Household Ghosts

by James Kennaway

  ‘Corporal Fraser, you’ll make a piper yet.’

  The Corporal gave a sunny smile.

  ‘Aye, you’re better at the pibroch than I’d known. Your grace-notes are slurred but otherwise it was good. Now give me the pipes, lad; we’ll have a turn ourself.’

  In his trews, with his fat bottom waggling as he marched up and down the room, Jock looked comic. To begin with, he looked comic. But soon he was in the full rhythm of the tune, and he was absurd no longer. A good piper is like a rider who is one with his horse, and Jock was soon part of the music. He played some marches, with a fault or two; then a slow march; then a faultless pibroch. That is something that a man does only a few times in his life; and the Corporal was dumb with admiration.

  As he slowly laid the pipes down, Jock himself was aglow with pride. He was sweating with the exertion, but his eyes too were glistening. He was like a schoolboy who has won his race.

  ‘That’s how to play the movement, laddie. It’s no just a question of wobbling your fingers on grace-notes.’

  The Corporal at last found his voice.

  ‘I’ve never heard the pibroch better; never better.’

  Jock nodded shyly.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever played it better. So there you are. You have to be in the mood for the pibroch; it is a lament. It is a lament.’ He mopped his brow. ‘But it is something else as well. That’s the catch. It’s no just a grieving. There’s something angry about it too.’ Charlie Scott was sure it was all beyond him and in a moment Jock said, ‘Och, well, Corporal, you’ll be wanting away to your lassie. You’ll have to jump the wall.’

  ‘It’s too late for that now, sir.’

  ‘D’you hear that, Charlie? The lassie’ll have gone home to bed. Now see what you’ve done.’

  ‘Wise woman.’

  ‘Then away you go, Corporal. Away to your own bed.’ The Corporal put on his bonnet and came sharply to attention.

  ‘Permission to dismiss, sir.’

  Jock looked up at him. He liked the formality. Suddenly he approved of the Corporal.

  ‘D’you want me to help you with that pibroch, Corporal?’

  ‘Very much, sir.’

  Jock nodded. ‘A-huh,’ he said, and he clasped his hands and bent forward in his chair. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  Charlie said, ‘You’ll be in no sort of shape tomorrow morning.’ But Jock ignored him.

  ‘Half-past twelve?’

  ‘I’ll be in the gym then, sir.’

  ‘What are you up to in the gym?’

  ‘Boxing, sir.’

  ‘You’re a boxer? Light-heavy, is it?’

  ‘That’s it, sir.’

  ‘Then we’ll meet some other time. You’re a man after my heart, Corporal. We’ll make a piper of you yet.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Jock nodded again. He made a little gesture. ‘Dismiss.’

  Through the biting cold, the Corporal made his way back to his bunk in the band’s quarters. He was shivering in spite of the whisky inside him, when, half undressed, he slipped between the rough blankets and drew his greatcoat over the bed. He had put newspapers between the blankets earlier in the evening, and now he was glad of them. As he lay there he could see the cloud of his breath in the pale light of the barrack lamp which shone through the narrow window by his head, and he felt a soldier’s loneliness. He thought for a moment of the grace-notes, and the pibroch; then he thought of his girl; just thought of what she looked like. He wished he could keep her more constantly in his mind but she kept slipping away from him, and away again as he slowly fell asleep. But in his dreams her face was trans-formed, for the Corporal dreamt of his Colonel.

  The bottle was three-quarters empty.

  ‘You’re a miserable man,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s not three-quarters empty. It’s a quarter full.’

  ‘It’s your turn.’

  ‘I had some when you were blowing your guts out.’

  ‘You have no music in you. No music in you at all.’

  Jock put the bottle to his lips again, then he held it in his lap. The chairs all round faced one way and another. It was as if a storm had abandoned them there.

  ‘I was thinking as I played, Charlie. I should have been the Pipe-Major; that’s what I should have been. But that was not the way of it. And I’ve acted Colonel, and I bloody well should have been Colonel, and by this hand boy, I bloody well will be Colonel. I will.’

