The Interpretations

  Weet said, ‘Gilfedder.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The two men were silent for a few moments. They were sitting directly opposite one another. Between them, to Weet’s right and Mike Delvan’s left, sat General Wade, like a silent umpire. Weet turned in his seat and looked up at the wall. In the place once occupied by the General there was what might have been a seascape or perhaps a mass of coloured shapes with a wedge of blue somewhere in the middle.

  ‘Will you look at that,’ Weet said.

  ‘Rather not,’ Mike replied.

  ‘Bohespic busy?’

  Mike looked towards the bar. ‘Can’t see him,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’ Weet stood up. He removed the new painting and put it on the floor, leaning against and facing the wall. Then he put General Wade back in his rightful place. ‘Just while we’re here,’ he said. ‘Just while we’re here.’

  ‘So, anyway,’ Mike said, taking hold of his pint of beer. ‘Gilfedder.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . I’ve done a short piece already. You know . . . tragic events, police still unsure of details, local community stunned, Tom’s disappearance . . . All that stuff. Front line reporting. It’s pretty easy. But McManus wants something different now, something more reflective, now that Gilfedder’s dead.’

  ‘So? Shouldn’t be that difficult.’

  ‘No, no, it shouldn’t. But the trouble is,’ Weet said, ‘it’s difficult to know where to begin and . . . and if you sort that out, you’ve got to know where to end. I mean, obviously Gilfedder’s dead and that’s pretty final but there’s Tom and what’s happened to him. Even the . . . the incident at WattWays that started the whole thing off . . .’

  ‘If that was the start . . .’

  ‘Exactly, yeah. Well, anyway, WattWays aren’t keen to talk about it. And when you get to Tom you get to the running club, the race and of course you get to the bridge. And before you know it McFarren’s involved.’

  ‘McFarren?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. And, by the way, he’s going to be taking the funeral.’

  ‘Is he? So Gilfedder was a staunch member of the Free Kirk, was he?’

  ‘I doubt if he’d ever been inside the door,’ Weet said. ‘But McFarren’s the only one who’ll bury him. That’s the story I’m getting.’

  ‘Unusually good of him,’ Mike said. ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Weet shrugged. ‘He’s involved, let’s put it that way.’

  ‘You could say he’s involved too,’ Mike said, pointing to the portrait of Wade now on the wall behind Weet.

  Weet smiled. ‘I suppose he is.’ He sipped his beer. He went on, ‘It’s difficult to stop, that’s all. I mean, it started out as a leader comment and now, even before I’ve written a word of it, it’s feature length and more. If I’m not careful it’ll turn into a fucking book.’

  ‘Oh, be careful, Weet,’ Mike said. ‘Please be careful.’

  ‘You’re still calling me Weet.’

  ‘Am I? I suppose I am. Habit. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. No, really, it doesn’t. Forget it. It’s curious, though . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It didn’t stick with you, did it? I mean Diggan.’

  ‘Diggan,’ Mike said. He smiled. ‘Dig and Delvan . . . well, that was a long time ago.’

  ‘Didn’t stick, see. That’s what I mean. But Weet’s always stuck to me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t fight it,’ Mike said. ‘It’ll go away. It’ll just drift away.’

  ‘No, it’s too late for that now. I am defined.’ He drank down the remainder of his beer and placed the empty glass on the table. Thin froth slithered down the inside of the glass like exhausted spume. The two men examined the glass in silence for a few seconds until Weet said, ‘Your round.’

  At the bar, waiting as Bohespic got the drinks, Mike said, ‘Bit quiet in here today?’

  ‘Noticed that myself, funnily enough,’ Bohespic replied with a sour edge to his tone. ‘Decorate the place so it looks nice and then what? People just piss off and go somewhere else.’

  ‘Don’t know what they’re missing,’ Mike said. He carried two pints of beer over to Weet and then returned to the bar to fetch two double malt whiskies, neat.

  ‘They’re his drinks,’ Mike said, nodding to the portrait, ‘but maybe he’ll allow us to try them.’

