The woman was behind the bar again. She had done a wonderful job: the place was almost back to normal. Douglas watched her wiping down the surfaces with quick, neat efficiency. He could not help noting her quick, neat shape, the way her fair, slightly wavy hair fell across her face as she worked, the strip of white skin that appeared above the waistband of her trousers when she stretched for something.
Douglas chided himself. Here he was, spying on her exposed flesh, and he did not even know her name. Dear, dear, dear, he thought. You are out of order, Dougie.
She came over. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘How are you now?’
‘Recovering gradually. I’m Douglas,’ he said, half-rising from his seat. ‘I haven’t thanked you properly. I was just about to throw in the towel when you arrived. You saved the day.’
‘Not a problem,’ she said. Their hands clasped briefly. ‘I’m Xanthe.’
‘That’s an uncommon name.’
‘It’s Greek.’
So also was her nose, he thought. To some it might be disproportionately long for her face, its bridge too prominent, but to Douglas it was of classical size and form.
‘It’s a fine nose,’ he said. ‘I mean name. It suits you.’
She gave him a quizzical look. ‘It should. I chose it myself. I’m just going to freshen up a bit. Then I’ll heat up some of the soup that’s through in the kitchen. Would you like some?’
‘Malcolm said there wasn’t any soup. He said there was no food at all. Malcolm’s the barman, by the way. I was just standing in for him.’
‘I guessed that. Malcolm’s a lazy sod. There’s always soup.’
‘You know him, then?’
‘I know him. I haven’t checked what kind of soup.’
‘I’d eat almost anything that wasn’t a crisp. How long does this bloody ballad go on?’
‘There’s no way of telling. He’s improvising. It’s the MacCrimmon way.’
‘You know him, too?’
‘I do. If you don’t like the song, ignore it.’
‘Believe me, I’m trying. And does he know you?’
This question seemed to puzzle her momentarily. ‘No,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘No, MacCrimmon doesn’t know me.’
Look,’ Douglas said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re leaving later, are you? I really need to get a lift to Fort William. Tonight.’
‘No, I’m not leaving. I don’t have a car anyway. And that’s a little exploitative, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it is. And graceless, too. I’m sorry.’
‘Okay.’
He was sorry, too, for thinking of her in bits – her hair, her backside, her nose – instead of as a whole person, but he didn’t apologise aloud for this. And in fact he was thinking of her as a whole person: her whole person overwhelmed his sensibilities. He couldn’t analyse why and didn’t want to try. She just did, and he liked it. Xanthe: what a charming name!
She hurried off before he could ask more questions. She seemed to know her way around, and suddenly it became clear to Douglas why. She must work there. Obviously she must be Malcolm’s wife or girlfriend. She probably habitually covered his absences and cleared up after him. And this was her on duty for the rest of the evening.
He was disappointed. More than anything he was disappointed in himself, for not seeing it at once, and for allowing his mind to run away with a little fantasy.
‘What little fantasy is your mind running away with?’ Mungo was tugging at the hem of his jacket and peering up at him with mischief in his eyes.
‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’
‘I don’t. I know nothing. You were away somewhere, that’s all. What were you thinking?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Aha. Well, I’m impressed anyway.’
‘With what?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
Douglas did not quite believe in the innocence of toads.
‘I can understand,’ he said, ‘why your kind had a bad reputation in the old days. I see why people would have ascribed evil intent to you. You have a look about you.’
‘The old days? You’re sounding like him over there. If I may quote the poet Henryson, “Thou should not judge a man after his face.” I believe the speaker of that line was a toad.’
‘You’re at it again. How is it possible for you to quote Robert Henryson? He’s been dead five hundred years. How have you even heard of him?’
‘Let’s not go over this again. Longevity. Knowledge transference. Memory. Remember?’
‘Well, if you know about Henryson, you must surely know what a ballad is. And a bard, too. So either your system doesn’t work too well or you were being deceitful.’
