Farewell Tour of a Terminal Optimist

by John Young

  “Stop calling me that, ya fud.”

  He looks at me as if to query my irritation in such a dire situation. As he pauses, I start my running limp towards the ferry terminal and I can hear him laughing behind.

  He stops his chortle when we hear yells of, “There they are!”

  Skeates overtakes me, “Come on, put some welly into it!” He hauls me by the back of my jacket, nearly pulling me over.

  I’m too puffed to reply.

  We reach the terminal. As we creep up the side of the lorry queue he puts his hand up.

  “Wait.”

  We stop. I check behind, puffing, and see the Trolls arguing with a security guard. Skeates grabs my arm and hauls me towards the ferry ramp. We jog alongside the lorry as it hits the ramp. He halts me again, pointing to the other side of the vehicle where a security guard is checking the driver’s ticket. The lorry revs, Skeates tugs me and nods ‘come on’. We continue our sneaky walk on board. Once on the car deck we make our way into the stairwell and get lost in the milling throng of passengers.

  “Easy peasy,” he says, then looks out the window. “Aw gawd.”

  “What?”

  “They’re coming up the ramp, must have bought tickets.”

  “What do we do?”

  We’re stuffed before he can reply, as two big hands grab each of us from behind.

  “Get out of there, ye scabby fare-dodging shites!”

  The guard shoves us towards the stairs and we leg it off the ferry. We stop at the pier and watch the ferry ready to depart. The Trolls appear at the deck.

  “Hoy!” shouts Skeates. He shows them two fingers when they eyeball us. “Quack quack!”

  They turn and run back towards the ramp.

  “They’re too late,” says Skeates sticking his hands in his pockets.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “Wait for the next ferry, I suppose.” Before we can leave, we hear a load of clanging and banging. I look up to see the passenger doors open again, releasing two fast-moving Trolls.

  “You and your big mouth, Skeates. What are you like?”

  We start running again with the sound of heavy boots banging down the ramp behind us.

  Skeates is laughing at something. “You’d better be quack, Taytie.” He chortles and grabs my coat to keep me moving.

  Against all my natural instincts, I laugh.

  Chapter 11

  Gumbo

  Skeates stops at the edge of the pier. There’s no way for us to escape except to turn left into the harbour area, which is a dead end.

  “Can you swim, Connor?”

  I glare at him and turn back to the sea. “Great plan, Skeates, fifty miles of Minch and barred from the ferry with two psychos on our tail.”

  We stand, lungs heaving, water in front of us and approaching violence behind. Skeates is silent for a few moments. He sighs, rolls up his sleeves and turns towards the Trolls.

  “Sod it. Let’s just fight it out.”

  I keep looking at the sea.

  “You run, I’ll sort it,” he says, rolling his shoulders. He has a determined grin on his face, like he’s some sort of war machine.

  I’m too scared to move. The Trolls are now only about a hundred metres away. Then I hear distant rock music and see our chance.

  “Aw, wind your neck in, Skeates, we’ll hitch a ride with Gumbo.”

  “Gumbo?”

  “Aye, Lorn Macauley, of Macauley’s Prawn Fisheries. Quick, he’s just leaving.” I point to a small trawler, bellowing smoke from its rear, and AC/DC blaring from the cabin.

  We move along the harbour as fast as we can, Skeates half hauling me towards the fishing vessel. Smoke from the diesel engines bellows up into the salty air.

  “Gumbo!” I shout and Skeates repeats it louder.

  Close behind us out of the misty grey comes a voice.

  “Hoy, Skeates, you’re dead!”

  “Come on, Taytie. Run!”

  I try to thump him for calling me Taytie, but miss.

  “Gumbo!” We both shout.

  The boat starts to move away from the quay.

  “GUMBO!”

  He turns and waves, eases off the throttle.

  I hobble along the pier, Skeates just ahead. He stops, grabs me and throws me towards a shocked Gumbo, who barely catches me, before I splat on the deck with the discarded fish heads and prawn shells. Skeates hits the deck behind me and the boat drifts off the pier. The Trolls are right there.

  “Get going!” shouts Skeates.

  Gumbo isn’t sure what’s happening, but accelerates just in time. One of the Trolls makes to jump but has second thoughts. He stops suddenly with his arms circling in the wind.

