The Interpretations

  Of course great alterations may give birth to difficulties, some of which may be insurmountable. I have always been at pains to point out that when you have a plan, a design, its value must lie beyond the immediate and any concerns of a local or temporal nature must be sacrificed to the greater good.

  You wrote in your letter of the problems you en­countered while engaged in the construction of the Tay Bridge at Aberfeldy. Your anecdote reminded me of a similar incident which I believe you did not witness but which took place during my inspection of the Drumdyre Bridge across the River Skiach in, if my memory runs not amiss, 1729, the early part of our campaign.

  The Drumdyre Bridge, though not as large as the Tay Bridge, was the largest to be built in those early years. Its two stone arches were quite high in order to accommodate the rise and fall of the water – the Skiach at this point being subject to tidal fluctuation as, less than two miles downstream, it debouched into the Firth of Dewie.

  As you are aware, Caulfeild, the extent of my enthusiasm for the design of architecture has always been measured, in spite of my growing acquaintance with it during my years in Scotland. I will grant, however, that the Drumdyre Bridge did afford me an amount of satisfaction. Its structure was doubtless sound and it was pleasing to the eye. You can imagine then my discomfort when, on the very day of its completion, as I stood some few yards away on the road that approached it from the South, a woman with a babe in arms walked purposefully towards me from the river side, came to a halt before me and began to rail at me in her native tongue not a word of which I could understand.

  Two of my Highwaymen were on the point of turning her about and sending her on her way but I staid their hand. I despatched one of them to find Matheson, the local supplier of stone, who, I knew, would be able to effect a translation of the insults she was hurling at me. Matheson was some minutes in arriving as he was on the North side of the bridge checking one of the arches and during this time, after the woman’s invective had ceased – through exhaustion rather than lack of invention, I am sure – we stood a few feet apart and examined one another. Her breast was heaving from her exertions in climbing the slope to reach me and in the delivery of her tirade.

  She was, as were all the native women of the area, poorly clad in something resembling a cloak. It was heavy and dark and much in need of washing. Her head was covered by a type of bonnet which no doubt had once been white. Both from the presence of the babe that she carried and from the fire that was clearly evident in her eyes I gauged her to be quite young though not in the first bloom of youth. I remember that I looked directly at her and nodded gravely. Not once did she avert her eyes from my face.

  Her silence was broken when Matheson arrived and she renewed her complaints with increased vigour. I told Matheson to inform her that a continuation of her shouting would not serve her purpose well, whatever it was, and that if she did not speak quietly and state her business with civility I would be obliged to send her on her way.

  Whether this is precisely what Matheson conveyed to her or whether other threats were included in his instructions I cannot say but the woman did become calm and very glad I was of this too.

  Matheson then engaged her in conversation using the Gaelic tongue of which he was an adept and he relayed to me her story and the nature of her distress.

  She gave her name as Annie MacKenzie. There were many MacKenzies in the district, the clan chieftain, Seaforth, residing in a castle at Brahan, not far distant. My own dealings with the MacKenzies were far from pleasant – they are a mean-spirited and humourless tribe, despite their allegiance to our King during the recent unpleasantness – so this information regarding her name ensured that I was not well-disposed to her plight, whatever it might be. But one must not prejudge, for I am told that is a sin. I decided to hear her out.

  Matheson discovered her to be the wife of the ferryman at Mossfield, a hamlet less than a mile downstream and impinging on the estuary itself. And herein lay the essence of the problem she wished to confide in us, or rather, to berate me with. My road and my new bridge had destroyed her husband’s livelihood. She related that her husband charged each of his passengers for the trip across the Skiach, though he was often paid not in coin but in kind by his regulars with a fish or a boll of meal. It was, she assured us, a good living and she and her family wanted for nothing – though had you seen her, Caulfeild, you would have questioned this latter statement as she clearly was in want of shoes and clean clothes.

  But now, of course, with the completion of the bridge, all this good living was brought to an abrupt end. Her husband’s income was about to be reduced to nothing, and all because of my bridge and, pointing her finger at me she demanded to know what I intended to do about it.

  As you can guess, I was astonished by her brazenness in making this accusation. I confess, too, that I had great difficulty in suppressing a wry smile. Alas, she noticed this and, through Matheson, berated me for being a haughty, inconsiderate, selfish Englishman.

  Of course, this was too much.

  I well remember, from your own confidences to me, Caulfeild, that such an unfortunate epithet has often been levelled at yourself. For my part I feel no real insult – with my history and present situation this would be absurd – but what mainly irks me is the inaccuracy of the statement. I cannot abide inaccuracy, as you know. Turning to Matheson I asked him to inform the woman, curtly, that I was not English but Irish.

  If this surprised her, nothing in her demeanour betrayed it. She immediately asked Matheson to ascertain if I could speak the Irish tongue as she had heard it had much in common with her own.

