to sustain them. Lois and Morag, on the other hand, were kindred spirits.
The crofter would listen with genuine interest as Bob described the life he’d left behind in Winnipeg; how he’d started as a junior accountant in a chain store, made it to general manager in ten years and married Lois. He told John about the many exotic parts of the world they had visited on vacation and how, on returning from a trip to Scotland, he and Lois decided to make a clean break from the rat race and suburbia. With no kids to influence their decision and a healthy share portfolio, they opted for the quiet life by choosing the most sparsely populated place they could find. It was also something of a homecoming since he had traced relatives on his father’s side to the fishing village of Kinlochbervie on the West Coast.
John’s own reminiscences amounted to a hard luck story by comparison. The only son of staunchly religious parents, he left home at sixteen simply to escape the strict, stifling home atmosphere. The only thing he shared with his parents was an instinctive distrust of Dounreay, and their largely infertile smallholding couldn’t sustain three adults indefinitely. Although tall, strong and eager to please, the young Highlander was worldly naïve and learned all his lessons the hard way. Now forty, with two failed marriages behind him, he was the father of four children.
He had inherited Tarradale upon the death of his parents. Both his wives had been from the city and failed to adjust to the primitive and relatively impoverished life on the croft. But Morag, from his second marriage, took to the Highlands like a true native and refused to leave. The others kept in contact and visited when they could.
When the twelve-year-old malt whisky had hit the spot, John MacKay would often philosophise, not unkindly, about misguided parents, barren soil and fertile women. Where the latter were concerned, he had never abandoned his dream of meetingthe right one, but as the years slipped by, with options dwindling, he increasingly sought spiritual solace in the whisky bottle.
The other subject close to John’s heart was the ownership of salmon and how a fish that had travelled from as far away as Iceland to spawn, could possibly become the property of a Scottish, or quite commonly, English landowner. It was an issue the Canadian had few thoughts on at the time but would later cause him to make a decision with far-reaching consequences.
Bob particularly admired his neighbour’s neat stack of firm, coal-black peat, built like a large brick shed. Having made a feature of the large open fireplace in their new home, he wasted no time in scouring the moor and claiming a peat bank of his own. From a Thurso blacksmith he purchased a flaughter, rutter and tusker, the standard peat-cutting tools, and worked tirelessly and alone on his project.
On Bob’s prolonged absences up the hill, Lois became a regular visitor to Tarradale. She and Morag became close friends and often while John slept after his dubious nocturnal activities, they would swim together at the sandy river estuary. Occasionally in the early evening, with Bob still toiling on the hill, John would take them with him on his small boat to catch mackerel. Some said that Morag sometimes stayed behind and another that the boat was once seen at Coldbackie beach and a couple walking arm-in-arm into the cave there when the tide was out. Such was village shop gossip.
After a while Bob brought home a peat sample for John’s inspection. The crofter weighed it in his hand then poked his fingers into the fibrous stringy texture.
“Depends if you want to use it for burning or for scrubbing your back,” he said. “Never dig where you find bog myrtle growing Bob; they’ll be lightweight and fit only for kindling.”
Some mentioned a peat bank being fired up the hill next day. Bob said he was just smoking off a swarm of midges, but all the peats he had cut were reduced to ashes and he didn’t drop in on Tarradale with the customary bottle of Macallan that week, nor for weeks to come.
As summer replaced spring, the Canadians did their best to become part of the community, attending ceilidhs and fund-raising events at the local hall. On the common grazing land surrounding Tarradale, where chomping Cheviots had trimmed the grass to putting green texture, Bob could sometimes be seen practising his golf swing while Morag showed Lois where to find wild mushrooms.
It was about this time that Lois told Morag about her husband’s mood swings. While she herself felt she had blossomed in the changed environment, Bob was missing the stimulation and companionship of his peers. Their marriage appeared to become secondary to him as his mind leapt from one obsession to another. Once outgoing and open with her, he was now introverted, petty-minded and bitter. At least once a week since the salmon-fishing season started, he would dine with Lois at the Borganhill Hotel just to hobnob with the wealthy businessmen who rented a room and a stretch of the river from the hotel annually.
