by Irvine Welsh
Going south. To the root.
Then suddenly, with an involuntary shudder, she wondered what they could do with her mother. The tests. More chemo. Would it work this time? Probably not. Would they take her to the hospice, or would she die at home, or in a hospital?
Mum …
Her breath caught. In panic, she pulled raggedly on the stale hot air in the room. A sequence of slides flashed up, some cityscape shots of Edinburgh, ranging from the recognisable Princes Street Gardens and the Botanics, to the hideaway corners of the city. — Edinburgh is a city of trees and woods; from the magnificence of the natural woodlands at Corstorphine Hill or Cammo, to the huge variety of splendid specimens in our parks and streets, Alexander argued, a pleasing flourish to his rhetoric. — Trees and woodlands have an inherent biodiversity value, whilst providing opportunities for recreation and environmental education. Our objective is to maintain a multi-aged treescape with a wide range of species that will achieve a balance of the physical, economic, social and spiritual needs of the city. Edinburgh has over twenty-five thousand elm trees: they are an integral part of our city’s treescape.
As Alexander looked around at the forest of faces in the audience, Alison visualised her new boss as a little boy lurking hesitantly on the edge of the woods. There was nothing shrinking about him though, as he went on: — Failure is not an option. We’ve lived with this nightmare since it was discovered here back in 1976. We’ve already lost 7.5 per cent of our elms. Now we have to intensify our efforts on sanitation felling, even if it means accepting that we’re now moving into a post-elm Edinburgh.
That was what her mum felt. Failure. Stricken by that horrible disease and she blamed herself. She feels like she’s abandoning us, as if she’s failed.
The next slide showed a group of overall-clad, power-saw-wielding workmen, engaged in the act of felling trees. To Alison, Alexander looked sombre, as if he was mourning the passing of an old friend. Another shot, this time of some trees piled up and blazing, a thick black cone of smoke billowing into the air against a blue-white sky. Alison thought of the last funeral she was at. It would have been Gary McVie from school, who’d died on Newhaven Road, driving home a stolen car while drunk. He was a young, popular and good-looking boy, and there had been a big turnout. Now she imagined his smashed body blasted to bone chips and dust, down in that furnace they’d lowered the coffin into. Matty, who’d briefly worked at Seafield Crematorium, had cheerfully told her that the incinerator didn’t completely reduce bodies to ash, the attendants had to put them through this crushing device to grind down the stubborn skeletal larger bones: the pelvis and the skull.
Mum … oh Mum …
Alexander’s messianic gaze fell on the assortment of councillors, officials, staff and pressmen, then swept upwards to the smattering of concerned citizens in the public gallery. — The intensification of Dutch elm disease control, through a sanitation policy of the felling and burning of elms, is absolutely vital in order to keep the disease at a manageable level and allow us to gradually replace the elms with other species.
Alison was now thinking of her mother playing with grandchildren, the kids she supposed that one day she, Mhairi and even Calum might have, as Alexander clicked on a slide of trees being planted. Suddenly, he was upbeat once again. Did he have kids? Alison thought she recalled him saying something in passing to that effect. After the interview, when she’d been appointed and came to see him and they’d had a coffee and an informal chat.
— This policy of ruthlessly culling diseased trees and renewal through planting is the only way to preserve our treescape, thus our cityscape, he contended, winding up the presentation on that positive note, graciously thanking the audience. It had seemed to go well, even if it was intended more as a ‘hearts and minds’ session, as he’d previously described it to her. The recreation committee had already passed the policy and it would go through the formality of going to the full council next week, as extra resources had to be sought from the Scottish Office. As he climbed down from the platform, Alison gauged Alexander’s smile; terse and businesslike, warm and inclusive, yet some way shy of frivolity, accepting with ease the admiration for the way he’d formulated this policy and was now preparing to enact it.
When she finally caught his eye, Alexander was in the company of a late-middle-aged man. He had an implausibly red face, as if it had been spray-painted, this startling effect heightened by his silver hair and a bright yellow shirt. — Alison … Alexander smiled, as she moved over to them, — this is Councillor Markland, chair of the recreation committee. He then turned to the belisha-beacon man. — Stuart, Alison here’s our new admin support for the unit. She’s been seconded from the RCP.