  But Charlie was snoring. For an instant Jock looked as if he were going to kick him, then he seemed to see the joke.

  ‘Oh, you bastard,’ he said slowly and gently. He pro-nounced the word with a short a. ‘Oh, you bastard! You’re no a good listener, either.’ And alone he finished the bottle.

  Like a bath of water, the room grew slowly colder and Jock sat dazed. He could not bring himself to move, though the hand which clasped the empty bottle grew icy cold. At last he bit his lip and, stiffly, rose to his feet. Then gently – and it took great strength – he lifted Charlie in his arms, and a little unsteadily, carried him upstairs. He placed him on his bed, and threw a couple of blankets over him. Charlie was still sound asleep. And Jock smiled on him, as if he were a child.

  He brushed his hair in front of the mirror, and once more he buttoned his tunic and his trews. He lit a cigarette, and with great concentration he found his way to the cloakroom where he remembered to collect his bonnet and coat. The air outside made him gasp. The wind had dropped but the sky was starless; there would certainly be more snow before morning. He dug his heels into the ground in the approved fashion, but this did not prevent him slipping on the icy patches. Precariously, he picked his way round the barrack square. As he marched up to the gate he walked more confidently and he swung his arms. Then suddenly he felt an urge to call out the guard and he instructed the sentry to shout the necessary alarm. The guardroom came to life with the sound of swearing and of soldiers clambering off their steel bunks. Rifles were dropped and somebody kicked over a tin mug; knife, fork and spoon were scattered over the concrete floor. But by the time they had formed in their correct rank outside Jock seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings. He could see a fault in the dress of every man there but he did not bother to inspect the guard. He just returned the Corporal’s salute, and without a word went on his way. He left the guard bewildered and the Corporal apprehensive.

  FOUR

  ON SUCH A night and at such a time he tended to call on Mary Titterington, but it was six weeks now since he had seen her and he had decided on the last occasion that he would not call again. She worked with a local repertory company and his association with her was one of the many things that the town and county objected to. Not that that made any difference to him.

  Anyway, when he left the barracks he thought about calling on her and instead of returning home over the old footbridge he wandered into the town. She had a flat in one of the big houses by the park. He turned his collar up, and he dug his hands into his greatcoat pockets. He passed nobody and the only sound was the echo of his own footsteps. All cities are lonely at night, but the old Scottish ones are lonelier than all. The ghosts wander through the narrow wynds and every human is a stranger surrounded, followed, and still alone. The ghosts always unnerved Jock. He was suddenly chilled and very lonely, so he turned back and went straight home.

  Safe inside, he was glad to find his daughter had waited up for him; he let his shoulders drop, and he smiled kindly at her when he said, ‘Lassie, you should be tucked up in your bed.’

  ‘Och, I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘It’s late. It’s awful late.’

  ‘I know it is. It’s two o’clock.’

  ‘You should be getting your beauty sleep.’

  ‘It’ll take more than sleep to make me a thing of beauty,’ she said with efficient presbyterian modesty. She was really quite pretty, with pink cheeks, even at two in the morning; but Morag never gracefully accepted a compliment.

  Their home was one of those little vill
as with bow windows and a staircase that runs straight down to the front door. There was an ugly overhead light in the cramped hall and there was no carpet, but brown linoleum on the floor. Morag was in a sensible woollen dressing-gown and fluffy bedroom slippers. She came downstairs to help him with his coat.

  ‘You look all in,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, I’m tired.’

  ‘Did you come straight home?’

  Jock glanced at her. They never mentioned Mary Titterington and he was not even sure that Morag knew of her, or knew about her.

  ‘Of course I came straight back. Where the hell d’you think I’d go?’

  ‘I don’t know, father, I’m sure. But you look tired.’

  ‘A-huh.’

  ‘Come on into the kitchen. There’s a kettle on. I guessed you’d be all in.’

  Jock touched her shoulder with his hand. ‘You’re a good lassie, Morag. That’s what you are. I shouldn’t leave you alone like this, so often.’ He wanted to say more, but he paused and she spoke first.

