365

by James Robertson

  Dr Black at length delicately broke the ice, as if to sound the opinion of his companion.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said, in his precise and quiet manner, ‘Doctor, do you not think that they taste a little – a very little queer?’

  ‘Damned queer! Damned queer, indeed!’ Dr Hutton at once responded. ‘Tak them awa, tak them awa!’ And, starting up from the table, he gave full vent to his feelings of abhorrence.

  4 October

  Miss Menie Trotter of Mortonhall

  after Lord Cockburn and Clementina Stirling Graham

  for Freeland Barbour

  Miss Menie Trotter was one of that singular race of old Scotch ladies who were spirited, resolute, indifferent to modern fads and fashions, and who spoke, dressed and did exactly as they pleased. She was penurious in small things, but otherwise generous. She kept all her bills and banknotes in a green silk bag that hung on her dressing-table mirror, and all her coins in two white bowls, silver in the one, copper in the other. She mistrusted banks but was trustworthy of individuals until their honesty could be disproved: she once sent as a present to her niece a fifty-pound note wrapped in a cabbage leaf, in the care of a woman who was carrying a basket of butter to the Edinburgh market.

  Miss Trotter was of the agrestic order – that is to say she was entirely rustic in appearance and manners. Long walks in the country were her chief pleasure, and ten miles at a stretch nothing to her even in old age. She lived alone but enjoyed the company of friends, and entertained them liberally. Every autumn she slaughtered an ox, and with her guests ate her way through him, nose to tail, but only on Sundays. This meant that the beast lasted half through the winter. Not long before her death she urged her neighbour Sir Thomas Lauder to dine with her the following Sunday: ‘For, eh! Sir Tammas, we’re terrible near the tail noo!’

  About this time, a friend asked her how she was feeling.

  ‘Very weel, quite weel,’ she replied. ‘But, eh, I had a dismal dream last nicht, a fearfu dream!’

  ‘I am sorry for that,’ the friend said. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Ou, what d’ye think?’ said Miss Trotter. ‘Of aw the places in the world, I dreamed I was in Heeven! And what d’ye think I saw there? Thoosans and thoosans, and ten thoosans upon ten thoosans, o stark-naked weans! That wid be a dreadfu thing, for ye ken I never could bide bairns aw my days!’

  Her name could be the title of a Scottish dance tune, and perhaps she has had one written for her. She certainly deserves one. Would you not agree, Mr Barbour?

  5 October

  A Case of Leaves (1)

  It is one of those satisfying, seasonal tasks: the sweeping of leaves into piles; the extraction of outliers and stragglers and stowaways from behind plant pots, out of drains and awkward corners; the sad delight in their dying colours and – depending on the weather – crinkled, or limply sodden, textures; the multiple pleasures of their shapes and shades, singular and collective; the quiet brushstrokes capturing the end of summer, clearing away the process of autumn.

  There are machines for sucking and chopping up dead leaves – roaring, aggressive, indiscriminate herders. Their noise and brutality are an affront to Nature. I prefer the brush and the boards, the barrow and the bin. There is dignity this way; time and silence in which to think.

  Of all the seasons, this is the one that tugs hardest at the heart. And it has that other name, the fall. What worlds of meaning are contained in that short phrase!

  Later today, I’ll be in the city, saying a few words at the opening of a new exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. The exhibition is about history, about how past lives and concerns connect with present ones. Since I’ll only be speaking for a minute or two I have not been asked what technical requirements I might require: projector, screen, audio-visuals, handouts. Not necessary, on this occasion. But perhaps what I am doing now, gathering leaves, is not so very different from what the exhibition aims to do: to gather and sift and appreciate single and multiple lives, the falling past that already contains in it both the cold, clear threat of winter and faith in spring’s renewal, growth and change. I imagine filling a suitcase with leaves, taking it to the city, casting its contents across the floor of the gallery. I imagine saying, ‘This is my audio-visual aid, my handout. What you see is what you will become. What you will become is what others were before. What others were before became you. Walk through this space, these memories, these signs and tokens of what is past, over; contemplate their colours, shapes and shades, their singular and collective stories. They are not over. They are you. You are them.’

  6 October

  A Case of Leaves (2)

  This old fellow was coming through. We’d been watching him on the monitor as he crossed the concourse.

  ‘That’s a healthy old bird,’ Stan said. ‘Look at the way he’s swinging that suitcase.’

  The man was wearing a brown raincoat and a hat from a 1950s movie. Stan was right: he was jaunty even though he looked above seventy. You could see it wasn’t any effort to carry the case.

  ‘Can’t be much in that,’ I said.

  ‘If anything,’ Stan said. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  We stepped out and took the old fellow over to the inspection zone.

  ‘Is that your suitcase, sir?’ Stan asked.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Please put the suitcase on the table,’ Stan said.

  The man lifted it as if it were full of air. Stan turned it sideways on, so that when it was opened we would all be able to see inside clearly.

  ‘Is it locked?’

  ‘No, it’s not locked.’

