The Interpretations

  ‘And what’s the spread? I mean, geographically.’

  ‘Well, most are in Scotland, of course, but there’s quite a few in London and maybe half a dozen in the rest of England.’

  ‘And abroad?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy.’ She took a sip of coffee from her mug. ‘Nine at the moment. Four in France, one in America, one in Hong Kong, one in Portugal, one in Belgium and one in Outer Mongolia.’

  ‘You’re joking. Outer Mongolia?’

  ‘The McAllister boy from Newton Mains. Well, I say boy, he’s . . . he must be twenty-four or twenty-five now. Anyway, he got a job with the British Council in Ulan Bator, teaching English.’

  ‘Amazing.’ Then, after a pause, ‘None in Spain?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’

  ‘What about in the past?’

  ‘Oh yes. At various times. How far back to you want me to go?’

  ‘1982?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll have to look it up, though.’ She rose and reached for a ledger on top of one of the filing cabinets.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d keep stuff going that far back,’ Jim said.

  ‘I started with the paper in 1976,’ Hessie said as she began to leaf through the ledger. ‘I decided then to keep a few facts so that we could get some kind of profile, you know, a trend line or whatever. And now that I’ve got my new computer, I’ll be able to put all these facts into databases and produce graphs and charts and so forth. All good fun. Right. 1982. Here we are. One in Spain in 1982 from . . . let’s see . . . August. Yes, started in August.’

  ‘Have you got a name?’

  ‘No. No name. It was ordered by a newsagent in Madrid.’

  ‘Is that how it’s usually done?’

  ‘Actually, no. Mostly people order them direct. It’s a bit easier that way. For them and for us.’

  ‘So how long did that order last?’

  ‘This one, in Madrid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s see . . .’ She began to turn pages. ‘Still there in ’83,’ she said. ‘ ’84, ’85 and . . . ah, cancelled in July 1986.’

  ‘OK, so did you get any other orders that began in, say, August or September 1986?’

  ‘In Spain?’

  ‘No. Anywhere.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ She turned a few more pages. ‘There were . . . three.’ She flicked back a page and then forward again. ‘Yes, three.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, there’s one in Malta. Ah, I remember that. It was Hugh Ballantyne. Do you know him? From Ferrytown?’

  ‘Can’t say I do,’ Jim said.

  ‘Well, he got a contract for two years in Malta. Valletta. Engineering, I think. Anyway, I take it he’s not the one you’re looking for.’

  ‘No.’

  She was already facing him. Now she raised her eyes from the ledger and looked at him. ‘Who are you looking for?’

  ‘To be honest,’ Jim said, ‘I’d rather not say.’

  Hessie shrugged. ‘Well, as you like . . .’

  ‘Look,’ Jim began, ‘this may be a complete waste of time. And if . . . if that’s what it turns out to be, then I apologise. But what I’m after is . . . I’m trying to track someone down, someone who had reason to keep in touch with Dalmore and may have ordered the Herald for a while. But if he did, he couldn’t do it in his own name. What I’m pretty sure of is that he couldn’t stay abroad for a long time. He probably came back to Britain in . . . well, anything from nineteen eighty-three to nineteen ninety-one. But he may have gone to other places before he came back home.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Not much to go on, I know . . .’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it’s easily checked. Let’s take another look. Now . . .’ Her finger ran down a page of names. ‘. . . the other two who began in nineteen eighty-six . . . Yes, there’s Brian McNicholas in September. I remember him, too. Went to France for six months. And . . . and there’s someone . . . no name given, just the newsagent. And that was in Portugal.’

  ‘When did that one finish?’

  ‘Very quickly actually. He cancelled in January nineteen eighty-seven.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I think I’m getting the drift here. Let’s see . . . ah, someone ordered in February eighty-seven.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘London. Again, there’s no name, just the address of a newsagent in Old Compton Street.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But it’s in W1 so it’s probably quite central.’

  ‘And when did that one finish?’