After a while he too bought a rod and paid for the privilege of mixing with people of his own class, difficult though it was for him since he lacked the necessary patience for the sport. To make matters worse, it had been one of the driest seasons in living memory and river pools that normally yielded twenty or thirty-pound salmon were too shallow to sustain them. As his fellow fishermen grumbled about the parched river, Bob would look downstream towards Tarradale and be reminded of another reason for the shortage of fish.
But most mornings the Canadian walked to the hill carrying a packed lunch and he would sometimes stay there ‘till dusk. When he deigned to speak, he would tell Lois about an overgrown, disused area nearby where the peat was a rich dark mould. He had cut at least a year’s supply and built them into storrows to dry in the wind. Soon he would buy a bottle of Scotch and talk to John about transporting them home.
If Bob’s neighbour was concerned about the lapse in their relationship, he showed little sign. There was talk of a falling out and it had been noticed that their paths seldom crossed these days. More puzzling was the fact that this year John hadn’t gone to the hill at all, although he did still have a good winter’s supply of peat in the stack. Word was he was preoccupied with other matters and building up trouble for himself in more ways than one in the process.
Jimmy Anderson didn’t know his Christian name was Hamish until he moved from Aberdeen to Borganhill. At first he put it down to mistaken identity although, being the only resident policeman, that was unlikely. He soon realised that everyone in that Gaelic community who was baptised James would thereafter answer to Hamish. Jimmy didn’t particularly like the name but he loved his new posting so he didn’t labour the point.
His first call out had been to a drunk and disorderly at the local hotel, where a crofter had been challenging everyone in the public bar to a fistfight. When Jimmy arrived the man was slumped in a paralytic state by the door and it was easy enough, despite his weight, to transfer him to the back seat of the police car. The landlady and several customers went to some lengths to explain that the drunk was not a violent person, but had been drowning his sorrows for weeks since his second wife left him. A lift home was all that was called for.
At Tarradale croft, the man came to his senses under a verbal onslaught from his daughter, and was soon pouring liberal measures of whisky as “a token of gratitude.” In Borganhill no one knocked before entering a house and to refuse a drink was to insult the host.
When he awoke late next day, Jimmy had no recollection of travelling home. He had vague memories of a once inebriated crofter gradually drinking himself sober; a phenomenon he had heard of but never witnessed, while he himself became increasingly mellow in the convivial company. He recalled Morag with her disapproving glances and rebukes, the warmth of the peat fire flame, the oft repeated phrase “one for the road” – and little else. He found the car keys on his table and the vehicle parked neatly out front.
If he chanced to meet John MacKay in the days that followed, they would nod and exchange knowing looks – but nothing more.
When Jimmy got the tip-off he spent the whole day worrying about it. While John MacKay was the only person he knew who made a living from poaching, he did go about his business discreetly and any conflict was always between the poacher and the water bailiffs, with John always one move ahead. Jimmy only became involved when an arrest was necessary and he was aware that an offender’s car could be confiscated as part of the penalty. He knew he had to contact his colleagues in Caithness and pass on the car registration number, but before that he made a local call.
They’d finished their evening meal and Morag was clearing up in the kitchen while John watched the news on commercial television. For years he had refused to pay the licence fee because homes in Borganhill were unable to receive BBC transmissions. Indeed the only signal they could pick up came from the Orkney Islands across the Pentland Firth. When the Northern Times published a picture of a TV detector van arriving at Wick harbour, the local post office did ten times its normal trade next day. Tarradale remonstrated with his MP, but to no avail, then waited six months until the van crossed the border into Sutherland before making his receiver legal.
Bob walked in more tentatively than previously, cleared his throat then placed the bottle on the table with a thump. As John looked up, the first thing he seemed to observe was the whisky, which, unusually, bore the brand label of a common blend.
He indicated the easy chair opposite while switching off the television set. “Have a seat Bob.”