  Weet stood up and raised one of the whiskies. ‘To the General,’ he exclaimed loudly.

  ‘To the General!’ Mike repeated more quietly.

  Weet sat down, poured the remains of his malt into his beer and drank.

  ‘Waste of a good malt, that,’ Mike said as he sat down. He drank his whisky in one.

  ‘Interviewed Avril Gilfedder today,’ Weet said.

  ‘Did you?’ Mike said, surprised. ‘I didn’t think she’d be talking to anybody right now.’

  ‘Oh, she was quite forthcoming. Especially about what happened in WattWays.’

  ‘Really? So can you tell me about it or should I wait for tomorrow’s Herald?’

  Weet smiled. ‘It’s mostly conspiracy theory.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Gilfedder told her – this was during the siege, remember, just after what happened at WattWays – he told her that all the men were ganging up on him . . .’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Because he worked harder than anyone else. They were keen to get him to slow down. And there was Tom, especially, just couldn’t keep up. So he was under pressure. Gilfedder, I mean. The management liked him but the men hated him. He loved the work and they hated it. Then Tom confronted him, accused him of upsetting the . . . team spirit or something. Anyway, Gilfedder just refused to change. There was a bit of pushing and shoving . . .’

  ‘Who started that?’

  ‘Tom did.’

  Mike shook his head. Weet went on, ‘Tom slipped and fell over and banged his head on a crate. So all the men realised that here was the perfect opportunity to get rid of Gilfedder. They could accuse him of attacking Tom. And that’s what they did. The police were called and Gilfedder . . . well, he knew he couldn’t win this one, so he ran off before they arrived.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ Mike said. Weet didn’t respond, so Mike asked, ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not much, no,’ Weet conceded.

  ‘Not much? So which bits do you believe?’

  ‘Well, Gilfedder said that Tom felt he was better than the rest of them, a bit of a snob, you know, with all his education and everything.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there’s a bit of truth in that, isn’t there? I mean . . . you know Tom better than most. He was a bit of a snob.’

  After a few seconds’ hesitation, Mike began, ‘Tom . . .’

  But Weet interrupted him. ‘What the hell was he doing working in a fish factory, anyway?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘Wanted to become a minister at one point, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. In spite of McFarren.’

  ‘Why’d he give it up?’

  ‘No idea,’ Mike said. ‘Another forbidden area.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Weet said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe Gilfedder talked too much, and most of it was shite, but Tom talked too little. In fact, he said bugger all to anybody about anything.’

  They said nothing for nearly a minute. A man in an old battered waxed jacket, worn corduroy trousers and grey Wellington boots came in and went up to the bar. They could see him ordering his drink and heard him saying, ‘A bit quiet in here tonight, eh?’ Bohespic mumbled a reply which they could not make out.

  ‘Did you know McFarren wrote a book on the Clearances?’ Weet asked.

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ Mike said. ‘But I haven’t read it.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. Do you remember the Herald ran an anti-litter ca
mpaign a few years back called “Highland Clearance”?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘My idea,’ Weet said. ‘The name, I mean. It wasn’t long after I’d joined the Herald. Anyway, it didn’t go down too well with the Reverend. Oh no. I was making fun of a sad and devastating period of Highland history. I was guilty not just of poor taste but blasphemy!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh yes. And he wrote to me personally, as well as the Herald. Advised me to educate myself as to the true nature of these ignoble events. Something like that. Enclosed a copy of his book.’

  ‘And you read it?’

  ‘Yes. Not straight away, though. Took me a year or two to get round to it, but I did. Not bad either, really. Although he makes some fundamental errors.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Takes sides too easily. He’s a black and white man, McFarren.’

  ‘As we know,’ Mike said.

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, he gets a mention too.’ He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the portrait of General Wade.

  ‘Can’t get away from him, eh?’

  ‘Nope,’ Weet said, adding, ‘Wade, the old bridge, the new bridge, WattWays, Inchduie, wolves . . .’

  ‘Wolves?’

