On the Monday everybody was at work. If Uncle Jack had still been around he’d have gone over to Wharryburn to see him, but Uncle Jack was long away and so were Sarah and Barbara, off to a new life in Glenrothes, not that he’d have bothered with them. He took a bus into Drumkirk and wandered the grey streets, the cold of them creeping up through the soles of his shoes. He tried a pub at dinner time, the Toll Tavern – a dark, cheerless retreat which he’d had rare glimpses into as a boy walking by – exchanged a few droll comments with other men propping up the bar, then thought he’d drop in on the Gazette.
Neither Bill nor Bob was in. There was a new girl on reception who just about managed to keep the grin off her face when he gave his name as Jimmy Bond and asked to see Mr Gray. After a minute the editor emerged from his office. He seemed to have aged about twenty years since Peter had last seen him.
We’re winding down, he said, back behind the firmly shut door of his room. It’ll all be over by spring. I’m too old for this game, and the proprietors don’t want to replace me. Can’t say I blame them. We’re losing money hand over fist.
That’s too bad, Peter said. How are Bill and Bob?
Bob’s gone, Mr Gray said with grave finality.
Gone?
Fired. I felt bad about it, but somebody had to go, there’s hardly enough to keep Bill on, if I’m honest. The Observer will clean up after us. Well, you can’t stand in the way of progress. But what about you? You’ve done all right. The War Office, eh? Enjoying London?
Aye, it’s fine.
Good for you. Glad I was able to put in a word for you.
How do you mean?
You know, give you a recommendation. Eyes and ears of the local community, that’s me. Was, I should say. Happy to oblige when they asked.
When who asked?
Mr Gray tapped the side of his nose. Och, Jimmy, he said. What a question! Goodness me!
He wouldn’t be drawn any further, just tapped his nose again and winked. Well, thanks for coming in, Jimmy. Just as well you did. Shouldn’t think you’ll find us here next time you’re home.
On the bus back to Slaemill he pondered this revelation. He knew that the Service had a network of people – teachers, professors, doctors – who provided recruitment tips and other information. Nothing was an accident. Yet he was surprised, and disappointed. He liked to think he’d got where he was on his own merits.
His mother’s nose wrinkled at the beer on his breath. Her disapproval reassured him a little. He went to his room and slept for a couple of hours before tea.
Christmas Day loomed, a day like any other, and he recognised what a mistake he’d made coming home at this time of year. And vowed never to do so again.
Uncle Jack – Peggy Bond’s younger brother – was special. Set apart. Probably the family wouldn’t have had much to do with him, but blood’s thicker than water, Hugh said. Special was one word for him, Jimmy’s word, but the ones he heard his parents use were odd, strange, cracked, damaged. And mad. They didn’t say mad often but Jimmy liked it best because it was way off the scale of normality, and so he thought of him as Mad Uncle Jack although he was careful never to say it out loud.
He must have been nearly six when he first met him, back from the war, with Sarah, his new English wife. It was the war that made those words fit Uncle Jack. Being captured by the Japs and made to work on their hellish railway for four years. Hugh sucked in his cheeks and shook his head at the rotten shame of it. No, Jack was never going to be right again. Not that he could ever be completely right, Peggy said, and Jimmy understood from this that the war wasn’t to be held entirely responsible. And there was that other weird, embarrassing thing about Jack: he was a Scottish Nationalist. Hugh and Peggy were Unionists but a number of their friends were Labour and they even knew a couple who voted for the Liberals, but the only Scottish Nationalist in their circle was Uncle Jack, if you could call it a circle and if you could pretend that he was in it. Hugh was only able to say Scottish Nationalist out of the side of his mouth, and usually raised his eyebrows in a meaningful way when he did. Jimmy wondered why the two words went so insistently and inseparably together. Uncle Jack wasn’t going to be an English or a French Nationalist, was he? Jimmy filed this riddle away for further consideration.
He saw Uncle Jack only once or twice a year at most. So maybe he was in his company eight or nine times before The Disappearance. Feels like it should have been more: Uncle Jack looms larger than that. But just before Jimmy turned eleven, Jack was gone.