Morag came through, smiled at Bob and brought glasses from the cupboard.
“No, this won’t take long. And I won’t have a drink, thanks Morag.”
The crofter’s brow furrowed as he scrutinised his visitor’s face, which twitched a little as he moved his weight from one foot to another.
“Yeah. Well John I only have coupla things to say, then I’ll leave. It’s best you hear this from me, I owe you that. You remember you asked me once who owns the fish in the river? Yeah? OK, well I thought about it, and it sure as hell isn’t you my friend! There’s fishermen out there paying big bucks to catch salmon and the pools are empty. With the drought they have to fish for sea trout on the free stretch here on the estuary. How does that make you feel?”
“It makes me angry that they’re allowed to do it. That stretch is for local people.”
“That all you can say?”
“No, but it’ll keep. What was the other thing?”
The Canadian’s vacant face adopted an ironic smile as he shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? I had to report you to the police John. I’m sorry, but what you’re doing is wrong by any standards, can’t you see that?”
Tarradale maintained his quizzical expression. “And the other thing?”
His guest took some time to answer. “I have some peats on the hill, he said, still shaking his head, “I’d like you to bring them home for me with your tractor. I’ll pay the going rate, but I’ll understand if you’d rather I asked someone else. Your call fella.”
“They’re legally mine Bob. You’ve been cutting my peat bank.”
The other shook his head once more. “You’re crazy! The ground was overgrown with weeds; the site was abandoned.”
“That happens over winter. You should’ve checked out crofters’ rights before you started digging. Anyone could have told you about Tarradale’s bank. I have plenty for my needs this year though; you can keep them. Just ask somebody else to take them off the hill.”
"I don't get it John. Why are you taking this so well, eh? I'd feel better if you punched me on the jaw. I've put an end to your poaching operation, taking away, I would guess, half your income? Now you tell me I've been cutting your peat bank and that's OK. I play the stock Market and I know about options. I'd say yours have ran out. If I were in your shoes man, I'd want revenge."
“There’s damned few fish left now. Besides, netting a river isn’t all it’s cracked up to be; you can catch your death out there. We were friends once Bob, but you’ve broken the boundaries and got involved in matters that aren’t really your concern. I don’t like to admit it but I envied you once. You had everything going for you when you came here; all you had to do was learn to live and let live. You’re going to need that drink now.”
“What? No, I’m fine. Why d’you say that?”
“Because Lois is leaving you. She’s moving in with Morag and me.”
© Eddie Bruce 2004
NOTE - Two of the stories that follow are cautionary tales for wayward husbands and unsuitable for children.
THY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE
"I just want ye to bugger off - baith o' ye! In fact, I’ll tak ye as far as Inverness . I'm keepin' Jean an' Douglas, O.K?" The question was rhetorical and these were the only words Greg could recall from that ‘sensible discussion’ before the cauldron of confused emotions erupted into a self-righteous rage that smouldered for weeks after the deed was done. And he’d nurtured that injured pride, imagining the goings-on behind his back; Alice, attractive, worldly-wise and bored, teasing naive neighbour’s son Hugh, impressionable and barely old enough to drink, a youth he'd once befriended, now jolted into adulthood by an angry, jealous husband, surely the worse for drink at the time. Served them right. Hadn't slept together? Oh aye? Sleeping would be the last thing on their minds.
But "I'm keepin' the bairns" - how daft was that? Jean was eight, right enough (aye, and a gie stubborn eight, at that), but wee Douglas was still in nappies, for God's sake. And right away there was young Hugh’s mother adding insult to injury by using her spare key to get in and set the fire every night before he got back from work. Then Jessie, who looked after the youngsters, having her sly dig about men taking their wives for granted. A clannish lot, the women. But that's life; you make your bed and you lie in it…whiles with nothing but a wee dram for company, that and the consolation that Alice would be missing him and fretting about her offspring.
