Conveniently, the car is a hearse. That will save the bother of calling an ambulance. Thwarting the gods, however, the hearse comes to a halt some yards from me. The driver’s window is wound down. A head pokes out and a voice – a voice I know! – shouts at me as I stand there with my arms still outstretched.
‘Hih! Come doon aff your cross a minute! Are you a local? Gonnae tell me where the fuck I am?’
I lower the arms and advance.
‘Hello, Gerry,’ I call out.
The last thing Gerry can be expecting is that the bedraggled stranger blocking his further progress will address him by his own name. He handles it pretty well. A lesser man might panic, believing himself caught up in one of those paranormal nightmares that are reputed to occur regularly on lonely country roads in inclement weather. Gerry merely sticks his head further out into the deluge and stares at me for several seconds, during which time a considerable quantity of rainwater must enter his open mouth. Finally he speaks.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you. And somehow, I swear, I’ll guide you out of here.’
This is the clincher. Gerry does a quick assessment of the situation and reaches the correct conclusion. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Sling that in the back and hop in, whoever you are.’
I sling and hop. Never have I slung and hopped more swiftly nor indeed more gratefully. The back of the hearse is empty: in it, my suitcase assumes the appearance of a coffin for a smallish dog or other pet. I plant myself at the passenger end of the bench seat occupied at the steering-wheel end by Gerry the apprentice undertaker. He is wearing a white shirt, black tie and striped trousers, and his long-tailed coat is folded on the seat between us.
‘Last time we met was in Morningside,’ I explain, and there is something glorious and meant about the way that comes out. Well Met in Morningside: it has a ring to it, like Ice Cold in Alex or Last Exit to Brooklyn. ‘At a funeral, a week ago. Douglas Elder,’ I add, and I reach out a hand and he grasps it.
‘No Douglas Fir, eh?’ Gerry says, laughing, and I laugh with him, because right then it is one of the wittiest remarks I’ve ever heard. Not that you would think so from Gerry’s laugh, which sounds as if he is experiencing the kind of pain that might be caused by walking on hot coals.
‘Aahaaha! I’m Gerry by the way. But ye ken that already. Ye’re totally drookit, man. I’ll gie the heating a blast, dry ye oot a bit. Whose funeral?’
‘Ronald Grigson’s. A former colleague of mine. You and I had a blether outside the church.’
‘Oh, right! I mind ye noo!’ Gerry says. ‘You’re the one that was late. Good tae see ye, man. Whit the fuck are ye daein oot here?’
‘I could ask you the same question, but I suppose with you the answer is obvious. You’re here to … make a collection?’
I don’t know why I use that phrase, but it has an odd effect on Gerry. ‘Aye!’ he says, tapping his nose and shaking his head in a marvelling way. ‘How did ye ken? But I’m lost. There’s nae signs or nothing. So when I seen ye up ahead, I thought, thank fuck, I’m saved!’
‘Gerry,’ I say, ‘when I saw you, I thought exactly the same.’
‘I could’ve been wandering roond here for the rest of my fucking life.’
‘Me too. So let’s not waste any more time. Drive on, MacDuff!’
‘Whit?’
‘Just drive. Where are you trying to get to?’
‘Some hotel,’ Gerry says. The transmission is automatic – ideal for funereal smoothness and sedateness, I suppose. Gerry shifts the control to DRIVE and we ease forward. ‘That’s the pick-up point. I passed a pub back up the road twenty minutes ago and I thought that was it but it wasnae, and there was naebody aboot tae get directions either. It was like the Mary fucking Celeste in fact. The place I’m looking for is called the Glen Lodge or something. I’ve got it written doon here.’ He starts to scrabble around in the door pocket.
‘The Glen Araich Lodge Hotel?’
Gerry slaps the dashboard. ‘Aye, that’s it! Talk aboot luck, eh? Thank fuck I stopped for ye. I’m no supposed tae pick up passengers, ken, no live ones anyway, but I’m no really sticking tae the company rules on this jaunt. Ye never shopped me for having a fly fag that day, did ye? Ye’re solid, man. D’ye ken where this lodge place is, then?’
