‘I think that’s what in the film industry they call a continuity error,’ I say.
‘Aye,’ Gerry says. ‘Or maybe no. Don’t suppose it matters what name’s on the stuff. My pal never said nothing aboot the name. He just tellt me where it was.’ He turns the bottle of Salmon’s Leap and studies the label. ‘See that? Why would ye dae that? It must be fucking freezing. I never fancied fishing, but then I don’t like whisky either. Maybe it’s a marketing thing, eh?’
‘That’s exactly what it is, a marketing thing. Whisky’s not your spirit of choice, then?’
‘Naw, I hate the stuff. I dinnae drink alcohol or I might think aboot pauchlin a few, but this is like shifting Bibles tae me – nae temptation.’
‘I think they’re already pauchled, Gerry.’
‘Aye, right enough. You keep a couple of bottles for yersel, then. Naebody’ll notice.’
‘I’ll take one of each,’ I say. ‘See if I can tell the difference.’
‘Good luck wi that. Makes me want tae boak, whisky. Glen Boak, that would be a good name for it. Aahaaha! Right. Let’s get this job finished.’
It’s amazing how many cases of whisky you can get in a hearse. No human corpse, however large, ever weighed down that vehicle as it is weighed down by the time we finish. I have a momentary vision of Ollie Buckthorn squashing the air from his bicycle tyres, and I suggest to Gerry that he will need to go carefully with such a load. He agrees. We close the back of the hearse and walk round it to make sure that the curtains block any view in from the outside. Then we replace the straw bales in front of a much-diminished stock of whisky in the outbuildings, and come back into the daylight.
‘Right,’ Gerry says. ‘Let’s see if we can find a couple of putters and golf balls. We’ll hae a quick round and then I’ll be aff.’ He watches my face for a moment, then cracks. ‘Aahaaha! Had ye gaun there, man! Relax! That grass is far too wet tae play on. I’m just gonnae head. Sure you don’t want a lift back tae Edinburgh?’
‘Quite sure, Gerry,’ I say. ‘I’ve a job to do, remember?’
‘Me tae,’ Gerry says. ‘Got tae keep the customers satisfied, eh?’
‘That’s very true.’
‘Or they’ll break your legs. That’s a joke, man.’
‘Is it?’
‘It better be. Well, cheerio, then.’
‘Cheerio, Gerry.’
He gets behind the wheel, starts the engine and gives me the thumbs-up. What an optimist! I give him the thumbs-up back. Then, with a creaking, low-slung, ponderous dignity, Gerry in his borrowed hearse rolls out of my life, never, I sincerely hope, to enter it again.
CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #7
Douglas Findhorn Elder took two small glasses from behind the bar of the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel and placed them on a table already occupied by – if their labels were to be believed – a bottle of Glen Gloming 12-Year-Old and a bottle of Salmon’s Leap 10-Year-Old Single Malt Scotch Whisky. He opened the bottles – they had corks surmounted by plastic tops in their necks, but no foil seal to prevent them being tampered with – and poured an equal measure from each. He filled a jug with water from a tap behind the bar and added a small quantity to each glass. He raised the glasses together to the light. He sniffed them mightily in turn. Closing his eyes he moved the glasses round on the tabletop, stood and walked to the bar and back, then swapped the glasses again several times, until he was completely certain that he was completely uncertain as to which bottle he had poured whisky from into which glass. Only then did he allow himself to sip, first one, then the other, then the other, then the first.
They were identical.
He sat and pondered this not unanticipated discovery. The bar was silent but for the ticking of a clock on one wall. The time was ten-past five. Through a grimy window he saw that clouds were gathering again. If he listened really hard, he fancied he could make out the faint hiss of his clothes as they dried on the chairs around him. He found his mobile phone and checked for a signal. Nothing. On the screen were the words EMERGENCY CALLS ONLY and he contemplated making one of those but it wasn’t really an emergency and anyway he didn’t expect anyone would come. Any real emergency would be over long before they – whoever they might be – arrived.
Mungo Forth Mungo entered. He took a turn round the room. He looked disgruntled but that was his default expression. He had every right to be disgruntled, Douglas thought. The hotel was in a dilapidated condition. Everything looked, felt and smelt damp, dirty and cheap. Of course, dampness would not disappoint Mungo but Douglas reckoned that in other respects the toad was quite fastidious, and that he knew poor quality and bad taste when he saw it. The hotel was full of both, from chipboard panelling to plastic lampshades and garish flock wallpaper. Who knew what the bedrooms would be like?
‘Are we there yet?’ Mungo asked.
‘No. We are one stop short of our final destination. I’m going to make a call and ask if someone can come to collect us. The weather’s closing in again, it’s a five-mile walk and I’m not up for that. I’m pinning my hopes on the Corryvreckan lunatic. Did I really say that?’
‘You did.’
‘I thought so. I just don’t want to have to spend the night here.’
‘Perhaps you could borrow that car outside?’
‘The bard’s? That’s not a bad idea, but I have a strong objection to borrowing a vehicle without the owner’s permission.’
