The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  “Are ye all right?” she asked him immediately.

  “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “I meant about the bairn. Saying it’s yer own.”

  “If it makes things easier.”

  “Stops a lot of wagging tongues is whit it does. It means I can tell Jamie. And mither and faither.”

  “Jamie won’t be happy we’re to be married.”

  “He’ll be furious. Ye need to set yerself ready for that. But Jamie has his secrets too, there’s no point in him trying to be all high and mighty.” She leaned forward, patted his hand. “Jean will be the only one who knows our secret. I need to tell her what went on in Glasgow.”

  “I’ll take you over there in the morning.”

  “That’ll be grand.” She sat back with a smile to herself, gazed out of the window. “There’s the town,” she said. “And those lovely mansion houses all along the esplanade. A fine fit for a merchant family, don’t you think?”

  Once the train had pulled up at Oban station, Avram walked Megan across to the Caledonian Hotel where he booked her a room for the night. He told her he would come by later but she told him she was exhausted, just wanted to sleep until the morning.

  “This town’s got enough to blab about without ye and me adding to the tittle-tattle,” she said.

  With plenty of thoughts for his future still buzzing in his head, he took himself for a walk along the esplanade where the sun was just beginning to set behind the hills over on Mull. A gradual pink glow settled across the bay, quietening down the town, lighting up the windows on the mansion houses Megan so admired. She was right. One of these would be a fine place for a High Street merchant and his family. Excited by the prospect, he stopped by the Oban Arms to raise a whisky in celebration of his new life.

  It was always with a slight trepidation that he stooped below the low lintel into this particular public house, the place always reminding him of Uncle Mendel and his fight with the quarry guard, Wallie MacPhee. While MacPhee no longer frequented the premises, it was no surprise he should find Uncle Mendel seated there in a corner with his pipe, his newspaper and his own wee dram.

  “Boychik, boychik, wonderful it is to see you. Sit, sit and all the news of Glasgow you must tell.”

  Avram ordered another round of drinks, reported back on the welfare of the Kahn family. He also told him what Papa Kahn had revealed about his own mother.

  “About this business with your mother I knew,” Uncle Mendel said.

  “And the thimble for my bar mitzvah present?”

  “Herschel wanted you should have some hope. It was a foolish error on his part. Foolish, foolish, foolish. My sister never forgave him.”

  “Madame Kahn has never forgiven me either.”

  “Unfortunately this is true.”

  “But why?”

  “Inside her, there is a jealousy about your mother that eats her up, fills her head with meshugge thoughts. She imagines between Hershel and your mother some great love affair. And every time she looks at you, greater and greater this love affair becomes until in her mind it is like a Romeo and Juliet.” Uncle Mendel raised his glass. “L’chaim. To life and all its madness.” He knocked it back in one gulp. “Another, boychik?”

  By his third glass, Avram had moved beyond his thoughts of Papa Kahn as some great Romeo. By his fourth, he was telling Uncle Mendel he was going to marry Megan.

  Uncle Mendel pondered the news, re-lit his pipe. “About this you are sure, boychik?’

  “My mind is set. I feel very happy about it.”

  “About marriage, I am not an expert. Lifelong bachelor that I am. But when a Jewish boy marries out of the faith, a certain question I have to ask.”

  “And what is that, Uncle?”

  Uncle Mendel spread out his arms to encompass the interior of the Oban Arms. “At this place, to arrive a Jew means a journey of two thousand years. Think about that. Generations upon generations of Jews have suffered to bring you to this point. Are you sure that line you want to break forever?”

  “I am sure. I stopped being a Jew the moment I first set foot on Highland soil.”

  Uncle Mendel looked back at him through watery eyes, whether from the whisky or from some deep emotion, Avram could not fathom. The older man then smacked his lips, clapped his hands together and declared: “Mazeltov, boychik. Mazeltov. I wish you luck.”

  ‘Thank you.”

  “And when to Kenny Kennedy will you tell of your plans with his daughter?”

  “I’ll go to see him tomorrow.”