‘Ah, you have found me out. See how the guilt is written all over my face.’
‘Why are you being such a smart-arse?’
‘I just like to keep us both on our metaphorical toes.’
‘You’re not real, Mungo. You’re a wee shite, in fact.’
‘Can’t help it. It’s in my nature. You’ll be wanting to cast me into the fire next.’
‘I assure you, however much you might try to provoke me, you’re in no danger from me.’
‘I’d better not be. My vengeance would be awful. I’m joking, by the way. Or am I?’
‘Oh stop it.’
‘What does the phrase “freshen up a bit” mean?’
‘Give it a rest, will you?’
‘I was only asking. It sounded promising, but perhaps your mind was as blank as your face. I take back the poet Henryson’s words and eat them.’
Across the room, Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon finally drew his performance to a close. The Norwegians, who had been listening to him in what was either respectful or dumbstruck silence, broke into wild applause, thumping the table and cheering and whooping.
‘Oh God, don’t encourage him,’ Douglas muttered, but then thought that they might just be expressing relief. The bard, anyway, had the sense to quit while he was ahead. Offers of drinks were made: MacCrimmon accepted as many of them as he reasonably could, and put his guitar down. A couple of the men made their way to the bar. Xanthe was still absent, and they looked expectantly towards Douglas.
Before he could decide whether or not to serve them, the front door clattered open and Malcolm rode in on his bicycle.
‘About bloody time,’ said Douglas.
‘Hail to the chief who on a Triumph advances,’ said the bard.
Malcolm dismounted, waved cheerily at them each in turn, parked his bike through the back, and returned to serve the Norwegians. Only after that did he come over to Douglas’s table.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ Douglas demanded.
‘Everything! You wouldn’t believe it if I told you!’
‘Try me.’
‘Flock of sheep on the road, followed by a puncture, followed by the man I was looking for not being where he should have been. Had to hunt across half the county for him. All been fine here?’
‘No,’ Douglas said.
Malcolm pulled up a stool and sat on it.
‘Sorry to hear that. What’s been the problem? Is that a packet of crisps on the bench? They’re terrible for getting grease on the fabric. Could you put them on the table?’
Douglas slid a hand, palm up, behind him, and felt Mungo crawl into it. He dipped him gently back into his jacket pocket, then retrieved the crisps.
‘The problem,’ he said, ‘is that it’s been going like a fair ever since you left. I’ve never sat down.’
‘Aye you have.’
‘Ten minutes ago. Is it like that every day?’
‘No, never. I sometimes wonder how the place survives. Quite a bit of passing trade, then?’
‘As soon as you left they started arriving. He was the first.’ Douglas jerked a thumb at MacCrimmon. ‘He hasn’t paid for anything all afternoon. You were away for hours.’
‘Like I said, I was held up. One damn thing after another. You’ll not
have had time to write everything down in the book, I suppose?’
‘No, I have not.’
‘Good man! Well, if you just hand over whatever you took, I’ll ring a few sales through the till later. Got to keep the taxman satisfied, eh?’
‘That’s how the place survives,’ Douglas said. ‘Dodgy whisky through the back door, cash in hand out the front.’
Malcolm sucked air through his teeth. ‘That’s not a nice word, “dodgy”,’ he said. ‘I thought you liked the Glen Gloming.’
‘Bugger the Glen Gloming. I bet the Shira Inn never makes a trading profit.’
‘Well, it’s tough doing business in an off-the-beaten-track place like this.’ Malcolm’s hand was outstretched. ‘If you give me the takings, I’ll get you another dram.’
‘Off the beaten track?’ Douglas gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m surprised the track hasn’t collapsed under the weight of traffic.’
He had a wad of notes in one back pocket, and a smaller wad in the other. He drew out the fatter of the two, and Malcolm whistled.
‘Whoah! You’re right, you have been busy! I’ll make that a double. Is that the lot?’
