McCrimmon held aloof while the teacher paid for the coffees but walked beside him up Sauchiehall Street and over Rose Street in the dusk of an autumn evening. The teacher explained he must first buy some presents as he had not visited his grandparents for over a year. “Coloured beads to keep the natives happy, eh?” said McCrimmon. The teacher did not answer. He supposed that McCrimmon’s talent had destroyed normal sympathies by raising him into a bad-mannered class which must be tolerated because it knows no better.
5
They crossed New City Road into a district which two years before had been lively with people and bright with small shops. An advancing motorway now threatened it with demolition so nothing was being replaced or repaired and people with plans for the future had moved out. Pavements were cracked, road surfaces potholed, some tenements obviously derelict. Not every shop was boarded up. In a small general store the teacher bought bread, butter, jam, cheese, eggs, potatoes, tinned corned beef, sardines, beans and stewed pears. The Pakistani owner put all this in a cardboard box which the teacher hoisted upon his shoulder.
He led McCrimmon into a gaslit close and up narrow stairs with the door of a communal lavatory on each half landing. On the third landing he tapped a door with signs of former working-class dignity: a shiningly polished brass door-knob, letter-box and name-plate engraved with the name ROSS.
“Who’s there?” asked an old voice from within.
“It’s me, Granny – Jimmy.”
“O my boy!”
A small neat timidly smiling woman opened the door. She wore spectacles, flower-patterned wrap-round apron and old cloth slippers. She looked much older than the teacher remembered. One reason why he visited her so seldom was that she looked older every time he did so. He said, “I’ve brought a friend, Granny.”
“I’m sure he’s welcome.”
“Hullo hullo Mrs Ross. McCrimmon is the name but you just call me Tony.”
“Fancy that. Come in Mr McCrimmon.”
They entered a small neat room with a recess bed in which the teacher’s father’s father lay perfectly still on his back. A wedge of pillows propped him at a straight angle from waist to head. His eyes were shut, mouth slightly open, spectacles pushed onto brow, hands folded on book on coverlet over stomach.
“How’s Grampa?” the teacher murmured placing the box on a sideboard.
“O don’t ask me,” she sighed, “I’ve given up worrying about him. Just be a bit quiet and we’ll have a sip of tea without being bothered by his nonsense. Or do you want me to make you a meal?” she asked, staring at the groceries.
“No Granny, I’m afraid we can’t stay long. A cup of tea will do.”
“You’re a good wee boy to play Santa Claus with your old folk.”
At the side of the range was a kettle of water which she shifted onto the fire saying, “Take off your coat and sit down Mr McCrimmon.”
Her grandson had already done so.
“Don’t worry about me Mrs Ross,” said McCrimmon strolling to the wooden sink before the window. He stood there with his back to the room. The teacher felt dominated by his grandfather’s lean, Caesar-like profile and whispered, “Is his back still bad?”
“Yes but he never speaks about it now.”
“Can’t you get a doctor to him?”
“You know what he thinks about doctors. Come to the fire, Mr McCrimmon. Make yourself at home.”
“Just don’t worry about me Mrs Ross,” said McCrimmon without turning round.
The kettle simmered. Mrs Ross brewed a pot of tea asking, “How’s the family?”
“Not bad. All right. You should visit us. You’d like the wee boy.”
“It’s difficult getting away from here without a babysitter.”
She nodded to the bed.
“Aye. She means me,” said his grandfather opening his eyes. “She needna. I can manage without her.”
His distinct low-keyed voice seemed to fill the room. His wife gave an incredulous “Hm!” and laid on the table a plate of biscuits and tea things. Mr Ross adjusted his spectacles with careful arm movements which left the trunk of his body perfectly still, and appeared to resume reading his library book. Mrs Ross poured tea into a mug and three cups. To the mug she added sugar, milk, a long straw, then placed it by the bed on a cabinet holding a chamberpot. The teacher and his grandmother sat at the table drinking tea as McCrimmon, ignoring another invitation to join them, examined something in his hand.