His parents were rubbing their hands; hadn’t they warned him this would happen? Couldn't he have found a Scots lass like everybody else? 'Never trusted that Alice with her hoity-toity accent' - 'No dad, she’s just English; it’s how they speak down there.’
So he got a caravan, planted it outside their retirement cottage near the coast and let them spoil the wee ones while he got a job driving beer and lemonade to pubs and shops around the country. The enforced celibacy was hard to bear though. A well meaning work mate arranged a blind date for him at a staff dance, but he made his excuses during a slow foxtrot when she launched into a tirade against her runaway husband - lucky sod. Suffocating amongst family arguments, moral judgements and claustrophobic domesticity, he remembered why he’d left home at sixteen. Then, a few months later, it became obvious Alice wasn't going to demand custody of the children - the bitch! 'What kind of mother could do that,' he raved, picturing her smirk of satisfaction. He left his job and contacted Social Services.
Situated two miles from Buckie on the Shellfield Estates, the three-bedroom house allocated by the council was one of eight semis isolated from the everyday world by fields, forests and the lack of a bus service. In less than two months he had redecorated the place after a fashion, dug over the garden and stocked up on winter fuel by thinning out the nearby wood, before accepting the fact that he was neither frugal nor shameless enough to be a stay-at-home father living on single parent handouts. He wasn't cut out for martyrdom either. Besides, flattered and gratified though he was by her attention, Wendy next door was taking the 'love thy neighbour' thing a wee bit too far and 'no' was a word that never entered his head where seductive young women were concerned, whatever the dangers. So the local vacancy for a dustcart driver seemed to be the answer to a potentially compromising situation.
He watched the strange car driving carefully through the slush on Forresters Row, past the holier-than-thou Thorntons at number one, the scruffy old wine-guzzling Grahams at number two and the snobby moralising Morrisons with their perfect kids at number three. It slowed outside the home of Glaikit Sally, the witless young widow who had a special relationship with the rent man amongst others, but the vehicle drove on past Wendy's place before slithering to a halt at Greg's gate. Aware that debt collectors usually travelled in pairs, he opened the door at the first knocking.
The burly council foreman refused his offer of a drink. "The job’s yours, if you want it," he said, with a philanthropic grin.
"That’s..eh…grand! I canna believe it. I didna expect…I mean there must’ve been ither drivers…"
"Oh aye, at least six, but I ken every one o’ them - that's the trouble; but I dinna ken you, so you'd better nae let me doon. Can ye start on Monday?"
Smiling, Greg watched his new boss's old Rover negotiate the narrow space between the parked grocer’s van and the bank of snow left by the plough. Wendy looked his way and nodded as she emerged from the mobile shop carrying two shopping bags and Shane, the youngest of her five children. Greg checked his watch. Murdo was sleeping upstairs and Jean's school bus wasn't due for an hour.
He brought a jug of water and two glasses from the kitchen, chuckling now at the twinge of guilt he felt about Wendy. It wasn't shame about shagging a neighbour's wife - he'd worried about it but granted himself absolution early on in the relationship since Bill, her husband, was more of a stranger to his family than Greg had ever been. Aye, and there's a difference between working long hours and just drinking every night and coming home late and legless. Greg marvelled that Bill was ever sober long enough to have sex, far less father five children. Wendy's only notion of revenge was to get drunk at weddings and staff functions and handbag any woman Bill spoke to for more than a minute, even if it meant, as it did on one occasion, spending a night in the cells. Greg hadn't mentioned the job application to Wendy and that bothered him.
"I couldna get Shane to go doon, so I put a wee drap whisky in the feed. He'll be a'richt sharin' Douglas's bed." Having sneaked in the back door, Wendy strode through the living room like a force ten gale, slamming the half bottle, twenty Players and some change on the coffee table as she headed for the stairs, young Shane hanging limp over her shoulder like a soft toy. "Better lock the door, eh?"
"Aye." Grinning and shaking his head slowly, Greg obeyed the request then returned to the couch to pour two liberal measures of the cheap Scotch, which he diluted with water. He couldn't fathom the woman; only in her mid-twenties with a model figure, five undisciplined children, a compulsion for laundering that tended to wear out washing machines and irons, a marriage in name only and an affinity with feral cats.