  ‘Heavens, Father! What’s got into you? D’you think the bogey-men’ll get me?’ She moved away and his hand dropped to his side. She never allowed him to be demonstrative. She was far too sensible for scenes. Her mouth gave her character away. It was a very pretty mouth, neither too small nor too large. But it was firm, and her lips were always closed tightly together. She had a neat firm chin, a short nose, light brown eyes and dark hair which fell in an orderly little roll round her neck. She walked quickly into the kitchen and Jock followed slowly. He laid his coat on a chair, and later Morag would tidy it away.

  ‘I passed a tinker woman in the street. That mad woman. She was wheeling her barrow. And at this time of night. It’s a wonder they don’t burn her. They burnt her mother for a witch.’

  Morag tutted. ‘You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you? Her mother was never a witch.’

  ‘She was the last witch. That’s a fact.’

  Morag smiled. ‘Och, away you go, Father. You’d believe anything.’

  Jock was a little nettled.

  ‘She’s a terrible-looking woman anyway, with all her scarves and rags. What d’you suppose she keeps in the barrow?’

  ‘Just what she pinches off honest folk.’

  Jock sat down by the kitchen table and he played with the spoon in the sugar-bowl.

  ‘She’s eerie. D’you suppose she’s anywhere to sleep? Walking along, talking to herself. She gives me the creeps. Aye, she does. I passed her on the cobbled wynd.’

  Morag filled the teapot. She smiled at her father again.

  ‘Were you feared?’

  Jock cocked his head. ‘Of course I wasn’t feared.’

  ‘I believe you were: same as all the rest of the kiddies. Did she tell you your fortune?’

  ‘Aye and maybe. I didn’t rightly hear what she was saying. And I’m bloody glad I didn’t.’

  ‘I thought you were keeping your swear words for the barracks,’ Morag said primly, and Jock sighed and apologised. She handed him his cup of tea and he thanked her again. She sat down by the table. She pulled her chair in, and her back was upright.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘And what’s he like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your new Colonel, of course.’

  ‘How the hell did you know he was here?’

  ‘A wee birdie told me.’

  ‘Aye, someone told you. Who’s been here, eh?’ He sounded annoyed.

  ‘Nobody’s been here. It’s written plain across your face. I thought the new Colonel might come in tonight.’

  Jock was not altogether satisfied with the explanation. He never allowed her to ring the Mess and ask after him, when he was late. He said this was because he did not want any officer rung by his womenfolk, but there were other more practical reasons. If he went round to Mary’s flat he usually said he was going to the Mess. The Mess after all was his club; and a club should be a refuge. But Morag could read him like a book.

  ‘I didn’t ring the Mess,’ she said truthfully. ‘You can check up yourself.’

  ‘I never said you did.’

  ‘Maybe. Well, tell us. What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s a wee man,’ Jock said and he started to sip his tea. He sipped it like a farmer in from the fields, with both hands on the cup and his eyes straight in front of him. He did not want to talk about Barrow. Morag softened a little, and she said in a low voice:

  ‘Father, it had to be.’

  ‘I just said he was a wee man.’

  ‘It had to be.’

  Jock put down his cup and he lit a cigarette, knowing as he did so that he had smoked too many that day.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m no with you. It need never have been. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s my belief that he’ll no be C.O. for very long.’

  ‘Father, you’ll not do any stupid thing.’ It was not a question, but an instruction. She took the sugar-spoon away from him. ‘If he’s any sense at all he’ll no give you a second chance. You must promise me you’ll not do any stupid thing.’

  ‘Are you feared, Morag?’

  ‘Och, I know you. I know you fine, Father. What’s his name?’

  ‘Barrow. Poor wee man.’

  ‘You’re bitter.’

  ‘Och, for Pete’s sake Morag: d’you expect me to give a cheer? Ach …’ He returned to his tea-cup and they spoke no more on the subject.