Abruptly Mr Ross said, “How’s the teaching going?”
“On,” said the teacher. “And on. And on.”
“Aye! It’s secure.”
“Secure, yes. Only a sex crime will get me out of it now.”
“And well paid, compared with what most manual workers earn. And worthwhile. Children’s minds need feeding as much as their bodies. A conscientious teacher has every right to respect himself.”
“I would if I was any good at it.”
“If you are bad at it only two explanations are possible: you have not yet learned how to do it properly or you are teaching the wrong thing. What is your pal playing at?”
“This is a light meter Mr Ross,” said McCrimmon watching the instrument in his hand. The teacher said hurriedly, “Tony’s a famous photographer Grampa –”
“Does he meter light from force of habit?”
“Your grandson invited me because I am making a pictorial social survey, Mr Ross, a record of the life of Glasgow. And by life I mean more than the shape of the buildings. I want the world to know how decent, hardworking people live in Glasgow Anno Domini nineteen sixty-five. I doubt I’ll ever find a more decent working-class home than this.”
“You cannae photograph in here Mr McCrimmon!” cried Mrs Ross. “The place is like a midden and I’m no dressed right.”
“Your place is as neat as a new pin Mrs Ross and so are you.”
“I havenae dusted since this morning!”
“I see no dust and what I don’t see my camera won’t show.”
“Don’t let him do it, John!” the woman begged her husband who said as if to himself, “A pictorial social survey. What good will it do?”
“Have you heard of Matthew Brady, Mr Ross?”
“No.”
“Have you heard of the Depression and the American dust bowl and the New Deal?”
“Aye.”
“Well, President Roosevelt was persuaded to set up the New Deal by Matthew Brady’s photographs of how decent honest American working-class families had to live in the American dust bowl. Now, I don’t claim to be another Matthew Brady, but I believe that a photographer without a social conscience is an enemy of the human race. You know as well as I do that thousands of working people – some of them bedridden like you – live in single rooms with an outside lavatory they cannae reach because of the stairs. Not everyone in Britain knows that. Some very well-off folk prefer not to know it. Harold Wilson says he’s going to improve the quality of British life but has anyone shown him what life is like in Glasgow? Harold Macmillan said the British worker has never had it so good. But is it good enough?”
After a pause Mr Ross said firmly, “It is NOT good enough.”
“Then you’ll let me try to do something about it?”
After a pause Mr Ross picked up his book, appeared to read it again and muttered, “Go ahead.”
Swiftly McCrimmon unpacked his camera, clipped on a flash mechanism and snapped the still figure in the bed from several angles. Then he said, “You next Mrs Ross.”
“No. On no,” she said firmly, “I’m not going to have a lot of total strangers staring at me. It wouldnae be right.”
“You never told me to expect anything like this,” muttered McCrimmon, scowling at the teacher. Ten minutes passed before Mrs Ross was persuaded to sit.
“Don’t let them make me do it, John,” she begged her husband. He said, “You might as well, Beth. The pictures won’t appear in any papers sold in this area. If they’re printed in a book Glasg
ow libraries won’t stock it. Snap her quick, McCrimmon.”
“Hector’s photographed the queen, Granny!” said the teacher. “You’re as important as the queen is. If the queen gets photographed by Tony McCrimmon why shouldn’t you?”
At last she consented to sit in her rocking-chair with the tea things beside her, both hands thrust out of sight in her apron pocket and the kettle on the range blowing a faint cloud of steam behind. She gasped each time the flash exploded but kept the unyielding expression of a martyred stoic.
“Your tea will be cold now,” said Mr Ross, shakily putting down the mug with the straw which he had sucked a little. “Drink it up Mr McCrimmon and she’ll make another pot while you tell me more about this Matthew Brady and his impact on the American dust bowl.”
“No tea for me,” said McCrimmon swiftly packing, “I’m already late for my next appointment. But my time has not been wasted. You have both added to the fruitfulness of what promises to have been a rewarding evening … Coming?” he asked the teacher.
