‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You know what I mean. I wasn’t born at the right time. Maybe you were.’
Margaret found herself holding his arm, pulling into a hug. They patted each other’s backs, slightly embarrassed already, and then parted.
‘Anyway. That’s enough of that. Magician Graham and Crazy Maggie, eh? They must have been thinking of somebody else.’
‘You never know.’
‘Aye, well, I’ve got flies to tie. As they say in piscatorial circles. Ta ta.’
Margaret walked away, now thinking of Colin when she hadn’t been before.
Colin wasn’t thinking of Margaret, because his mind was occupied with other things. Today he was having his second session with the fat, giggling acupuncturist. As Margaret looked down the list of CVs waiting to be typed, Colin lay in his underpants and shirt on the articulated couch, thinking how warm and relaxing the little room was – that he might go to sleep.
‘You’re getting sleepy?’
‘Aye, a wee bit.’
‘Well, this isn’t hypnotism so . . .’
‘Ow.’
‘You need to keep a little alert sometimes, so that I know how things are feeling.’
‘That was sore, actually.’
‘You want it to be less sore, go to a European acupuncturist. I happen to think this doesn’t work so well, if it is less painful.’
‘Was that a racist remark?’
‘No, that was a personal remark. If you think I am a Chinese racist, why let me put needles into you. If I was capable of such feelings, surely I would be capable of anything.’
‘I was only kidding.’
‘Uh huh.’ And he began to sing, smooth, Sinatra style, ‘Into each life, some rain must fall, but too much . . .’
‘This the cabaret?’
‘No. This is for my personal enjoyment and the delight of any individual with a degree of musical appreciation. But now we should both concentrate. I am about to adjust the needles. So, first here, stomach.’
Mr Ho padded around the elevating surface, tapping skin and twisting needles, placing them more deeply. He hummed and smiled, hands cool and curiously smooth. The stiffness and pain which had been in Colin’s ankle disappeared and Mr Ho altered the balance of earth, fire, water, air and wood, because he was a thorough man and liked people to be healthy, not only free from pain.
‘Why did you come here? Why not just take a painkiller? There are many available.’
‘I don’t take drugs.’
‘Sometimes one has to.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘This is a problem?’
‘Not any more. I prefer not to take anything, in case I get too fond of it. That’s all.’
‘You become fond of these things.’
‘Can do. Like I say, it’s not a problem.’
‘This is not a situation unfamiliar to the East. Your country kindly provided us with opium, like the CIA today. Such things are ideal for capitalism: they build their own market. Inevitably.’
‘That wasn’t my country, that was England.’
‘I beg your pardon. When colonialists are abroad, they all look the same.’ He giggled, somehow boyishly, although he must have been in his fifties. Perhaps older. ‘I will simply mention that I cannot give you any acupuncture which would be effective for a fondness you might have. I cannot put needles in your soul.’
‘Did I ask you to?’
‘In case you might. I like to make improvements but sometimes this is impossible and it depresses me. I don’t like to be depressed. What you will feel now is the rushing of energy, flowing around your body. I am opening gates to correct and assist the flow. Remember to be careful when you leave, you may be unsteady on your feet. Really, don’t smile. Wait until you have to stand.’
‘Mr Ho?’
‘Yes, Mr McCoag?’
‘You know about acupuncture.’
‘You should hope so.’
‘So there are all these points connected to all of these other points and you can apply pressure in one place and make an effect in another.’
‘I know what you are going to ask.’
‘How.’
‘I can see it in your eyes.’
‘My eyes are shut.’
‘Still. You want me to tell you?’
‘Aye, wire in.’
‘Well, you have considered the nature of acupuncture, perhaps read some pamphlets, seen a diagram or two, and you know that inoffensive places in the body, hands, feet, face; very commonplace and public areas . . .’
‘Aye, aye . . .’
‘These are attached to more private places. You want to know where you should touch her.’
‘Alright. You win.’
‘You wonder if, for example, you can squeeze her hand in the street some special way and have remarkable effects. Other things, not in the street . . .’
‘I gather from your tone, you’re not going to tell me.’
‘Think about it, Mr McCoag. If I told you these little secrets, where would be the advantage in my spending years in the study of acupuncture? You find out for free?’
‘For twenty quid.’
‘Twenty pounds buys this very excellent treatment.’
‘Aye, I forgot. Funny how you get used to the needles.’
‘Well, now you will have a great deal of time to get used to them. I am going to sit at my desk in silence and you are going to lie here for twenty minutes, allowing the process to take effect. Now. Hush. Thank you.’
So Colin lay and had the warmth from the gas fire a little more on one leg than the other, noticed a tingle or a sting at a point on his foot, his leg, his hand. Something travelled along lines he only recognised from times when they had carried pain. He felt very odd.
The needles were eventually removed, neatly, but with a final, definite bite and Colin dressed. He was shaky and had to sit down before he pulled his trousers on. Mr Ho smiled.
‘Did I mention you might be unsteady for a while?’
‘Yes, you did and yes, I didn’t believe you.’
