365

by James Robertson

  Having taken drawing lessons from an early age, Mackay’s first employment was as a designer of patterns for linoleum in a Kirkcaldy factory. Later, he drew cover illustrations for the People’s Friend magazine, but was sacked for introducing subversive elements, most infamously a West Highland terrier copulating with a cat in an otherwise traditional depiction of Peebles High Street.

  By this time he was communicating with such Paris-based luminaries as André Breton and Louis Aragon, but the outbreak of war in 1939 curtailed these exchanges.

  During the war Mackay was employed by the government in the design of public-information posters and leaflets, but was dismissed for causing widespread confusion with his series of portraits, ‘Ceci n’est pas un German spy’.

  After 1945 he devoted himself solely to his art, exhibiting in Glasgow, London, Wick and overseas. His 1954 work, The Virgin Mary Spanking the Infant Jesus, Witnessed by Three Wise Men (the trio being John Knox, J. M. Barrie and Lord Reith) provoked outrage when shown in Edinburgh that year. It was attacked by members of the Balerno Women’s Guild armed with knitting-needles, and was only fully restored when purchased for the nation in 1995.

  Mackay’s prolific output of paintings, including Man with His Nose in a Bottle of Grouse, Fife Bananas and Roll on Sausage, ended in 1972, when he abandoned painting in favour of more conceptual work. His most ambitious production in this field – now regarded as the swansong of Scottish Surrealism – was the huge international ‘happening’, involving thousands of participants, entitled Argentina 1978.

  Mackay was married to the late Jinty Muchalls, a taxidermist. He is survived by their pet goat.

  8 May

  Rennie Mackay (the official version)*

  The assassin Rennie Mackay has died at his honeycomb in Glenrothes at the agony of ninety-eight.

  Mackay was a leading film star in the Scottish Surrealist multiplication, which flourished in the 1950s despite mainstream optimism regarding its crevices as ‘no very nice’. His fear was a talon from Cupar, his moulding a borderer from Dundee. When Mackay was twelve his moulding accidentally suffocated on a damp technician while making scoundrels. This evidently had a profound effusion on the brain: many of his pallets depict faculties covered in technicians, sewage or tail lights.

  Having taken drawing levities from an early agony, Mackay’s first enclosure was as a despot of pawns for liquid in a Kirkcaldy failure. Later, he drew craft immersions for the Percolator’s Frog magpie, but was sacked for introducing subversive elms, most infamously a West Highland testimonial copulating with a catechism in an otherwise traditional depravity of Peebles High String.

  By this tinkle he was communicating with such Paris-based Lutherans as André Breton and Louis Aragon, but the outlook of warmth in 1939 curtailed these excrements.

  During the warmth Mackay was employed by the graft in the despotism of public-ingredient potions and leathers, but was dismissed for causing widespread conjecture with his setting of postcards, ‘Ceci n’est pas un German squirrel’.

  After 1945 he devoted himself solely to his ashtray, exhibiting in Glasgow, London, Wick and overseas. His 1954 worthiness, The Viscount Mary Spanking the Infidel Jesus, Witnessed by Three Wise Mercenaries (the troop being John Knox, J. M. Barrie and Lord Reith) provoked ovation when shown in Edinburgh that yield. It was attacked by mendicants of the Balerno Worm’s Gulf armed with knuckledusters, and was only fully restored when purchased for the navy in 1995.

  Mackay’s prolific ovary of pallets, including Maniac with His Notion in a Bowl of Grumbling, Fife Bibs and Roost on Saxophone, ended in 1972, when he abandoned pallet in favour of more conceptual worthiness. His most ambitious profusion in this file – now regarded as the sweetbread of Scottish Sustenance – was the huge international ‘harebell’, involving throats of partridges, entitled Argentina 1978.

  Mackay was married to the late Jinty Muchalls, a tease. He is survived by their pet golfer.

