Strange Loyalties

by William McIlvanney

  ‘Any social contract is a two-way agreement,’ he said. ‘It’s one thing to make the people serve the economy. But the economy must also serve the people. If we disadvantage the present of one section of society, we disadvantage the future of all society. The children of the well-off will not just inherit the wealth of their parents. They will also inherit the poverty of the parents of others. Even self-interest, if it is wise, will concern itself with the welfare of all. Not just the poor will inherit the bad places. All of us will.’

  He had delivered the words strongly and clearly but at that point one of three boys who had been standing on the pavement opposite shouted, ‘Ye’re aff yer heid’. Apparently, the sight of a man talking precisely to no one in particular had been too much for the boy. They were obviously going to have to take the shot again. I got in the car and drove off. Michael Preston was an articulate man, I was thinking. I hoped he didn’t lose his articulacy overnight.

  31

  I had once seen Marty Bleasdale defuse a potentially ugly incident in a pub. A man who had picked an argument with him was beginning to get threatening.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you,’ Marty said, and those around him waited for the telling insult, ‘that you’ve got pianist’s fingers?’

  The remark had arrived from so far away that the other man contemplated it as if an alien had landed. Then he managed to fit it into the context he was trying to create.

  ‘Ah could rattle out a tune on you, anyway.’

  ‘Do you do requests?’ Marty said. ‘Ah like Prokofiev. Something from Romeo and Juliet.’

  The tension dissipated in laughter. The man hesitated, then laughed along. It had seemed an almost accidental dismantling of threat but it involved two qualities which Marty had in plenty. One was skill in dealing with people. He may have felt his years as a social worker hadn’t effected much improvement in other people’s lives but they had certainly made Marty very difficult to nonplus. He had not only obliged the man’s aggression to force its way through laughter. He had also made the man express it not in his own terms but in Marty’s. By the time the classical allusions turned up, the man wasn’t too clear about where he was or what the rules were.

  The other quality was nerve. Like a bomb-disposal expert, Marty was able to deal calmly with an explosive situation because, if his techniques didn’t work, he had prepared himself for the consequences. I think the man understood that. The person from whom the outlandish talk was coming was rough-faced and pony-tailed and dressed like someone who wasn’t worried what other people thought, and his eyes didn’t flicker. Marty had a certain style. He gave the impression that circumstances were meeting him on his own terms.

  That was why, when I received word at the hotel that Marty was rehearsing with a new group at the Getaway, I felt some uplift in my spirits. Whatever practical results a conversation with Marty might or might not have, it shouldn’t do my mood any harm. When I went down the long flight of stairs that led to the basement bar, I found Brian and Bob were the only two customers. They were drinking beer. From the rehearsal room at the back of the place interesting sounds kept starting up and breaking down into cacophony.

  ‘It’s the happy wanderer,’ Bob said.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Brian said. ‘Could you direct me to the nearest murderer?’

  Brian’s remark was a mocking echo of one I had once made. Ricky Barr, the owner, came over.

  ‘At last, Jack,’ he said, ‘you’ve decided to come where the culture is.’

  ‘If Marty Bleasdale’s culture,’ I said.

  Ricky was one of the more benign expressions of success. He had made a lot of money in the music business before buying the Getaway. Now he provided a venue for all kinds of struggling musicians and gave them rehearsal space and recording facilities at minimal rates. His ambitions were fulfilled, he had a happy family life and he wanted to share the superflux.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ he said.

  He brought Brian and Bob beers and myself a whisky and water.

  ‘I’ll see if they can spare the maestro,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll talk to Marty on my own,’ I said to Brian and Bob.

  ‘Oh-ho,’ Bob said. ‘We set up the interview and then get locked out the room.’

  ‘You know what Marty’s like,’ I said. ‘One polisman makes him jumpy. Three could cause a fit.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Brian said. ‘We’re just happy to have been of service.’