"He's nae Bill's ye ken." Wendy was behind the couch, massaging Greg's neck.
Greg felt the unexpected strength of her hands as she kneaded his muscles. "Eh? Who?" he asked, reaching for his drink.
"Shane. He was an accident when Bill's brither George stayed wi' us on a week's leave fae the oil rigs." She came round and sat beside him, downed half her glass in one gulp then ran a hand up his thigh as she turned to kiss him. "Are ye shocked?"
"Aye, a wee bit."
"Well, can ye blame me? I get miserable an' lonely wi' the kids maistly at school an' a man that winna come hame till the pubs shut."
He looked into the misty grey/blueness of her eyes, aware of an unbearable sadness there, wanting to commiserate yet unable to find adequate words. It was as if she'd guessed his plan to find work, was upping the stakes, challenging him, strengthening a bond that was built on little more than sexual desire and boredom. He kissed her and held her close, buying time.
Her sigh was one of resignation. "Ye had a visitor," she murmured, gently pushing him away and fumbling with his belt.
"Aye." They finished their whiskies and he refilled the glasses, feeling his heartbeat quicken and the familiar warm adrenaline rush envelop him.
Wendy seemed to sense that the blouse-buttons-and-bra-strap preliminary was the point of no return for Greg. "Well?" she teased, "Who was it? I'm waitin'."
He hurried through the ritual of draining the last of the Scotch, moving the table and scattering cushions on the hearth rug. "For God's sake, lass - later!" he said, glancing at the clock and pulling her none too gently from the couch. Their lips met during the undressing frenzy igniting a whisky-fuelled lust that had never flagged in intensity.
They were on their second cigarette when he told her.
"A scaffy!" Wendy's gibe lacked the necessary humour.
"It said HGV Refuse Collection Vehicle Driver in the 'paper, but aye, a scaffy. Pride's for them that can afford it. I'll be hame every nicht aboot five…"
"Does that mean…"
"I dinna ken lass. It's been grand…I mean, you're the only thing that's kept me sane the past few months, but it couldna last, could it? I'm jist nae used tae being idle; I need a livin' wage…an' it's nae as if I'm leavin' Forresters Row."
"You bastard Greg! Ye might've said…"
"I'm sorry Wendy."
She left the room, returning minutes later with an agitated Shane in her arms. "Sorry? Is that a' ye can say?" she asked, her face the personification of injured pride. "Maybe your wife's nae as daft as I thought."
By Friday the Social Services had been as good as their word, arranging childminding services for Douglas and Jean. The supervisor sounded like a newspaper reporter announcing an exclusive. "We've found someone that fits the bill admirably. She is a neighbour of yours and has young children of her own. In fact I believe she already gets on well with Jean and Douglas. Wendy MacFarlane?"
With the children around when he came home at night Greg found it easy enough to avoid being alone with Wendy. She in turn seemed to welcome the chance to earn money of her own, not to mention cash payments for covering his 'darts nights' at the Red Lion. Some mornings when he dropped the children off even grumpy Bill MacFarlane would acknowledge him - between belches as he breakfasted on cans of lager.
He'd almost forgotten what it was like to pay bills on time, buy decent clothes for the children and stock up the booze cupboard for weekend sustenance. He also picked up some nearly new discarded furniture on his rounds as well as assorted bicycles in good working order. The local fishermen were having a good prawn season, earning good money but spending it badly.
Jean and Douglas had settled fine; maybe the wee lass missed her mother but she was deep that one and never spoke about it. Besides, she had plenty pals to play with now and Douglas, well he just grew and grew with seldom a sulk or tantrum. The scarcity of single parent fathers in the district meant that people gave him funny looks, or it least it felt like that, so he acted nonchalant, even when he wanted to shout 'you don't know the half of it!' Still, that might have been one reason why the landlady's daughter at the Red Lion never went further than a goodnight snog. Small town people can be small minded.
Just the same, and even with a good few drams in him on a Saturday, whenever he lusted after Wendy's warm and willing body he pictured the five unruly bairns that would surely be part of the deal and counted his blessings. He now had 'something to do' and two fine children to love, but the 'something to hope for' disappeared when Alice first became pregnant and never looked like coming back.
It had been a good day for scran. He and the other two crew members had cashed in their stash of non-ferrous metals then had a dram or two to celebrate. Late getting back to Wendy's, he handed her a half bottle of Scotch by way of apology, then watched warily as she poured herself a large one, knocking it back in one gulp. Being Friday night, they exchanged the usual pleasantries about the children, then she handed him Douglas's toys together with the clothes she'd washed for him. "See ye Monday then," she said loudly, then in a whisper accompanied by a wink as he picked up Douglas and Jean preceded him through the door, "or sooner, maybe."
Greg jerked his head round. "Whit….?"
"Bills coming hame early. I'm nae puttin' up wi' ony mair o' his nonsense. I've money o' my ain noo an' he'll have tae pull his weight - or else!"
The words echoed in his head long after the children were fed, washed and put to bed. Unable to concentrate, he turned off the television, poured himself a large Scotch and played a Country and Western tape, all the while expecting to hear the scrape of the back door as it brushed over the loose lino. The third, even the fourth dram did nothing to still the unease, the excitement that was a confusion of worry and desire as he recalled her words. '…or sooner, maybe.' The girl was talking in riddles. It must've been the whisky making her randy. By midnight he felt as drained as the bottle as he poured the last big dram and took it upstairs with him. He slept fitfully.
"Dad! Dad. There's somebody at the door! Wake up!"
The voice was like part of a muddled dream until he felt the grip of Jean's little hand shaking his shoulder and heard a loud tapping somewhere in the distance. "God, whit time is it?" he growled as Jean switched on his bedside lamp, blinding him momentarily. He rubbed his eyes and shivered. The alarm clock said six-thirty. "Aye, you go back tae bed quine, it's too early tae get up yet."
The knocking became more persistent. From his bedroom window he could vaguely make out her shape in the early morning light, occasionally stepping back from the front door and looking up at his room. A dark object on the ground resembled a suitcase. His brain in turmoil, Greg was shaking now, thankful for the comfort of the leftover dram within reach, but his progress downstairs was delayed by visions of impending doom.
"God, whit kept ye loon?" Wendy swept past him into the living room carrying her case. "I need tae use your 'phone."
"Help yersel'," he mumbled, "I need the toilet."
She was replacing the receiver when he returned to comfort her. "Whit's wrang lass?" he asked, eyeing her luggage nervously and holding her close to avoid facing her, one part of him scared and the other part responding to the body contact.
Wendy just stood there. "Oh, we had a blazin' row last night an' he went oot an' got drunk, as usual. I blame his mither, he never did a hand's turn at hame. I've left him snorin' his heed aff."
"Left him? Aye, but movin' in wi' me winna help things, lass. Whit aboot the bairns? We'd be overrun."
"He can learn the hard way, jist like you had tae."
But Greg's interest in Wendy was purely physical now, his hand was on her buttocks, massaging gently. "We can speak aboot it upstairs lass; the bed's fine an' warm. Jist for a wee while, eh?"
She giggled as she pulled back a little, her hand sliding down to his groin. "You men are a' the same, jist interested in sex an' drink." As she spoke she cupped her hand and squeezed quite hard causing Greg to mouth an obscenity. "Sorry aboot that," she said.
"C'mon," he whispered, pulling her towards the hallway. "It'll soon be daylight an' the bairns'll be up."
But Wendy pushed him away, grabbed her luggage and ran to open the front door, revealing a car parked by the gate with its sidelights on. She turned briefly, smiling. "Freedom," she sighed, "I can jist aboot taste it!"
She was halfway down the path when Greg reached the doorway. "Whit aboot the bairns?" he pleaded, "when'll ye be back? Whit aboot Monday?"
