Questioned on what level of co-operation existed with England over cross-border security, Mr Fleming said, ‘Security systems intended to prevent these men entering Scotland are entirely ineffectual, as we always said they would be owing to the porous nature of the border, so we can only anticipate that unless or until the English Government changes its foreign policy the number of arrivals will go on rising.’
Despite his barely concealed irritation, Mr Fleming did not repeat the Scottish Chancellor’s scathing reference to ‘Airstrip One’, which resulted in the English Prime Minister cancelling his recent planned trip to Edinburgh. But when asked if he thought the ‘special relationship’ between the two countries had been irretrievably damaged, he replied: ‘Time will tell. One must ask: which two countries, what relationship, and why is it special?’
A spokesman for the English Government said, ‘We told you independence would lead to conflict.’
30 August
How the Wolf …
after Neil Gunn
Long ago, when humans still lived in caves and the world was a wild and dangerous place, a great enmity existed between humans and wolves. The wolves roamed the mountains and forests and killed other animals to survive, and sometimes they killed humans. And the humans had no sheep or cattle or horses, so they too lived by killing wild animals. Their weapons were of stone, wood and sinew, and to kill any beast was a task needing strength, speed and cunning.
One day a man went out to kill a deer, in order to feed his family. In the middle of the forest he came face to face with a wolf. The wolf sprang at him and the man swung at it with his stone axe, but he missed. A long, fierce fight followed, till at last the wolf lay dead. Exhausted, the man lay down to rest, and where he lay he found the body of a deer. The wolf had killed the deer and now the man felt grateful to the wolf. Then he looked a little further, and in a nest in the long grass he found a cub. And he understood why the wolf had fought so hard – not to attack him but to defend her cub, as he would have fought to defend his child from the wolf.
So now the man had the deer and the wolf to carry home, but he took the cub too, and raised it as his own, and it grew as loyal to him as if he were its mother. If danger came near the cave in any form, the wolf growled a warning, and fought alongside the man. If the man went hunting the wolf went too, and pulled down a deer if the man had wounded it.
Seasons passed, and the wolf was growing old faster than the man, so the man hunted another wolf, and killed it, and took its cub, a female this time, and the old wolf fathered his own cubs. For the man saw that he could not return to the old way of being. And the young wolves began not to know that they were wolves.
31 August
Perfect
The shop door was flung open and a young fellow burst into our midst. He looked young to me anyway, especially compared with everyone else in the room – the barber, the man in the chair, the other man on the bench who was next in the queue. Thirty or thereabouts, the new arrival. Fit-looking too, but manic: the blood vessels on his temples stood out, his neck was corded, pulsing. He was all bone, muscle and sinew in a black T-shirt and fatigues. He looked to me like a soldier.
‘See this!’ he yelled. It was an instruction, not a question. He stood motionless, pointing at his own head. If he’d had a gun in his hand it wouldn’t have looked much more dramatic. I thought, Is he registering a complaint? Not that there was anything to complain about: his skull had about three millimetres of hair all over it, a sharp shadow of growth.
‘See this!’ he yelled. ‘Can you mind it?’
He was addressing the barber.
‘What d’ye mean, son?’ The barber had paused in mid-snip – everything had paused. He was very calm. His tone was cool and quiet.
‘Can ye mind it? Picture it? Ma heid? The wey it is? Mind it for the future?’
‘I’ll mind you,’ the barber said.
‘Naw, ma heid, ma hair! This is it, perfect! This is how I like it.’ He ran both hands back from his brow over his skull, down the pulsing neck. The hands clasped the neck as if they might be about to rip the head right off. ‘If I come in again, can ye cut it for us, just like this?’
‘A number two, I’d say,’ the barber said. ‘Aye, I can dae that.’
‘But perfect, like this? Can ye dae it the exact same?’ He froze in the stance he had assumed on entry.
The barber tilted his head this way and that as he made his professional assessment. ‘Aye,’ he said.
‘Brilliant!’ the man said. ‘Be back in three days.’ And he burst out onto the street again.
Everything was wonderfully still. We all breathed out. Then the scissors snipped again.
The barber shook his head. ‘Aye,’ he said.
SEPTEMBER
1 September
Skelf
There was a man who at different times worked as a gardener, a carpenter and a forester. He was someone, therefore, who handled woods and plants of many kinds, and he went through life picking up splinters or skelfs along the way. Some he acquired simply because he laboured hard, and the insidious little darts found their way into his hands in the course of a working day. Others came to him because he was distracted or careless, and his palms or fingers were punished for his lack of attention. He tolerated skelfs as small nuisances hardly worthy of consideration in the longer, larger scheme of existence. Often he would not even notice a skelf’s arrival for a day or two, until it made its presence felt, jagging away under the skin, perhaps threatening infection. Then he would get to work with the point of his pocketknife, or with a needle passed through flame, digging around the skelf and marvelling that something so tiny could cause such irritation.
But there was one that went deeper and further than any of the others, and which he could not extract. At first it gave him no pain, and by the time it did it was so far into him that it was no longer visible. Yet he knew it was there because of the insistent throb of its movement, as it burrowed still deeper, travelling from his palm, through his wrist and up his arm. Every day he felt it, but could not see a trace of it. And he understood that it was not going to stop, that it was moving, fractionally but relentlessly, towards his heart.