  It was at this point that I was forced to reconsider my judgement, or rather prejudgement, of the woman. I remembered that such an opinion had been voiced to me some years previously by a subaltern whose family originated in Limerick. He had further asserted that the ancient tongue of the Hibernians, still spoken today, was also akin to Scots Gaelic. I was immediately set to pondering how an uncouth and uneducated woman from such a dreary backwater could have happened upon such knowledge. The answer was immediately presented to me when Matheson translated her next statement to the effect that her husband had once travelled to Ireland and had managed to make himself understood there, albeit with some difficulty, while employing his own tongue.

  I have always resisted the learning of languages, other than the augmentation of my own. Of course it has been necessary for me to con a few phrases of French and Spanish, if only to vouchsafe to an ambassador or two my interest in their concerns, but I have restricted my knowledge mainly to the pleasantries that attend introduction and valediction. Anything more would smack of flattery which I will not countenance. I asked Matheson to inform the woman that I had always found English more than adequate to my needs. To which, through Matheson, she replied quickly with the question, ‘Even now?’

  There is a fine distinction, Caulfeild, between spirit and impertinence and this woman had now crossed this line too many times. While impressed by her pluck I was dissuaded by her continued insults and resolved to have done with her as speedily as possible. I instructed Matheson to inform her that the interview was at a close and that she should be on her way.

  But before he could say this to her, the child in her arms, asleep until now, awoke and began to cry. Her attention was immediately diverted towards comforting the child which could not have been above a few weeks old. As she lulled it in her arms, enticing it back to sleep, I saw a tiny hand raised to her chin. For the space of perhaps two minutes Matheson and I and indeed the entire world were set aside and forgotten. I saw the eyes of the woman soften as she devoted her complete attention to the child which, its confidence restored by the cradling of its mother’s arms and the quiet words of that strange tongue which she spoke to it, gradually subsided into sleep again.

  I took a guinea from my pocket and passed it to Matheson. He placed it in the woman’s palm. Her immediate reaction was one of surprise. Her mouth opened and she looked hard at the
coin, turning it over in her hand. And then her expression changed to what I can only describe as one of deep sadness.

  Unbidden, Matheson said a few words to her but she did not reply. She looked at him briefly and then turned her gaze upon me. Her look of sadness was unchanged. Then, without a further word, she turned and made her way slowly down the hill. I was interested to see if she would set foot on my bridge. Certainly she approached it but turned aside only a few yards before it. She left the road and made her way along the riverbank. I was able to mark her progress until a small birch wood intervened between her path and my gaze and she was lost to my sight.

  Matheson ventured a comment upon the ungratefulness of the local populace but to that I made no rejoinder. I dismissed him and sent him about his business.

  I believe I remained on that hill above the bridge for many minutes, lost in contemplation of what had happened. A casual observer would, rightly, assert that indeed very little had happened. I had taken pity on a poor unfortunate creature and had given her some money. But it was the nature of her reaction to this gesture which confused me and indeed puzzled me for a long time thereafter.

  Some twenty years have now passed since that incident. The child, if it survived – many in that backward place do not – would now be adult and already embarked upon parenthood. The woman I met, if she still lives, is most likely a grandmother. Occasionally I am drawn to wondering what she might remember of that day on the banks of the Skiach. I try to imagine to what use she put the guinea I gave her and am persuaded that the greater probability is that she flung it into the river.

  For I realise now, Caulfeild, after many years of thinking upon it, that her sadness, her deep disappointment, was not levelled at me but at herself. Every man, Caulfeild, desires to leave behind him a memorial of himself. In this respect you and I are indeed fortunate for we have our roads and bridges which will survive us many years hence. But in this poor woman I can now see someone whose term upon this earth will pass without a trace, whose life’s work was necessarily confined to the pursuit of survival itself and for whom the creation of anything, other than the likeness of herself, in her child, would have been impossible. It was the realisation of this fact, that she had to accept my guinea in order to provide food for herself and her family, accept it when all she wanted to do was fling it in my face, that created within her such sadness, that confirmed to her once more that she was one of the downtrodden of this world and that there was nothing she could do to alter that circumstance. As an accomplice in this scheme of things I was to be both despised and pitied for I could no more renounce my life of privilege than could she the depths of her poverty. So is the world made, Caulfeild, and it will take greater men than I to change it.

  But philosophy ill becomes me. I will leave off ere my musings become more tiresome than instructive.

  I look forward to hearing of your recent exploits in the North and urge you to reply to this letter as soon as business and family matters allow. My memories of Cradlehall, of your family and, of course, of yourself, are fond.

  I remain your sincere friend,

  George Wade.

  The Reverend McFarren rose from the kitchen table and made himself a cup of tea. He put two spoons of sugar in it and forced himself to remember this fact, to be aware of the activity that immediately involved him so that he would not, a few moments later, add more sugar in the mistaken belief that his cup held none.

  Then he sat down, with the tea, and read the Wade letter a second time. When he had finished he noticed that he had drunk scarcely half of his tea and the remainder was tepid. He threw it away.

