by Agnes Owens
‘Bouncer!’ shrieked Flossie.
I walked out voluntarily to save any bother. So here I was on Saturday morning heading for a bus to take me to the splendours of the west away from alcoholic fumes and unreliable moods.
Collie Lumsden and a mate were sitting on the wall at the bus stance. Collie used to work beside me on the building sites until he gave it all up to be a full-time alcoholic.
‘Where are ye gaun?’ he called.
I replied, ‘Up country.’ At present I was not on the same wavelength as him and did not fancy his company. To cover up I asked civilly, ‘Waitin’ for the boozer tae open?’
He nodded then offered me a can of lager. Collie always took it for granted everyone was gasping for a drink. Usually he was right. Reluctantly I took the can, wishing the bus would hurry before I was sucked back into my familar social life.
‘That’s an idea,’ he said with inspiration. He turned to his mate, ‘We’ll get the bus up tae the Clansman. It should be open by the time we get there.’ I was fed up. I could see how things were going.
Luckily his mate replied, ‘Don’t be daft. You are barred in the Clansman.’
Collie was incredulous. ‘For Christ’s sake, when wis I barred?’
‘Dae ye no’ mind dancin’ on tap o’ the table when ye wir last there? Then they pit ye oot.’
‘Christ,’ repeated Collie, dismayed, ‘I don’t mind that. Maybe ye’re right.’
The bus moved into the stance. Thankfully I got on, and bumped into a big fella who was getting on at the same time. He stood back apologetically but not before I nearly choked on a mouthful of his long hair. I don’t mind long hair but this was ridiculous. It almost reached his waist. I gave him a cool stare as I quickly scrambled aboard. Then with a wave to Collie and his mate I settled down to view the fresh pastures flying past.
By the time I reached my destination I was squeamish. The bus had been stuffy and the road had possessed the structure of a scenic railway. I tottered off wondering whether to head for the Clansman, but I forced myself to give it a miss. Instead I purchased a bottle of lemonade and a pie then headed for the pier and a boat alongside. A chalked board informed me that the mailboat was due to leave any minute for passengers wishing a trip round the islands for fifty pence. This was worth a try, so I climbed aboard. There were some sightseers on deck with the loud English patter. I hunched into a corner and the wooden rails dug uncomfortably into my shoulder blades. Seconds before the boat moved off the big fella with the long hair climbed on. Our eyes met with the awareness that one lonely type has for another in closed company. But I turned my head to convey the message that if I was alone I liked it that way. I made up my mind there and then I was getting off at the first island. I had no intention of being trapped on this boat for any length of time with these foreigners.
‘Going off already?’ asked the highland boatman, pocketing my fifty pence and no suggestion of change when I conveyed my wish to him.
‘Aye, if ye don’t mind.’
‘Not at all son, we’ll catch you on the way back,’ he said as though I was a fish.
Ignoring his helping hand, I leapt onto the jetty of an unknown island. I nearly fell in the drink, but desperation saved me. Like a fugitive I scurried up the first path which led me away from the shore. I sensed contemplative stares following me, but when I turned round the moon faces on the boat were becoming harmless dots. Only the big fella stood out like a well-drawn sketch. I retreated into the undergrowth.
The path carried on through woods, ferns and streams. I was feeling great now, like Chief Chingachgook. The path began to lead upwards over the top of the island. It was hard going hauling myself up over bits of rock and slippery earth, but it was worth it when I reached the top. Panting and sweating, I lay down on the bracken to get my breath back. The view was terrific, all lochs and mountains. I felt contempt for my mates who would be firmly established in the boozer by now, slugging away at whisky and beer, unaware that there were better ways of passing the time. Yes, this was the life. I brought out my pie and lemonade. The pie was squashed and the lemonade lukewarm, but it was the most enjoyable meal I had eaten for a long time. I took off my jacket to make a pillow. With the droning of the bees and the heat of the sun on me like an electric blanket, I fell sound asleep on my bracken bed.
