In the evening, when the pilgrims had trudged back across the moor to the village, where they would stop for a meal or sometimes stay overnight, the boy would come and take the donations away. He might send a loaf of bread or an apple up in the basket to Simon, but everything else went to the common good fund. So, what with the trade the pilgrims brought and the proceeds of their gifts, the village understood that Simon Stoblichties was the best thing that had ever happened in its history.
This did not prevent a lively ongoing debate as to his mental condition. The general opinion, which villagers were careful to keep from the ears of passing pilgrims, was that the wind must have rattled Simon’s napper once too often. After all, even in a country with a pleasant Mediterranean climate you’d have to have a screw loose to stand on a stob all your life. But to do it in the middle of a Scottish peat bog, where all four seasons were flung at you in the course of one day and often in the space of an hour, well, quod erat demonstrandum as the Romans used to remark.
The carpenter alone dissented from the common view. ‘Simon has always seemed sane to me,’ he said. ‘From where he stands, the rest of us probably look pretty unhinged. It’s all a matter of perspective.’
‘Aye, aye,’ everybody agreed with good humour. The carpenter was daft as well, of course, although a very fine craftsman. It was amazing how tolerant you could be of lunacy when you had a financial stake in it.
10 February
The Temptation of Simon
One filthy day of driving wind and freezing rain, the Devil walked over the peat bog moor to lay a bit of temptation on Simon Stoblichties. Whatever Simon stood for, on this occasion he was lying down. He had wrapped himself in all his blankets and skins, not so much to keep warm as to prevent them blowing away. It was before the start of the tourist season, but in such foul weather nobody was about anyway. The Devil stood at the foot of Simon’s tree and called up to him.
‘Got a light, pal?’
Simon leaned over the edge of the platform to see who was asking such an idiot question. When he saw the Devil he groaned. He knew he was in for it.
‘Forget it, I’ve got wan masel,’ the Devil said, and he pointed his finger at a nearby rock and smashed it to bits with a lightning bolt. Then he lit an enormous cigar from the smouldering ruins.
‘Chilly the day, eh?’ he said, summoning up a bijou wee cabin with a peat fire and a triple-glazed picture window. He settled himself in an armchair with a twelve-year-old malt whisky, and scanned the wild scenery.
‘Want tae come doon for a heat?’ he shouted.
Simon shivered and groaned again. He said nothing.
‘Come on,’ the Devil chatted on. ‘Just hop doon for five minutes, get a heat and a dram – oh, and a wee bowl of soup – and then away back up again. Naebody’ll ken.’
Simon crawled to the far side of the platform.
The Devil chucked another peat on the fire.
‘Look, I ken ye’re no the Son of God,’ the Devil said. ‘I’m no wantin ye tae take a heider so His angels can swoop in and save ye. I’m no gonnae ask ye tae turn stanes intae breid, or tell ye this shitehole can be all yours if ye worship me. I’m just sayin, gie yersel a break. Whit difference will it make?’
Simon’s brain was too cold to think of an answer. He didn’t know if there was an answer. He did know that it would be fatal to argue. His only hope lay in silence.
11 February
The Salvation of Simon
Simon Stoblichties felt as if he had been lying on the rough, cold, wet platform for many days. He also felt as if he had been away for the same length of time, somewhere else. I have been sick, he thought, or perhaps I even died. But I am back now. For all that it left him exposed to the elements, for all that it would never be a place of comfort or safety, the platform felt pleasingly familiar. It felt like home.
A little rain was falling. He crawled to the edge and peered over. The Devil was not to be seen. Surely he had been there? Had he not tempted Simon with all manner of food and drink? Had he not proffered heat, a soft bed, clean linen, warm clothes, books, music, art? Had he not appeared in the guise of a white stag, an angel, and various beautiful, alluring women, promising in turn purity of thought, eternal rest and unimaginable sexual gratification, if only Simon would descend from his tree and abandon his mad asceticism?
Well, he had resisted the Devil and sent him packing. What about God? In all the years he’d spent out on the peat bog moor, there had been no sign of Him. Not a shout in the wind, not a blessing in the rain, not a glint in the sunshine, not a whisper in the snow. Simon had come to commune with God, and God had failed to show. So if all this wasn’t for God, then for whom, for what? For the Universe? The Universe didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t even a speck of dust to the Universe. So what was he?
He was alive. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. His legs and back were so sore that he could not straighten them. His beard was a tangled mass of grey and white. But as he stood, the last spatters of rain died away, and blue patches began to appear in the clouds. Light was filling the sky, a new day beginning. He turned to the east. In the distance, a small figure was trudging across the moor towards him, carrying a basket.
12 February
No Hard Feelings
CHAIRMAN: Lord Humbelby, may I conclude this session by asking you a more personal question? We are all familiar, of course, with the term ‘military-industrial complex’. There is sometimes a rather negative perception in the popular imagination of the relationship between arms manufacturers and the armed forces, and of course governments. Does that bother you? After all, your entire career has been in the defence industry.