‘Would that be a moral objection?’
‘More a fatalistic one. The sense that, if I do something like that, fate will bite me in the bum in due course.’
‘That sounds like the same kind of objection to me. What if the owner has been generous enough to leave the key in the ignition? Which he has, incidentally. I climbed up and had a look.’
‘That’s a warning sign. It makes it even more likely that there would be payback later. Mungo, I’ve just been aiding and abetting someone in the crime of bootlegging, so I’ve already tempted fate once today. Whether I’ve got away with it or not I don’t know, but the key in the car is fate’s way of tempting me to have another shot. I wonder where MacCrimmon is. He can’t be far. If he’s in a good mood and sober he could drive us there himself. I’ll have a hunt for him if my phone call is unsuccessful.’
Douglas left Mungo gathering spiders, of which there were a considerable number resident in the hotel, and went to the reception desk to use the telephone. It rang for a long time and while it rang he opened the register and noted that nobody was recorded as having stayed in the past month. Just when he was about to give up, the receiver was lifted and the familiar though still distant voice of Miss Coppélia Munlochy sounded from the Striven family pile. Douglas pictured her at the other end of the line as a straight-backed, unsmiling frump in a draughty hallway, but also, for no obvious reason, as a curvaceous, welcoming beauty reclining in a wicker chair in a white muslin dress in a bright, airy conservatory surrounded by thriving tropical plants.
‘Glentaragar House.’
‘Miss Munlochy? This is Douglas Elder speaking.’
‘Mr Elder. We expected you this afternoon.’
‘Did you? Well, I’m sorry, but I expected you, or your Mr Corryvreckan, at the Shira Inn yesterday.’
‘The Shira Inn?’
‘Yes. The message I received on the train was that I would be met there and driven to Glentaragar.’
‘What message?’
‘You didn’t send a message to the train?’
‘Does that sound likely? One can’t ask trains to stop just anywhere. There isn’t even a station at the Shira Inn.’
‘The guard told me it’s a request stop.’
‘Really? So you got out?’
‘I did.’
‘And where are you now?’
‘I’m at the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel.’
‘I see. Are you being looked after?’
‘No. There’s not a soul about. I was wondering, would there be any chance of somebody coming to collect me?’
‘I’d walk but it’s getting late and the rain is on again. I’m not sure of the way. All in all, it’s been a bit of a nightmare journey and I’m very tired.’
‘Well, you would be, after a nightmare journey.’ Douglas could not determine from her tone whether she was making a friendly or an unfriendly joke. Perhaps she wasn’t making a joke at all.
‘Did you come by minibus?’
‘No, I came by hearse.’
‘Oh, that’s novel.’ Did he hear a smothered laugh?
‘Yes, well, there wasn’t anything else available. Look, it’s such a shame to be so close and yet not manage the final leg tonight. I don’t know how that message reached me if it didn’t come from somebody at your end, but I’m prepared to accept that an honest mistake was made. Couldn’t we start afresh? I don’t suppose you could come for me, if Mr Corryvreckan can’t?’
‘No, I couldn’t, Mr Elder. I don’t drive. I agree with you, a mistake has been made, but not by us. Perhaps it would be better, after all, if you stayed at the hotel, and Corryvreckan came for you in the morning. Shall we say about ten? You wouldn’t have interviewed my grandmother today anyway, so you’ll not have fallen far behind your schedule.’
Where had he heard that voice before, Douglas wondered. Had he heard it before? (Other than on the telephone, obviously.) Was it three days or four since they had last spoken? He felt as if he had been away from Edinburgh for years.
‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘but is that really the best you can suggest?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, it’s very disappointing, but if that’s the way it is, I’ll look out for Mr Corryvreckan in the morning. And meanwhile I’ll just have to hope someone shows up who can give me a bed for the night here.’
‘If they don’t, I suggest you help yourself. Go upstairs and take the first unoccupied room you find.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult. Nobody else is staying here.’
‘The beds are usually made up. Make yourself at home. Look in the kitchen for food. You can settle the bill in the morning before you leave.’
‘You seem to know your way round the place?’
‘I know something about it. And after all, you mustn’t go hungry.’
‘It’s very odd, isn’t it, that there shouldn’t be anybody here at all?’
‘Not especially. The tourist season is over. Things are more informal at this time of year. More relaxed.’
‘Is there a tourist season?’
‘Not much of one.’
‘Well, I don’t find the place relaxing. Actually it’s quite unnerving.’
‘There is no need to be nervous, Mr Elder. You’re not a character in a gothic melodrama, you know.’
Again, Douglas couldn’t detect if she found his predicament amusing. She certainly wasn’t showing much sympathy.
‘Oh, am I not?’ he said. ‘Are you positive Mr Corryvreckan can’t collect me?’
‘Quite positive. And by the way, it’s not Mr Corryvreckan, it’s just Corryvreckan. He is quite particular about that.’
‘I’ll do my best not to upset him,’ Douglas said, attempting sarcasm.
‘That would be appreciated. Until tomorrow, then. Good night, Mr Elder. I do hope you sleep well after all your adventures.’