‘Uh huh. Mr McCoag, you should come back and see me in two weeks’ time. Even though your ankle will give you no trouble now. I will see you then. Oh, yes. And.’
‘And what?’
‘If you study the books available on acupuncture, you will broaden your appreciation of your health, change a part of your perspective. And, as far as public and private places to touch people are concerned, you will be able to find out all you want to know. I am far more sympathetic than I look, hm?’
Mr Ho stood with his arms folded across his chest, glasses pushed up on his forehead, possibly to leave room for his broad, broad smile. Colin smiled back.
‘I think you’re a nice man, Mr Ho. Very nice.’
Colin continued to visit Mr Ho, every now and then, returning with tiny red patches on his skin where the needles sat. Margaret would sometimes kiss them and wondered how he would look with the needles in. She didn’t like to imagine it.
One day, Colin brought the news that Mr Ho would like to sing at the Fisherman’s Ceilidh. His name was added to the growing list, Ignatius Ho, along with the banjo and guitar players, drummers and penny whistlers, singers and a lady who played the spoons.
From the first week in November, Graham posted a catalogue of turns for the Ceilidh on the café wall.
‘Look on my works, ye Lawrence, and despair. From the four corners of the world; from The Ranton and Feegie Park, lo, they come. It’s gonny be a gallus night.’
In the dead time, just before closing on a Wednesday afternoon Margaret noticed a visitor standing in front of the latest edition of the list. Bobby The Dug was clicking the last of a dominoes game back into its box, Heather was quietly mopping the kitchen floor and it was almost time for everyone to go. The visitor had bent her head a little, concentrating on the list, both hands tight around a pale Factory mug. In Jaeger fawn with a broad-brimmed hat she was enough to drive out Bobby ahead
of time. Standing by the doorway, Margaret heard his whispered, ‘’Night.’
The day’s cigarette smoke was sifting down, milky blue, and the mumbling television sparked off.
‘Excuse me.’
The hat twitched round when Margaret spoke, showing her a yellowed, slightly distant face.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re closing now.’
‘I know that, thank you.’ Black, little eyes flickered at Margaret and she felt as if she might have said something wrong. The conversation seemed to have been ended.
‘I’m sorry, but everyone has to leave now. I need to lock up.’
‘I was reading your little list here, for your little ceilidh. What an amusing night you’ll have.’
‘I hope so. Have you finished reading?’
‘Oh, I’ve finished, I’ve finished alright. And now you’re anxious to get me out on the street.’ She produced a thin, hacking laugh. ‘I’m very quick on the uptake, you know. I understand where I’m not wanted.’
Margaret felt she would have to conduct this conversation on tiptoe and wished that Lesley or Sammy were still there.
‘It’s not that you aren’t wanted, we just have to shut. Everywhere has to shut sometime. I’m sorry. Is there anything you wanted to know about the ceilidh?’
Again the laugh jerked out. ‘Know about it. What could I possibly not have guessed? Please. My husband has been boring me rigid about it for weeks. He’s decided I should go. I’m getting let out for the night. Only if I promise to behave. And guess what, little miss, guess what?’
‘I don’t know what.’
‘I haven’t promised. Do you know why?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Well, of course not. I suppose you’ve led a sheltered life, hm? The thing is, I wouldn’t promise that little bastard I’d spit in his face. No promises. You have a boyfriend? Yes, of course you do. Well, promise him nothing. Take my advice. Promise all the little bastards fuck all.’
The visitor held up her mug and let it drop, so that Margaret had to stretch and catch it. She began to walk slowly for the door, leaving a thick scent behind her, something stale and expensive and somehow unclean. Margaret noticed the stranger’s suit could do with pressing and knew without anyone saying, that the woman was Daisy Lawrence. Mr Lawrence’s wife.
Margaret caught herself thinking of Daisy all that night. The smell of her seemed to linger, like a guilt.
But the following day, it was Mr Lawrence who slipped into the office and let a paper fall on to Margaret’s desk.
‘Know anything about this?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Margaret, it seems every time I see you, you apologise. What is it you’re so sorry for – bad thoughts?’
‘Mr Lawrence . . .’
‘That’s alright, I don’t expect a confession, right now. This notice – copies were plastered all over the Centre and we can’t have this kind of thing on display – more on principle than anything else. No permission was asked. It’s a piece of nonsense from a head filled with more of the same, but we don’t want nonsense all over our walls, now do we? This is a building to be proud of. We need to keep it that way. I’ve told you why there are vandals?’
‘Lack of pride.’
‘Lack of pride; architectural pride. I don’t mean to patronise.’
He perched with one leg slung along the edge of Margaret’s desk.
‘You’re learning how to keep control; I know that; I watch. But you’ll need to keep on your toes for this ceilidh. I’m relying on you for that. Trusting you.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Mm, of course. You know, it’s sometimes difficult to talk in here. I know that. Often, I go to the restaurant in Bridge Street.’
He paused, as if he saw something in her face.
‘Well, more of a café really. We could discuss things more easily there. What you thought you might do in the future, the long term, and so on.’
‘Well, I’m quite busy, just now.’
‘Oh, I know, I know. But when the boss tells you to take some time off . . .’ He rested on the edge of a smile.