  “Good. Some peat to my cottage you can take with you too. The cool nights of autumn I can already sniff in the air.”

  Fifty-four

  BY THE TIME AVRAM HAD CAUGHT UP with business matters at Glenkura Waterproofs, arranged for a horse and wagon, collected the peat to take out to Uncle Mendel’s cottage, it was well past noon when he arrived at the Caledonian Hotel. Megan had been out for a stroll along the pier, watched the ferry come in from the islands, persuaded him to have lunch at the hotel before they set off. They took sandwiches and tea in the lounge, Megan’s cheeks all flushed up from the stroll and the pride in the child not yet showing in her belly. In these genteel surroundings, he felt like a proper gentleman come to woo his sweetheart. They planned their trip for the rest of the day as a young couple might, full of willing compromises. There would be the visit to tell Jean, the delivery of the peat, then finally an evening with the Kennedys.

  “How do you feel about asking my faither for my hand in marriage?” she asked.

  “I’m more worried about what he’s going to say when he finds out you’re pregnant.”

  “Och, I think that bit of information will only be for the telling in the normal course of time. He’s no very good at figuring out the months of these things for himself. And I’m sure my mither won’t be in a mind to help him.”

  “And Jamie? Will he be there?”

  “He’ll be out beating the grouse for the Laird now he’s the new gamekeeper.”

  “Or out courting Jean behind Donald Munro’s back.”

  “These are not words for saying out loud in public,” she scolded. “But dinnae be worried. You won’t find him out at Jean’s place in the bright light of day.”

  They set out for the Munro mansion in the mid-afternoon, Megan all bursting to tell her friend her good news. But it was Jean who had a story to pass on when they arrived. She answered the door in a distressed state, her eyes reddened from tears, her hair in disarray, her fluttering hands signing away the worried words she could not speak. Avram left Megan to find out what had happened while he took a putter and golf ball out of Munro’s bag of clubs by the French windows, went out into the garden. The grass was parched yellow in places. Red marker flags danced in the stiff breeze. The waves crashed up against the peninsula boulders not far off, so that he could taste the brine in the wind. He lined up a shot, felt the weight of the putter sit nicely in his hands. A gentle pull back of the club, the sweet sound and feel of a true shot. The white ball spun firmly towards the hole, hit the base of the flag pole, jumped to about three feet from its target. He strode across the turf in the track of the ball. He felt light, light enough for the words of a song to come to his lips. One of Megan’s favourites.

  I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young

  I’m o’er young to marry yet!

  I’m o’er young, ‘t wad be a sin

  To tak me frae my mammie yet.

  Still humming to himself, he pulled out the flag, lined up his second shot. The ball dropped straight into the hole. Not a roll and a spin around the rim like water down a drain. But a clean plop into the embrace of the cup. So satisfying, that sound. Perhaps this was the game for him now the football was gone. A pair of plus-fours and a tweed jacket, a daily stroll around the links, wife and child waiting at home. A merchant house on the esplanade.

  Megan stood at the French windows, beckoning him over. Jean behind her, a worry in her eyes.

&nb
sp; “She thinks Donald kens about Jamie coming to visit,” Megan told him.

  “What makes her think that?”

  “She’s sure he’s been waiting in the grounds around the house instead of going into Oban. She checked once with Davey the driver of the Cally Rail. Donald hadnae taken the train when he said. She thinks he’s out there now. Spying on her.”

  He tried to recall if Donald’s pharmacy was open in the town this morning. He didn’t think it was. “Is Jamie coming over now?” he asked.

  Jean shook her head.

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take the peat over to my uncle’s cottage, Megan can stay here with you.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Megan said, taking her friend’s arm to comfort.

  “I’ll keep a look-out for Donald as I go,” Avram said on parting.