“I’m afraid I must go, Granny. Tony and me have this appointment. But I’ll be back soon, probably with Lorna and the boy. Good night Grandad.”
“Aye,” said Mr Ross.
As Mrs Ross helped the teacher on with his coat she murmured, “Yes, bring Lorna and the laddie soon – but don’t bring him.”
“I won’t.”
“Will we be paid anything for all that fuss?”
“I don’t know Granny.”
“A bit of extra money would be a help now he never leaves his bed.”
“I’m not rushing you! Stay here if you like,” called McCrimmon from the landing. The teacher followed McCrimmon downstairs. Though admiring how the photographer had managed his grandfather the visit had not left him happier. He also wished he had not suggested he would soon return with his wife and child. That would never happen. Lorna hated slums and the Cowcaddens had become one. At the close mouth McCrimmon said, “A very punishing session. For God’s sake lead me to a pub.”
6
Two hours later they sat in a noisy overcrowded lounge bar, the teacher brooding over the visit to his grandparents and trouble with McGrotty. He wondered why they worried him equally. The money he was spending on drink for McCrimmon also worried him. The photographer kept ordering pints of Guinness with large malt whiskies. This sacrifice to Bohemian good-fellowship had brought the teacher no greater liveliness, no brighter sense of social existence. He felt feeble and dull and oppressed by loud voices from adjacent conversations.
“So this big blonde with the huge tits walks straight up to me and says, ‘Is there anything you would like sir?’ HAW HAW HAW.”
“Thistle is a rotten team. The Thistle hasnae a chance. Our lot will walk over them. Our lot will walk right over them and trample them into the ground.”
“And that is the true story of my last and worst encounter with Beaverbrook, but I confess to pangs of injured vanity laddie. I seem to be casting pearls of wisdom into unreceptive ears.”
A barmaid placed a Guinness and a Macallan before McCrimmon. The teacher reached into his pocket saying gloomily, “I’ll pay.”
“You’ll have to, laddie. The McCrimmon wallet is not in the best of health.”
There was silence between them for many minutes.
“Queer about that old woman,” said McCrimmon suddenly.
“What old woman?”
“That old-age-pensioner. Your granny. Did you notice her primitive reaction to this?” (McCrimmon touched his camera.) “She definitely did not want to be photographed.”
“She was shy. A lot of people hate being stared at by strangers.”
“What is shyness? Irrational terror. Your granny is like African blacks who think anyone who takes their picture has captured their souls. And we find the same superstition in the wife of a Glaswegian industrial serf! We have not advanced as far above the ape as our atom-splitting technology suggests.”
“You annoy me sometimes.”
“Tell me more, laddie.”
“You keep changing your story. You told me you wanted a record of folk in the old tenements because there was something fine and artistic about them. You told my grandad …”
“I know what I told your grandad. Did I contradict myself? Very well, I contradicted myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes. Don’t try to shut Tony McCrimmon into your toty-wee mental filing cabinet, laddie. He won’t fit. He’s too big.”
With an appearance of great satisfaction McCrimmon swallowed his Macallan. The teacher, crushed by the toper’s superior intellect, heard a bell ring and the bar manager shout, “Last orders ladies and gentlemen. Your last chance of a drink before closing time.”
“What use is life Tony?” asked the teacher desperately. “Is there a purpose in it, a way to make it better, or should we just suffer and survive? I’m asking you because I know you won’t give a religious answer. I don’t like religion. My mother was a Catholic who had to leave the church because she married a Protestant. She died thinking she would go to hell because of that. I know she didn’t go to hell. I know there’s no afterlife so I can’t be religious. But I want to believe something.”
“Quite right, religion’s just pie in the sky, OVER HERE DEARIE!” roared McCrimmon waving imperiously to the barmaid. “Purpose of life et cetera? In two words? Get me the same again and I will give you … the entire scenario and destination of our existence … in a coupla words.”
The teacher bought the same again and waited while McCrimmon, frowning deeply, refreshed himself with thoughtful swallows.
“Feel good,” he announced abruptly. “Feel good is what the life-force in each one of us decrees. Hemingway said it. Agree with him.”