There was more than three hundred pounds on the table.
‘It is,’ Douglas said, feeling the folds of another sixty quid being moulded by the curve of his left buttock.
‘Well, make yourself at home and I’ll get you that drink. Surprised you’re still here, to be honest. I thought your lift must have come hours ago. But that’s the magical lure of the Shira Inn for you. Couldn’t bear to leave us, could you? We close at eleven.’
‘Did you win?’ Douglas asked, as Malcolm stood up to go.
‘Did I what?’
‘Win. You went to place a bet. So you said.’
‘Oh, that! No. Didn’t lose either, mind. My man talked me out of it. He’d had another look and it wasn’t such a dead cert after all. Said we’d be better to wait until next week.’
‘Hello, Malcolm.’
Xanthe had reappeared. She had freshened up very well, in Douglas’s opinion, although it was also his opinion that she hadn’t needed to. She had changed out of the dark top and trousers and was now wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white smock with a neckline embroidered with a design of blue and yellow flowers.
‘Oh, hello, Xanthe,’ Malcolm said, without surprise. ‘You here again?’
‘I am. I just put myself in the usual room. Is that okay?’
‘You know the ropes, girl. This is Xanthe, one of our regular irregulars. She comes here to commune with nature, don’t you, Xanthe? This gentleman has very kindly been helping out behind the bar. I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name, pal.’
Gentleman? Pal? Douglas realised he disliked Malcolm as much as he disliked MacCrimmon.
‘It’s Douglas,’ Douglas said. ‘Douglas Elder.’
‘Hello, Douglas,’ Xanthe said, and she flashed him a lovely smile and opened her eyes very wide.
‘Not Douglas Fir, eh?’ Malcolm said with a guffaw.
‘No.’
‘I’m heating up some soup,’ Xanthe said. ‘Do you want some, both of you?’
‘Soup? Is there any?’
‘Yes, Malcolm. Scotch broth.’
‘Lovely. Don’t tell everybody.’
‘There’s plenty.’
But the Norwegians were leaving. They waved friendly waves at Douglas and took a few phone-snaps of Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon, who was flushed of face and barely able to speak. He sat behind a collection of drinks that included two pints of IPA, three drams and what looked suspiciously like a specimen of that dangerous brew, a ‘wee heavy’. On the positive side, Douglas assessed, MacCrimmon was well past the point of either soup or song. On the negative side, at least as far as the bard himself was concerned, if he managed to drink what was in front of him he would probably be dead before closing time.
‘Does he often get into that condition?’ Douglas asked Malcolm, who by now had his feet up by the fire and was reading a copy of the Racing Post.
‘MacCrimmon? Aye. Every time he’s in, in fact.’
‘That’s terrible. He’s killing himself.’
‘We’ve all got to go some time, pal.’
‘Can we get one thing straight? I’m not your pal.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘You shouldn’t be feeding him all that booze for free.’
‘You want me to charge him for killing himself?’
‘It might slow him down a bit.’
‘Well, maybe, but it’s not that simple. You see, we respect the old ways here.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘It may be bollocks to you, but it’s sacred to him. Live and let live, that’s what I say. Pal.’
‘Douglas!’ The plaintive cry sounded from Douglas’s jacket.
Douglas put his hand in his pocket and felt Mungo’s fingers urgently gripping one of his own.
‘Wait a minute,’ Douglas hissed.
‘I can’t.’
‘What do you mean, wait a minute?’ Malcolm demanded.
‘I wasn’t talking to you.’
‘Aye you were.’ Malcolm put his paper down.
‘I need to go outside. Now,’ Mungo croaked.
‘Be quiet,’ Douglas said.
‘Don’t you tell me to be quiet,’ Malcolm said, half-rising.
‘I wasn’t,’ Douglas said. ‘I was telling myself. I often do, it stops me getting overexcited. I think I’ll go outside and get some fresh air.’