What was this terrible, miniature arrow that flew so slowly within him? It was nothing a doctor could identify or treat. No operation could save him from it. It was not something of wood or plant. It was not something of anything. It was an absence of something, and he did not know what it was but he felt it and it made him sad and fearful. And with good reason, for, before he grew to be an old man, that absence, of whatever it was, would kill him.
2 September
The Presence
for Keir
Suddenly I had the strongest sensation that someone was walking beside me, with me. I was alone, but I had to check. Truly, I was alone. When I looked ahead again, the same feeling overwhelmed me and I had to check a second time. I thought I had somehow got out of myself, but as soon as I had that notion I knew I was mistaken. If anyone was there it was not myself or any part of myself. It was another.
I had come through the park, on my way to the shops. It was nearly four o’clock, the schools had finished, and what was left of the afternoon was warm and dry. Mothers and grandmothers and children were everywhere. There was a fenced-off area with a chute, swings and a roundabout, and it was full of children, with women watching over them. I was conscious of myself, an unaccompanied adult male, going through the park at that time of day. I went down under the bridge and onto the walk by the river and immediately left the crowds behind, and it was here that I felt the presence at my side.
It was not a ‘presence’ of course. It was an absence.
Before I left the river I saw a boy alone, fishing. He must have gone straight from school to be there and he must have had his rod in his schoolbag and screwed it together and there he was, fishing from the bank. I don’t know what you can catch in this river: not much, I should think, and nothing you wouldn’t want to throw
straight back. There he was, the boy, and perhaps he was too young to be on his own by the river, where anything might happen: some stranger might approach him, or his foot might slip, or other, bigger boys might corner him. But he didn’t look like he was too young. He looked like a boy in his own place, and as if he would grow up to be a man who, as long as he lived, would occupy whatever space he occupied with ease.
As I went on to the shops I wished him luck.
3 September
Sticks
Ye see a lot mair folk gaun aboot wi sticks nooadays. Ken whit that’s aboot? They’ve been tellt. Get yersel a stick, man. Aye, get yersel a stick. Makes ye look mair disabled. Get yersel twa. No that ye huv tae use them aw the time; I mean, as soon as ye get in the door ye can jist chuck them, eh? As soon as naebody’s lookin. It’s no like ye huv tae use a stick tae sit on yer erse aw day. Jist be shair and take yer sticks wi ye when ye’re gaun oot. If it’s a hassle takin twa sticks jist take the wan, so ye can cairry yer messages in yer ither haun. Yer pizzas and bevvy and fags and everythin else ye can buy wi the money they gie ye for haein a stick.
Ye can get a stick aff the NHS, it’s no like ye huv tae pey for it. But it’s a guid investment, haein yer ain stick, so when ye go tae the doactor ye can say, ‘Oh, I couldnae wait for a Health Service stick I wis in that much pain, I had tae crawl doon tae the charity shoap and get this yin.’
D’ye wear glesses? Take them aff and get yersel a white stick. That’s goat tae be guid for a few extra quid. And hirple,*man, hirple. I mean, disnae maitter whit colour it is, there’s nae point haein a stick if ye’re no gonnae hirple. Defeats the object o the exercise. No that ye’re takin ony exercise, but ye ken whit I’m sayin? Get yersel a stick and a hirple, man, and ye’ll be fine.
That’s whit folk huv been tellt. The word’s got aroond. D’ye think they dinnae speak tae each ither? D’ye think they dinnae share information? How else dae ye think there’s thoosans o them gaun aboot wi sticks?
Ken whit the government should dae? Aw thae skivers wi sticks? They should line them aw up and kick their sticks awa. The wans that dinnae faw ower, stoap their benefit. That’d sort the wasters oot. That’d pit their gas at a peep. That’d gie them somethin tae greet aboot.
4 September
Bob Dylan’s 119th Dream
I was riding on a Greyhound bus, seeking some place to hide. I slept and when I woke there was a stranger by my side. He said, ‘We have not met before, but now we meet at last.’ He smiled and shook my hand, and he held it tightly in his grasp.
He said, ‘I see your fortune here, along this crooked line. I don’t wish to alarm you, but it’s the same as mine.’ I stared into his sullen eyes, they were dark and full of hate. I answered, ‘I have no desire to understand my fate.
‘I bought a ticket to a place where I might ease my heart, and when I reach that sanctuary then we must surely part.’ ‘This highway we are travelling,’ he said without a blink, ‘goes straight to Armageddon, whatever you may think.
‘But if you don’t believe me, just take a look around. There is not one among us who for sanctuary is bound.’ I looked at my companions, and I began to quake. I thought I must be dreaming still, but I could not awake.
The bus was full of skeletons, no flesh upon their bones, and all of them were deep in conversation on their phones. Some of them had cutlasses, while others they had guns, and they were not equipped with them for fashion or for fun.