I don’t know how long I slept but the heat had faded and I was stiff and thirsty. I shivered as I took the last swig of lemonade. Shakily I arose and followed the path downwards into a wood. But it was still great, I assured myself. I started to sing, ‘I love to go awandering’, but the sound of my voice was so unnatural I changed it to a whistle. I wished I could see a wee furry animal, or even a deer. That would be something, but I appeared to be the only animal that was moving. Or was I – I wondered. I could hear the noise of branches breaking now and then, and there were rustlings in the bushes. I hoped it was one of these wee furry animals, or likely it was a bird.
‘Come oot, come oot, whoever ye are,’ I shouted recklessly. No one answered right enough, which made it worse. I began to walk quickly, then ended up running. I don’t know why, but once you start running it makes it a certainty that somebody’s following you. Then I saw the loch looming through the trees. I reached the open space of the shore. I slowed down. The panic was over. The sun switched on again and a speedboat streaking along the horizon was reassuring. I sat on a bit of rock and looked over the water. Now I thought it was a pity there was no one to talk to. But it was even more of a pity I hadn’t brought a half-bottle of something to calm the nerves. Still, I wasn’t used to walking about islands and staring at lochs. I must concentrate on how great it all was. I looked hard at the loch for ten minutes until I had to admit that I was just fed up. I began to get a thirst and it wasn’t for water, so I started moving again.
I followed the path deeper into the wood fighting through ferns which were as tall as myself. It was getting harder to follow the path and I was beginning to think I would never get out of this jungle when I emerged at last into a clear grassy bit where the trail led upwards again. I could be heading back to the jetty, the escape route to civilisation and the Clansman. Then I spied the top of a building on another path to the left. I thought I might as well investigate this while I was here.
The building turned out to be merely a hut, neatly boarded up and of no earthly interest, but beyond that was the entrance to a graveyard. It was a very wee graveyard and very old. The gravestones were a dirty dark grey and standing at all angles. A perfect background for Dracula. I studied one big stone closely and could make out a fancy design with words written underneath, ‘Here Lies the Corpse of Jessie Buchanan’. On another there was a cheerful verse which I managed to decipher after peering at it for five minutes:
Here Lies Tom,
His Life was Squandered,
His Days are Done,
But Yours are Numbered.
In the middle of all this creepiness was a wooden seat twisted and gnarled as a corpse itself. I could picture Tom of an evening coming out of his grave and sitting there peacefully with arms folded and legs crossed. So I sat down too. It was strange but I couldn’t hear any birds singing now. The only sound was my breathing and I tried to quieten this down a bit. I sat as still as the vision I had of old Tom because I didn’t think I could move even if I tried. I had the crazy feeling I was part of the seat. Then from the wood there was a crack as if someone or something had stood on a branch while he or it was watching me. I could bear it no longer. I wrenched myself off the seat and ran past the hut down the path then up over the top of the island like a mountain goat. I didn’t stop until I reached the jetty, just in time to be caught by the mailboat returning.
Once I got my breath back I noticed everybody had loosened up since I last saw them. They gave me broad, forgiving smiles for leaving. I smiled back gratefully because at least they were human, if English. ‘I’ll take the High Road and you’ll take the Low,’ they sang to me with big winks. ‘An’ I’ll b
e in the pub afore ye,’ I rendered back as quick as a flash. This caused a laugh all round. The big fella still stood apart looking at me calmly as if he had planned it all. Anyway all this did not matter because the boat was chugging towards the mainland and the Clansman.
* * *
Beneath the plastic beams and cross swords of the Clansman I downed my beer in one gulp. In the bar there was only myself, the barman and a tweedy type in the corner, of no consequence. The barman wasn’t much cop either. Pointedly he wiped a spot of beer on the counter, spilled from my glass. ‘Lively,’ I thought. Then I became aware of a looming presence behind me. I turned to encounter the gentle blue eyes of the big fella.