  “Quack quack!” shouts Skeates. He waddles about, wobbles as the boat gains speed and falls, laughing, onto the deck. Gathering himself back up, he starts to chuck fish heads and sticks two fingers in the air. “Give ’em some fish and fingers.”

  I join in, laughing like a bampot at our lucky escape whilst Gumbo motors out of the harbour towards Ullapool. Skeates stands on the end of the boat singing a song and doing some crap air guitar to the heavy metal playing on Gumbo’s radio in the wheelhouse. His legs are wobbling as he tries to keep balance with the movement of the boat.

  The Trolls are jumping mad and shouting threats and promising painful revenge. I can’t hear the details, but their body language suggests it won’t be pleasant. I chuck a fish head in response and join in with Skeates’s air guitar. I turn and try to moon at them but lose balance and fall onto the deck.

  “You’re nuts, wee man!” shouts Skeates. He pulls his pants down and waves his arse in the air as the boat motors out of harms way.

  I shout, “Pòg mo thòn!” to laughs from Gumbo.

  I stand again, looking at the twins flapping their arms about like wings. “You’re right, Skeates, they do look like two ducks.”

  As we leave the harbour, Gumbo slows the boat and pops his head out of the wheelhouse. “What the hell are you at, Connor, ye wee scamp?”

  I’m too puffed and full of excitement to answer. I just grin at him, the thrill of the chase and close escape giving me no end of a buzz. Skeates keeps dancing to Gumbo’s music. I don’t usually like metal but in the circumstances I’m giddy with it.

  “So?” Gumbo turns the volume down and eyes us up. “I hope you two aren’t in trouble or nothing?”

  Skeates stops his manic rock dance. “Hey Gumbo, we owe you, we really do.”

  “Yeah, you do. Now, start by telling me why those peroxide ‘ducks’ looked intent on killing you two?”

  “I’m going to see my dad.”

  That stops Gumbo’s questions for a moment. He’ll know how much that means to me because I first met Gumbo when I was receiving treatment at the same time as his daughter. He sat beside her bed day in, day out, tears streaming down his face. Big burly fisherman, hard as rocks, swarthy and grizzled, yet weeping like a bairn. Back then I told him all my worries over tins of Irn Bru in the waiting area. He said I should force Mum to take me to see Dad. Gumbo said it was wrong to stop me from seeing him without good cause. Mum’s response was always, ‘What would Gumbo know?’ I’m taking matters into my own hands now, and that’s that.

  “Good,” Gumbo says after a while. “And what does that have to do with you two being chased by the Duck Twins?”

  Skeates laughs, “Duck Twins, that’s funny. See, I told you not to worry, Connor.”

  “He nicked their takings.” I nod towards Skeates.

  Gumbo looks at Skeates, “Are you right in the head?”

  “What do you mean ‘nick’?” Skeates glares at me. “That’s libellous. I repatriated it. It was mine in the first place and they stole it from me.”

  “Same difference to them.” Gumbo shrugs his shoulders.

  “Aye,” says Skeates unconcerned. “So how long’s this boat trip?”

  “Come to think of it,” I say, “where are you going, Gumbo?”

  He laughs. “
I’m on a two-week trawl and you guys are on net duty.”

  “Naw!” we both shout and gawp like goldfish at him.

  He roars at this, “Just jessing, I’m going to Ullapool.”

  The boat clears the inner shore and starts to bounce about. I shiver at the Baltic wind. Sea spray showers over the front and all over the cabin. Gumbo sees me shivering and asks me to hold the wheel. He heads below. I take the wheel and steer about like an idiot until Gumbo shouts up, “Stop pissing about, ya scamp!” He soon returns with a big white Arran sweater. It looks clean but feels oily and smells of trawler: fish, diesel, wood and salt.

  I say thanks and throw it on over my jacket. It’s huge and hangs down near my knees. My hands don’t peek out, even though I roll up the sleeves about ten times.

  Skeates laughs at me, but I like it. The wool is toasty.

  “I knew that would fit,” says Gumbo laughing. “Took six sheep to make that!”

