Now comes the curious part. Despite this simplicity and regularity, your bowl of porridge will never be the same two days running. This is not because on any particular day something has gone wrong. It is just one of the mysteries of porridge. You may make it in precisely the same way for a lifetime, and each day it will be different. Porridge aficionados know this. They expect and relish it. In Scotland experienced porridge eaters will pass judgement as follows: ‘The parritch are awfie guid the day,’ or ‘They’re rare parritch this mornin.’ Note that in these instances ‘parritch’, a singular noun, takes a plural verb. This is in acknowledgement of the fact that the finished conglomerated product is composed of many oats.
Dr Johnson caused the hackles of Scottish porridge eaters to rise when in his famous dictionary he defined oats as ‘a grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people’. Actually, there wasn’t much wrong with that as a definition in 1755. Indeed, a manufacturer of oats in Cupar immediately adopted the advertising slogan OATS: SUPPORTING THE PEOPLE OF SCOTLAND. No, sorry, that’s untrue.
Not everyone enjoys porridge, but those of discerning taste do. As Lady Perth observed to a French visitor as they discussed the culinary merits of their respective countries, ‘Weel, weel, some fowk like parritch and some like puddocks.’ Now that is true!
22 October
Before the Event
‘Yes, it’s an odd kind of life,’ he said. ‘An odd way to make a living. You feel a bit of a fraud, like you’re getting away with something fundamentally dishonest. Which of course you are – with the books I write anyway.’
‘Fiction, you mean?’ she asked. They were sitting in the window of the hotel lounge, looking out at the traffic and the people on the pavements. Their coffee cups were empty. The writer had declined her offer of an alcoholic drink. ‘Not yet,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s get this over first.’
‘It’s all lies, isn’t it?’ the writer said. ‘Inventions, subterfuges, squeezing the complicated mess of real life into silly plots and eighty thousand words.’ Sometimes he was surprised, though not impressed, by his own unworldly weariness. ‘I don’t suppose it’s so very different for a biographer or a historian. I was speaking to one of those the other day – a historian, a man who’d recently retired after forty years at a university – and he said something remarkable. Remarkably honest, anyway, I thought. “There are very few facts in history,” he said. “Nearly all history is interpretation.” And I was about to challenge him, to ask what in that case he thought he’d been working with all his life, all that material, all that evidence, when I saw what he meant. He was right. Interpretation is everything. The facts don’t matter a damn, in the end.’
She indicated the street beyond the glass. ‘Those are facts,’ she said. ‘Those people, all that activity.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, they are. We could sit here all day and watch them, and the longer we watched, the more you would appreciate the truth of what he said.’
She shifted uneasily in her chair. She couldn’t decide if she liked him or not. She almost felt sorry for him, but he would despise her if she admitted that. It was all a game for him.
‘Shall we go?’ she said, glancing at her watch.
He seemed suddenly alarmed. ‘Perhaps we have time for that drink,’ he said. ‘A quick one, to steady the nerves?’
‘No,’ she said. She felt cruel. ‘No, everybody’s waiting. We have to go now.’
23 October
Accidents of Birth
This thing was unfolding as we watched. The biggest industrial complex in the land, the nerve centre of what was left of a pre-post-industrial economy, was shut down and would stay shut because the people who worked there had failed to agree, unconditionally, to the conditions demanded by the owner. We were sixty miles away but it felt as if it were happening in the street outside. We could feel the tension, the fear, the disbelief.
Helpful people had been expressing their online opinions all day: wake up and smell the coffee, guys; no individual should be able to hold an entire country to ransom like this; the workers betrayed again – by their own unions; a capitalist conspiracy. A town was on the brink of becoming a dead zone, the present was about to morph overnight into the past – and this was a complex built not on coal or shipbuilding but on oil, which was supposed to be about the future. Watching, we felt anger, dismay, helplessness. We felt, however faintly, what the people of that town were feeling. This story was about real lives, real decisions. We knew it mattered.
The next story came on. This was about an old woman, her son, her grandson and her great-grandson. The great-grandson had been christened. One future day the baby would be a king. One day before that his father would be a king. One day before that his father’s father would be a king. All this would happen but only if and when the old woman died. If ? Well, she was a queen. It was possible, given the way the story was being told, that queens were immortal, but on the other hand the reporter seemed absolutely certain that these three would be kings. Nothing succeeds like succession.
There was a mystical insanity to this christening, this supposedly private ceremony which with its outfits, anthems and seven godparents was news everywhere. Could this story possibly come from the same world as the previous story?
It could. A petrochemical plant might close, an oil refinery might not reopen, eight hundred or thirteen hundred or thousands of people might lose their jobs. A baby would be king.
24 October
PROBE
I was in my office at the back of the house and had just finished doing my emails when the doorbell rang. It was half past three in the afternoon, the usual time for children returning home from school to ring the bell and run away, so I ignored it. Then it rang again.