  ‘Who said you have yet? Depends what kinda mood Marty’s in. He might decide to tell me nothin’.’

  I went to the other end of the big, split-level bar and sat down. As Marty came out of the rehearsal-room with Ricky, his eyes checked off Bob and Brian. Marty was wearing a baggy shirt and jeans and cowboy boots. He had a fine, silk scarf knotted round his neck.

  As he sat down at the table, he said, ‘Ah feel surrounded. Three’s a crowd, eh?’

  ‘They’re not involved, Marty. Just the two of us.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Ricky brought him a drink.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘Jack Daniels,’ Marty said. ‘That’s what Ah’m on this afternoon. Ah change ma tastes by the hour. Got to try everything in this world.’

  Disconnected sounds were still coming from the rehearsal-room.

  ‘Rehearsing?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t think you rehearsed jazz.’

  ‘Tomorrow’ll be the first time we’ve played together.’

  ‘But Ah thought you were supposed to improvise with jazz.’

  ‘Oh, is that what you do? We’re just building the trellis. Give the roses room to grow. Rambling roses.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘Do yourself a favour, Jack. Don’t try to be clever about it. Just come and listen.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can manage.’

  ‘Anyway, you’re not here to write a preview. Are you?’

  ‘I want to find Melanie McHarg,’ I said.

  ‘Melanie Who?’

  ‘Do yourself a favour, Marty. Don’t try to be clever about it.’

  We sipped our drinks and smiled at each other and Marty looked round the room.

  ‘Ah’ve met her,’ he said. ‘Of course, Ah have. So what?’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Ah’ve met Thelonius Monk, too. Ye want me to tell ye where he is?’

  ‘You could save that for later. I want to find her, Marty.’

  ‘Good luck. If Ah was her, ye wouldn’t find me. She’s had enough troubles lately. Ah’d be off an’ runnin’.’

  ‘But you’re one of the places she would run, are you not?’

  ‘Not known at this address,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll have to get back to the clarinet.’

  ‘Before you do,’ I said.

  I could see Brian Harkness and Bob Lilley laughing and nodding at something they were talking about. Ricky was standing against the counter, reading a newspaper. The jazz-group in the rehearsal-room was making aural shapes I didn’t recognise. In those three mysterious preoccupations, I felt how the meaning of things withholds itself and hides among the endless banality of its proliferations. I sensed that, if this moment, too, were allowed to pass without revealing its small cache, the truth Betty Scoular knew was there might never be declared. The only pressure I could put on Marty was the truth. He would have outmanoeuvred anything else.

  ‘The reason I want to talk to her. It seems obvious that Matt Mason wiped out Meece Rooney. It looks as if he also killed another man. About three months ago. Melanie could help us get at Matt Mason. Ah think she might also help herself. She must be trying to come to terms with her past. And see if there’s a future. Maybe if she stopped just being the victim of her life. The way it looks as if she has been. And started to pay it back. Make it take on a shape she gives it. Maybe that would help her. I think they call it rehabilitation.’

  I hoped the social worker’s instincts weren’t quite dead in Marty. He l
ooked through me, as if he were checking my file for trustworthiness.

  ‘What way could she help?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got an idea. Something she could do for us.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘That would be for me to ask. And for her to decide yes or no. Not for you to decide, Marty.’

  ‘You goin’ to put pressure on her?’

  ‘There would be no pressure. Just ask her and let her make up her mind.’

  ‘She’s tryin’ to come off it cold turkey, ye know. She’s not in great shape. The way she is, a twig droppin’ on her be like a fallin’ tree. Timber. You’d have to leave it entirely up to her.’

  ‘That would be the deal.’

  ‘Ah’ll see.’

  He finished his Jack Daniels.

  ‘See quick, Marty,’ I said. ‘Time’s short here.’

  ‘It’s shorter than you think,’ Marty said. ‘Melanie’s leavin’ for Canada tomorrow.’

  ‘Then let me talk to her today.’

  He thought about it. He shook his head.