‘No, but it’s where I’m heading as well. Between us, we’ll find it.’
Like Gerry I am momentarily elated, but then a sobering thought strikes me. It will be my luck if I reach Glentaragar House only to find that the whole trip is in vain.
‘Who’s your customer?’ I ask. ‘You’re not going to Glen Araich to collect an old lady from a big house near there, are you?’
Gerry is peering intently through the windscreen so as to keep us out of the ditches, but he manages a glance across at me, and laughs his high, painful laugh.
‘Aahaaha! Aye, that’ll be right! Dinnae be daft, man. Do you think I’d be on my ain if I was coming for a body? And what the hell would an Edinburgh undertaker be daein aw the way oot here?’
‘That did occur to me. I’m relieved, Gerry. The reason I’m out here, to answer your earlier question, is I’m on my way to interview the old lady in question, and it would have broken my heart to find her dead on arrival. My arrival, that is.’
Gerry, until now so friendly, looks suddenly suspicious.
‘What are ye gonnae question her for? What’s she done?’
‘Plenty.’
Gerry’s complexion couldn’t be much paler, but he blanches like a cauliflower. ‘Like what?’
‘Loads of things. Written books, been an MP, travelled in the wilds of Canada. She’s about to be a hundred and she’s had a life. She’s famous, or she once was. I’m going to ask her about some of the things she’s seen.’
‘Ye mean, like a witness?’
‘A witness to history.’
‘Oh, right. Ye had me gaun there. Ye’re no the polis, are ye?’
‘No, of course not. Whatever gives you that idea?’
‘When I hear aboot folk getting questioned it’s usually the polis that are daein the questioning.’
‘Relax, Gerry. I’m on a job for a newspaper.’
‘Aye, well, ye would say that, wouldn’t ye?’
‘Here.’ I pull my sodden wallet from my trouser pocket. The sixty pounds are there, damp but entire. So too are half a dozen of the cards Ollie prepared for me. I peel one away from the leather and hand it over. ‘Satisfied?’
Gerry inspects it briefly and drops it on top of his coat. ‘Fair enough. But anything I say to you is aff the record, aw right?’
‘Absolutely. It’s not your story I’m after. But still, if you’re not collecting the dead, what are you collecting? What’s going on?’
‘Haud on a minute. What’s this?’ Gerry says.
We have reached a junction of some sort, where our road meets two others in an informal kind of way, as if they’ve got together by chance and might very well not see each other again for a while. With there being no signposts or road markings, we are faced less with a choice than with a gamble. Left looks slightly wider than right, and doesn’t have grass growing up the middle. I remember what Xanthe told me last night, although it is quite hard to convince myself that last night wasn’t a dream.
‘That must be the road to Oban, Gerry,’ I say, pointing left. ‘We go right.’
‘I trust you, Douglas,’ Gerry says, and guides the big car round. It just about fits, and we continue on our way. I am beginning to steam nicely.
‘I think maybe it’s lifting a bit,’ Gerry says, cracking open his window to let some fresh air in.
‘If you’re not fetching a body, what are you doing?’ I ask again.
‘Ah well.’ He drums the wheel with his fingers. There is a hunted expression on his thin white face. ‘Can I trust you, Douglas?’
‘You just said you did.’
‘So I did. Thing is, I’ve kind of borrowed the motor for the day
.’
‘Borrowed it?’
‘Aye. It’ll no be missed, because it’s the reserve car, and they only ever use it if there’s a sudden surge in business, like a plague or something. I’ve been there a month and it’s never been oot once. They don’t even keep it on the premises, it’s in a lock-up and naebody will ken it’s no there if it isnae needed, which it isnae, I checked the diary. And they’ll no miss me cos it’s my day aff. So I borrowed it. Borrowed the key, borrowed the key tae the lock-up, and as long as I get back tae Edinburgh the night, replace the fuel, gie it a wee wash and put it back where I found it, naebody’ll ken. It’ll be just like that fly fag I had last week.’