Jimmy’s grandparents on that side, the Gordon side, both died during the war and never saw Jack come home, but they left him all their money. Jimmy’s mother never complained about that, she said she’d nothing to complain about, she was provided for and anyway there wasn’t that much. Enough for him to put down the deposit on a bungalow in Wharryburn, though, and he and Sarah settled down there and a while later Barbara was born. A bought hoose, Hugh used to say, weel, weel. There wasn’t much communication between the two families, but from time to time a reluctant sense of duty, and sympathy for Sarah, got the better of Jimmy’s parents and the Bonds boarded the bus to Wharryburn and descended on the Gordons en masse.
Jimmy would have detested these visits but for the brooding presence of Uncle Jack. The way he managed not to participate in conversations, or the way he dropped in a remark that reduced the other grown-ups to silence, was a marvel to Jimmy. His sisters didn’t like Uncle Jack, they found him intimidating, but Jimmy was fascinated. He admitted it once, on the bus home, one of the occasions he learned it was better not to speak at all. I really like Uncle Jack, he said. His mother turned in her seat and gave him a hard stare. Liking him’s fine, she said. Just don’t grow up to be like him. How no? he asked. Why not, she corrected. Because you’re enough like him already, that’s why not. He started to say something else but his father, sitting next to him, said, That’ll do, Jimmy.
How was he like him? He didn’t think he looked like him but then he didn’t think he looked like his father either, or his mother. He didn’t say much, and Uncle Jack didn’t say much, maybe that was it. The way you could say a lot by saying very little.
There was this one time they were at Wharryburn, a Sunday in March just a day or two before The Disappearance. Elspeth and Etta were cooing over Barbara in the living room and Barbara was just about tolerating them, Peggy was putting a brave face on being with Sarah in the kitchen, and the men – his father and Uncle Jack and himself – had stepped out of the back door and were standing in manly silence with their coats on. Well, Uncle Jack was standing in silence, staring at the grass that was not yet ready to be cut or at the neat, empty beds or maybe not staring at anything, and Hugh stamped his feet and got out his pipe and lit it and made a comment about the cold and when there was no answer grumbled about family life and wondered when Barbara might be getting a wee brother or sister to keep her company, and still Jack said nothing but Hugh just kept on and on, what it was like having a house full of bairns, Jack would never have a minute’s peace if his experience was anything to go by, not that he resented his own flesh and blood, he wasn’t saying that but that was the truth of the matter, not a minute’s peace, and Jimmy thought if his Uncle Jack was thinking anything it was exactly that and he just wished his father would shut up. There was something intense and dignified about the way Uncle Jack didn’t respond, didn’t even look at Hugh. But eventually the insistent prattle must have triggered something inside him.
I think I’ll take a stroll up the hill, he said, still staring ahead. Get some fresh air.
Oh, Hugh said. I think it’s pretty fresh oot here masel, he said, through a cloud of pipe smoke.
Not for me, Uncle Jack said. And then he said a truly wonderful thing: Are you coming, Jimmy? And in a concession to Hugh that was also a very definite indicator that he wasn’t invited, he added, If that’s all right with you, Hugh? It’s time Jimmy and I were better acquainted.
Jimmy glanced at his father who, wrong-
footed, suddenly seemed to him more childish than he was himself. He didn’t think of himself as a child anyway. Weel, I dinna ken, Hugh said, flustered, I mean it’s three o’clock noo, how lang dae ye think ye might be? We’ll hae tae catch the bus hame soon enough. Jack said, calm as anything, Och, the bus doesn’t go till five. We’ll just take a walk up to the woods and back, we’ll be no more than an hour, and Hugh looked out of breath at the very thought and conceded defeat with a nod. It’ll be the five-o’clock bus for us then, Jimmy, mind that, he said, and Jimmy felt a thrill that his uncle, Mad Uncle Jack, had asked him to go with him, alone, but he kept it off his face, held it down inside him, smiled reassuringly at his worried-looking father and then he and Jack set off round the house and away up the street past the last of the bungalows to where the tarmac gave out and the track into the woods began.