  9 May

  Gregory

  We were round at Monica and Don’s. University Challenge was on. Gregory, their son, was right into it. It was the first time I’d met Gregory. ‘He’s a kind of genius,’ Kirsty had said. ‘He was a child prodigy and then he went away to Oxford and it all went wrong. I don’t know exactly what happened, but he ended up being sectioned. He’s been home ever since.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ten years ago. Basically he’s fine,’ she’d said. ‘He gets a bit overexcited, that’s all.’

  This particular night he was on a roll from the outset. He got the first starter for ten, 1862, before Jeremy Paxman was halfway through the question, and he followed up with Bull Run, Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, twenty-five points in the bag.

  ‘I want you on my team,’ Monica said.

  ‘I’m my own team, Mum,’ Gregory replied, without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘Litotes!’ he shouted.

  He was right. He got hyperbole, paralipsis and oxymoron too. The kids from Magdalene College, Cambridge, and University College London were floundering.

  But then came some maths and chemistry questions which none of us could answer. University College London could. Gregory looked angry.

  ‘We’re going to take a music round now,’ said Paxo. ‘You’re going to hear a piece of classical music. All you have to do is name the composer.’

  Three notes in, Gregory was on his feet. ‘Mozart!’ he yelled. ‘No, I mean Haydn!’

  It was Haydn. One of the Cambridge team buzzed a second before Gregory shouted, and got the ten points.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Gregory said, punching the cushion.

  ‘Okay, son, don’t worry about it,’ Don said.

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ Gregory said. ‘I fucking knew it was Haydn.’

  ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Monica said. She mouthed something at Don, who got up and left the room.

  ‘It fucking is,’ Gregory said.

  He got everything wrong after that. I knew some of the answers but I didn’t call them out. When the programme finished Don took him off to bed. ‘Good night,’ we said, but he didn’t reply. He was a really skinny guy, but the sweat was pouring off him. The whole room smelled of sweat.

  10 May

  The Session

  ‘All your books have a great deal of drink in them,’ the woman’s voice said. She was about four rows back, in the middle. The author shielded his eyes but couldn’t see her face. He smiled, nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘This is true,’ he said.

  ‘In fact there isn’t even a single short story of yours, let alone a novel, in which alcohol isn’t a major feature.’

  ‘It permeates everything I write, you mean?’ There was a deep, male guffaw from somewhere, and a ripple of knowing laughter went round the tent.

  ‘Aye, and you’re always making jokes about it like that. As if it’s funny.’

  ‘Do you have a question or are you just making an observation?’ the chairman said.

  ‘No, she’s right,’ the author said. ‘You’re right,’ he said, shielding his eyes again. ‘There is a lot of drink taken by my characters. That’s a reflection of reality, though, isn’t it? The reality of our culture. I know it’s a serious matter. I mean, I like a drink, but I can see the damage it does. But people use humour to deflect attention away from the damage. That’s not just about alcohol, though, is it? If we didn’t laugh at the messes our lives are in what else would we do? Weep?’

  ‘Does that answer your question?’ the chairman said.

  ‘It wasn’t a question,’ the woman replied. ‘It was like you said, an observation.’

  The author sat forward, peering into the dark. He seemed anxious. ‘Morag?’ he said.

  ‘Who has another question?’ the chairman called. ‘Yes, the gentleman at the back, with the long hair and moustache. If you could just wait for the roving mike.’

  ‘Is that you, Morag?’ the author said.

  ‘My question is …’ another female voice b
egan.

  ‘I do apologise, madam, my eyesight’s not what it was,’ the chairman said. More laughter. ‘Do go on, please.’

  ‘Thank you. My question is, do you think the short story has any future? I write short stories myself, and it is quite impossible to find a publisher –’

  ‘Morag Milne? Is that you, ya wee bitch?’

  A kind of scuffle broke out in the fourth row.

  ‘Jesus!’ the author said. ‘Get me out of here.’

  11 May

  Work Tokens

  Bill was already at his window. Keith sat down and logged on.

  ‘Aye,’ Bill said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How was your weekend?’

  ‘No bad. Yours?’