‘Could you tell me, pleaze,’ he asked in the exact English of the educated foreigner, ‘how I ask for some beer and spirits?’
‘Sure. Ye jist say a hauf an’ a hauf-pint.’
‘Zank you.’ He turned to the barman, ‘A hoff and hoff pint.’
The barman was puzzled. ‘What’s that?’
‘A hauf an’ a hauf-pint,’ I explained.
‘That is what I say,’ said the big fella.
‘Aye, but it’s no’ whit ye say, it’s the way that ye say it.’
‘Beg pardon.’ His voice was uncomplaining.
I sighed. I become bored when I have problems in making myself understood.
As if he knew what I was thinking he said, ‘I hope you shall speak with me. All this day I have been alone and now I think it would be pleasant to speak with someone.’
I looked steadily at my beer so he could not read the annoyance in my eyes.
‘Speak away chum.’
‘Chum?’ he questioned.
‘Mate then.’
‘Mate?’
I sighed, ‘Friend then. Savvy – friend?’
His big face creased into a beautiful big smile.
‘Friend – that is good. You will be my friend.’
I could see it was going to be hard to shake this guy off. Maybe he was a nut case. It was hard to tell with foreigners. For them and us there would always be something lost in the translation. I looked him over. His gear was casual but expensive, down to the open sandals. Leather, definitely not plastic. Probably a foreign hippy. One of the flower people. All love and marijuana. Though he looked familiar, as if I had met him before. But I wasn’t happy with his company. He was not my style. He swallowed his whisky with the ease of a professional drinker. Then I thought maybe he wasn’t so bad.
‘Whit’s yer name?’ I asked.
He understood this. ‘Max.’ He held out his hand. His grip was warm and firm.
‘Call me Mac. Everybody does,’ I told him, with no hope of understanding.
He laughed. ‘Mac and Max. It is the same. Perhaps we are the same.’
Privately I didn’t think so, but I agreed. ‘Sure,’ then, ‘you’re a Gerry, I mean a German?’
His face straightened. ‘Yes, but I would prefer to be Scottish.’
‘How’s that then? I mean why do you prefer to be Scottish?’
‘In Scotland everyone is kind. In Germany they are not kind. All they wish to do is work and make money. They do not care about people. In Scotland people do not have this wish to work and make money all the time. If they have enough they are satisfied. Here people have helped me and many times buy me whisky. Sometimes they speak loud and violent but I think they have kind hearts.’
It did cross my mind that he might be a con man, but still I did not wish to disillusion him about our kind hearts, so I ordered two whiskies.
‘Pleaze,’ he protested, ‘I will buy you a whisky.’ He carefully extracted a fifty pence piece from a leather purse.
The barman frowned. ‘Another ten pence,’ he snapped.
To save time I quickly slapped down the ten pence. At this point the big fella brought out a parcel from his stylish anorak and laid it on the counter. Fascinated, the barman and I watched as he unfolded it to reveal sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg. He offered us both a sandwich and then started to unshell the egg. I accepted mine gratefully but the barman refused his. He seemed to be searching for words. Unpleasant ones, I suspected.
‘Do you have castles in this place?’ the big fella asked him.
The barman was defeated. Without answering he walked away. Maybe to look up a rule book, consult his union or ’phone the police.
‘Whit dae ye want wi’ castles?’ I asked.
‘I have come here to study Scottish castles,’ he explained as though it was as normal as cleaning windows. ‘Then I shall write my book. I shall send you a copy since you are my friend. I shall have it specially translated.’
‘Whit dae ye want tae dae that for?’ I asked, returning to my original opinion that he was a nut case.
‘Because you are my friend.’
This guy definitely had the knack of making a fella feel selfconscious. To change the subject I said, ‘You remind me o’ somebody.’
He considered then replied, ‘I understand. I remind you of Jesus Christ,’ without as much as a smile. I was convinced, definitely a nut case.
He went on, ‘In Germany many people say I look like Christ. I have been asked to take this part in the Passion Play, but I refused because I do not like to pretend.’