  ‘No way. That way we narrow her choice. She might feel pressured into it. What Ah will do. Ah’ll see her tonight. Ah’ll speak to her. Ah’ll let ye know if she wants to meet you. That’s it.’

  ‘It’s maybe not enough. It doesn’t leave us a lot of space for fancy footwork. I can’t see her till tomorrow?’

  ‘Jack. Maybe you can’t see her at all. How do Ah get in touch?’

  I gave him my room number at the hotel. As an afterthought, I also gave him Jan’s telephone number. Going back to rehearsal, he turned.

  ‘Oh and, Jack,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to put a tail on me, eh?’

  ‘Who would I get to do the job?’ I said. ‘Your shadow’s got trouble keeping up with you.’

  I joined Brian and Bob at their table. The vagueness of my arrangement with Marty didn’t impress them. It didn’t impress me much either. The music reflected the continuing uncertainty of where I was – all the disparate elements I had tried to bring together still hadn’t fused, were still looking for the timing and inter-connection that would make them cohere. Jan was a part of that uncertainty. Where had I found the arrogance to give Marty her phone-number? I didn’t know what she had decided. Maybe after dinner tonight I’d be lucky to reach her by postcard.

  32

  There are public places on which our private lives have an imaginative freehold, because of their associations. La Bona Sospira was one of mine. It was where Jan and I had our first meal together. We had gone back often since then.

  You came in, through a narrowly unimpressive frontage, to what wasn’t so much a bar as an ante-room to the restaurant. I had always enjoyed that room. It was like a bridge between two cultures. You stepped in off a Glasgow street and the room said: okay, you’re Scottish and you want a drink, you have a drink; but we’re Italian and any drink you have here is just a prelude to some serious food. The gantry was minute, telling you not to get excited. The decor was banal but so what? Bring your own dreams and any place is special.

  This was where I had brought a few of mine. Tonight I wasn’t sure if they could live here any longer. I was nervous about meeting Jan. I loved her and I needed her and I thought she loved me but I didn’t think I was what she needed. That worried me because, many romantic fictions notwithstanding, most people will eventually go with what they need, not what they want. Think of Meece Rooney. That’s why drug-dealers do so well.

  I sat down at one of what I had always assumed were beaten brass tables. I hardly know one metal from another. But I had always assumed they were beaten brass. I felt vague about myself. Guido turned up, as Guido often had.

  ‘Jacko,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  ‘Nice to be here, Guido.’

  ‘The glorious Jan will be here soon?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘I bring the menus. But, first, I bring a drink. We have a little of the Antiquary.’ The third syllable seemed to go on a long time. ‘This for you?’

  ‘That’s great. Marcella’s well?’

  ‘Marcella is too well. She’s so strong, it frightens me.’

  Guido went away and came back and brought two menus and a stubby glass of the Antiquary and a jug of water. I had left the car at the hotel. I topped the glass up with water.

  I looked at a menu. The food was inventive but so were the prices. I had once suggested this connection to Guido but I wouldn’t do it again.

  ‘You want Volvo,’ he had said, ‘you buy Volvo. You want Alfa Romeo, you pay for Alfa Romeo.’

  The problem was, I reflected, I had for a long time been paying for Alfa Romeos I couldn’t afford. My finances were a disaster. My one piece of luck in that area was that Freddie, my landlord, was someone I had known for years. The rent he charged for the flat was ridiculously cheap. Beyond that, all was crisis. Once I had set aside what was for Ena and the children, the rest was carrion money, just there to feed the vultures. They had been constantly circling for some time now and my cunning plan had always been to ignore them. When I finally collapsed in a heap of putrefying debts, they would no doubt come and get me. In the meantime, just keep running.

  I was starting on my whisky as Jan came in. I had just kissed her, tasting the coolness of the evening on her cheek, when Guido arrived like a heat-directed missile that only homed in on women. His small rotundity surrounded her. He buried her in facile compliments, which Jan received delightedly. I suppose if someone is showering you with flowers, it would be churlish to notice that they’re plastic.