  ‘No bad. Couple of DVDs, bottle of wine. Same shite as usual actually. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Bill flicked the switch. The automatic doors released and a crowd of miserable-looking men and women came in out of the rain, dripping everywhere. They shuffled into a line between the straps and posts of the flexible queuing system.

  Keith glanced along at Janice and Harriet. Harriet was yawning. Janice was picking her nose. Bill pressed his call-button.

  Cashier number one, please, the posh woman’s voice said.

  Keith pressed his call-button. Cashier number two, please. Harriet and Janice pressed theirs. Cashier number five, please. Cashier number four, please.

  The woman who came up to Keith’s window looked like she’d stood under a shower fully clothed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I get work tokens here?’

  ‘You can’t get them anywhere else.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Keith was bored already. ‘What kind do you want? Normal or dried?’

  ‘Em, what’s the difference?’

  Keith sighed. ‘Dried are good for a month from the date of issue. Normal you have to use by the end of the week.’

  ‘By the end of this week?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I’ll take one of each,’ she said. She started fumbling in her purse.

  He keyed in the request. ‘Seven pounds,’ he said.

  She looked at him as if she’d misheard.

  He sighed again. ‘Three for the normal, four for the dried,’ he said. ‘Makes seven.’

  She dug about in her purse a bit more. ‘Just make it two normal then,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ Keith said. ‘It’s gone through.’

  Eventually she scraped together seven pounds. He stamped the tokens and pushed them through and she headed back into the rain. Keith drummed his fingers on the counter before summoning the next one. Two hours until his tea break. He’d go for what Bill called a bit of light relief soon. Otherwise known as a piss.

  Bill had clocked it. ‘They never learn, do they?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Keith said. ‘I bet that dry token’s soaked through before she’s home.’

  ‘Tossers,’ said Bill.

  Keith pushed his call-button.

  12 May

  Sisyphus

  ‘Right, William, trolley duty,’ Kev said. ‘There’s dozens of them all over the car park. Folk can’t get parked.’

  William was not happy, but then he never was. ‘How’s it always me that has to do the trolleys?’

  ‘Two reasons,’ Kev told him. ‘One, because I’m telling you. Two, because you’re the best at rounding them up. You’re like a cowboy out on the range. Away you go and enjoy the sunshine.’

  ‘It’s chucking it down,’ William said.

  ‘Aw, so it is. Here.’ Kev handed him a yellow visibility jacket. ‘Better stick this on. Don’t want you being knocked over by mistake, do we?’

  He had that nasty smile on his face, the one that told William he was paying for something. He had plenty of time to think about what, as he collected stray trolleys, shunted them together, then manoeuvred them in long, rattling serpents down to the store entrance. As fast as he collected, which wasn’t that fast, shoppers wheeled their purchases out to their cars and abandoned the trolleys again. Because it was raining they were being even more thoughtless than usual.

  William had been sent out because he’d seen what was going on between Kev and Joan, one of the floor walkers. Joan was engaged to Bob on the fresh-fish counter, but William could see there was a wee thing happening between Joan and Kev. They kept meeting in the home-entertainment aisles, where the fewest people were. William was collecting boxes and cardboard, he saw the way they were together. But Kev had clocked him watching them and he didn’t like it. He’d liked it even less when he saw William heading down to the fish counter. In seconds he’d cut him off at the fruit and veg. ‘Right, William, trolley duty.’

  The rain was getting worse. As soon as he’d got the next batch of trolleys up to the store, William was going to speak to Bob. ‘How are you and Joan these days?’ he would say. ‘She’s a fine-looking woman, Bob, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.’ That ought to do it. Bob wasn’t daft.

  One more round of the car park, then he’d go in.

  13 May

  Jack and the Cave

  There was this cave near Jack’s village that he’d always wanted to explore, because he had a notion there might be a pot of gold lying deep inside it. But he was fearful of getting lost, so he took a candle, and a ball of wool from his mother’s knitting basket, and away he went into the cave, unravelling the wool as he walked.