  ‘Oh, certainly wolves. Yes. And Elsie McKillop.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘No,’ Mike admitted. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Shame on you. She died during the Sheeppark Clearance. She’s buried on Inchduie Island. That’s why there was such a fuss later on when they decided to plant one of the towers of the bridge on it. I’ll lend you the book, if you like. In fact, I’ll get it for you right now.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘No, I won’t.’ He sat down again. ‘I’ll need it.’

  ‘Weet, are you just a wee bit drunk, or what?’ Mike asked.

  ‘A wee bit, yes.’

  ‘Did you have a few before I got here?’

  ‘Only a couple. Maybe three.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have got you that whisky.’

  Weet shook his head. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Then he nodded instead. ‘Yes, you should. Anyway . . .’ He stood up again. ‘The General and I are leaving.’ He took down the portrait. Pointing to the picture that was still on the floor, he said, ‘I’d leave that there, if I were you.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to go. I’ve got twenty-seven beginnings and forty-four endings and fuck knows how many middles.’

  ‘I look forward to reading it,’ Mike said.

  ‘Good,’ Weet said. ‘Good.’ He put the portrait of General Wade under his arm. ‘I’m going now. My name is Weet,’ he said, a little too loudly. ‘My name is Weet. I am defined. So be it.’ He turned towards the door.

  12

  His first thought was: I have been betrayed. He sat at his kitchen table for several minutes unwilling or unable to move. The letter lay before him on the tabletop – hard pale blue Formica scarred with years of use. I have been betrayed, he repeated to himself, by an enemy within. An enemy within. This is a world I no longer understand nor care to understand. This is a world that no longer cares to understand me.

  He left the manse, closing the back door quietly behind him, and made his way towards the church. He walked past the vestry up the gravel path to the wrought iron gate that led into the cemetery at the back of the building. At times he found it odd that there were reasons to love the cemetery. Of course, there were the people interred there, many of whom he loved – one dearly – but apart from that, there was its situation. Rising behind it, in the almost perfect shape of an upturned boat, was the hill known locally as the Broad Hill. It wasn’t a high hill, not like those further west, but it had dignity, he felt. It wasn’t showy or arrogant, just a smooth rounded hill with slopes of bracken and a stand of battered Scots Pines at the tail end of the gentler incline to the north. So, as he reminded himself often, there was sadness here, but beauty as well.

  As he neared the gate the gravel of the path thinned and exposed the roots of the conifers that stood on either side of the cemetery entrance. He had told them – who was it in fact? Not Skinner, no. Was it Dobret? – that the path was too steep for gravel, that the stones would slowly migrate down the hill, moving in tiny increments imparted by rain, by the tramping of the feet of mourners. But they hadn’t listened. So he’d got into the habit, every so often, every fortnight or so, of raking the gravel himself, raking it up from the bottom of the short incline to distribute it more evenly at the top. He had done this for a few years but it was beyond him now. He could feel the effects of gravity not only on the gravel but on his own body. It was struggle enough to bring only his body to the top of the path without dragging stones along as well. This was one more item on the growing list of things that reminded him of his mortality.

  A few feet from the gate he paused to draw breath. Then he moved on again, reaching the gate and noticing that it wasn’t properly shut. It swung open towards him, unlatched. He made sure it was closed correctly behind him before he advanced into the cemetery.

  He made a detour from the main path in order to visit his wife’s grave. On the polished grey granite headstone her name was picked out in gold: Millicent McFarren. In the six years he had known her before they married, he had always called her Millicent. Some time after they married she announced she would be happy to be called Millie and later still there had been no complaint when he had further shortened her name to Mill.

  Despite his faith there was so much that he found to be incomprehensible. What exactly was it, this thing that lay only a few feet away? Was it the body of Mill, the decaying body of Mill? He knew the answers, the official ones – the vehicle of the soul, the earthly manifestation of something ethereal, everlasting. He knew this but knowing, as in believing, did not take him closer to comprehending. Of course it was not his place to aspire to the knowledge that was God’s own. What he had to do was believe, obey, submit. But he could not suppress this desire to know, to understand. One day he would. But not here, not in this place.