  ‘Well, it finished in . . .’ She turned more pages. ‘ . . . in . . . oh, it hasn’t finished. We’re still sending them.’

  ‘Really? And do we have many orders in London?’

  ‘Quite a few, I think. Yes, Well . . . seven. Not as many as I thought. That’s including this one in Old Compton Street.’

  ‘And have you got names for the others?’

  She checked her list once more. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, we send the other six direct. So . . .’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Jim said. ‘Very helpful indeed.’ He stood up. ‘The weekend editions – the exords, I mean – they’re posted on Monday morning, aren’t they?’

  ‘No, no. They go out first thing on Saturday.’

  ‘So Saturday’s a busy day for you, is it?’

  ‘Oh, not bad,’ Hessie said. ‘They’re cellophane wrapped before I get them. I just stick the labels on.’

  He opened the door. ‘I may . . .’ he began, ‘I may ask another favour.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘But I don’t know what it is yet.’

  ‘Well, just let me know when the time comes.’ She picked up her mug and finished her coffee.

  ‘When I passed ninety,’ the Reverend McFarren said as Jim helped him off with his coat, ‘I thought I’d have no more funerals to go to. Except, of course, that final one I’ll have no option but to attend.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I wonder, could you hang the coat up in the wardrobe, there . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  As Jim put the coat away, the minister continued, ‘When I was in my seventies, I seemed to be going to funerals all the time and of course it depressed me because it meant all my friends were dying. And then, in my eighties, I hardly went to any funerals and that depressed me too because it meant all my friends were already dead.’ He made his way round his bed and sat in the armchair by the window. ‘And then, out of the blue . . .’

  ‘So you’ve been to a funeral today?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, they’re very good here, you know. I had a minibus all to myself. I thought it was a bit of a waste, really, just for me, but there you are. Not exactly a big winner as a day out, eh? Come to Inverness with me, I’m going to a funeral.’

  ‘Whose funeral was it?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Gordon Tulloch,’ the minister said. ‘You might remember him, he had a butcher’s shop on the High Street.’

  ‘Certainly I remember him,’ Jim said. ‘In fact it was you who reminded me about him recently.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘His daughter’s name is on the dedication page of our book.’

  ‘Oh, of course it is. Yes.’

  ‘And her boyfriend’s.’

  ‘Peter Clinghurst. Yes, his name’s there too, of course.’

  ‘But I thought that Tulloch died years ago.’

  ‘A pity he didn’t,’ the minister said. He waited for a few moments for a response to this but Jim said nothing. Then he went on, ‘Not a very charitable statement, I know, especially from a minister, but poor old Gordon spent the last ten years of his life in Nain House. Had a complete mental breakdown and never recovered. Oh, it was very sad, very sad. I visited him for a while – for the first couple of years or so – but then it just seemed pointless. By that time he’d stopped speaking and gave no hint of recognising anyone. Terrible, terrible . . . That’s
why I said he’d have been better off . . . you know . . .’ He made a gesture towards the sea. ‘He should have died long ago; he should have had his rest.’ He paused. ‘A very troubled man. And troubling, too.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t say this, especially not today, but . . . the truth is, I didn’t really like him. No, I didn’t really like him at all. And he was an elder of the kirk. Very difficult. Very difficult indeed. I used to think that God had put Gordon Tulloch on the earth just to try my patience. He was such a difficult man to get on with, always . . . always throwing himself into things without thinking. Impetuous. Very impetuous. And hard on his family, too, I felt, though of course things changed when poor Eileen died.’

  ‘His daughter.’

  ‘No, I was thinking of his wife, actually. She was also called Eileen. And she died . . . oh, two or three years before the tragedy with the daughter.’

  ‘He must have been . . . well, devastated when the daughter died as well.’