‘Good idea,’ Malcolm said, relaxing again. ‘Go and cool off a bit.’
‘I will,’ Douglas said as he left. ‘Patronising bastard,’ he added as the door swung shut behind him.
The moon was rising. In its light, the moor was vast. The mountains were lost in the distance and the railway line was a feeble admission that humans were simply passing through, and would be gone shortly.
Mungo sent a stream of urine across the parking area, now empty of vehicles apart from the bard’s heap, which had taken on the appearance of a bloated yellow cow, expired against the fence. If the toad noticed the moon, he made no mention of its beauty tonight. Instead he began to do stretches and bends.
‘You almost got me into a fight,’ Douglas said.
‘Nonsense. I was saving your jacket. I had to get out anyway. I was too hot and I need some proper sustenance and a bit of exercise.’ He punched the air a few times. ‘Am I no a bonnie fighter, by the way?’
‘No,’ Douglas said.
‘Och well. I’m away to do some exploring. There’s a wonderful sense of decadence in the atmosphere.’
‘That’ll be the peat.’
‘I take it we’re not going anywhere else tonight?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. There seem to be rooms. Xanthe’s got one. Malcolm will have to let me stay.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll see you in the morning. Or later tonight. I’ll find you, anyway.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Don’t worry about me. What about you?’
‘I’ll just have to make the best of it.’
‘You will,’ Mungo said. ‘I don’t think you’ll have a problem finding a bed for the night. And I’ll tell you something for nothing about that.’
‘What?’
‘You won’t be sharing it with Malcolm. Or with the bard creature, come to that.’
Before Douglas could reply, the toad had gone, off to explore the decadent delights of the moor.
The man turned back, drawn by the irresistible aroma of Scotch broth.
[To be continued]
SMALL TALK
Where all those people came from or went to I do not know, but the arrival of darkness brings no more custom to the Shira Inn. The four of us – Malcolm, Xanthe, Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon and I – have the place to ourselves. The bard does not partake of the soup: he remains slumped in his far corner, occasionally surfacing to sample one of his drinks, then falling asleep again. Malcolm and Xanthe ignore him, and
after a while, as my concern that his demise is imminent diminishes, I ignore him as well.
Malcolm too, full of broth, is soon slumbering by the fireside. Xanthe and I clear away the plates and she joins me at my table, after first pouring herself a large red wine and refilling my tumbler with Glen Gloming.
‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ I ask. Close up, I notice lines about her mouth and eyes – vestiges of laughter or struggle or perhaps just life. I like those lines.
‘I think you already are, somewhat.’
‘Somewhat. Aye, probably.’
‘Why would I be trying to get you drunk?’
There is definitely something familiar about her. Whenever I look at her I look away in case she thinks I am looking at her.
I shrug. ‘To help me drown my sorrows? The thing is, Xanthe,’ I continue, fixing my gaze on my whisky, ‘I am trying to get to somewhere and this is not it. I am on a mission.’
‘What kind of mission?’
‘I’m a journalist. No, I can’t honestly claim that. I used to work in newspapers – a newspaper, the Spear, in Edinburgh. I don’t any more, but I’ve been given this mission to accomplish – a job, an assignment – and that’s why I’ve ended up here. Tomorrow I’m supposed to be somewhere else to interview somebody, and my plan was to be in Fort William tonight and go to this other location in the morning, but then the train stopped here and I got off it – I shouldn’t have, but I was badly advised – and then it left without me and now I’m stuck here with no idea how I’m going to get away. So, getting drunk seems a reasonable thing to do in the circumstances, and if you are assisting me in that project then I am grateful to you.’
‘Where are you trying to go?’
‘Somewhere called Glentaragar. Somebody was supposed to meet me here and take me there. As far as I can ascertain, it’s about the most inaccessible place on the Scottish mainland.’
To Be Continued Page 20