A man with a moustache and a clipboard was at the door.
‘We have reason to believe you have disclosed information to a third party which may compromise the security of the country and the safety of your fellow citizens,’ he said.
‘Eh?’ I replied.
‘You may have done this unwittingly in which case a warning will be issued but no further action taken against you. If you have deliberately disclosed the information we reserve the right to prosecute.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Go back a couple of sentences. Who, in the first place, are “we”?’
‘We are PROBE,’ he said. ‘We are one of the world’s leading security support and maintenance providers and we have been appointed by the government to support and maintain the security of the country.’
‘PROBE?’ I said. ‘Is that an acronym?’
‘I am not at liberty to disclose that information unless you are an accredited and approved stakeholder,’ he said.
‘I am a citizen,’ I said. ‘Does that count?’
He consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. ‘May I see your passport?’ he asked.
‘What is this?’ I said. ‘I am at home minding my own business and you turn up and ask me for identification. Why would I show you, a total stranger, my passport?’
He showed me a PROBE identity badge on which were his photograph and a name that might also have been his.
‘Now show me your passport,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘In fact I refuse to prolong this ludicrous, not to say sinister, exchange. Goodbye.’
‘Suspect refused to co-operate,’ he said, making a mark on his paper.
I’d had enough. I shut the door firmly in his face.
When I returned to my office I discovered that the window had been forced open; also that my computer hard drive had been wiped.
I suppose I was asking for it.
25 October
CHECK
The doorbell rang. A man with a moustache and a clipboard was standing on the step.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I represent CHECK, one of the world’s leading security support and maintenance providers. We have been appointed by the government to support and
maintain the security of the country, and today we are in your locality carrying out some research intended to help improve the delivery of our products. Would you mind answering a few questions?’
‘Shoot,’ I said.
‘Our policy is always to ask the questions first,’ he said, turning a sheet on his clipboard. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Fire away,’ I said.
He gave me a look. ‘With regard to intelligence gathering,’ he said, ‘including monitoring of emails, telephone calls and other modes of communication, we are interested in responses to the proposition: “If you have done nothing wrong you have nothing to fear.” Would you say, in general terms, that you have done nothing wrong?’
‘Do you mean legally or morally?’
‘Let’s not split hairs,’ he said. ‘What about the following? Ever dropped litter? Smoked marijuana? Arson? Theft? Exceeded the speed limit? Manslaughter? Read or watched pornography? Rape, murder, high treason, blasphemy? Done any of those?’
‘What line of questioning is that?’ I said. ‘They’re completely arbitrary categories. And what do you mean by “blasphemy” anyway? I’m not even religious.’
He ticked a box on his sheet.
‘Some of them aren’t even criminal offences,’ I continued. ‘Watching porn, for example.’
‘One thing leads to another,’ he said. ‘No smoke without fire, in our experience.’ He ticked another couple of boxes.
‘What did you do just then?’ I asked.
‘We call it “profiling”,’ he said. ‘It’s a technical term. Now, on a scale of one to five, if one is “strongly disagree” and five is “strongly agree”, would you say that you have nothing to fear?’
‘Absolutely not!’ I said. ‘I mean, I strongly disagree, especially on the evidence of how you are conducting this survey.’
‘I’ll put you down as a one,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just numbers – at this stage. You have nothing to fear but fear itself.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ I said, intending sarcasm.
‘You can rely on us,’ he said.
26 October
SCOPE
One day, remembering with fondness a holiday spent in the Highlands, I opened the folder on my computer which contained the photographs of that happy week. I was scrolling through them when I came across three blank spaces where three images ought to have been. I checked the numerical sequence and there was no mistaking that those photographs were missing. I could recall from their position in the sequence the scenes they depicted, and I knew I had not deleted them. When I accessed my remote data archive, I found them gone from it as well.
I contacted my internet provider for an explanation. The automated reply I received by email was completely irrelevant. I finally made telephone contact with somebody at the company, whose answers were confused, possibly even evasive. She said she would get someone to call me back.
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
‘Hi,’ said a man’s voice. ‘My name is Bob. How can I help you?’
‘You tell me, Bob,’ I said.
‘I represent SCOPE,’ Bob said, ‘one of the world’s leading security support and maintenance providers. I understand you have a data-erosion issue.’
‘A what?’
‘Data which you recorded and stored with your internet provider has eroded.’
‘Not eroded,’ I said. ‘Photographs have been erased. What does this have to do with you, Bob, whoever you are?’
‘Your issue has been reported to SCOPE as the eroded data may, could, will or did present a potential breach of national security,’ Bob said.
‘How could that possibly be?’ I demanded. ‘These were just holiday snaps.’
‘I am reviewing the data now,’ Bob said. A few seconds later he spoke again. ‘The GPS location, date and time references confirm that a security breach occurred when the data was recorded. You are denied further access.’