He offered me his last sandwich. I declined. My appetite was gone. I was not certain, but the sandwich could be a test. He shrugged and ate it.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I would willingly buy another whisky, but I have only a little money, just enough to buy a ticket on a ship to return home.’
That figures, I thought. ‘Don’t worry, I’m gaun for the bus anyway.’
‘Good, I must get the bus also.’
It all loomed up. Back home to the auld wife with Max. She would love him. He would have my bed and I would have the couch. Quickly I ordered a carry-out, leaving the barman wiping crumbs off the counter with a pained expression on his face. When we were seated on the bus I handed him a can of beer. The old dames in front gave us cold stares. He didn’t notice. I didn’t care. For me it was always the done thing. The booze had no effect on him. My head was feeling swimmy but I was resigned. The big fella was coming home. I was not going to be the one who turned him away.
Again he read me for he said, ‘I have a room to go to this evening. As you call it, a bed breakfast place.’
With relief I said, ‘That will cost you plenty. Ye can always get a kip, I mean a bed, in ma hoose. Ma mother is a great person. She will put anybody up for the night.’ I took care to look away as I said this.
‘This woman is also good. She does not charge much money, because she explained I must stay in the kitchen since I might upset the guests.’
I was indignant. ‘Jesus Christ!’ I blushed at the expression. ‘That’s terrible. How could ye upset the guests?’
‘My hair is very long as you see. Sometimes it is upsetting to others. In Germany when people drink too much they wish to cut my hair off. For this reason I did not go out at night.’
I was disappointed at this gutless attitude so I forgot to look away.
‘You may think,’ he explained as though I had said so, ‘that I was afraid, but I do not believe in violence. Many times in the past I gave my parents much sorrow. Once I was a drug addict.’ At least I had guessed that correctly. ‘But with their love they helped to cure me so I keep my hair long that I will remember my disgrace. It is my penance.’
He looked at me intently. ‘In your face I see the scars of violence. Perhaps that is your penance.’
I said nothing. He was wrong. I liked my scars. They were status for me. The bus drew in at the terminus. We got off. Everybody rushed away, maybe glad to escape from his loud, open conversation, and we were left alone. In a last attempt to do the right thing I said, ‘Are ye sure ye’ll not meet me later? We could have a drink the gither.’
He placed a hand on my shoulder, ‘This would not be wise. For you my presence would cause violence because you are my friend, but give me your address so
that I can send you my book.’
I wrote my address down on the back of my bus ticket. He placed it carefully in a wee book.
‘How can ye be so sure of everything?’ I asked. ‘I mean that ye’ll even get it published.’
‘I am sure,’ he replied with his awful certainty. He tucked his hair neatly inside his polo-neck jumper, shook my hand then walked away.
I looked after him wishing I could be as sure of everything. I turned the corner to head for home, kip, then tea and the boozer. Outside my close two lassies were skipping to the chant of
Old King Billy has a ten foot willie,
He gave it to the lady next door,
She thought it was a snake
And hit it with a rake,
Now it’s only nine feet four.
Trust the papes to know all the good ones. ‘D’ye want a kick in the backside?’ I asked them.
‘King Billy! King Billy!’ they shouted, then ran away laughing.
They are a right ignorant lot round here, but some day I will get away from this place. Some day I might go and see castles myself.
The Group
The modern trend was catching up with the clientele of the Paxton Arms. For the first time in living memory we were going to have entertainment. Behind the bar, sellotaped to the mirror, was a poster informing us in bold black print that a group called the Basket Weavers were, at great expense to the management, making a personal appearance every Friday at 8 p.m. We, the regulars, were suspicious of this development because, being creatures of habit, we always expected to have the same conversations and the same arguments with the same faces.
‘Once they start bringin’ groups in here it’ll never be the same,’ pronounced Paddy McDonald. ‘A’ these microphones an’ amplifiers will only deafen us an’ droon oot the conversation.’