  With the sun setting on his back, he set out for Lorn and Uncle Mendel’s cottage beyond. He kept a watch out for Munro, but soon the road ploughed through the forest and any real chance of sighting the man was gone. At Lorn, he hastened past the Kennedy’s cottage where he would return with Megan later, then turned north to Glen Etive and the croft. The gloaming was approaching, bringing with it the mist over the mountains, the diffused light and the muted colours, the chill off the streams and the settling of the animals in the field. Off the main road and halfway down the rutted path to the cottage he pulled up the cart, stepped down to take in the silence. The surface of the loch shone flat, grey-pink clouds barely moved across the sky. He walked the rest of the way, happy to lead the horse by the reins in a loose pull. It was only when he was close to the cottage did he notice the door wide open.

  “Is anyone there?” he called.

  “Aye, there’s someone.”

  The squat figure of Donald Munro emerged from the cottage. Another man followed. The quarry guard, Wallie MacPhee. Avram recognised the ugly white scar that rose out of the man’s beard and along the side of one eye. Uncle Mendel’s angry work. Both men carried hunting rifles.

  “Donald Munro. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “How did you know I’d be coming?”

  “Spotted you riding out from my place.” Munro held his gun low to the ground. MacPhee carried his loose underarm but pointed in his direction. “I haven’t seen you in the town the last few days. Yer lass Jessie at the shop didnae seem to ken where you were.”

  “I’ve been in Glasgow. Just got back.”

  MacPhee tensed, tightening the grip on his gun. Munro stretched out a hand as he might to calm his horse or dog. “Easy, Wallie.”

  “What do you want, Donald? And what’s he doing here?”

  Munro ignored the questions. “Been to see my wife, then?”

  “I dropped Megan Kennedy off at your house, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m no asking,” said Munro. “I’m telling. Wallie here says he seen ye coming and going an awfy lot from my place the last couple of weeks.”

  “Wallie should mind his own bloody business.”

  The blast hit Avram full in his chest, sending him reeling backwards and stumbling towards the ground. He clutched his shattered rib cage where the bullet had pierced, feeling the warmth of his blood flood over his fingers, soaking into his shirt. He tried to raise his head off the ground but the pain held him back. The echo of the shot died away. A moorhen screeched somewhere out beyond the loch. Silence again.

  “What the fuck did ye do that for?” he heard Munro scream.

  “There’s no use to talking. We know what the Jew was up to.”

  “I wanted him to tell me himself. For fuck’s sake. Rough him up, I said. I didn’t want ye to shoot him.”

  “He got what he deserved.”

  “Go see if he’s still alive.”

  Avram could hear the crunch of MacPhee’s footsteps approaching. Everything was so clear now. A symphony of sounds. The vibration of the earth. The smell of the rich loam, the wild grass. Why had he not paid attention before? Why did he have to wait until this moment to sense these things so vividly? This flow of breath, this vigorous pumping of his heart, this blood gurgling up in his chest, this moaning on his lips. A shadow. MacPhee stood over him. He winced to the kick in his side.

  “Aye. The bastard’s alive.”

  “Christ, Wallie. What do we do now?”

  “We? We do nothing. It’s up to ye.”

  Not a sound. Just the hard breathing of MacPhee above. Then the stench of the quarry guard as he knelt to place the rifle by his body, prised open his fingers, tucked a cloth into his grip.

  It hurt hard but he managed a breath. “Help me.”

  “Aye, sure.” And then the voice turned away towards Munro. “It’ll look like an accident if any soul should ever find him out here. Cleaning the gun, so he was. The crows should get him first, though.”

  The shadow cleared.

  “Finish him off.” Munro’s words.

  “Naw,” said MacPhee. “Ye do it. I’m off.”

  “Ye can’t leave him,” Munro shouted after the retreating footsteps.

  “I just did.” MacPhee laughed.

  “Ye’d leave a man to bleed to death?”

  “I’m leaving ye to let him bleed to death.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Wallie.”

  “Oh, come on, Munro. Did ye think I’d let ye pin this all on me? Ye have to play yer part too.”

  “I could shoot ye.”

  “Ye don’t have the guts to shoot a man cold. Ye’re too much of a church-goer for that. Even with all yer blasphemin’.” MacPhee’s voice died away.