As the vehicle pulled away she blew him a kiss.
© Eddie Bruce 2004
*****************************************************************
HEARTS & DARTS.
Lightly squeezing the pockets of his windcheater to confirm they held darts and cigarettes, Dod Kelman peeked in on the contented face of his sleeping year-old son. The knitted cot blanket brought mother-in-law Elsie to mind, changing Dod’s smile to a grimace. Back in the main bedroom as he strapped on his watch, Fiona’s lingering fragrance conspired with the two big measures of whisky he had earlier, to quicken his pulse and weaken his resolve. He opened the window wide. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply he pictured himself in an earlier life walking up Aberdeen’s Union Street to join his friends in the Market Bar before catching the bus to Pitodrie stadium, smiling as he recognised each player emerging from the tunnel to rapturous applause. Then he blinked back to the reality of Ben Rinnes’s heathery slopes, reminding him how much his life had changed in the space of a year. One day a hapless Aberdonian student, the next a distiller’s clerk in the vale of Glenlivet, living in a distillery-owned cottage with his wife and son - and Elsie within nagging distance.
Downstairs he crept up behind his wife as she stacked the last plate on the draining board, slipping his arms around her waist and holding her close, the blonde softness of her hair tickling his nose as he breathed her perfume. Roddy, their young Labrador, padded his way over to tug jealously at his master’s jeans. “Ye ken Fiona,” Dod murmured, “sometimes I feel as if I’m on another planet. The stillness maks me nervous.”
She turned into him, wiping her damp hand on his sweatshirt, pouting as she pressed against him, gazing into his eyes. “I know. You miss your pals and your fitba.”
“Aye, but…”
“Well, I miss my man when he’s at work a’ day and off tae the pub when he gets hame.” She winked, tugging at his sleeve. “C’mon upstairs,” she whispered, “wee Geordie’ll be sleepin’ for ages yet.”
“Oh Fiona, ye ken I canna…” Just then the doorbell chimed reminding Dod that the darts cup semi-final wouldn’t wait, although with luck maybe Fiona would.
The drams they had before leaving work gave most of the Clachan team the edge in confidence, that and their position at the top of the district league. Veteran Robbie Stronach was a rock-solid captain while Lachie Geddes the cooper played with amazing flair considering he swayed about so much on the oche. In his singles match Dod checked out with only eleven darts and followed that up with a one-five-seven finish in the doubles. Inspired by the anchormen the rest of the team raised their game and the outcome was never in doubt.
“You’re a lucky bugger,” said Robbie to Dod later, slapping his back as they grouped together for a congratulatory drink.
He smirked, high on success and drinks his beaten opponents had bought him. “Whit can I say, Rob? Anything for a free beer eh? I am an Aberdonian ye ken!” But he had a feeling the luck the brewer was referring to had little to do with his skills on the dartboard. He’d encountered that look before and not only from Robbie, ever since he brought Fiona back to the glen.
The publican’s daughter interrupted. “You’re like a lot of bairns. Whit a fuss to make aboot throwing wee pointed things at a board!” Isobel mocked, shoving her way through with a tray of steaming hot stovies and oatcakes. Blushing as she handed Dod his plate she leaned forward and whispered, “You’ll be walking the dog the morn, I suppose…aboot seven?”
“Aye,” Dod whispered back without hesitation, winking as their eyes met, “aboot seven.”
Fiona was asleep when he got back and Dod lay awake remembering the first time they’d made love and how he couldn’t have felt more fulfilled, more ecstatic, if the Dons had beaten Celtic six-nil – at Parkhead! He’d gone for months without a girlfriend and found himself drawn towards the quiet country girl, attracted by her looks and challenged by her indifference. He’d sought her out at lectures and in the canteen, gently probing her background, convinced they had much in common. What emerged, widowed mother, strict religious upbringing, night curfews, pressure to study, peer derision, came as no surprise… Then a shy confession.
“A nervous breakdown?” He had placed his arm around her slim shoulders then, instinctively. “I’m nae surprised!”