‘Maybe not quite,’ I say. ‘But you’ve not done all that just so you can have a nice wee run in the Highlands. So why?’
‘I’m daein somebody a favour. He’s a pal, kind of. It’s a wee job, ken, a wee collect-and-deliver job. Like stand-and-deliver only nae guns. At least I hope no, aahaaha! Some goods that he’s needing shifted.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to use a van?’
‘Eh, no. Because I dinnae hae a van, and he didnae want tae pay tae hire one, the guy I’m daein the job for, the favour I mean, and I couldnae afford tae hire one and I dinnae hae a driving licence anyway. No a valid one.’
‘So you’ve taken a vehicle from your employer without permission, and you’re driving it without insurance or a licence in order to shift unspecified goods for a pal. No wonder you’re worried.’
‘I’m no worried. My pal just needs the job done this week, that’s all. Like today. Like now.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
‘He’ll probably break my legs.’
‘Fucking hell, Gerry. What kind of pal would do that?’
‘An angry one. Naw, dinnae look at me like that, man, it’s nae sweat. It’ll all go like clockwork, specially now you’re with me. We’ll find this lodge hotel place, load up and be on our way and be hame in nae time. It’ll aw be done and dusted by midnight.’
I don’t like the assumptions Gerry seems to be making and feel a need to put him right.
‘Hold it there, Gerry. I appreciate the lift and all that, but there’s no way I’m getting involved in any scheme that involves some pal of yours breaking my legs if something goes wrong. Which, from what you’ve told me, is what a man I met yesterday would call a dead cert.’
‘Naw, it’ll be fine. Naebody’s gonnae break your legs. If anybody’s legs are gonnae get broke it’ll be mine, but that’s no gonnae happen either because I’ll deliver the merchandise, my debt’ll be paid aff and everybody’ll be happy.’
‘What debt? You said you were doing this so-called pal a favour. And what is the merchandise, Gerry? Is it drugs? Because if it’s drugs you can stop the car right here and I’ll start walking again.’
‘Naw, it’s no drugs. Calm doon, man. Ye dinnae have tae be involved if ye dinnae want tae be. Just help us oot wi the directions and gie us a hand wi loading the stuff and we’ll be quits.’
‘What stuff?’
Gerry taps his nose again in that meaningful way that means very little to me, other than to remind me of Malcolm the barman. ‘Show ye when we get there. Some road this, eh? Hope we don’t meet anything coming the other way.’
We drive round a tight right-hand bend, over a humpbacked bridge followed by a tight left-hand bend, and meet something coming the other way: a minibus. Beside the bridge is a muddy patch of grass just wide and long enough to accommodate a hearse, so Gerry slides us into it, and the driver of the bus, which appears not to have any passengers on board, honks his horn and goes on his merry way.
‘That must be the bus I would have been on if my plans hadn’t got screwed up,’ I say. ‘We’re on the right track.’
Shortly after this the road does become more or less a track. And a mile or so later we pass a handful of cottages huddling like dirty sheep beside a river, and that, I guess, is Glen Orach.
‘What time is it?’
‘Two-thirty,’ Gerry says. ‘Soon be there, eh? And it’s definitely lifting.’
Half an hour later we come over the brow of another hill and coast down to a white harled building of three storeys with a round tower at one end. From a pole on the tower a saltire hangs limply. Lettering in black paint on one wall proclaims that this is the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel. Gerry swings the hearse in below an archway and brings it to rest outside an oak door covered in iron studs. Behind us is a collection of outbuildings, and beside the hotel is a spongy-looking nine-hole putting green.
‘D’ye play golf?’ Gerry asks as we get out and stretch our limbs. ‘We might get a wee round in. I think the sun’s gonnae come oot.’
There is one other vehicle parked outside the hotel: a rusty yellow model with a distinctive leaning posture suggesting less than perfect suspension.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ I reply.