‘A beach, a mountain and a wee white cottage,’ I said. ‘Which one of those is a threat to national security?’
‘I am not at liberty to disclose further information unless you are an accredited and approved stakeholder,’ Bob said. ‘Goodbye.’
The line went dead. I realised that I had been mistaken. Bob was not a man, but an automated message. And my data had indeed eroded.
27 October
A Dream of Anxieties
I was sweeping around the wheels of a parked car with a stiff yard brush. I didn’t know why. The car wasn’t mine and sweeping the road wasn’t my job. Then this second car drove up, reverse-parked and hit the back of the first one. I think in the motor trade they call it a bump but this was more like a crumple. The first car kind of scrunched up and its rear windscreen shattered.
I stopped sweeping. The driver of the second car jumped out. He said, ‘What happened? Did you see what happened?’
‘You crashed,’ I said. ‘You’ve made a hell of a mess.’
‘Don’t be angry,’ he said. ‘It was totally my fault. I’ll pay for the repairs. Just name your price.’
I know that when you’re involved in a motor accident you’re not supposed to admit liability. This fellow just had. He also seemed to think it was my car he’d hit.
I considered his offer. We could go to the nearest cash machine to collect the money and then I could catch a bus to somewhere else. But would I take the brush with me or abandon it?
When I’m anxious I want to sneeze. I reached into a pocket for my handkerchief, and found a car key. Now I remembered that I was supposed to be looking after the first car for a friend and he’d given me the key, and I’d taken the car round the block and parked it, so maybe I’d parked it where I shouldn’t have and that was why this other driver had reversed into it.
‘Who the hell parked it there anyway?’ he said, right on cue. And I saw double yellow lines on the road, just where that car was and nowhere else, and I realised I’d been trying to sweep them away with the yard brush, so I was to blame.
‘Don’t be angry,’ I said. ‘It was totally my fault. I’ll pay for the repairs. Just name your price.’
But his car wasn’t even scratched. It was my friend’s car that was smashed up. And although I couldn’t remember who my friend was, I knew I was afraid of him.
28 October
Death Hesitates
Death thought, I can’t do it. I can’t take that boy, he’s hardly begun to live. I can’t take that woman when she’s happy for the first time. I can’t wipe that entire family out on the motorway.
Such thoughts came, usually, early in the morning and late at night. They came, as it were, with the job. How could they not? He wasn’t some cruel monster. He took no pleasure in what he did. Pride, yes, but that’s different.
Everybody has doubts like this. What’s it all about? What am I doing here? Why me? And mostly get over them, or through them. You carry on because what is the alternative?
There was that other voice in the background. Death’s own Nemesis: If you don’t do it, somebody else will have to. Nobody’s forcing you but what are you going to do, resign? You know what will happen if you do.
On you go, the voice insisted, a mythological Mrs Danvers. You’ve done your time. Fair enough. You’re tired. So, retire if you want. But remember what happens to retired folk. They age, they diminish, they die.
No more death from you, Death, but then it will be coming for you. Is that what you want? To rage against the dying of the light? Rage all you like, it will still die. You’ll still die.
She was a persuasive bitch, Nemesis.
He remembered listening in to a conversation between a father and a daughter. The father was only thirty, a very ill man. The daughter was six, so full of energy it seemed unfair: she was bursting with it, he was leaking it like a sieve. He was trying to explain to her why he might not be around much longer.
Death had loitered, preparing for the take.
The daughter said, ‘You go if you want. I�
��m going to live for ever.’
Then the sick father had done that thing humans sometimes do at critical moments: laughed and cried simultaneously.
Death had taken the father anyway. In time he’d take the daughter.
Nemesis, he thought now, you can fuck right off. I just do what I do. I’m not superstitious.
But he was, really.
29 October
Jack and the Recruiting Sergeant
One day a recruiting sergeant came through the village. Seeing Jack standing about idle, he fell into conversation with him and invited him to take the Queen’s shilling.
‘I’ll dae nae such thing,’ says Jack. ‘If she has a shilling, it’s hers, no mine.’
‘What I mean,’ says the sergeant, ‘is will you not join the army and serve the Queen? You’ll have all kinds of adventures in interesting parts of the world.’
‘Och, no,’ says Jack. ‘I could never afford the fares.’
‘You’ll not pay any fares,’ says the sergeant. ‘The Queen pays for all that.’
‘Does she?’ says Jack. ‘Weel, I still couldna go. How much wid a braw uniform like yours cost?’
‘Oh, you’d not pay for the uniform either,’ says the sergeant. ‘The Queen will pay for it.’
‘Whit a generous wifie she is!’ says Jack. ‘But I wid need a roof ower ma heid and my breakfast and dinner every day, and I get them here at hame frae ma mither.’
‘You would get three meals a day,’ says the sergeant, ‘and a roof to sleep under or a tent at least. The Queen pays for everything, and you could send your wage home to your mother to keep her content.’
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