  Something else that he found disturbing, but in a strange way joyous, was the space on the headstone below his wife’s name where his own name would be written, some day soon. He bowed his head, said a little prayer for the repose of Mill’s soul and the salvation of his own and then walked slowly across to the far corner of the cemetery where a fresh grave had been dug the day before.

  He just liked to check. Alnwick was a good man but inclined to forgetfulness. When old Mrs Cranbrook had passed away five years ago Alnwick had left the final part of the digging for the morning of the funeral itself then failed to get up in time – some excuse about a broken alarm clock. When the coffin arrived at the graveside it was obvious to everyone that the grave itself was about a foot too short. Ironic in a way as Mrs Cranbrook was a tiny woman, less than five feet tall, her coffin much longer because it had to be wide enough to accommodate the portrait of her husband – who had died forty-five years before her – which she insisted should be buried with her. It had taken two of the mourners less than three minutes to extend the grave and allow the interment to continue but it had been an embarrassment certainly, a great embarrassment.

  So he liked to check.

  And everything looked to be in order.

  Of course everything was not in order. There was the fact that the wife, the widow, Avril Gilfedder, had come to him in tears saying that all the other churches had said no, that he was her last hope, her only hope. And he had said yes, knowing that some of his parishioners would object, some would be outraged. The Mitchells, for example, not known for their compassion, they would have a word with him. No doubt of that. And then there was his own relationship with Donald Gilfedder, something that still troubled him.

  But who would come to the funeral? Gilfedder’s family of course. Widow, a brother and sister-in-law. There was another brother but he was in jail. Who else? Some of his workmates from WattWays? Not a very popular man, Gilfe
dder, by all accounts. Probably someone from the Herald. Fisher probably. That arrogant piece of nonsense who was the brains behind that ridiculous anti-litter campaign called ‘Highland Clearance’. No one else. A small service, a short one, a few apposite words. Something to grant a little dignity to a poor misguided wretch.

  So different from the last funeral, only a few weeks ago. The grave was over there in the far corner, under the conifer he’d planted himself in 1952. A hundred and fifty people at least had come along. Most of Dalmore High School. Grieving aunts and uncles from the Borders. All for Eileen Tulloch, a seventeen year old girl who had had her heart broken and decided to kill herself.

  He shook his head. The death of a child. He couldn’t find the words to describe the horror of it, the waste.

  The minister turned back towards the manse. On the kitchen table he found again the letter from his superiors which, for a few minutes, he had succeeded in forgetting about.

  ‘My dear James,’ it began – the first name terms had alarmed him immediately – ‘I am writing to inform you of a decision reached by the council after much discussion, much deliberation and much prayer. It is a decision, I know, that will disturb you greatly but I assure you that we were guided towards it by our love and respect for the Lord and for the need to steer an unswerving and true course in the propagation of his Word. We are fully cognisant of the problems you have dealt with so admirably in recent years with respect to the Easter and Wester Kirks in the Parish of Caulder. Sadly there has been a decline in church membership and Sabbath attendance within the church in general though the difficulties faced by Caulder have been exacerbated by migration away from the rural areas to southern conurbations. More specifically we are alarmed, as you are, at the decay that is evident to the fabric of the two kirks. After seeking guidance from the Lord we are of a mind that our efforts to serve His needs will be better accommodated by concentrating on the upkeep of one of the buildings rather than both . . .’

  13

  Weet’s toes were very cold. It was half past six in the evening and he was standing at the bar in the Din whose new nickname, he’d decided, was the Dinnae Come Inn. But he was there, possibly for the last time, and not in his usual corner any more. Without General Wade, his usual corner had lost its appeal. So he was standing at the bar. He had already had four pints of beer, each with a whisky chaser, and he was well on the way to being drunk. He was still sober enough, however, to feel the cold in his toes. His toes were cold because he was barefoot.