  It turns out the oily feeling isn’t WD-40 but natural sheep’s waterproofing. Gumbo settles the boat into a steady cruise and we perch around a wee table, drinking hot chocolate.

  “How’s wee Chrissie?” I ask. I’m nervous of asking because back when we were in the hospital she was pretty pasted, but Gumbo seems too cheery for her not to have made it.

  He smiles. “She’s no wee no more. Five foot eight! Would you believe? She’s a fighter through and through, and right as rain.”

  I’m as pleased as punch for Gumbo and his daughter. The last time I saw them I was being helped out from Room 9. The conversation reminds me of my own situation, still struggling on, still on medication, still no clear diagnosis. I smile and hope I don’t come across as jealous, because I’m not.

  “So that’s how you know Gumbo?” asks Skeates.

  “Aye, his daughter was in the same ward as me when I got my nuclear medicine.”

  “How about you, Connor?” asks Gumbo.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble. “Cancer’s never fully gone but I try not to let it get me down.”

  “That’s the ticket!” says Skeates. “Never quit, never bloody quit, Connor my man.”

  Gumbo is still serious. “And are you taking your meds?”

  “Aye, still on the sauce.” Suddenly, I remember what I’d forgotten. “Oh shite!” I shout and stand in a panic, knocking over my cup.

  “What?” they both ask in unison when they see my change of face.

  “My meds. I forgot my bloody meds.” I didn’t expect to be chased off the island so quickly.

  “Is that bad?” asks Skeates.

  I don’t answer, because it’s really bad, and I don’t want anything to stop me from making this trip. Now that I’ve committed myself to going, I’m going, no matter what.

  “Aye, I’ll be fine, just a few days won’t matter,” I lie. I try to bullshit myself too, to persuade myself that I’ll be OK.

  Skeates doesn’t look convinced and Gumbo isn’t having any of it.

  “Now Connor, you know the score with medicine,” he says. “Nothing else matters. You go and get it. Come on, laddies, I’ll take you back to the island and you can pick it up.”

  “There’s no way I can do that.” I say. “It’s in the office at Dachaigh House. We just bust out and those Troll psychos will be prowling.”

  “What do you mean, ‘just bust out’? What sort of trouble are you in?” Gumbo jumps up, goes to the wheel and starts to turn the boat about.

  “Naw, we aren’t in any trouble,” says Skeates. “He just wants to see his dad and no one will let him. He was in Dachaigh House because his dad is inside and his mum is in hospital. He can go back once he’s seen his dad. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “What about you?” asks Gumbo.

  Skeates grins. “No point in me trying to persuade you that I’m a golden boy?”

  Gumbo shakes his head.

  Skeates answers him, seeing that our trip is about to end. “I’m heading off the island, maybe move to Glasgow. I need to get away. Stornoway is too small for me.”

  Gumbo laughs, not in a funny way though. “Aye, you say that now. Youth never sees what’s in front of it.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Lewis was made by the gods, it’s the most beautiful place on Earth. Look at it.” He points to the island we’re now heading back towards. “And I’ve been around, I tell you. The grass is shittier everywhere else, that’s a fact. And another fact: you can never escape yourself, no matter how far you travel.”

  “Aye well, maybe we need to find that out for ourselves,” says Skeates.

  “Come on, Gumbo, turn around again. I’ll get more meds in Inverness – they prescribed them after all. I’ve already taken them today and I can last until tomorrow.” That’s not entirely true – I only took my morning meds and I’ll miss round two today. I can see the trip failing even before it has started. I panic as I try to think of ways to persuade him. Gumbo would help me out, no doubt about it, but he’ll want to do the right thing, even if it’s not what I want. “I can say I lost them, I’ll go straight to the hospital tomorrow and pick some more up. I can see Mum at the same time. Please Gumbo, I’ve got to do this.”

  Gumbo hesitates. “As long as you promise me that you’ll go straight to Raigmore Hospital when you get to Inverness.”

  “Aye, bloody right, I promise.”

  He looks me in the eyes and spins the wheel back to the mainland. He can see truth and fear in my face. The truth is that without my meds I’ll feel shocking, and I’m scared because I don’t know how long I can survive if I go cold turkey. The last time I got so weak and delirious, the hospital shoved the gastric feed tube up my nose and hard-wired me to the drugs and blood. I really don’t want that again. Nevertheless, I’m going to risk it, no way am I turning back now.