“I can’t!” cried the teacher, exasperated. “I only feel good by accident. Nothing I plan to do or try to do makes me feel good and the harder I try the worse I feel. But what I most hate is that nobody respects me. Why should they? What is there in me to respect? Yet look at my grandad and granny. They’ve had rotten lives compared with mine, overworked and underpaid when not downright unemployed. Their most prosperous times were during two world wars. They never expected to feel good but they’re still better people than me. They have dignity. I think my grandad will be dead in a year or less, and knows it, but is dying with dignity because he respects himself. I think my granny knows it too and is helping him, though God knows what will become of her when she’s left with nobody. No wonder I hate visiting them. They make me ashamed of myself.”
“I can explain all that,” said McCrimmon with a slight hiccup. “You see there are always two main types in this world of ours, always have been, always will be: aristocrats and serfs. The aristocrats are the feel-goods – the five per cent born into the dolce vita. Eating, drinking, clothing, housing, fucking is no problem to that class because they have everything money can buy. Their only work is issuing orders and pulling off money deals. They enjoy that because it proves how important they are. The other class are the serfs whose only satisfaction in life – if they can get it – is doing a job that thousands of others would do just as well if they dropped down dead. Religion was once the opium of the serfs but nowadays it’s socialism. Is your grandad a socialist?”
“Yes – Independent Labour Party. He knew Jimmy Maxton.”
“I thought so. An industrial serf who wants to abolish the aristocracy. He probably thought Utopia was dawning after the war when Attlee nationalized the mines and transport and health services.”
“What about me?” cried the teacher. “What about you, for that matter?”
“We are the God-damned bourgeoisie – the middle or muddle class, son. The aristos, you see, don’t know how to talk to serfs because they speak a different language. So they pay folk from serf backgrounds a bit extra to help them manage the rest. So we get foremen and sergeant majors and policemen and lawyers and civil servants and teachers like you. And since aristos hate entertaining each other with anything but sex they pay big money to
folk who can manufacture the dolce vita for them: chefs and clothes designers and models and prostitutes and artists and talented photographers like me. You need talent to enjoy the dolce vita if you arenae an aristocrat. For the rest it isnae so easy.”
“Does all that … waffle … mean I cannae enjoy myself because I’ve no special talent?”
“If the cap fits wear it, son. And if you’re one of the majority who would rather not face facts then all I can advise is nil desperandum and soldier on with the fixed grin of an idiot.”
The teacher shook his head hopelessly. McCrimmon’s speech reminded him of a Marxist uncle whose speeches had bored him when he was small, yet McCrimmon was certainly no Marxist.
Then he heard the bell ring again and the bar manager shout, “Time up ladies and gentlemen! Drink up and clear out! You’ve had your fun so hurry along! Some of us have beds to go to!”
“Christ,” groaned McCrimmon between swigs of porter, “why am I in a city … largest in a so-called country … where pubs shut at half past nine? Scotland is afflicted by three plagues. The first … ignorance of life. Third … envy of success. Second is … God it’s hot in here. What did I say third was?”
“Envy of success.”
“I was right. Let’s clear out. Where,” McCrimmon demanded on the pavement outside, “where can we go? Where’s the party? There’s always a party somewhere.”
The teacher had drunk very little compared with McCrimmon. The cool night air restored his mental clarity. He knew that the comfort of home was the best he would get but longing for one sip of unfamiliar social pleasure made him linger and murmur that Tom and Jean Forbes were having a party to celebrate their first wedding anniversary – they had told him so without inviting him to it; he might not be welcome.
“Forget Tom and Jean Forbes,” cried McCrimmon, putting an arm round the teacher’s shoulder and marching him westward, “I’ll be your entrance ticket, son. Nobody can shut out The Vivid Scotchman. That’s what they call me in Soho – The Vivid Scotchman. Over breakfast this morning I promised myself a wank or a woman before another day dawned. With a party looming up the latter option becomes a practical certainty.”
Mavis Belfrage Page 7