The first Jimmy knew about The Disappearance was three or four days later, back in Slaemill. Peter doesn’t remember the exact sequence of events but he has a definite memory of his father taking him through into the front room one evening, where they hardly ever went, and in a very serious voice telling him to sit on the sofa. Opposite him, in one of the armchairs, was a big, blue-jawed policeman in a blue uniform, with his hat in his lap and a notebook and pencil resting on top of it.
This is Sergeant Ritchie, Hugh said. Now Jimmy, it’s aboot your Uncle Jack so I want ye tae think carefully and tell us everything ye ken.
No need tae be afraid, son, Ritchie said. Just tell us aboot last Sunday.
What aboot last Sunday?
Was there anything your Uncle Jack said that was odd, when you went for that walk wi him? Anything at all.
How, what’s happened?
It’s all right, son, ye’re no in any trouble, Ritchie said.
Your uncle’s gone missing, Hugh said, and the police are trying tae find him.
So did he say anything odd, or did anything unusual happen on your walk? Ritchie said.
Jimmy did what he thought was a good impression of weighing up the question.
No, he said.
Think, Jimmy. Ye were away wi him for an oor and a hauf at least, his father said. Whit did ye talk aboot? Ye must’ve talked aboot something?
We just walked, he said. He doesn’t say much, Uncle Jack.
That’s true enough, Hugh said. A man of few words is my brother-in-law, Sergeant. But did he no say onything, son?
Nothing, Peter remembers, that he cared to repeat. Uncle Jack had started to tell him about when he was a prisoner of the Japanese. He’d talked about a man who’d tried to escape into the jungle and what had happened when he was recaptured. Jimmy saw it all, heard the slice of blade through neck, the horror of it. But he said nothing, just strode along beside his uncle, up through the trees, up and up till they came to the edge of the wood and a stone dyke and beyond it the moor and hills in the distance, and they stood there, warm in the cold afternoon, and Uncle Jack put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and said, I love this country, Jimmy, but there’s too much wrong with it. There’s too much wrong with the world. Do you know what I’m saying? And the hand squeezed his shoulder and Jimmy felt awkward. The word love made him uncomfortable. Uncle Jack turned and crouched down till their faces were level, and his eyes were very blue as they stared into Jimmy’s, and he said in a harsh whisper, Of course you don’t. But you will. You’re the same as me, lad, you don’t fit. I can tell. I’ve had enough. I’m going away. Don’t tell anyone I told you that. When you’re old enough, you get away too. You’ll understand when it’s time. And Jimmy didn’t know what he was on about, it was a bit scary but exciting too, and then Uncle Jack’s hand swept the ground and he put something into Jimmy’s hand, a wee stone, and he said, Don’t forget this. And he stood up and said, in a different kind of voice, We’d better be heading back or your father will be anxious. And the stone was in Jimmy’s pocket and they made their way back to the path and came up over a rise and there was a man and a much wee-er boy coming towards them out of the trees.
We just walked, Jimmy said again. He said about how he liked Scotland. That was all.
Did ye see anybody when ye were oot wi him?
He might have made a mistake, lying about that as well, but he was too smart for them.
Aye. A man called Don.
How d’ye ken his name?
He tellt me it. He had a wee boy with him. His son, I think. Called Billy.
Ritchie consulted his notebook and nodded at Jimmy’s father. That’s right enough. Very good, son. You should be daein my job.
How long’s he been missing? Jimmy asked.
Here, steady on, I was joking, Ritchie said, and he and Hugh laughed, and then Ritchie said, A couple o days, and Hugh said, We’re worried aboot him.
So if there’s anything ye’ve no tellt us, Ritchie said, it’s important that ye speak up noo. Ye’re practically the last person he spoke tae.
Jimmy shook his head and there was silence in the room. Eventually Ritchie spoke again.
I’m going tae ask ye something difficult, he said.
A pause. Peter remembers that Jimmy knew exactly what was coming next. Something in the way he accumulated and filed information, even then, meant that when it came to being questioned he was, almost always, ahead of the game.