  ‘Oh, he was, he was. Aged him overnight. I never saw such a change. Of course, it was made so much worse by what her boyfriend did. Not that Gordon had a great deal of time for Peter Clinghurst. Blamed him for corrupting his daughter and so forth. That was before the boy died, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was certainly more contrite after that. But he never got over it. No, never. And I keep thinking about what I would have done in that kind of situation. I’ve thought about it a lot.’

  ‘And have you reached any kind of conclusion?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Oh yes. I’d have fared no better,’ the minister said. ‘I’m convinced of that.’

  After a few moments, Jim took ‘Island Years’ from his pocket. ‘I came to return this,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, excellent. I’m looking forward to finishing it. Did it . . . were you able to get the information you needed?’

  ‘Yes, I was. Thank you.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  ‘Have you been reading the typescript?’ Jim asked. It sat there, on top of the row of books on the bureau.

  ‘I have, yes. I’m about halfway through. No major errors yet, I’m glad to say. You know, it’s interesting when you can see the whole thing together, not just all the little bits you worked on . . . seeing the whole thing, well, let’s say that I’m almost impressed.’

  ‘And so you should be.’

  Then Jim said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to dash off.’ He placed the copy of ‘Island Years’ in the minister’s hands. ‘And I might not see you for . . . well, I’m not sure. Maybe a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Are you going away?’ the minister asked.

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘May I ask where to?’

  ‘I’m going to London.’

  21

  He thought of calling in sick but knew this was a bad idea and a stupid one. First, it wasn’t true and lying was something he didn’t like doing, except perhaps in print. But more importantly there was the size of Dalmore to consider. It was such a small place. Everybody knew everybody else – who they were, what they did and the state of their bank balance, never mind their health. People would come round to his flat to visit him and find that he wasn’t there. Then they’d call the hospital and maybe even the police.

  No, there was no way round it: he had to tell Bloomingfield the truth. And that’s what he did.

  ‘I need to go away for a few days,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I imagine you’ve got some leave owing.’

  ‘Heaps.’

  ‘Then fine. Book it with Hessie. When were you thinking of going?’

  ‘Today. Well, tonight, actually.’

  ‘Today? Christ, Jim . . .’

  They were in the editor’s office, Bloomingfield sitting behind his desk, Jim standing in front of it.

  ‘I’m thinking of the show at the weekend,’ Bloomingfield said. ‘Who’s going to cover it if not you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, exactly. Christ . . .’ He flipped open a desk diary whose hardback cover was rather battered. Bits of paper were stuck in here and there, fixed with paper clips or staples. ‘I can’t send cummings . . .’ His finger ran down the week ahead. ‘The Treshie Show, then there’s the opening of the new community hall . . . There’s that bloody awful art exhibition . . .’ He looked up. ‘You couldn’t leave it for a week, could you?’

  And, of course, he could easily leave it for a week. Eighteen years had gone by; one week wasn’t going to make a lot of difference. But he knew that he had to do it now, straight away.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Kind of urgent, then, is it? Whatever it is.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bloomingfield looked hard at him, as if examining his face for clues. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Only I don’t like it when you’re not taking the piss out of me. You’re not sick, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m perfectly fine, thanks. Really.’

  ‘Not in any . . . well, you’re not in a spot of bother, are you?’

  ‘No, actually I’m not. I’m . . . there’s just something I need to do,’ Jim said. ‘I can’t tell you what it is but I need to do it now and I don’t know how long it’ll take.’

  Bloomingfield stood up and advanced to the side of the desk. He took one step more to the front corner and leaned against it. The two men were barely three feet apart.

  ‘But you will be coming back?’ Bloomingfield asked.

  After a short pause, Jim said, ‘That’s my intention, yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to leave,’ Bloomingfield said. Then he lowered his voice. ‘You’re the best journalist we’ve got.’ He pointed to the main office. ‘But don’t tell any of those bastards out there I said that.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Take as much time as you want. Just come back, all right?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Jim said.

  ‘As for the show,’ Bloomingfield added, ‘I suppose I could cover it myself. I need the practice.’