  I had to admit that she was due some compliments. As Guido elaborately unveiled her, taking her grey woollen coat like a gigantic matador’s cloak, she stood in a plain, tight, black dress that declared every pore to be perfectly in place. She sat down and the area around the table brightened.

  ‘You look incredible,’ I said.

  ‘That’s how I feel,’ she said. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘That’s not how I feel.’

  We smiled opaquely at each other. We were circling. Few people can be more distant than estranged intimates.

  ‘How’s your week been?’ I said.

  Before she could answer, Guido was back to make a ritual presentation of her Campari and soda, a large ruby for the Queen of Sheba. He fussed and Jan graciously accepted his fussing.

  ‘My week?’ she said, as Guido left. ‘Unbelievable. You know we closed last night?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The restaurant. We closed down last night. For renovations We’re getting far more business than we can handle. We’re extending the restaurant into the coffee-lounge. Even then things’ll be tight.’

  I didn’t mention that all of this was a surprise to me, because perhaps that was my fault. If you’ve been down in a diving-bell for over a month, you can’t expect to keep up with the news. But her failure even to hint at it, previously, suggested to me not accident but deliberate policy.

  ‘I would’ve thought,’ I said, ‘that the obvious night to close down would be a Saturday. This way, you’re losing the two best nights of the week.’

  ‘Oh, we can afford it. It’s been going unbelievably well. The reason for closing Thursday. You know what it is? We wanted to prepare the place for one last thrash before the decorators move in. Tomorrow night we’re throwing a party. All the people who’ve helped us and some of our regulars. We’re making the biggest Boeuf Bourgignon in the world. It’ll be some night. You must come.’

  Her invitation had all the intimacy of a business-card.

  ‘What about you?’ she said.

  She leant towards her Campari, as if she needed a prop, and I noticed a sudden stillness in her. She was staring at the table. The defencelessness of her posture gave me a glimpse of the vulnerable woman behind the glamour, renewed the intensity of my feelings for her in an instant. Jan had once said to me after making love, ‘You make me frightened of me.’ I had known what she meant, for I felt the same way. Those mome
nts we had shared defied pragmatism and were therefore difficult to accommodate in the light of day. I had a feeling that was difficult to accommodate now. I would have rather we had each other on the metal-topped table than go through these charades. She glanced up and we were sharing a look directly for the first time since we had met tonight. Our eyes were a mutual confession: we are a joint compulsion. The acknowledgement made her defensive again. She looked away.

  ‘What about you?’ she said. ‘Have you sorted things out?’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Oh, not still that.’

  ‘Still that.’

  She lifted her drink and stared at it and sipped and looked round the room. She had moved away from the admission our eyes had made. She had remembered there were conditions to it I still hadn’t met.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘Meantime, some of us have to live.’

  ‘I suppose we’re all trying to do that.’

  ‘I mean live in the daily world. You’re so unrealistic.’

  I found that an interesting observation. I respected the difference of Jan’s life, the validity of her personal preoccupations. But I wasn’t quite prepared to concede that running a successful restaurant made you expert in the nature of reality.

  ‘The world moves on, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘Aye. But where to? That’s what’s worrying me.’

  She took another sip of her drink and smiled at the passing Guido and became a busy, successful woman again. The passionate look we had exchanged might have been between an attractive scuffler in the street and a sophisticated woman, while her Daimler was stopped briefly at the lights. She opened a menu.

  ‘Nice Campari,’ she said.

  Any evening has its motifs. Those were ours, evasive mannerisms and an impulse to strip each other in the restaurant. During the meal, we tried to talk seriously about our lives but the conversation remained somehow oblique. We seemed incapable of meeting in no-man’s-land. We just kept checking the other’s position and reinforcing our own. We were outmanoeuvring each other so effectively, I wondered if we would ever connect.