WITNESS: Actually I suspect the popular imagination of which you speak is quite relaxed about that relationship. Do not forget that the defence industry employs many thousands of people, often in highly skilled jobs, and earns this country billions of pounds in exports. As for the armed forces, well, they are held in the highest public esteem.
CHAIRMAN: We don’t forget any of that, Lord Humbelby. We are acutely aware of it. And I agree that in addition to appreciating the jobs and earnings that companies such as yours provide, the people of this country have a very strong sense of national pride. Nobody in their right mind could deny that this country punches well above its weight in the world, and that that is a good thing. That it should do so in a decent and principled way is what this committee exists to ensure. We may have had our differences of opinion with you in the past, but not on a matter as fundamental as this. Which is why I asked the question.
WITNESS: What was the question again?
CHAIRMAN: Does it upset you that the so-called ‘industrial-military complex’ is sometimes regarded negatively?
WITNESS: No.
CHAIRMAN: It would upset us if it upset you.
WITNESS: It doesn’t upset me in the slightest.
CHAIRMAN: Your feelings aren’t hurt?
WITNESS: Not a bit.
CHAIRMAN: Well, that is a relief to us all. Lord Humbelby, for some years now we have benefited from the wisdom of your experience whenever you have come before us, and I would like the record to show that this committee is grateful for the insights into the workings of the defence industry that your expert evidence has given us.
WITNESS: As I think I may have said on a previous occasion, you are very welcome.
13 February
Solid as Life
Sometimes you just don’t know someone. You think you do, but no, it’s a mirage. They’re right in front of you, you can reach out and touch them, and the next thing they’re gone. What happened? Nobody can tell you. It just happened. That person stopped being who you knew. They just stopped.
I’m only saying this because what trust can you put in another human being? You live with them, eat with them, sleep with them, you watch TV and go drinking together, you sit together at the pictures, in the park. Everything. You wash their clothes, you smell their shit, you know every noise their body m
akes. And they know you. There isn’t a thing they don’t know about you, that’s what you believe.
Then one day, out of nowhere, they say, Sorry, it’s over. You say, What? They say, I can’t do this. Do what? You have no idea what they are talking about because you never heard this before, not from them, not a distant rumble of it, but then you understand, you understand precisely, because this isn’t the first time for you, far from it, and they’re staring at you as if it were you who spoke, you who broke the spell, if it was a spell. Then you hear a voice, yours: Don’t you want to be here? And you know the answer before they say it. No. Not with you. It’s no good any more.
You cry, inside, outside, one or the other or both. Maybe they don’t go right then, or maybe they already went in every way except physically. They already packed their belongings and this is them signing off. So this isn’t the start of a fight, or of trying to mend what’s broken, it’s the end, the parting shot, and you didn’t see it coming, just like before.
For a while after they’ve gone there are little wisps of them hanging about, and then nothing, like they were never here. But they were. You know because you look in the mirror and you’re different without them. You’re still here, solid as life. But in every way except physically, no, it’s not you at all.
14 February
Jack and the Puddock
‘Whit’s love, Mither?’ Jack asked.
‘Mair o yer daft questions,’ his mother said. ‘Who’s been tellin ye aboot love?’
Jack held up a tattered old book. ‘There’s a story in here aboot a lassie that faws in love, and I wondered whit it was,’ says he.
‘Weel, ye’ll no find it in a book,’ she says. ‘Away ye go tae the well and hae a look for it there.’
So Jack’s away to the well and he draws a bucket of water and up it comes with a puddock* in it.
‘I’m lookin for love,’ Jack says. ‘Is it doon that well?’
‘It might be,’ says the puddock. ‘There’s water doon there, and that’s whit puddocks love maist, so aye, ye could say that.’
‘Weel, I’m tryin tae find oot whit love is,’ says Jack, ‘but I dinna think it’s water. Maybe for a puddock, but no for me. Ony ither ideas?’
‘Weel,’ says the puddock, ‘sometimes in stories a lassie finds love when she kisses a puddock.’
‘But that’s the very thing that happens in this book I was readin!’ says Jack.
‘Aye, weel,’ says the puddock. ‘That proves it.’
‘Dae ye think it would work for me?’ says Jack.
‘Dinna ken,’ says the puddock. ‘Ye could try.’ So Jack puckers up and closes his eyes and lands a kiss on the puddock’s mouth, but nothing happens.
‘Sorry, Jack,’ says the puddock. ‘Wrang puddock.’
‘Maybe it’s because I’m no a lassie,’ Jack says.
‘Aye, weel, maybe,’ says the puddock. ‘I suppose if kissin a puddock works for a lassie, kissin a lassie might work for a laddie.’
‘Ye could be right,’ says Jack.
Just then this bonnie young lassie comes to the well to draw some water. So Jack says, ‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘I’m lookin for love,’ and he plants a big kiss right on her lips.