  He took the overnight train from Inverness to London, sharing a sleeping compartment with a solicitor from Aberdeen called Mettram who blundered in at 2am after spending four hours in the buffet car disposing of large amounts of alcohol. Mettram took off his shoes, lay down on the lower bunk but immediately got up again, banging his head on the underside of Jim’s bunk as he did so. ‘Fucking trains,’ he complained. Then, in a shout, ‘Fucking trains!’ He leaned against the upper bunk, his shoulder only a few inches away from Jim’s elbow, and he unzipped his fly. He pissed into the sink and onto the floor. Then he farted loudly and spread himself out on his bunk again. He fell asleep straight away.

  After this introduction to the personal habits of his roommate, Jim didn’t sleep much. He got up just before five while the train was still pushing through the dark towards Euston. He decided to wash and shave in the toilet at the end of the carriage. Then he went back to the compartment to pack his things. Mettram slept on. Jim pulled open the small window above the sink. He picked up Mettram’s shoes and pushed them out of the window, left shoe first and then right. The speeding night air wrenched each one from his hand and sent it tumbling towards the track. He closed the window, snapping it shut, knowing that nothing would wake Mettram. Then he went to the buffet car and sat there till the train journey ended.

  He’d been to London only once – some fifteen years before – and he remembered how much it had astonished him. And now he was astonished all over again. He stood at the front of Euston Station and looked out over the ugly expanse of the concrete forecourt, the bus carriageway and the patch of battered grass that lay between himself and the Euston Road. It was 6am on a Friday morning and the Euston Road was full of traffic. Such business and energy. Such apparent purpose. The night had ended and the day had begun but he wasn’t sure if there was a difference between the two. He felt that the presence or absence of natural light was irrelevant to any definition he might attempt.


  There were so many people.

  He went back inside the station, bought a newspaper and stood outside one of the cafés until it opened at 7am. This was also the time when travellers on the sleeper service were obliged to leave their compartments. Mettram would appear at any moment. He would be barefoot or maybe wearing a pair of slippers offered to him by the buffet car attendant. But there was no sign of him.

  By 7.30 the station was much busier. The earlier groups of passengers leaving trains and disappearing down the entrance to the tube had coalesced into a constant stream. And just as many were coming from the tube. Trains were arriving and departing at intervals of only a few minutes. People moved across the concourse at speed. Nobody seemed to be walking slowly. Electric trucks pulling trailers stacked with cartons of merchandise beeped their way through the crowds. At one point a wheeled stretcher appeared from one of the platforms. Paramedics attended someone who’d been taken ill. Jim imagined this might be Mettram being dragged off to have his stomach pumped. All the cafés were now open and queues had formed for take away coffees and Danish pastries.

  Jim sat at a table at the front of the café till eight o’clock, drinking coffee and consuming two bacon sandwiches. Through the glass frontage he observed the station concourse and grew fearful of the crowds. Even now, he thought, he could turn himself round and head back to Inverness. There were plenty of trains. In fact, there was one leaving shortly, in only a few minutes’ time.

  Miss Comlyn, that’s who he needed right now. She had spent time in Venice and in London. She could be his guide and mentor. She could calm him down. Because he was not calm; he was certainly not relaxed. She could put her hand on his arm and tell him what a nice man he was. And call him Peter.

  He felt sure she would tell him that going back now was even dafter than coming here in the first place. Might as well go through with it.

  His case wasn’t heavy – no more than a briefcase really – so he decided he would walk. Before he left the café he took out the copy of the London A-Z he’d bought on his previous visit and planned a route from Euston Station to Villiers Street where his hotel was situated. The route he chose was not the most direct but it was the simplest. He set off along the Euston Road towards Euston Square Station and, a little further on, he crossed to Warren Street Station on the other side. From there progress was more or less in a straight line down Tottenham Court Road and Charing Cross Road to Charing Cross Station and Villiers Street. He arrived at his hotel at 9.15.