— How’s things at the Commie these days? Councillor Markland asked her.
— Fine, Alison smiled, warming to the councillor for using the punter’s colloquialism for the Royal Commonwealth Pool, rather than the bland councilspeak Alexander had deployed. — I’ve just started this job with Alexander today, on secondment for a year.
— Come and grab some lunch with us, Alexander said, — then I’m going to take you on a wee drive round some of the Dutch elm disease hot spots.
They left the Chambers, heading in hazy heat across the Royal Mile to a wine bar. It was the last day of the festival and the narrow street was packed with crowds watching performers do their things on the cobblestones. By the time she got across, Alison had flyers for eight different shows pressed into her hand. Alexander took a couple, but Stuart Markland waved away the proferring young students with a low, gruff burr, displaying the intimidating bearing of a man who’d seen it all before. But he ignited as they stepped inside the tavern, literally rubbing his hands with glee as they were shown to a table in the corner.
Though far more appreciative of the wine than the food – her stomach seemed to have shrunk – Alison nonetheless forced her way through it, mindful that she’d eaten little over the last two days. Stuart Markland seemed to be enjoying both. He grinned wolfishly at them as he shovelled some chicken Kiev into his mouth, then wiped it with his napkin.
Alexander, nursing one glass of red, made a serious point. — I don’t like the way some people are deploying the acronym ‘DED’ in council correspondence. I’ve made this view known to Bill Lockhart. If the papers get a hold of that and start adopting it, it gives off a ghoulish, defeatist impression. We have to avoid own goals, Stuart, he said, compelling the councillor to give this point his attention.
— For sure, Markland barked.
— Dutch elm sounds more robust. Alexander stabbed the air with his fork. — The press will be a huge part of this campaign, so let’s make sure we’re all singing from the same song sheet as soon as possible. Alison, you might like to monitor the correspondence relating to the unit, and Dutch elm disease in general, and perhaps diplomatically issue a wee note to concerned parties to that effect.
— Right, Alison said.
What the fuck is he on aboot?
Markland seemed to be considering something, lowering his busy brows. For a few seconds, Alison thought it was the wine he was savouring, before he asked, — So when does this felling and planting policy start coming intae action?
— I’ve got a squad out right now. Down in darkest West Granton, by the gasworks. Started yesterday, Alexander said, stopping short of smug in his self-satisfied confidence. He knew he’d bent the rules and jumped the gun by sending them out before the policy was rubber-stamped, but he was anxious to appear dynamic.
He studied Markland’s booze-beaten face for a reaction, feeling palpable relief when it crumpled into a smile. — You dinnae let the grass grow under your feet, the councillor said, adding, — no pun intended, and to Alison’s delight and Alexander’s obvious discomfit, he waved across to the bar, ordering a second bottle of wine.
When the bottle came round, Alexander put his hand over his glass, and looked up at the waiter. — I’m driving.
Markland reminded Alison of an illust
ration of the Cheshire cat from a book she’d had as a child, as he turned to her. — Great, aw the mair for us! Here’s tae the new unit, he toasted.
Alison in Wonderland, Mum used to say.
By the time she left the bar with Alexander, Alison was more than pleasantly groggy to the extent that she had to be careful as she lowered herself into the passenger seat of his Volvo. She thought there was no point in trying to conceal her state. — Wow … I’m not used to afternoon drinking, she said. — I have tae admit, I feel a wee bit sozzled n that’s pittin it mildly!
— Yes, thanks for taking one for the team, Alexander nodded, starting up the car, apparently genuinely pleased at her for drinking what was the best part of a bottle of wine.
Barry fuckin job this …
With yesterday’s excesses, the lack of sleep and the early-afternoon effect, she was certainly feeling it. — S’awright …
— Don’t get me wrong, Stuart Markland’s a great guy, Alexander said, turning onto the South Bridge, — but he’s very much of the old school.
