365

by James Robertson

  Now everything is stored, yet nothing is secure. Time eats into us as worms devour books, and we fall apart. You have felled the forests of the world to flatter the vanity of knowledge, yet you know nothing of value that we did not know, and much more that is valueless.

  We had wisdom: you gave us stupidity. We had faith: you gave us doubt. We had strength: you gave us fragility. We had life: you gave us books.

  25 November

  This is the story

  of the woman sitting opposite me on the 1800 hours service from King’s Cross to Edinburgh, calling at York, Darlington, Newcastle, Berwick and Dunbar. Her story is that she is totally honest and this is a problem because she feels that her honesty compromised her performance at the job interview, her first for five years. She is not good with paperwork, she is good with an electronic diary but organising paper, literally bits of paper, is not her strong point and she admitted this, she said that she always used to leave the paperwork to her ex-husband, and now she is wondering why she said that. When they pressed her on what else weren’t her strong points, she kept being honest (peals of laughter) so made a total hash (she thinks) of the interview. She did an enormous amount of research into the company but not enough preparation on what she would bring to the role, and she knows from her current role the strong points that she could bring to the role. And it frustrates her that she didn’t say this because she would be really good at it, the role, and then it frustrates her that we enter a tunnel and that she loses contact with whoever she is telling this to at the kind of volume you might use if you were in a really busy restaurant or at a rock concert or in the middle of a fucking battlefield and then we come out of the tunnel and she reconnects with more peals of laughter and apologies for having been in a tunnel, and I wish her, I really wish her, all the luck in the world, and I hope that despite her pessimistic appraisal of how the interview went and despite her inability to be anything but honest the company will see that she is in fact perfect for the role and when she gets off at York they will send a message offering her the job, and that she will move, lock, stock, barrel, kids, family pet, new relationship and all to London so that I’ll never, on this train journey, ever have to hear her fucking story again.

  26 November

  Jack and the Man

  One day Jack’s sitting staring at the fire in a dwam when there’s a knock at the door.

  It’s a tall, thin man with grey hair and sorrowful eyes.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ the man says.

  ‘How dae ye ken it’s me?’ says Jack.

  ‘I used tae bide in this hoose,’ the man says.

  ‘Naebody bides in this hoose but me and ma mither,’ says Jack.

  ‘Oh, and is your mither at hame the noo?’

  ‘Naw, she’s away oot,’ says Jack.

  ‘Weel, can I come in?’

  The man seems harmless enough, so Jack lets him in and sits him by the fire in his mother’s chair and makes him a cup of tea.

  ‘Ah,’ the man says, ‘it’s a fine thing, a guid fire and a cup of tea.’

  ‘Aye,’ says Jack.

  ‘And did ye make the tea and chop the logs and set the fire yersel?’ the man says.

  ‘I did,’ says Jack.

  ‘It’s a fine thing tae be practical,’ the man says. ‘Are ye guid wi yer hands?’

  ‘Better than wi ma heid,’ says Jack.

  ‘It’s a fine thing tae ken yer ain strengths and weaknesses,’ the man says.

  ‘Aye,’ says Jack. And then they sit in silence, and Jack quite likes that, the two of them just staring into the fire, not speaking. But after a while he looks across and says, ‘But how did ye ken ma name?’

  And he’s all alone! He looks behind the chair and all through the house, but of the tall, thin man with grey hair and sorrowful eyes there is not a sign.

  I must have fallen asleep, he thinks. I must have been dreaming.

  But then he sees the cup of tea he made for the man, and it hasn’t been touched, even though he saw the man drinking it. So he drinks it himself, and then he washes the cup and puts it away.

  ‘I’ll no mention it when Mither comes in,’ he says to himself. ‘I’ll pretend there’s been naebody here but masel aw the time.’

  So he waits for her. And he still has that warm, comforting feeling from when he and the man were sitting in at the fire together, not speaking.

  27 November

  Eligibility

  ‘The thing is, you’re not eligible for Jobseeker’s Allowance because your doctor has assessed you as not fit for work. He says you’ve got chronic back pain.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In that case you should be claiming Employment and Support Allowance, not Jobseeker’s Allowance.’

  ‘But when I applied for that before my claim was rejected, because I didn’t have a doctor’s line about my back at that point.’

  ‘You should have gone to your doctor first.’

  ‘I couldn’t get an appointment for four days and I was needing some money. So when my claim was rejected I went out looking for a job and I found one, a cleaning job, but I only lasted two days because of the back pain, so that’s why I’m here again. If I can’t get Jobseeker’s Allowance surely I should get the other one?’

  ‘Employment and Support Allowance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll have to apply using this form.’

  ‘But this is the same form I already filled out.’

  ‘Yes, but your previous application was rejected. You have to apply again. If your application is accepted you’ll start receiving Employment and Support Allowance.’

  ‘Do you know when it will come through? I’ve no money, you see.’

  ‘It depends how quickly the application is processed. It can take up to eight weeks.’

  ‘Eight weeks? But I’ve nothing to live on. No money at all. I’ll have to try for another job.’

  ‘But you’re not fit for work. If you get a job, that would affect your claim.’