A MARKETING THING
It appears that the hostelries in this part of the country favour a laissez-faire approach when it comes to welcoming would-be patrons. Whereas at the Shira Inn the barman takes the arrival of a customer as an opportunity to disappear for the afternoon, the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel’s policy seems to be to have no staff at all and leave anybody who turns up to fend for themselves. That is what Gerry and I now do. We use the toilets, we help ourselves to coffee from a drinks machine in the main lobby, and while Gerry goes exploring I take some dryish – or dampish – clothes from my suitcase, change into them and spread the things I have been wearing over a few chairs in the bar. I expect to find Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon in there making the most of the hospitality but there is no sign of him. Back at the reception desk I ping the service bell a few times. Nobody answers.
Gerry reappears. ‘Nae need for that,’ he says. ‘I’ve found what I’ve come for.’
‘There’s a phone here,’ I say. ‘I’m going to make a call.’
‘Leave it the now. Why tell folk we’re here if we dinnae have tae? I’ll get loaded up and on my way, and ye’ll never see me again in your puff. That’s what ye’re wanting, isn’t it?’
‘Gerry,’ I say, ‘I’ve nothing against you, and I won’t forget that you rescued me in my hour of need, but you’re right. As far as any future relationship with you, let alone your merchandising pal, is concerned, I’d rather not have one.’
‘That’s what I just said, only in aboot hauf the words. Stop wasting your breath and gie us a hand then, and I’ll get oot your road.’
He leads me to the outbuildings and we enter the nearest one through a doorway that requires the lowering of our heads. Inside is a storeroom piled with packing cases, bits of furniture, rolled-up rugs and old appliances, but a narrow path across the stone floor has been left clear, and this brings us to a second low doorway. Gerry pushes open the door. The afternoon light, which barely reaches this far, nevertheless reveals bales of straw stacked high, with a few lying in a heap to one side – Gerry’s handiwork. He pulls another bale down and adds it to the heap. He makes a fanfare noise – ‘Ta-ra!’ – and follows this with a burst of agonised laughter.
The space behind the straw is crammed to the roof with cardboard boxes. Gerry rips the lid of one open, reaches in and hands something to me. It is a bottle, and although I cannot make out the writing on the label I recognise the familiar image of the howling stag. We appear to be in the presence of the bulk of the world’s supply of Glen Gloming 12-Year-Old Single Malt Scotch Whisky.
‘What’s all this doing here?’
‘Waiting for me,’ Gerry says. ‘I’m gonnae back the motor over. You start bringing the boxes oot.’
As it says somewhere in the Book of Ecclesiastes, there is a time to argue and a time to cooperate, a time to speak and a time to shut the fuck up. I like Gerry but I do not want to prolong our association. The simplest and quickest way to bring it to a close, it seems to me, is to load up the hearse and see him off, preferably without being spotted in his company. My phone call to Glentaragar Hou
se can wait.
I start shifting boxes from behind the bales, carrying them one at a time to the first outer door. As Gerry predicted, watery sunlight is now putting on a show. He has the back of the hearse open and has pulled all the wee curtains shut, and as fast as I bring the boxes to him he stacks them in the space usually reserved for the dead. We speak not a word for the best part of forty minutes. He, like me, seems seized by a strong desire not to be disturbed or distracted from his labour.
About halfway through the process, one of the boxes slips as it passes between me and Gerry. It lands with quite a thump on the ground, and we decide we’d better inspect the contents for damage. All is intact, and we are about to resume when, as I fit the last bottle back into position, something makes me stop and pull it out again.
‘Look, Gerry.’
The bottle has the same, familiar square shape, but the stag that usually graces the label is gone. In its place is a silhouetted angler up to his thighs in a rushing river, and the name on the bottle is ‘Salmon’s Leap – Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Matured for 10 Years’. We check the other bottles in the case: they are all the same. We open a couple of cases already in the hearse: they contain bottles of Glen Gloming. The cases waiting by the doorway are full of Salmon’s Leap. But when I hold a bottle of Glen Gloming and one of Salmon’s Leap up to the light together, there is no visible difference between their contents.
To Be Continued Page 22