‘I would probably take some. Perhaps go away for a while.’ His eyes were closing over, somehow, as she watched, so she thought she might as well go all the way. ‘Did I mention, I met Mrs Lawrence, I met your wife, the other day. I think. Nice lady.’
‘Kind of you to say so, but I don’t guarantee she’d return any compliments. She’s not good at them. Where were you thinking of going?’
‘Where?’
‘If the boss said –’
Lesley backed through the door with two coffees and Lawrence was standing by the filing cabinet with his hands in his pockets before she could turn and face the room. He seemed to enjoy the manoeuvre, the tension of a secret to be kept.
‘You will bear that in mind, then, Miss Hamilton?’
And he left, smiling a little, rubbing his cheek with the knuckles of one hand.
‘Who rattled his cage?’
‘I didn’t know you needed to. Why is it that nobody else is ever here when he wants to talk to me?’
‘For the same reason that you’re never around when he gets tore into me or Sammy. Divide and rule. Although, to tell you the truth, I don’t think he likes you.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Just an impression I get.’
‘Well, now that you mention it, I would rather have him throwing knives at my head than go through another one of his cosy chats.’
Lesley snorted over her mug.
‘What, Lawrence?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Him?’
‘Getting friendly, you know.’
‘Naw. He’s had it removed. Naw. Not Lawrence. God, that’s disgusting. He must be FIFTY. And those wee, buggy eyes. Oh, nooo. If he got really excited, they’d flee right out.’
‘I’m really glad you find it funny. He’ll have more than his fucking eyes missing, if he keeps on slabbering over me.’
‘You’re not as nice as you look, you know that?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Still, Colin loves you, eh?’
This was a cue for Lesley to move the conversation back on to safer ground. Since Colin had come on the scene, Margaret felt her position with Lesley had changed. Margaret could now be gossiped with, she could learn about Sammy’s more intimate peculiarities, she could at any time be cross-examined on anything from wedding plans to vaginal stimulation. Margaret realised there was a bright side to having few friends. She glanced down and began to read the illegal sheets of paper Lawrence had left on her desk.
THE CEILIDH
NOTES FOR THOSE NEW TO THE COUNTRY OR
OTHERWISE UNINFORMED
The purposes of the ceilidh, a uniquely unsullied flowering of Scottish culture, are many. Among these are the taking of spiritous liquors, the singing of songs, the playing of music, dancing, joking, wynching, fighting, greeting, eating stovies and looking at the moon while vomiting or contemplating the certainty of death. These activities are both tempered and inflamed by the presence of musical instruments, weans and men and women, each of the opposite sex.
Some activities, such as eating and singing, or fighting and looking at the moon are often considered mutually exclusive. Others, such as the taking of drink and greeting, or the singing of certain songs before a fight would seem to be inseparable.
The truth of the matter is less simple. Within the ceilidh, in its twists and turns of temperaments and times, all things may coincide. A woman may drink and fight while joking, a man may vomit while eating stovies and having a good greet. And in the process of wynching anyone may do anything at all.
As ceilidhs are often mistaken for purely musical affairs some mention must be made of this part of their nature. Instrumental music for a ceilidh must inspire either greeting, or dancing, or both, and preferably have a title in The Gaelic. Songs may d
eal with a range of suitable topics, for example: dying at the fishing, dying at your work, or dying at the wars. You may also brush against the beauties of nature, the lot of the common man and the bitter death of heroes. The remainder of songs will deal, very often in Scots, with getting your hole, not getting your hole, getting your hole and not wanting it, wanting your hole and not getting it, liking your hole having got it, liking your hole but wanting it better, one man getting his hole with lots of women, one woman getting her hole with lots of men, sailors, true love and having babies.
As the Israelites in slavery had their psalms, so we have the ceilidh. As the Africans transported to Haiti kept their voodoo, so we have the ceilidh. As every languageless, stateless, selfless nation has one last, twisted image of its worst and best, we have the ceilidh. Here we pretend we are Highland, pretend we have mysteries in our work, pretend we have work. We forget our record of atrocities wherever we have been made masters and become comfortable servants again. Our present and our past creep in to change each other and we feel angry and sad and Scottish. Perhaps we feel free.
Margaret knew that Graham would deny ever writing a word. He was modest, that way.
‘DON’T MOVE. STAND still.’
‘What? What’s the matter?’
Margaret was standing frozen in her own doorway, Colin there in the dark of the hall saying that she shouldn’t move.
‘Nothing the matter. Just don’t move.’
He stared until she began to blush, then walked forward to hold her head and kiss her.
‘What was that all about?’
‘You looked like a film. Just like a film. There in the doorway, waiting to come in with your bag in your arms and your hair all wild. Filmstar. I’d like to take a picture of you like that.’
‘You’re off your head.’
‘For thinking you look like a filmstar?’
‘Don’t get grumpy,’ she pulled back a touch from their embrace, ‘I mean that you are generally off your head. Nothing specific. Which is good because I like you off your head.’
The ceilidh was gathering shape and closing fast and Margaret realised she was falling in love.
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