  ‘Well, isn’t there something called a Hardship Payment? Could I apply for that?’

  ‘Are you homeless?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’re not eligible.’

  ‘But I’m in rent arrears. My Housing Benefit’s been cut because I’ve got an extra bedroom.’

  ‘You should move to a smaller property.’

  ‘I can’t. The council won’t let me move because I’m in rent arrears.’

  ‘You could move out altogether. If you were of no fixed abode then you’d be eligible for a Hardship Payment.’

  ‘Are you saying I should put myself on the street?’

  ‘It’s an option. Or you could get more ill and be hospitalised. Or you could die.’

  ‘Did you just suggest I should die?’

  ‘It would solve all your other problems.’

  28 November

  The Islander

  She had left the island long ago but it had never left her. Just as she retained the language of her people but seldom had an opportunity to speak it, so the island was in her; even in the middle of a city a hundred miles from the sea. When she was shopping, or at the office, or working in her garden, it was as if the sea beat against her, as if a tideline of kelp and driftwood surrounded her. Pebbles dragged in the surf at her feet. Gulls screeched where there were only crows. She smelled salt instead of diesel fumes.

  She had accepted the island unconditionally when a child, because it was all she knew. Then she grew, and grew to resent the sharp beaks and eyes of neighbours, the black, cormorant stance of the elder. She hated the mist that came down on the sea like another sea. So she unmoored herself: she applied for a job on the mainland. ‘So you are going?’ the elder said. ‘So you are going?’ the postmistress said. ‘So you are going?’ her mother said. ‘When are you coming back?’

  She meant never to return. But unknown to her she had a ghost. Just as the island haunted her, so her ghost haunted the island. She believed
in ghosts but she would not have understood it if anyone had told her hers had been seen, because she was on the mainland and she was not dead.

  One of the old men met her ghost once. ‘So you are back?’ he said. ‘When are you going away?’ There was no reply, which surprised him because she had always been a polite girl.

  When he told the postmistress he had seen her, she said he must be mistaken, because she knew all the comings and goings of the island. When he mentioned it to the elder, he was admonished for being drunk.

  But when he spoke to her mother, something clutched at the mother’s heart, and she wrote to ask if she was well. And though she replied that she was, she too felt a clutching at her heart. She was an islander, and always would be.

  29 November

  The Blasphemer

  Ten witnesses, one after another, had testified that the accused had articulated the opinions drawn up in the indictment. Ten witnesses, each corroborating the evidence of the others, confirmed that he had ridiculed the notion that the Bible was divinely inspired, asserted that the Universe existed long before the ‘invention’ of God by men, denied the existence of spirits, and claimed that no such places as Heaven or Hell existed. The jury would hardly have to leave the court to consider its verdict. The punishment for blasphemy was death.

  Only one thing could save him, and it was of this that his counsel spoke urgently when the court adjourned. He would call him as a witness – the only witness – in his own defence, and between them they would try to convince the court that the opinions he had expressed were the ravings of a madman.

  ‘But I am completely sane,’ he said. ‘Madness is believing that humans were created only six thousand years ago, and that the Universe was built by a single being whose existence cannot be proved.’

  His counsel urged him to lower his voice and set all theological arguments aside. Did he agree, when the court resumed, to give nonsensical and contradictory answers to the questions that would be put to him, so that all would conclude he was mad?

  ‘Nonsensical and contradictory?’ he answered. ‘Those words describe not my beliefs but those of clergymen. My position is based on a rational examination of the facts, not on fairy tales and gobbledegook.’

  Again his counsel implored him to be silent. Did he not understand the seriousness of his situation?

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘The madmen who wish to hang me for my sanity may spare me for being mad and indeed I would have to be mad to approve such a verdict. Not being mad, I must hang for the crime of being sane. So be it. If you call me to give evidence, I will not speak. If you do not call me, I will assert my right to speak, and assure the court of my sanity.’

  ‘Then you really are mad,’ the lawyer said. ‘I can do nothing more for you.’

  30 November

  X

  marks the spot where two laddies hunting golf balls found a fisherman spread like a star beside the fourteenth tee. He was on his back, arms and legs outstretched, and his lips wore a beatific smile. They knew he was a fisherman from his oilskins and his gansey. Shells decorated his beard and a tangle of bladderwrack was round his neck, but he wore no boots or socks. His feet were blue and marbled. Above them were the yellow oilskins, the dark grey wool of the gansey and the lighter grey of the beard and hair. Pink and white were the tones of his face, but the colour of his eyes could not be discerned with the lids closed as they were.

  ‘He’ll get cauld lyin there,’ said the smaller laddie.

  ‘He’s no sleepin, Darren, he’s deid,’ his brother Tom said.

  They were more curious than frightened. The sea could never have carried him so far above the high-water mark. Had he staggered ashore before collapsing? Or dropped from the sky?

  ‘Run tae the clubhoose,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  The first foursome were about to tee off. ‘There’s a deid man at the fourteenth!’ Darren shouted. ‘Ye’ve tae come quick!’