As soon as he’s finished she wallops him, a really hard slap on one cheek, followed by another slap on the other. Then she gets her bucketful of water and marches off, leaving Jack in a daze with his ears ringing.
‘Is this me in love noo?’ he says.
‘Naw, Jack,’ says the puddock. ‘Wrang lassie.’
15 February
The Snowball
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Something’s happened.’
He put down the phone and went into the front room, where the noise had come from. He’d heard it as she was speaking. Like a stone dropping into thick mud. He’d known at once it wasn’t from within the house.
The shutters were open, the lights on. In one of the big windowpanes a web of cracks radiated out from a central hole. Traces of snow were sliding down the glass.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he said. It was half past ten at night. He went back to the phone. ‘I’ll call you back.’ Outside, the path from the front door was slushy, and immediately his slippers were soaked. He looked up and down the street. Everything he did seemed seconds too late. Had he really heard running feet, stifled laughter? He peered up the dark lane across the way, but could see no one.
From the pavement the room was a bright and tempting target. A scoop of snow was missing from the roof of his car.
Fucking kids. It wasn’t the first time either. There’d been a football once; ended up in the back of the television. And earlier that week he’d yelled at a group of them after a snowball had thunked against the bedroom window. It wasn’t malicious, he was pretty sure. It was just stupid.
He returned inside and pressed redial. He explained the situation.
‘Call the police,’ she said. ‘Right now.’
‘I’m just going to.’
They didn’t go through all the stuff they would go through later: how it was only a snowball, nobody was hurt, it was overkill getting the police involved. What else could he do – except nothing? But he was angry, and the wee bastards had run off and even if he knew where or who they were he couldn’t go after them like some vigilante. Anyway, without the police he couldn’t make an insurance claim.
‘Don’t get stressed,’ she said.
‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘I could just do without this right now.’
A cold draught was blowing through the hole in the window. It was a kind of violation. He felt it against his face, the chill invading the house.
16 February
Time and Language
Incredible. You know when I was born? Eight years, not even a full eight years, after the war. I’m talking about the first war, not the second. The Great War we called it when I was a boy, but that didn’t last. And now it’s one hundred years since it started. Incredible. Imagine being around that long, of having gone through all that time. Or maybe time goes through you, like sand through your fingers. Maybe that’s a better way of imagining it.
What is it, time? It’s nothing. It marches on whether you’re wearing a watch or not. Good times, bad times, you get plenty of both when you’re here this long. That’s not a moral thing. Time makes no judgements. It just keeps going. You can’t touch it, you can’t stop it, you can’t stretch it out a second longer than it is, it’s immune to you. Nothing, that’s what time is. I’ll tell you, it may be nothing but it kills you in the end.
People talk about ‘bad’ language but that’s just people talking, there’s no morality in language either. I didn’t always understand that but I’ve had time to consider it. People think because I don’t use ‘bad’ language that makes me quaint or something. What do they know? They use language like it’s throwaway stuff but it’s precious, like time. There was plenty of ‘bad’ language when I was in the army, in the second war. I could swear like the best of them if I chose to. Or the worst of them. Some of the finest men I ever knew had the foulest tongues, and scented soap came out of the mouths of liars, thieves and hypocrites when they opened them.
People think there’s nothing much going on inside this old shell. The lights are on but nobody’s home, that’s what they think. But there’s more in here than in all their little lives put together. They think they get the same stories over and over from me, and it’s true, that’s what they get. They’re the stories I let out in the open, the ones I slip off the leash. The others? None of their fucking business.
17 February
A True Likeness
It was the day of the great unveiling. The Princess had been sitting for her portrait, hours and hours over several sessions, but finally the artist had declared his work finished.
No one but he had seen it, not even the Princess. The artist was considered the finest in the land, and the Princess was of course the most beautiful woman, so the painting, if a true likeness, wou
ld be indisputably wonderful. The King therefore ordered its immediate public display.
The Princess was nervous. She instructed her most trusted servant to mingle in the crowds and report whatever he overheard.
First to view the portrait was the royal family. Next, the lords and ladies of court came to admire it. Finally, the common people were allowed into the gallery.
The Princess heard only positive remarks throughout these proceedings. She retired to her quarters as soon as she could, to await the servant’s report.
‘You need not flatter me,’ she said, when he arrived. ‘I want only the truth. What do the King and Queen really say?’
‘Your Highness,’ the servant replied, ‘they say that the portrait captures the beauty of your person, the dignity of your position and the strength of your heredity.’
‘I noticed, however,’ the Princess said, ‘that they hardly looked at the painting itself, and seemed more impressed by the richness of the frame. What of the lords and ladies?’
‘They,’ the servant continued, ‘think it shows you as the finest diamond in a necklace of fine diamonds.’
‘By which they mean themselves,’ the Princess said. ‘Their views are worthless. What did the common people say?’
‘Ah now,’ the servant said. ‘They looked at the portrait very closely. Some commented that you looked tired, others that you looked old. Several thought that you seemed to be an ordinary person, just like them.’
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