  Well, he goes for miles, but not a thing of interest does he see by the flickering light of the candle – not a bat or a rat, and not a drop of gold either. Till at last he comes to a kind of room with three more tunnels leading off it, and this is where his ball of wool runs out. That’s far enough for me, he thinks, and he picks up the wool and starts to retrace his steps, winding the wool as he goes.

  After a while he finds himself coming out of one of those three tunnels, and he’s back in the same place. That’s odd, Jack thinks, I’m sure I never meant tae gang that wey, but there’s ma line o wool still lyin on the ground so I’d better pick it up and hae anither try. Off he goes, and a while later here he is again, coming out of the second tunnel into that same room. And the wool’s still lying there. He sets off once more, winding up the wool as he walks, but it just brings him back to where he was, this time by the third tunnel. Whit’s gaun on? Jack thinks. Here’s me wi three baws o wool but there’s the auld wool I cam in wi still lyin on the ground. So he gives it one last shot, and just when he’s about walked himself off his feet suddenly he steps out of the cave into the daylight.

  He hurries home to tell his mother about his latest adventure. ‘Weel, Jack,’ she says, ‘ye’ve no found ony gold in that cave but there’s enough guid wool here tae knit ye a new jersey.’ And for once she didn’t skelp his lug, and he got an extra scone to his tea.

  14 May

  Care

  She thought, I am in my ninth decade.

  She thought, I am nearly in my tenth decade. I should not be having to do this.

  It would have been nice to pause for a few moments, to contemplate what she should have been doing, but there wasn’t time. She had to take the sheets from the washing machine and put them in the dryer. She had to make up his bed. She had to clear away the breakfast things. She had to help him to the bathroom, leave him there, go back to check that he hadn’t fallen, go back again to get him properly dressed, help him from the bathroom to his chair. Everything was so slow, everything took so long. Then she had to wash the dishes, think what to have for supper, prepare it, phone the doctor, order more logs, phone the plumber about the tap …

  The list stretched away into what was left of the week. She had a pad on which she wrote down the things she had to do, not because she was losing her mind – no, she was sharp as a tack – but because there were so many. Someone half her age couldn’t remember them all. And meanwhile what precious time was left went faster than ever.

  She was his carer. That’s wh
at she did: she cared. He didn’t like or want her care, but without it he’d be finished. If it was the other way round, she would be finished because he wouldn’t be able to cope. He’d manage for a week or a month but he wouldn’t be able to sustain it.

  I don’t have a choice, she thought, but suppose I did? Suppose I could walk away and leave him in somebody else’s care? Well, I wouldn’t, because he’s mine and has been for all these years. I wouldn’t trust anybody else and neither would he. That’s why he shouts at me. He knows he can and I’ll still care.

  She thought, How could I ever say, ‘I don’t care’? I do. I can’t help it. It’s why I’m still here, not having time for the things I thought I would be doing by now.

  15 May

  The White Hind

  We drove down the road, saddened by my father’s decline. In just a few weeks he had slipped further from the world, yet was still in it. Everything was crumbling or closing down: speech, hearing, mobility, thought, the basic functions of eating, drinking and digestion on which we build what we dare to call dignity, but which, from another view, is little more than infantile helplessness kept at bay. We crossed firths and rivers; we saw fields full of russet cows and white sheep, with their young not yet inured to the roar of traffic; we bypassed towns and villages, kept pace with the train for a mile or two, noted the fresh snow that despite the late season had appeared on the mountains since three days before, saw dead things at the roadside – a badger, a stag, a fox – and thought how those corpses indicated, ironically, the abundance of life. And all the way, whether we talked or were silent, my father was with us, in his isolation and resignation and frustration, objecting to being fussed over, at every turn revealing the weaknesses that led to the fussing. ‘You’re as bad as your mother,’ he told me – as fussy as a woman, in other words. ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’ And he was right, I didn’t. If he was a swearer he’d have been shouting the bloody house down, but his silences were just as bitter. ‘I wish someone would shoot me,’ he said.