Did anything happen that your uncle might have felt ashamed of? Ritchie said. Or that you feel ashamed of? Anything that might have made him panic? Anything that might have driven him tae run away?
Jimmy looked at his father. His father looked away. Jimmy thought, you can’t deal with this but I can. He shook his head.
Anything bad happen? Ritchie said.
He shook his head again.
Did he touch ye at all? Ritchie said. Did he interfere wi ye?
No, Jimmy said, indignant. He never laid a finger on me. He’s no like that.
All right, son, Ritchie said. I guess ye ken what I’m talking aboot. I just had tae ask. We’re trying tae establish what makes your Uncle Jack tick.
Hugh’s forehead was glistening with sweat.
So are ye gonnae find him? Jimmy asked.
Oh aye, we’ll find him, Ritchie said. Dinna you worry aboot that.
Jimmy nodded. He wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t find Uncle Jack. And they didn’t have a clue what made him tick. He felt the stone in his pocket.
Dinna get mixed up wi thae folk that want tae ruin your life.
That was Hugh, his father, on the platform at Waverley Station, shaking his hand, the first time he went south. He said it shyly, almost surreptitiously, as if the mysterious folk he referred to were already hovering in the background, amid the steam and din of the station, ready to pounce on his son and lead him off into temptation. A parade of bad people hurried through Jimmy’s mind: card-sharps and gangsters in coloured shirts and flash cars, winking purveyors of mysterious cigarettes, salacious women in dangerous bars. Lead me to them, he thought, releasing his dry hand from his father’s sweaty grip and stepping up into the carriage. Peggy had stayed at home: she’d only have made a scene if she’d come through to Edinburgh to see him off. Don’t worry, Dad, he said. I can look efter masel. Hugh looked wee and lost on the platform. He’d have to get the train back to Drumkirk alone, then a bus home, and Jimmy experienced a moment’s anxiety on his behalf. His father was a child, always would be, whereas he was about to grow up. Up and away.
The train pulled clear of the city and he settled himself to look out of the window at the smeary countryside. He was off! He knew he wasn’t heading for anything glamorous, he wasn’t going to be the next Sidney Reilly. But London itself was something. London was new, the future. London was different and vast and anonymous. It was going to release him from the tired old certainties of small-town Scotland.
He started in a basement in Curzon Street, buried there with a handful of other young men and subjected to lectures on Marxist-Leninist theory and practice. Object: to get a ‘thorough grasp’ of the aims and activities of the Communist Party of
Great Britain. Practical training included participating in the ongoing monitoring of the entire membership of the CPGB, and learning intricate, tedious procedures for creating and updating files on them and anybody else suspected of subversion. Every day a class-set of the Daily Worker was delivered to the recruits, and they scoured the pages for information on individuals and groups. It was said that if it weren’t for the bulk orders from the Service and the Soviet Embassy the paper would have folded.
After six months he was moved to another part of the building, then out of it altogether. These moves happened without discussion or explanation: in his lowly position he did not need to know the reasons for his redeployment. He was just a cog. Better to be that, though, a cog in the secret arm of government, than to be shifting pallets around in a Scottish paper mill.
The Service was full of cogs and wheels. There were wheels within wheels, circles and inner circles. You never quite knew where among them you were, in or out. Sometimes you thought you were in and then you’d request a particular file and access would be denied and you realised you’d inadvertently tried to enter a space that wasn’t yours to enter. Maybe in time it would become yours, maybe it wouldn’t. You were in an intricate game, a complex dance, but nobody explained the moves to you or how many other dancers there were, and just when you thought you’d mastered one sequence the formation changed.
He thought he was getting on fine. He thought they were preparing him for greater things. One of the Service’s roles was to provide Intelligence advice to colonies and former colonies. There were security liaison officers scattered from Delhi to Trinidad. Peter thought he detected hints that he might be suitable material for a foreign posting. He fancied the Caribbean. Anywhere really. So he can still remember the crushing disappointment, three years in, when the Scottish stuff was dumped on his desk.
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