Alison was about to say that she had no objection to that, but quelled her talkative instinct. You’re at work, she kept reminding herself. But it didn’t feel like that, sitting in this upholstered car, the windows down, the sun blasting in. Alexander was a bit of a wanker, but he looked good in that suit, and she felt like flirting with him. She stretched her legs out, her gaze going down her shin bone to the red-painted toenails, jutting out her strappy flat summer shoes. The impression that Alexander’s eyes had made the same journey beset her, but as she turned quickly, they were firmly on the road.
— This is a very, very sad sight, he frowned, as they drove up West Granton Road. They pulled up outside the big, blue gasworks tower, and as they stepped out of the car, Alison saw the squad of men chopping away at a tree with cutting equipment, like a moving version of the slide Alexander had shown earlier.
— This one was exhibiting signs of infestation, he said, squinting in the sun, pointing out another stricken tree, which men were busy digging out. Then his arm swept over to a mini-forest on the other side of the gasworks tower. — These guys are still healthy. Well, for the time being. This really is the front line.
I want you up me, Alison thought to herself, first just as an intoxicated subversive and vaguely malicious impulse. Then the growing kernel of lust, which seemed to flare up after she’d allowed herself that trangressive notion, both surprised and excited her, as they stepped off the tarmac onto the grass.
Along this stretch of foreshore, reclaimed from the river, two chopped trees were being hauled away to join some others in a pile. Although it was hot, the ground was growing mushier and Alison felt a cold, wet squelching in her feet. They moved close to a man two-handedly chucking splashes of petrol from a large rectangular can over the ruined trees. He was about to set them alight when Alexander shouted, — Wait!
The man looked up at him with a hostile frown. A second, authoritative-looking guy, with close-cropped black hair and thickset features, whom Alison assumed was the supervisor, stole menacingly over and growled, — Jocky, git these fuckin things burnt, glaring at Alexander in challenge, his jaw thrust out.
Alexander shot out what he hoped would be a disarming hand. — You must be Jimmy Knox. We’ve spoken on the phone. Alexander Birch, Dutch Elm Disease Control Unit.
— Aw … right, Jimmy Knox responded without a hint of deference, only taking the proffered hand with some reluctance. — Well, we’ve goat tae get these bastards burnt before the fuckin beetles in them git airborne. Then wir aw fucked, and he looked at Alison, who had raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, adding, — pardon ma French, doll.
— Of course, Jimmy, I just wanted to show Ms Lozinska … Alison here … Alexander ushered Alison close, and she stepped gingerly, unable to avoid sinking into another patch of wet turf. — Alison, Jimmy Knox. He and his guys are doing great work here at the coalface, and I don’t want to hold them back, he shook his head emphatically, — but I must show you the top of this tree. Please bear with us one second, he urged the bemused-looking foreman. — Look at this bark, and he bent over and grabbed a yellow handful of tree. — Rotten. Come closer, he implored Alison. — Look. All rotten, he declared again, his eyes misting.
Alison didn’t really want to get closer, but felt duty-bound to comply. As her right foot sank into some mud, she stumbled and almost fell, correcting herself, but kicking over the petrol can. Jimmy let out a semi-audible curse and Alexander jumped forward as it splashed against his back trouser leg. – It’s okay, he cooed as one of the men picked up the can, and planted it firmly into the soggy ground. At Alexander’s prompting, Alison’s hand reluctantly sank into the spongy bark, experiencing the same sensation as her feet in the sodden grass.
They stepped back to let the man ignite the trees. There didn’t seem to be much moisture in them, as the branches went up quickly, and the bark caught, sending a twisting curl of black smoke into the air. Alison watched the burn and crackle of the fire and was mesmerised by it. She was aware of Alexander, standing close to her, as the waves of heat flickered across her face. She could have stayed there forever, even though her feet were cold and submerging further into the soggy ground.