  He returned the General’s letter to the manila envelope from which he had retrieved it barely half an hour before. Then he took the cardboard box, folded out the flaps and filled it again with all the documents that lay on the kitchen table. He pushed the flaps back but they would not shut evenly; the box was overfull. He found some sellotape in a drawer in the table and he taped the lid of the box. He pressed down hard and placed strip after strip of tape along the flap edges until the whole package had been sealed tight shut.

  11

  Fisher begat Fish who begat Trout who begat Wee Trout who begat Weet.

  As it was in the Beginning, is Now and Forever shall Be.

  Amen.

  The Din was much changed. It was no longer dark with wood-lined walls and armchairs in brown fraying upholstery. Its new bright tone lay somewhere between vivid and garish. The walls were canary yellow, a shade that Weet regarded with almost as much distaste as the new pictures that Bohespic had chosen to complement this colour scheme. These were prints in flat primary colours of flowers and fields and mountains. The images were unidentifiable and of no artistic merit whatever. Looking round at the hideous transformation Weet found it hard to understand why something quiet and comfortable needed to be traded in for what was stark and irritating.

  When he reached his usual corner, it came as no surprise to him that General Wade was gone.

  He approached the bar determined to remain polite. He asked Bohespic casually about what had happened to Wade.

  ‘Oh, I’ve still got him,’ Bohespic said. ‘He’s here, look.’ He pointed to the bottles behind him. General Wade sat on a shelf tucked away behind a row of luxury malts: Glenfiddich, Tomatin, Old Poulteney, Islay Mist. ‘He’s just maybe . . . no quite right for the new look, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I see what you mean, all right,’ Weet said.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Bohespic gestured to the bright new interior, the maroon carpet, the pale pine tables and matching chairs. ‘Bit of a change, eh?’

  ‘Oh, certainly a change,’ Weet said. ‘No question.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the General,’ Bohespic said quietly. ‘No, really. I mean, you went to a lot of trouble . . .’

  ‘I did,’ Weet stated confidently.

  ‘So, if you want him . . . I mean, if you’re prepared to give him a good home . . .’

  ‘You want to get rid of him now? Completely?’

  ‘I think you should have him,’ Bohespic said and he turned to the shelf to get the portrait. He removed the bottles ranged in front of it and placed them on the bar. He lifted the General out very carefully and handed him over to Weet, saying, ‘It’s only fair. It’s only fair. He means more to you after all.’ Then he pulled Weet a pint of beer.

  With his beer in one hand and the General under his other arm Weet, through habit, walked over to his former dark quiet corner which was now a bright loud corner.

  When Mike Delvan arrived three quarters of an hour later Weet and the General were sitting side by side like old mates.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Mike asked. ‘I mean here, you know.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘Not on the wall.’

  ‘He’s a reject,’ Weet said. ‘He’s no longer in keeping with the new image of the place. He’s feeling greatly hurt and he needs a drink.’

  ‘Next round,’ Mike promised.

  ‘There’s to be a change of name, too,’ Weet went on.

  ‘Who? Him?’ Mike asked, nodding towards the General.

  ‘Don’t be daft, no. The pub.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Going to be called the Din.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘The nickname becomes official. It won’t work.’

  ‘I didn’t like to tell Bohespic that.’

  ‘He’ll find out,’ Mike said, ‘when people start calling it something else.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘The Dinnae Ken,’ Weet offered.

  Mike winced.

  ‘Of course,’ Weet said, ‘they could start calling it the Wade Inn.’

  ‘Complete reversal. I like it. Nickname becomes official and then the only way to subvert this is for the official name to become the nickname. Great.’

  ‘People are perverse,’ Weet said.

  ‘Oh, there’s logic to it. How are the horoscopes going?’ />
  Weet smiled. ‘Well, bad and then good.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, your idea was great, don’t get me wrong. You know, getting the back numbers and just typing them out . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d be even smarter. So I took the columns from seven years ago. Same dates, see . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Just copied the lot out. Easy. Problem is, though, that Miss Crystal doesn’t just stick to “I see a dark stranger in your life” and that sort of stuff.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. He gets technical. He talks about Saturn in the cycle of something or other and the transit of fuck knows what . . .’

  ‘Technical.’

  ‘Yes. And these things are . . . well . . . they’re not on a seven year cycle, let’s put it that way.’

  Mike took a sip of his beer. ‘Even I know that, Weet.’

  ‘Well, you might have told me. Some clever bastard wrote in and spilled the beans. Even checked back to see exactly what I was doing.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes. McManus wasn’t too pleased.’

  ‘Fired you, did he?’ Mike asked.

  ‘No, no.’ Weet smiled. ‘No, I think he was amused more than angry. Took me off horoscopes anyway, so some good came of it.’

  ‘Well, congratulations. So who’s the new Miss Crystal?’

  ‘The guy who wrote in.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Absolutely. It was me that suggested it.’

  ‘A masterstroke!’

  ‘Well, at least he’ll get the moon in Scorpio and all that mumbo jumbo . . . he’ll get that right.’

  ‘I suppose he will. So what are you on at the moment?’