  Avram found that if he held still, somehow the agony stayed still too, and he could just observe it. Dispassionately. This gaping chasm of a wound in his chest. The blood clogging his lungs. The rasp in his breath. Another shadow. Munro. Gun barrel wafting above his head, blocking out the sun, then clearing again. A glinting light and then blackness. Horse snorting close by.

  “We’re in this together, Munro,” MacPhee shouted as he swept past on his mount. “Ye, me and the devil. I might have shot him, but ye let him die.”

  The clatter of hooves, kicking up the earth, Avram feeling the sprinkle of dirt on his face.

  Donald Munro peered down at him. “Say ye did it,” he said, then knelt down on his haunches, moved in close. “Say ye lay with my wife. Say it.”

  Avram tried to find the strength in his lungs to breathe out the one word that might save him. Jamie. This was what he wanted to say. He could picture the letters in his mind. JAMIE. Jamie. Jamie.

  “Say ye did it. Go on, lad. Say ye lay with her.”

  Avram began to shiver. Warm blood on his hands, the rest of him cold.

  “Suit yourself, then.” Munro rose to his feet. Avram could hear him walk back to the cottage. The snort of horse breath. The jingle of a harness. Munro galloped off. He followed the sound until it faded away into nothing.

  His hand put pressure on the wound and the bleeding seemed to ease. He flitted in and out of consciousness, not knowing whether he had passed out for seconds or minutes. Had the sky darkened, or was it his vision that had blurred? He thought he saw a thimble lost among a clog of reeds, he smelled a whiff of lavender from a bar of soap, he could hear a violinist playing on a Riga street and the clanging of a tramcar as it swept into the avenue below Jacob Stein’s office. He tried to cling to memories of Megan, of his mother, of Nathan. Of Papa Kahn. Of Celia. Dear Celia. But it was the minute and the mundane that bubbled up in his consciousness. The taste of cholent fresh out of the oven, the aroma of herring baking on a fire, the yellow backs of the whin bent to the wind, a slice of sunlight on an aeroplane wing, a stick for a sword and a pole for a Cossack horse. He saw a young girl with fair hair clinging to her doll telling him she was on her way to America. America. America. Two men standing over the dead body of a stag, a biscuit tin with a picture of Queen Victoria on the lid, a football stretching a patched-up net, a pink cigarette with a gold filter. The
se were the things that made up a life.

  A cold fear began to seize him. Not a fear of death, but a fear of God. Was it too late to ask for forgiveness? To ask for a writing in the Book of Life. To start to pray. To pray to the One God that was the God of Moses and the God of David. Hear O Israel, the Lord is One. Please do not abandon me now, O Lord. Please do not abandon me again, mother.

  His mind clawed itself back to conscious thoughts of survival and he wondered if he had the strength to drag his body the short distance to the cottage, to staunch his wound with a strip of sheet, to cauterise it with boiling water. But as he eased himself over on to his side, he caught sight of the pool of dark red liquid escaped from the flesh-torn hole in his chest. The open door of the croft beckoned, yet he remained still, watching with fascination the stain of his blood as it seeped into the Highland earth.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge my enormous debt to the historical account of the Jewish community in Glasgow detailed in the book Second City Jewry by Dr Kenneth E Collins (Scottish Jewish Archives, 1990). Any deviation from the facts contained in his meticulous research are my own responsibility, either by error or design.

  About the Author

  J. David Simons was born in Glasgow in 1953. He studied law at Glasgow University and became a partner at an Edinburgh law firm before giving up his practice in 1978 to live on a kibbutz in Israel. Since then he has lived in Australia, Japan and England, working at various stages along the way as a charity administrator, cotton farmer, language teacher, university lecturer and journalist. He returned to live in Glasgow in 2006.

  He is the author of The Glasgow to Galilee trilogy that includes his novels The Credit Draper, The Liberation of Celia Kahn and The Land Agent. He has also written about contemporary and 1950s Japan in his novel An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (2013). His work has been short-listed for the McKitterick Prize and he has been the recipient of two Writer’s Bursaries from Creative Scotland and a Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship.