A couple of men were approaching. ‘Gonnae buy us some fags?’ he said before he could see them properly. They came right up to him. Then he saw that they weren’t men at all, more like his own age, but different. They had older, harder faces.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Want a smoke, dae ye?’
‘Aye,’ he said, but then added, ‘No, it doesnae matter.’
‘Shouldnae fuckin ask then, should ye?’
They pushed him further down the close. He didn’t call for help. What would be the point?
27 February
Daft Davie
I remember Daft Davie standing at the top of the hill where the sign with the name of the village on it was. He must have stood there a lot, out in rain or sun, or why would I have such a strong image of him? A tall, thin man in a dirty anorak, and with a bad lean, as if over many years the wind had forced him to grow like that. Day after day he was there, leaning, and staring down at the houses. I used to think he had walked all the way up and forgotten what for, and that was him staring back down trying to remember.
Guys in cars would wind down their windows and yell abuse, or chuck an empty can at him as they roared past. Sometimes I was in one of those cars. I’m not proud of the way we behaved, but we were stupid kids. If Davie’d been a statue we’d have treated him the same. I don’t know if he even noticed us. He just stood staring back down the hill.
Beyond where he used to stand the road flattened out and headed off into the rest of the world. Davie always had his back to the village sign. You could read the name of the village if you were driving in from outside, but not when you were leaving. There wasn’t a sign that said THANK YOU FOR DRIVING SAFELY. COME BACK SOON or anything like that. We didn’t expect visitors and we didn’t get any. It was a seaside village but not that kind. Sometimes you’d see strangers turning their cars at the bottom of the hill and that was all you’d see of them. They knew right away they’d made a mistake.
I haven’t been back in thirty years. Most of the guys I hung out with never left. They died of drink or in car accidents or maybe they’re still alive. I wouldn’t know.
But one day Daft Davie was gone. Maybe he’d been gone a while, but this one day I was on my own and I noticed his absence. I took it as a sign, and I got out.
28 February
Ghost
Another time – any number of other times – she might turn around and nothing would be there. Nothing would have happened. Because that was the thing, it was always over, she never quite saw it. What she saw was the ripple, the vibration, the aftermath. And this was why the experience was never complete. She understood this. She was an unreliable witness, because what she saw was not what she saw but a visual echo of what she might have seen.
She looked through the dining-room window and it was as if a gust of wind, on a day entirely still, had waltzed across the grass and flowerbeds. Along the route of the old brick path that had been there before they redesigned the garden. No cat or bird moved like that. And no gust of wind either, because there was a gauzy kind of shade to it, and a shape. And waltz wasn’t right after all, for something so straight, so pedestrian.
She thought, Did I ever see her when the brick path was still in place? And that was odd, because until that moment she’d never thought of it as female, but there it was: her.
She thought, A day does not exist unless we say so, and even when we say so it requires collective will and individual imagination to sustain its existence. The next day, it’s gone. You cannot capture time and hold it. A date in a diary proves nothing.
She thought, I will go to my grave believing that I saw whatever it was I saw. She was quite shocked at this betrayal of her own scepticism, this undoing of reason, but not as much as she might have been. Because it was not the first time.
She didn’t have a ‘gift’. She absolutely didn’t believe that about herself. It wasn’t about her, it was about the garden, and who had been there before.
One year in every four, she thought, there is a day after this one that does not exist in the other years. We accept that: it’s an invention. But this was different: a real, unreal thing that had happened, somehow, just before she, somehow, witnessed it.
29 February
MARCH
1 March
Freedom
A fox and a hound met early one morning on a hillside. It was a beautiful spring day: the sun warmed the earth, daffodils stood around in groups smiling and nodding, and everywhere were the sounds of birds and insects at their work. Nothing was further from the fox’s mind than being torn to pieces by a pack of hounds, and nothing less desired by the hound than to be part of a frenzied mob murdering a fox.
‘How is it,’ the fox asked, as they lay on the grass together, ‘that we are such enemies? Although we are genetically distinct, it’s surely only chance that made you a friend of humans, and left me here in the wild.’
‘I often wonder about that,’ the hound replied, ‘awake at night in the kennel, or when the keepers bring us our food. Whether it’s chance or design, we can’t undo it. Yet, for all my comfort and security, I envy you your freedom. Sometimes at night we hear you barking, and that sets us off. They think we’re simply desperate to get after you, and at one level they’re correct. But what we really want is to be you, not hunt you down.’
‘I’ve heard you howling,’ the fox said, ‘and often laughed at the thought of you stuck in your pen, but other nights I’ve wished I was there too, with a full belly and a warm bed. But if I were, you’d gang up and kill me in seconds.’
‘Sadly, you’re right again,’ the hound said. ‘Our forebears made a pact with men, and we must live with it.’
The fox was suddenly nervous. ‘How did you get out here?’ he asked. ‘Is this a trap?’
‘Not at all,’ said the hound. ‘I found a hole in the fence last night. In fact I must get back or it’ll be mended, and then where would I be? I’ve enjoyed our chat, but next time I see you I’m afraid it’ll be business as usual.’
‘Of course,’ the fox said. ‘Goodbye.’ And he sat on alone, thinking of the hole in the fence, and wondering if there was some way it might not be mended.
2 March
A Moment
Some moments never go from you. They’re like rocks sticking up out of a river in spate. The water churns round them but they don’t shift. Once maybe a route existed, a way of stepping between one bank of the river and the other, but you can’t see it any more. You used to make that journey back and forth without thinking, hardly conscious of the rocks you stepped on, but now the fierce water has submerged some of them, and your courage, or foolhardiness, isn’t as great as it once was. So you’re left looking at the ones that remain, clear as they ever were even though you can’t reach them.
A bunch of you after work, Friday night, knocking back the beers, reliving the comedies and frustrations of the day. You should be getting home, but you stay for another. Home is where the heart isn’t. Your wife is waiting for you but the pain of going in through that door is not bearable, not without more drink. The bar is hot and loud, everybody’s talking, laughing. Some of you will be back at work on the Saturday shift, but who cares, who’s even thinking about that? And she’s there, so why would you leave? You smell her perfume, you are inches away from her hair, her cheekbone, her mouth. She’s laughing at your jokes, which are funny because she’s laughing: some signal has passed or is passing between you. And that moment comes when everybody in the bar is somewhere else, it’s just you and her, and her hand is in your hand. You have no idea how or when that happened, but it did. It’s as if you’ve been holding hands for ever. You know that it means something, but what? And some voice, not hers or yours, suggests going on to another bar, and the others come back into focus and still your hands hold, out of sight in the crush, but it’s going to end soon, that hold, it has to end, because it has nowhere to go. Hold it, hold on to the fit of your two hands. Neither of you will ev
er feel this again. Not ever.
3 March
Jack Fetches the Coal
Jack was passing an inn and fancied a pint of beer, but he’d no money. The innkeeper said, ‘If ye dae a wee job for me ye’ll get a pint for yer trouble. Away tae the cellar and fetch some coal for the fire.’
So Jack takes the coal scuttle and opens the trapdoor to the cellar and starts climbing down the ladder. After a while he thinks, This is an awfie deep cellar. And a while later he thinks, And awfie dark, tae. And some time after that he thinks, I’ll just away back up and forget aboot the pint.
But at that moment he reaches the foot of the ladder. He’s in a cave piled high with heaps of loose coal, and he can see this because there’s a red light glowing, round a corner. He keeks round the corner and sees a huge roaring furnace, being stoked by the Devil, and inside it are the shapes of people burning in eternal agony.
Jack thinks, I’m no hingin aboot, but I may as well take some coal since I’m here, so very quietly he fills the scuttle, then starts back up the ladder. It’s hard work with the full scuttle but he’s doing fine till a big lump of coal slips out and falls to the bottom with a terrible crash. So now he can hear the Devil coming after him. Jack climbs faster, he can feel the weight of the Devil on the ladder below, and now he’s catching at his heels, spitting and cursing, but Jack makes it into the inn, slams the trapdoor down and staggers up to the bar.
‘There’s yer coal,’ he says, peching and sweating.
‘And here’s yer pint,’ says the innkeeper. ‘I was wondering where ye’d got tae.’
What Jack’s wondering is if he’s just woken up from a nightmare. ‘That’s an awfie deep, dark cellar ye hae,’ he says.
‘Aye,’ says the innkeeper, ‘but I’ll tell ye something I never hae ony bother wi, and that’s damp,’ and he gives Jack a diabolical wink. And Jack knocks his pint back in a oner, and runs for the door, and never goes near that inn again.
4 March
The Hand
He looked at his right hand. He brought its pink fingers and trimmed nails closer to his face. Was it this hand? How many times had it made the sign of the cross or been raised aloft as he blessed individual men, women and children, whole crowds and congregations of them? Was it really this hand that had held the host for fifty years? He turned it this way and that as if it were not attached to him but an object to be inspected, inquired into. And yes, that was what he was doing: asking questions of the hand, of himself.
He tried to remember it younger, himself as a young priest. The certainty of faith that he had felt – or that he seemed to remember feeling – was so far away now that he almost laughed. He thought of all the great and petty men he had met – politicians and statesmen, leaders of business or war or other faiths. That hand had shaken so many other hands, and sometimes, away from the public gaze, he had wiped or washed it thinking of the deceit, cruelty or hatred it had touched. It was easier to forgive in public than it was to forgive in one’s heart.
It had touched women’s hands too, that hand. He had never understood women. They had loved him, the devout ones, but he had given them nothing in return – nothing, at least, of essence. They had said he was courageous, but he knew himself better than they did. If he could pray now, he would pray that the women might forgive him.
But he could not pray. He stared at the hand. It would not join together with the other in prayer again. He was beyond prayer.
If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee.
He was quite alone. I will now spend the rest of my life in retirement. As if it could be that easy.
He wished he was dead, a sinful wish, but it was the one thing he felt that was clean and true and without doubt. If the hand could act without his will, he would not resist it.
5 March
The View
‘Is that what brought you all the way up here?’ the interviewer asked. ‘An uninterrupted view?’
The older man said, ‘I thought we’d finished.’
‘We have, but there are always more questions.’
‘Is that thing not switched off ?’
‘It is now.’
The interviewer put the machine in his briefcase, which he snapped shut with a show of finality.
His host reached for the whisky bottle and refilled their glasses. From the smeary jug the interviewer added some water.
‘I was speaking metaphorically, but yes, absence of interruption was the motivation. Space to think in, silence to write in. When I first came to the islands I thought I’d come far enough for those. I hadn’t. So I came to this island. But it was no good down in the village. Worse, in fact.’
‘Worse?’
‘Worse than the city. Oh, it may seem quiet, but it’s close quarters. Any noise, however slight, is amplified tenfold. When the ferry arrives it’s unbearable. Speaking of which, you have one hour. So when this place came up for sale, it was the obvious solution.’
‘It certainly is a splendid location, but I imagine the track must be difficult in winter.’
‘Impossible. I don’t mind that. One has to keep replenishing supplies, that’s all.’ He nodded at the bottle. ‘And I have a freezer.’
‘You seem to cope admirably.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘What I mean is, most people would have given up after one year, let alone twenty.’
‘Most people are soft.’
‘And do you really think you’ll stay? There must be a lot of physical work, especially for someone on their own. What if you’re ill, or …’
‘Or what? Too decrepit? Is that what you’re too polite to say?’
‘We all have to face it eventually.’
‘Then I’ll retreat, as far as I must. Actually, if it comes to it I’ll go straight from here to the city. One move. Game over.’
Through the window lay the vast, flat, deceiving sea, and other islands floating on it.
‘I’d better be off,’ the interviewer said, but he did not move. His glass was not empty. He estimated that if he walked fast he need not leave for another ten minutes.
6 March
Bedtime
Lying awake in the middle of the night, he suddenly thought of a dog his grandparents had kept, when he was very young, and how it used to turn and turn in a circle in its basket before settling down. That anxious flattening of the blankets, that spin into a tight, self-protecting coil, had fascinated him. ‘Why does he do that?’ he asked once. And the answer came: ‘Well, long ago, when dogs lived in the wild, they had to make a new bed every night, so they’d turn like that to make a nest in the grass or leaves or wherever they were, to be as safe and comfortable as they could. And they still do that, even though they’ve forgotten why.’
It had seemed a reasonable explanation then. It still did. And when he wondered why that image of the dog had come to mind now, out of nowhere, and so vividly, another reasonable explanation immediately asserted itself. Because of his father. Because what had woken him was another memory, or a dream, of getting his father to bed the last time he visited. Supporting him as he shuffled through to the bedroom, to the twin beds disliked by his father but which gave his mother at least a chance of a decent night’s sleep. Turning back the duvet before his father lowered himself. Helping him shrug off his dressing-gown. Bending to ease first one slipper, then the other, from the old white feet. Lifting those feet and swinging the legs onto the mattress. Pulling the duvet over him. Kissing the bald top of his head, and smoothing the wispy, baby-soft hair down behind his ears. Without his hearing-aid his father was already half in a world of slumber. He smiled up from the pillow, all the mental frustrations, bodily inconveniences and physical obstacles of the day receding, perhaps forgotten already. And he, the son, looked down on the father, a big man yet small somehow, a child again, exhausted, ready for sleep.
And the dog was long ago, years and years away. He lay awake, seeing it so clearly, but no matter how hard he tri
ed he could not remember its name.
7 March
Death Takes a Break
Death went to the doctor, complaining of constant lethargy, stress and an overwhelming sense of doom.
The doctor listened carefully. ‘When was the last time you had a holiday?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never had a holiday,’ said Death.
‘Well, that’s the first thing,’ the doctor replied, ‘before we even consider medication. Take a week off, go somewhere quiet and relaxing, and don’t think about work.’
Death packed a bag and headed for a seaside resort. He’d been there before, though not for a holiday, and remembered rather liking the place. He booked into a discreet hotel and spent the first three days avoiding people, exploring the coves, bays and beaches of the coastline. The weather was glorious. He warmed his bones in the sun, filled his lungs with fresh air. This has been the problem, he thought: too much work and not enough light.
On the fourth day the sky was grey, threatening rain. He stayed in town, and as he wandered from shop to shop, café to café, his mood, too, began to darken. He had not noticed before, but the place was full of old people, tottering and querulous, their faces lined with pain and weariness. Not all of them, of course: some bubbled annoyingly with joie de vivre and loud optimism. But even these, when he observed them closely, were not doing so well. The women wore a lot of make-up, and the men, when they thought no one was watching, slipped off their happy masks.
In a little park overlooking the sea, he sat on a bench to contemplate. Why was nothing simple?
A woman on the next bench was speaking into her phone. Her face was wet with tears. ‘I hate seeing him like this,’ she was saying. ‘It’s awful for him, awful for everybody. He wants to go and he can’t. Day after day I think this will be it, and it isn’t. But he’s had enough. He’s really had enough.’
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