  “That’s the ticket,” says Skeates.

  We arrive in Ullapool harbour early evening. It’s too late to trek through to Inverness so Gumbo heads out to buy us fish and chips. Skeates and I mop out his boat while he’s away. Well, Skeates mops and I hose it down. The food is salty and greasy and just what I need after a crazy day of cat and mouse. Gumbo tells us we can sleep in a pointy cabin at the front of the boat. The two of them chat for ages, but I take the opportunity to crash out early.

  ***

  I wake the next morning to the smell of bacon and toast and the sound of Gaelic voices coming from the main cabin. There’s no sign of Skeates and I wonder who Gumbo is chatting to. As I enter the cabin, Gumbo greets me with a cheery “Madainn mhath, Connor,” and presents me with a bacon-and-egg sandwich. “Ith siud!”

  I nod and happily munch away. The sea air and excitement have given me a braw appetite. Skeates has nearly finished his sandwich and mops up drippy egg yolk with his remaining bread. I look around for other signs of life outwith Skeates, because I don’t think his Gaelic is fluent enough to hold a conversation with Gumbo.

  “Who were you talking to?” I ask Gumbo, but Skeates answers.

  “Me! Who do you think?” he laughs.

  “You don’t speak Gaelic,” I say, surprised, as he never went to the classes. “You’re chatting in Scots half the time like you’re from Glasgow.”

  “I can do a lot of things you don’t know about.” He grins at me like a chuffed cat with five mice. “And my mum is from Glasgow – we stayed there a bit when I was wee. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to the likes of softy Edinbuggers like you.”

  I ignore his jibe and put him to the test. “Tha an hovercraft agam loma-làn easgannan.”

  Gumbo laughs at Skeates’s blank looks. “Monty Python,” he says, “that’s funny. ‘My hovercraft is full of eels.’”

  “Aye, well, I’m still learning,” says Skeates.

  “Pòg mo thòn.” I smirk and carry on eating.

  “Right, we had better be off,” Skeates says as I finish my breakfast. “Thanks for the ride and grub, Gumbo. Here.” He hands him twenty quid.

  “Don’t be an eejit,” says Gumbo.
“I was coming here anyway, you cleaned my boat and I enjoyed the company. Just you get Connor to that hospital, OK?”

  “Thanks,” I say, and begin to peel off Gumbo’s big jumper. It’s a cold day and I feel the wind when I remove it.

  “You keep a hold of that, Connor. You’ll need it,” Gumbo says.

  I pretend to argue, even though I’m chuffed to whack it back over my head. Gumbo is cool. Stornoway people are like that – generous and open. Except me and Skeates. I don’t know what happened to us two fruitcakes.

  “Thanks Gumbo,” I say.

  “And don’t forget to pick your meds up!” he shouts down the quay after us.

  Chapter 12

  Nine Years

  We wave our thanks to Gumbo and walk into Ullapool town. Skeates wants to take me directly to Raigmore Hospital in Inverness, but I’m not risking that. No way. If I wander into the A&E asking for more meds I’ll be detained.

  It’s only a few days, I can manage, I think.

  “Skeates, stop bloody fussing. If I go into that hospital I won’t get out again. Nothing is going to stop me from seeing Dad. Alright? Nothing!” I shout at him, turning heads in the street.

  I’m wound up because I’m nervous, but also because Mum is in Raigmore and I really want to see her. If we go I don’t think I’ll be able to follow through with my plan knowing she’s only a corridor away. I have to put that feeling aside and it hurts.

  “Bloody hell Connor, tuck your shirt in. OK, we’ll crack on. As long as you’re sure.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It may even do me good to have a break from the poison.” This is a lie, but I must have been convincing because Skeates adds a spring to his step and says, “Smashing, let’s get this trip on the road.”

  I must have convinced myself too. I follow him at a little scamper. If I thought about my meds properly I would know that I’ll be in a bucket in two or three days’ time without them. But I hate thinking about them and I hate the fact that ‘they’ are standing between me and what I want to do. So, sod it. The fact that I’ve rejected them actually gives me a lift.