“I went off the rails, as my mither put it,” she had told him. “I jist wanted to know what life was like for other lassies my age. I was lonely.”
“Nae wonder.”
“I broke a few o’ her rules for a while, then the minister preached me a sermon and I agreed to try Uni. That’s it…except…”
“Except?”
“I hate it here.”
He had mouthed the words ‘I love you’ to at least one girl before, but now it had meaning for him, just as he had understood her aloofness as being a cover for vulnerability. He would protect her.
When she finally succumbed, she amazed him with her instinct for fantastic lovemaking, devouring him like a hungry animal, telling him he was the man of her dreams - dreams much more imaginative than his own sex fantasies ever were. What followed, the pregnancy, the marriage, the decision to quit studies, the move to the country, all seemed to be outside his control but he didn’t care.
Because he did love her. Even now, though he strayed a wee bit with Isobel now and then (that was just the drink and a young girl’s infatuation and he always felt bad about it afterwards), he was happy enough with his new lifestyle. The job was undemanding and the wages below par, but they had fine accommodation, and the plentiful supply of the best malt whisky meant he spent most of his waking hours in a contented Scotch mist. He would learn to live with moody hangovers and guilt pangs and anyway, they only lasted until the next dram. It was all about sacrifices and rewards and wasn’t he forever having to listen to holy Elsie telling him how lucky he was and how she’d pray for him?
He pulled back the bedroom curtain when he heard them coming. They were early. It was a Thursday night ritual but Cup Final night was special. Alistair, the head maltman, would have rushed his dinner and pedalled down to his youngest son's house, then on to the next. They would cycle on in single file collecting team members along the way and by the time they rounded the corner to the last distillery cottage where Dod and Fiona lived, the procession resembled a seven-headed serpent, each head shouting friendly abuse as it came to a halt by Dod’s gate. “I’ll be doon in a minute lads,” he shouted, hoping they’d stay out on the road. He had a sulking wife to deal with first.
“Whit is it lass?” he asked, “has your mither been moanin’ aboot me again?”
She pushed his arm away, turning to gaze out of the window. “You an’ your darts team, Dod! Are they mair important than you an’ me?”
His eyes widened in disbelief at her anger. “Whit brought this…”
“I blame mysel’ for bringin’ you here. The drink’s pickled the wee bit brain you had. Here’s a clue – it happened a year ago.”
“Oh God, Fiona…” He felt a surge of compassion, a desire to hold her close but she elbowed him off. “I’m right sorry, lass. Whit aboot an anniversary dinner somewhere at the weekend?” But he had forgotten and even now his recollections of the wedding, never mind the date, were a bit hazy. Fiona, a vision in her short midnight blue dress, himself and big Alistair MacPhail in their kilts hired for the day…the booze…the breakages...
“Go on, your pals are waitin’,” she said, coughing to clear her throat.
Hesitating at the door, thinking it was just as well he’d taken that twenty out of the housekeeping earlier, he said “Aye, but I hate leavin’ you like this…”
He was but halfway down the path when she called him, her words vibrating with emotion. “I’m takin’ Geordie tae my mither’s for the night. From whit I’ve been hearin,’ you’ll nae be lonley.”
Dod blushed amid wolf whistles and a shout of ‘Whit have you been up tae, Dod?’ from impatient but amused onlookers. His embarrassment was changing to anger. “Later!”
“Suit yoursel’. I’ve nothing tae hide.”
“Oh no?” he shouted. “Would ye like me tae tell the boys – and your mither, maybe - that I was shagging ye lang before we were wed.” His face screwed up in instant remorse. “Come on lads,” he said, quickly mounting his Raleigh Sports, “we’ll be late.”
“Wait!” Fiona’s voice was firm now, commanding.
There was a simultaneous squeaking of brakes and head-turning. “Whit?”
She walked forward hands on hips, eyeing each cyclist in turn before stopping next to her husband. “So were your pals!”
© Eddie Bruce 2004. All rights reserved
|
|
|