  ‘Did you pack this case yourself, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Has anyone else had access to it? Could anyone have interfered with it, with or without your knowledge?’

  ‘Not with my knowledge. Without – how would I know?’

  He did not seem anxious in his brown raincoat and 1950s hat.

  Stan said, ‘Please open the suitcase.’

  The man flicked up one catch, then the other. He lifted the lid. The lid went back so far, then stopped.

  ‘What’s this?’ Stan said sharply.

  ‘Leaves.’

  ‘Leaves?’

  ‘It’s the fall back there. I brought the fall with me.’

  Stan’s gloved hand rummaged around, like a squirrel in a park. It shovelled dry leaves onto the table. Some fell on the floor.

  ‘Do something, Pete,’ Stan said.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ the man asked.

  What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t a park attendant. ‘It’s just leaves,’ I said.

  Suddenly the man started laughing, a clean, happy laugh. It was infectious. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Pete,’ Stan said. ‘Can it.’

  I pushed Stan aside. I put both hands in and flung a heap of leaves in the air.

  ‘It’s just leaves,’ I said. I dug in again, deeper this time, showering us all. I wanted there not to be a bottom to that suitcase.

  7 October

  Solitary

  When they put me in the hole I thought, I’ll go mad. By the time they let me out I will be insane. So that was what I had to fight: going mad. I hated the bastards but hating them wouldn’t be enough to get me through. I had to beat them. Staying sane, not cracking, was what I had to do.

  The cell was eight feet long by four feet wide. Three paces by one and the ceiling a yard above your head with a slit window for air. No chair or bed – just the stone floor and three thin, dirty blankets. It was the desert, it got cold at night, but you had to use one of the blankets as a pillow or your head would be constantly banging off the stone. There was a bucket to piss in and another with drinking water, and once a day they took them away and brought them back, empty and full, and I don’t think they took much care which one was which. Twice a day you got your punishment rations, two slices of dry bread. That was it, dry bread and water. If they caught you trying to make the bread last they
accused you of hoarding and took away what you hadn’t eaten.

  I was in for smiling on parade. I hadn’t been smiling, I’d been squinting into the sun. No point in arguing. If you argued they put you in a straitjacket and then they could come in and beat you up and you couldn’t defend yourself, couldn’t even cover your head with your arms. So I didn’t argue. Smiling on parade was just an excuse. They wanted to break me. I concentrated on staying sane.

  I made lists, A to Z. Flowers, birds, trees, rivers, countries, capitals, poets, musical instruments, makes of car, makes of cigarette. When I finished one list I started another. I took myself somewhere else so I’d still be there when they let me out three days later. And I was. I saw the disappointment on their faces. I didn’t smile. I stared straight ahead. I’d been in the hole. I was better than they’d ever be.

  8 October

  Photograph

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come to object.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About having my photograph taken. Before you introduced that last session – I thought the interviewer rather hogged the conversation, by the way – you made a number of so-called “housekeeping” announcements. Among these you informed us that a photographer was present and would be taking pictures for the press, the festival’s website and what you termed “general promotional purposes”. And you said that if anybody objected to their photograph being taken, they should let you know. So I’m letting you know. I object.’

  ‘And we absolutely respect your right to do so. If you could stand still for a moment, I’ll quickly … There, that’s done, thank you.’

  ‘You just took my photograph! Precisely what I’m objecting to.’

  ‘Let me explain. We’re a very small festival. We only have two cameras. On this one we store photographs of people who object to their photographs being taken. The official photographer uses the other camera. If we want to use one of his photographs for any of the purposes you’ve mentioned, we can check if any of the objectors on this camera are in the photograph on that camera, and if they aren’t we can use it.’

  ‘And what if they are? To be specific, what if I am?’

  ‘Well, if it’s a photograph we really want to use we can edit you out. Crop the picture to exclude the back of your head or the tip of your nose or whatever. That way we respect your wishes but don’t interfere with the photographer’s work. Not until later, anyway.’

  ‘But you took my photograph against my wishes.’

  ‘Only with this camera, which isn’t the official one. That’s almost as if you weren’t photographed at all.’

  ‘But I was. I insist that you delete the photograph.’

  ‘If I do that we won’t be able to respect your wishes about not being photographed.’

  ‘How many objectors’ photographs do you have in that thing?’

  ‘So far, just the one. Look, suppose I delete it by mistake?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘There. Don’t tell anybody. Now, would you mind doing something for me in return?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you please fill in this evaluation form?’

  9 October

  Inside (1)

  for Carolyn Scott

  I’ve done stupid things. I’m not a stupid man but some of the things I’ve done, there’s no other way of describing them. But then I think, Did I have a choice? I was doing stupid things from when I was a kid, not out of badness, just because I didn’t know any better. Who was to blame for that? My dad was a hard man. No other way of describing him. He was hard on us. He was hard on me because I was the son and he had expectations and I didn’t come up to them. I was five, for Christ’s sake, or ten, and I didn’t come up to his expectations. By the time I was in my teens it was too late. I hated him and I deliberately went out of my way to let him down, to show him up. So whose fault was that? Was I supposed to screw the nut and conform? I could never do that.