  Darren was a wee tyke and not to be trusted, but after further interrogation the men commandeered an electric scooter and took it across the fairways, one driving and three puffing along beside it.

  Back at the corpse, Tom found the courage to put his ear to the fisherman’s mouth. Not a whisper of breath. He pushed down on the oilskins, below the breastbone, and a little fountain of saltwater parted the smiling lips.

  The fisherman sat up.

  ‘Ye’re alive!’ Tom said.

  ‘I am now.’

  ‘Did ye no droon?’

  ‘I did, but I was saved. Where are my boots?’

  ‘Dinna ken.’

  ‘Never mind.’ He got to his naked feet.

  ‘Who saved ye?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. But first I want a cup of tea.’

  They met the rescue party halfway. By the time the fisherman reached the clubhouse there was quite a crowd.

  He was a great orator. The shells in his beard gave him presence.

  Darren and Tom’s golf-ball sales had never been better.

  DECEMBER

  1 December

  Not Watering the Plants

  They have better views than we do. Of course: they are two storeys higher.

  Their bathroom is smaller but the en suite seems bigger. It’s hard to be certain, as the rooms are different shapes. The shower unit is definitely bigger.

  Their flat is a corner flat. Ours isn’t.

  Their kitchen has an identical layout, but our appliances are more up to date. They have the original floor covering. We replaced ours when we moved in.

  In the other rooms the carpets are more stained and worn than ours. But then, they have two children, to our none.

  They also have an extra bedroom.

  They have hundreds of DVDs and CDs, but no books. They have a music system with speakers in different rooms, a huge flat-screen TV on the living-room wall and a smaller one in the master bedroom. There are boxes of toys, transfers on the walls of the children’s bedroom. A duck, a puppy, a frog, a kitten.

  We have books and a small TV we hardly ever watch.

  They have gone to Australia for three weeks, to visit her brother and his family.

  We know what they paid for their flat, two years after we bought ours. We bought just before the crash, they bought after.

  They got the bargain.

  They have the view, the extra bedroom, the old carpets and appliances and a mortgage pegged to the base rate.

  We have what we have, and a fixed-rate mortgage that at the time we thought was the sensible, safe option.

  They won’t have any hotel bills in Australia, she said. Otherwise they couldn’t afford to go.

  They have three unopened bottles of malt whisky in a cabinet.

  They have a lot of clothes for four people. The kids have more clothes than we do.

  He has rows of shirts on hangers. Five suits. Sportswear and casual items with designer labels. How many socks does a man need? It’s hard to get the drawers closed.

  She has more clothes than the others put together. It is not possible to count the shoes.

  She has silk underwear, mostly white, none grey.

  The sex toys have flat batteries.

  The plants don’t need watering, again.

  2 December

  The Funeral

  A man was walking along a narrow country road when he saw a funeral cortège coming in the opposite direction. He had passed a small, beautifully kept graveyard only minutes before – had stopped and looked over its wall to admire it – so it was clear to him that this must be the destination of the procession. He stepped onto the grass verge and waited for it to go by.

  One of the men shouldering the coffin seemed familiar. He bore a remarkable resemblance to his oldest friend, Malcolm. And was that not … ? But before he could identify the next pallbearer he received a further shock. For, walking behind the coffin, dressed in black and looking straight ahead, was a woman the very image of his own dear Ellen, accompanied by their two children!


  The long line of mourners continued. He knew many of their faces. Some turned towards him, but did not seem to see him. And he realised that he could hear nothing – not their footsteps, not a cough or whispered word, not even the birds singing.

  Unable to speak or move, he waited till the last of the mourners had gone by. His own funeral? How could this be? He hurried back to the graveyard.

  But when he arrived, nobody was there but himself. And the birds were singing once more.

  He was filled with relief, but immediately this turned to fear. What did the vision mean? And where was he?

  It was this last question that brought him to himself. He woke, as if from a dream – and it was a dream! He was at home, in the garden. The sun was shining, birds were singing. The thing had not occurred at all!

  He breathed more easily. But again the fear set in, for now he remembered the road, the tranquil graveyard. He recognised them: they were in the Highlands, close to the village where the family had often spent holidays: a place of fond memories … and a place to which they intended to return the following summer.

  I cannot go, he thought. Something will happen if I go.

  But he knew that fate, or the future, could not thus be avoided.

  3 December

  Rothesay

  after Hector Boece

  While his mother, the Queen Annabella, was alive, David, Duke of Rothesay, was said to have led a virtuous and honest life, or at least he was in some measure restrained by her influence. After her death, he began to ‘rage in all manner of insolence’, visiting his lust on virgins, matrons and nuns alike. At last the ageing and feeble King Robert III, no longer able to ignore the stories of his son and heir’s excesses, wrote to his brother, the Duke of Albany, asking him to take the young man in hand and teach him better behaviour. Albany, who saw Rothesay as a rival to his already extensive power, was delighted to oblige, and had him apprehended on the road between St Andrews and Dundee by men who had personal or familial grudges against him. They blindfolded Rothesay and mounted him backwards on a mule, and thus he was taken to Albany’s castle at Falkland. There he was imprisoned, and apparently denied all food and drink.