  Morag listened, when she got back to bed, and it was a long time before Jock threw off one shoe, then the other. He gave a great groan, and she heard the springs of the mattress creak. Only then did she herself relax, but before she fell asleep she heard Jock give an unusual sigh that was long and trembling. After a moment’s hesitation she knocked on the wall.

  ‘Are you warm enough? Have you got enough blankets?’

  ‘You go to sleep or I’ll skelp your bottom.’

  And she tutted at his vulgarity.

  FIVE

  IN THE TOWN, a week later, everybody was telling everybody how much milder it was. They were congratulating themselves on it, as if to say Scotland wasn’t such a cold place as people made it out to be. They were delighted to hear that it had been bad weather in the South. They had letters from their sons and relations confirming it.

  Behind the wall the detention squad was clearing away the last of the snow and the ice, and it was almost uncomfortably warm in the Officers’ Mess after lunch. The stewards had cleared the last of the coffee-cups from the ante-room but the officers still did not move.

  Superficially there was an air of extreme boredom. The company looked as sophisticated as a cavalry Mess. There was a whisper of glossy pages turning over and a flap as one magazine was exchanged for another. The officers were apparently sitting about wishing they had not tackled the treacle pudding, or promising themselves that they would stop drinking pinks before lunch. There was a smell of cigarette smoke and newsprint, and the sounds of a billiards game being played in the adjoining room. The Mess was a club.

  But the officers at Campbell Barracks were deceptive. They were no longer a set of indolent gentlemen with courageous instincts. It is doubtful whether some were gentlemen at all – but then a Mess is renowned for taking on the complexion of its Colonel, and Jock had held command for some years now: this at least was the explanation the county favoured. Had they known better, they would have realised that Campbell Barracks was only one of the many that had suffered the same change. Whether or not it was a matter for regret, it was now an error to believe that the Regiment was commanded by asses. The billiards game next door was not being played for a guinea or two. The officers were not familiar with all the faces they saw in these magazines. Nor were they bored. They were a set of anxious and ambitious men, and some were extremely shrewd. Indeed, the only thing they shared with their fairy-tale forefathers on the walls was their vanity, and even this took different forms. Sandy Macmillan was one of the few whose vanity resembled the old set’s. He wore his hair a trifle longer than t
he regulations formally demanded, he was a scratch golfer, he was never seen out of barracks in a uniform and he wore dark glasses when he drove his sports car. He was lying in one of the deepest chairs that afternoon and his battledress was unbuttoned at the cuff. His stockings were nearly white to make his brown knees look browner and he hoped soon to be posted to Fontainebleau on some United Nations lark. His vanities were not complicated, and his income was largely private. He talked to Simpson, the prefect, who had been attracted to him on arriving at the barracks, and to young MacKinnon, the junior subaltern, who had a face like a faun, and the manner of a gentleman.

  The group in the next corner was not so obvious. The redhaired Rattray, who was also christened Alexander, but who styled himself Alec, had been educated at one of the Glasgow day-schools, and he was a real pillar-box Scotsman. He was aggressive in his masculinity and his nationality, and he was busy growing a red moustache to be the more patriotic with. He was violently ambitious and as near to stupid as any of the subalterns reached; he insisted on seeing his face in the toe of the boot of every man in his platoon. His only rival in strict treatment of the men was his friend, Lieutenant Douglas Jackson, who had a head like a German, a pasty complexion like a German, a fist like a German, and not unnaturally an almost pathological hatred for Germans. Nothing nettled him more than to be reminded that he had never actually fought the Germans but had merely occupied their country and seduced their young women.

  There were as many other vanities as there were officers in the room. Dusty Millar, the fat Quartermaster, had long service and a couple of tricks with a matchbox for a shield; Charlie Scott had his reputation; and the doctor had his intellect. Perhaps the least vain of all was the Adjutant, Jimmy Cairns, a mature farmer’s boy in uniform, completely and unaffectedly effective. Jimmy had a face to match his character. His expression was fresh and his hair was fair. He was growing, each year, more solid. But a second glance at him would have confirmed that the air of boredom was no more than superficial. He did not look happy now. He looked more worried than anyone, and he kept glancing at his watch.