  So I’ve made a few mistakes. Wrong decisions. I’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why I’m here now is because I was doing someone a favour. I should have been smarter. I’ve been in trouble before, I should have seen it coming, but you don’t, you think you’ll get away with it. I saw a poster in a window once: NOBODY IS EVER OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER. I like that. That’s me through and through. I was doing someone a favour, it was a situation that involved drugs, I should have walked away but I didn’t, and I got caught, and this is me here, now, paying for it. At my age.

  There are worse places to be. I’ve been in some of them. It’s safer here, most of the time. I’ve got my TV, I’ve got my music, I’ve got my sketchpad. If I fill up the sketchpad they let me have another. You get time to think in here. You think, I’m never coming back inside again. But how you think in here and how you think when you’re outside are two different things. That’s the trouble. If they weren’t, it would be easy.

  10 October

  Inside (2)

  for Marianne

  Inside is an installation, a work of art, temporarily displayed in the disused cells at the back of the Sheriff Court (which still sits in this old county town, though not for much longer). The art is a film, the film is a story, the story is of a man who makes art in prison, because he also makes mistakes and prison is where he goes for making them. These old cells are to be demolished next week; this is the last life that will be in them. TISH 2 YEARS HARD GRAFT is scrawled on a wall, the work of someone who once waited here for judgement, and got it.

  This present art tells of a man who has painted the walls of another prison. We watch him on film, his art, his justifications. He explains what he does, what it does for him. Then we are out in the corridor again, released.

  We look through the hole in the door of the adjacent cell: there are thousands of people in there! Ledgers and ledgers of births, marriages, deaths. The cell is a storehouse of arrivals, conjunctions, departures. But next week this building will be no more. What about all these lives? Where will they be taken?

  I push at the door – it opens! All you people are free to go!

  But they stay, bound in their ledgers.

  ‘You’ll be in here,’ I say. ‘Your birth will be here.’ We don’t have permission, we don’t have authority, but nor will we ever be here again. We shift the ledgers from shelf to shelf, searching for the one with your year of birth, your place of registration. Here it is. We turn the pages and – there you are!

  This is where you came in: your moment of arrival, indelible, your parents’ details, your father’s careful signature, the registrar’s confirmation. And here, chronologically around you, are your classmates, the children you grew up with, a few whose names you don’t recall who must have moved away. This is you in this cell, then and now.

  And in the cell next door, and somewhere else, that other life.

  Two lives, two different roads.

  Sixty years’ hard graft.

  11 October

  The Bicycle

  Was there ever an invention as benign and brave as the bicycle? Humans have made many things which cause suffering, death and ugliness through their use: weapons of all kinds, for example, guns and bombs especially; aeroplanes, ships, cars, lorries and other vehicles. Labour-saving devices such as dishwashers, lawnmowers, chainsaws and sewing machines all have points in their favour: but a dishwasher may disgorge harmful chemicals into the water system, a lawnmower pollutes the peace of a Sunday afternoon, chainsaws can massacre a forest and a rank of sewing machines may constitute a sweatshop. What great harm can a bicycle do? If its tyres cause a little hurt to a country lane, what is this against all its benefits?

  The cost of keeping a bicycle is low. A bicycle does not take up much space. A child or a nonagenarian can ride a bicycle. A bicycle will last a lifetime, or more. A bicycle is quiet. What small sounds a bicycle makes are pleasing. A bicycle uses no energy other than that of its rider. A bicycle encourages exercise and fitness.

 
Bicycles are adaptable: they can be modified into tricycles or tandems, for use by disabled or blind people. Bicycles do no damage to roads. Bicycles encourage sociability. Bicycles are democratic. Bicycles civilise the traffic systems of cities.

  Bicycles are liberating. On a bicycle you can travel from the town to the country, or from the country to the town. You can bicycle with friends or you can bicycle alone. You are dependent on nobody else when you set off on a bicycle ride.

  The nineteenth-century American campaigner for women’s rights, Susan B. Anthony, said of bicycling, ‘I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride on a wheel. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance.’

  When you rest on your journey you can lay down your bicycle, take out a book and read. A book requires only the energy of daylight and the engagement of the reader, yet even a book may contain intimations of evil. A bicycle whispers only of happiness, freedom and health.

  12 October

  Jack and the Dog

  ‘Jack,’ his mother says one day, ‘that auld dug has had it. Aw she does is eat and sleep. Tak her doon tae the sea and droon her.’

  ‘Och, Mither, I canna,’ Jack cries, but she insists.

  Down to the sea he trudges, with the dog limping at his heel. When they reach the water’s edge, Jack sits for an hour and the dog sits with him. Then they go back to the house.

  ‘I couldna dae it, Mither,’ Jack says. ‘She wasna ready for droonin.’

  ‘I’ll mak it easier for ye,’ she says. ‘Tak this auld sack wi ye and when ye get tae the sea pit the dug in it and droon her.’