‘What deathly crew is this,’ I said, ‘riding upon this bus?’ ‘Check out your reflection,’ he said. ‘They are the same as us.’ The night had fallen on the plain, as black as night can be. I saw a skull with empty eyes staring back at me.
I turned to face the stranger. ‘Now let me pass,’ I cried. ‘Do not concern yourself,’ he said, as he kindly stepped aside. I went up to the driver. ‘Please put me down,’ I said. But the driver made no answer – he had a bullet in his head.
When I found my seat once more, the stranger he was gone. I did not sleep again that night, waiting for the dawn. Faraway a mountain loomed, a dark and gloomy shape. If it was my sanctuary, then how could I escape?
5 September
The Hill
He needed half a day of reasonable weather. As he drove out of Inverness the clouds were thinning. There was even a suggestion of sunshine. He calculated his timings again: an hour’s drive to the starting-point, three hours to walk up the mountain, two hours to come down, two and a half hours’ drive to Edinburgh. He’d be home by early evening.
In the past he had sometimes climbed thirty or forty Munros in a year, but work and family commitments had reduced this number to almost zero. He tried not to resent this: it was what happened. But on this business trip, he’d built a climb into his schedule: he’d completed his work the previous evening; boots, rucksack, map and food were all in the back of the car; and now the weather was smiling on him. Today he was going to climb a hill.
He left the A9 and a few miles further on turned onto a single-track road. Not far to go now. And then, at the next junction, a red sign confronted him: ROAD CLOSED AHEAD. BRIDGE REPAIRS. LOCAL ACCESS ONLY. It had not occurred to him that he might be thwarted in this way. He drove on: what, after all, did LOCAL ACCESS mean? But when he reached the bridge a mile later, it was covered in scaffolding and blocked to all vehicles. It was another five miles to the starting-point. To walk there and back was out of the question: his schedule lay in ruins.
He turned the car and drove back the way he had come, then down another narrow road that rejoined the A9 further south. On his left was a river, too full to be forded; beyond it, the road that was closed; and beyond that, the hill he had intended to climb, splendid against the now completely blue sky. He kept looking for a footbridge across the river, but could not see one. The hill was mocking him. Then the road left the river and he lost sight of the hill.
It was frustrating, but he had to let it go. The bridge would be repaired. The hill would still be there some other day.
6 September
How the Toad …
The earth blinked. A red, wicked hint of life.
She was crouched in the herb garden, gathering ingredients for an infusion for her sister: sage and peppermint for her aching head, rosemary for her fatigue. There was horseradish there too, which might ease her blocked sinuses, and it was while she was grubbing among the roots and reaching back for her knife that the earth blinked. Her hand had brushed a movement. She leaned back on her haunches, and now the movement became a small eruption, an old man clambering sulkily from his bed.
‘Ah, it’s yourself,’ she said. She chided herself for being startled. That a toad should surprise her!
The toad did not acknowledge that he had been addressed. He pulled himself into the open, left hand, right foot, right hand, left foot. When he had sorted himself he sat scowling at her like a fat monk.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to disturb you.’
She had never seen one so big, nor with such red eyes. She put her finger towards him. He puffed himself up, becoming even more impressive.
‘I will not hurt you,’ she said. But she knew what the village boys would do with such a beast. Poke him. Flip him on his back. Blow him up with straws. Torment him as they tormented her and her sister.
She thought, They need to fear him. This would save him from their cruelties.
She thought, They need to fear me.
She said, ‘Toad, come and bide in the house. Be in the pocket of my apron from time to time. We will protect one another.’
What a weight was in him when she gently encouraged him aboard her palm. Into her apron he went, and in went some soil and leaves of lady’s mantle for his bedclothes.
She heard her sister crying, and the loud boys coming down the street.
She was not just a woman. She had knowledge and soon she would have power. Enough knowledge to make her useful to the villagers. Enough power to keep them at a distance.
She start
ed for the gate. To show them her new accomplice. To warn them.
7 September
Without Prejudice
‘Do these words mean anything?’ Alex Mather said. ‘Does the writer of this letter have any idea what he is saying or has he just stuck in a phrase he’s vaguely heard somewhere and is hoping for the best?’
‘I don’t know, Alex,’ Jill Mather said. ‘What words? May I see it?’
Alex kept the letter in his hand.
‘ “Without prejudice”,’ he said. ‘Does that mean, “I am not prejudiced, I am a completely rational, balanced sort of chap so anything I say is common sense”? Or, on the other hand –’
‘I think it means you are being constructive and honest in your correspondence about some dispute in a genuine effort to settle it but, notwithstanding that you may have made some admission or concession, if it goes to court none of what you’ve written in the letter can be used in evidence against you.’
‘Oh, like a kind of magic spell? You are a shower of shysters, cheats and all round grade-A bastards but because I’ve put “without prejudice” at the top of my letter you can’t sue me for saying those things?’
‘No, that’s not what I mean. Did you notice my use of the word “constructive”?’
‘I noticed your use of the word “notwithstanding”. You haven’t been studying to be a lawyer on the QT, have you?’
‘ “On the QT”? Is that a phrase you’ve vaguely heard somewhere? Anyway, what has this correspondent written that so upsets you?’
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