She heard Alexander stage-clear his throat, breaking the fire’s spell, and and they said their goodbyes to the crew. As they turned to leave, Alison could hear derisive laughter from Jimmy Knox and some of the men. She looked to Alexander, but if he had registered it, he evidently wasn’t bothered. She found it strange to be cross on his behalf, and also annoyed at him.
— These guys are all pretty pissed off, Alexander remarked, as they approached the car. — They were all taken on from the long-term unemployed register through the Manpower Services Commission’s Community Enterprise Programme. Now the government are changing the rules and making all the jobs part-time, on the reasoning that you can take twice as many people off the employment roll for the same costs. He looked at the groups of workmen. — Still doesn’t change the fact that there isn’t enough work to go round. Now these guys will have to either accept part-time wages or go back on the dole.
Alison nodded, thinking about a report in the evening paper, which noted that the Lothian Health Board had been forced to increase the waiting time between screenings for cancer patients in remission, due to central government funding cutbacks. It had arrested her, an article she would have previously passed over as mundane nonsense, put there to fill a local rag.
– I wonder where it’s all going to end up. Her boss shook his head as they climbed back into the Volvo. Alexander prodded his keys into the ignition, but rather than start up the car, seemed to think of something. He hastily turned to her, making strong eye contact. — Listen, what are you up to now? I mean, later?
— Nothing … how? She heard herself blowing out the women’s poetry group. For what? Why? She didn’t want to go home, to deal with the dark messages that would litter her answerphone. It was important to stay out.
— There’s a barbecue on at my mother’s place in Corstorphine. It’s her sixtieth birthday. It’ll be dull beyond words, but we don’t need to stay, just pop our heads in. I fancy dumping the car and getting a couple of beers. I don’t mind admitting I was a little jealous of you and Stuart with that vino, he smiled, eyes sparkling.
— Sure, why not, she replied in fake breeziness, actually wanting to listen to Alexander talk about trees a little longer. And all the time she was aware that the day, whatever it had been, had now become something else.
They headed into town and out past Tollcross where Alison thought about Johnny. How his eyes had glazed over and his mouth shrunk to a tight slit when she’d rebuffed his advances. Like he’d absented himself from his own body and she’d had to shout him back inside. On Dalry Road, Alexander suddenly braked, and pulled up. — That’s my brother, he said, and she looked over and saw a shorter version of him, also suited, swagger jauntily into what looked like a run-down pub. — He’s c
ertainly slumming it, Alexander read her mind. — Let’s go in and say hello. I can leave the car here and we can all cab it out to Corstorphine together.
The Dalry Road pub was a standard working men’s dive bar, similar to many that straddled Leith Walk. Alison felt she’d been undressed a dozen times during the short walk from door to bar. Alexander, shifting uncomfortably in his suit, glanced into an alcove at the back of the pub, where his brother, Russell, sat with a man dressed in overalls.
Michael Taylor was still and silent as he looked at Russell Birch. His stare was hard. It seemed to Alison that the two men had been arguing.
— Hi. Mind if we join you? Alexander tentatively asked, picking up the vibe.
Russell’s eyes popped, first registering the shock at seeing his brother, then looking piercingly at Alison. — Mike … eh, my brother. He briefly looked at his perplexed drinking companion, before turning back to Alexander. — Be my guest. So, he asked, pulling up a chair, — how’s the forestry business?
— I’ve moved from the Commission to the District Council, Alexander said, sitting down and sliding over another stool for Alison.
— I heard. How’s that working out? Russell asked. Alison was aware that he was checking out her legs and sat down with care, smoothing her skirt across her thighs.
— The job’s good, but this Dutch elm catastrophe is killing us. What about the pharmaceutical business?
— Booming. Everybody wants something for the pain, Russell smiled, turning to the man beside him. — This is Michael, he’s … Russell hesitated, the word ‘colleague’ seemed to play on his lips before he looked to the boiler suit, — he works beside me.
— Ditto Alison here, Alexander responded. — You heading to the old girl’s?
— Yeah. Just going. He shook his pint glass.
— Driving?
— No.
— Let’s have another and get a cab, Alexander said, pointing at Michael’s drink. — Lager?