She hung up and Douglas was obliged to do the same. Whether or not she had immediately dissolved into a fit of laughter he had no idea, but he for one was not amused by his predicament. In fact, he felt as disgruntled as Mungo habitually looked.
Coming out from behind the desk his arm knocked the register off the shelf and onto the floor. When he retrieved it a sheet of paper fell from it, a handwritten list on which was written:
Highland Gold
Highland Heart
Queen of the Glens
Islay Dew
Salmon’s Leap ✔
Stag’s Breath (already taken)
Stalker’s Joy
Fingal’s Cave
Glen Gloming ✔
Mountain Tarn
Frowning, Douglas returned to the bar. He wanted another drink, and he was beginning to feel faint with hunger. He would have to hunt down a bed and some food – and of course Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon. He had forgotten to mention the possibility of a lift from the bard. If that proved to be an option, he would have to call Miss Munlochy back and say he was on his way.
‘Well?’ Mungo asked.
‘Looks like we’re stuck here for the night. Do you want a drink?’
‘Some red wine would be good, if there is any.’
Douglas found a bottle and opened it, splashed some wine into a tin ashtray and placed it on the floor. Mungo took up position with a small exhalation of pleasure.
‘Crisps?’ Douglas said.
‘Not haggis, neeps and tatties again?’
‘That seems to be all there is.’
‘I’ll pass, thank you. There is a sufficiency of indoor wildlife.’
‘I’ll go and locate the kitchen in a minute and see what else there is. I’m famished. But first …’ He knocked back what whisky was left in the two glasses on the table, and refilled one of them with Salmon’s Leap, or Glen Gloming by another name.
‘I mentioned bootlegging earlier,’ he said. ‘Do you know what bootlegging is?’
Mungo gave him a look.
‘Sorry, silly of me to ask. Well, it seems to me that whoever runs this place must be up to their eyes in it too. They can’t not know about all that whisky stashed outside.’
‘And what are you going to do? Tell the police?’
‘No, but –’
‘Ah, this is another of those fate-versus-morality things, is it?’
‘Kind of. It makes me feel uncomfortable.’
‘But not so uncomfortable that it stops you drinking the whisky?’
‘Don’t judge me, Mungo.’
‘I’m not judging you. You’re doing a fine job of that yourself. What do I care?’
‘What a weird day this has been,’ Douglas said.
It was about to get weirder. The front door of the hotel banged open and shut, and Douglas heard somebody moving about at the reception desk. The bell was pinged. ‘Hello? Hello?’ a voice called.
‘There’s no one there!’ Douglas shouted.
‘Oh, but there is,’ the voice said, coming closer to the bar. ‘You are! That’s why I rang the bell, to see where you were. I knew you must be somewhere. And you are in there!’
‘I’ll be discreet,’ Mungo said discreetly, leaving his wine bath and heading for the shadows, where no doubt a selection of food awaited him.
The owner of the voice entered, opened his arms wide and said, ‘Well, well, this is all very fine. Good evening and welcome to the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel. I hope your stay here will be a thorough pleasure to us all, yes indeed. I’m sorry I was not able to welcome you earlier. I was unavoidably detained.’
He seemed at first glance to be an ancient, tottering kind of fellow, a retired shepherd or gillie perhaps. He had a long, tangled beard, mainly grey though with darker patches on the cheeks, and a long, weather-beaten face topped by a scarcity of fine grey hair swept back from the forehead. He wore a predominantly green suit of Harris tweed, a once-white shirt and a knitted tie the colour of dead bracken. In every respect except for his cheerful demeanour he was the living image of the bard MacCrimmon, whom Douglas had last seen in an alcohol-induced coma at the Shira Inn, and whose rust-bucket of a car was parked outside.
‘MacCrimmon!’ Douglas cried, almost joyfully.
‘What, what, what? My name is MacLagan, Ruaridh MacLagan. Well, well, here we are. I see you have already begun the celebrations. I will join you for a small libation before you sign the register, and then I will show you to your room. Will you be wanting a little supper this evening?’
‘Yes. No. I mean, wait! Can’t
you take me to Glentaragar House? I’m expected there. You could run me up in your car.’
‘My car?’
‘Aye, it’s sitting outside. Please, I know we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, but you’d be doing me a huge favour. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes of your time, would it?’
‘To go to Glentaragar House and back? It would take double that. A poor road it is to Glentaragar, a poor road indeed. And what is this you say about yesterday? You are mistaking me for someone else, my friend, but if ever we had been on the wrong foot, as you put it, it would be my dearest wish to be on the right one now. As for driving you to Glentaragar, I cannot do it. You refer to a car outside. That is not my car. I do not have a car.’
‘But I saw you take your guitar out of it yesterday at the Shira Inn. You are MacCrimmon, Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon.’
‘The popular entertainer? Well now, that would explain your confusion. I am the manager of this establishment. The Shira Inn is a place I have never seen, nor have I ever met the gentleman to whom you refer, but I have heard that there is a strong though purely coincidental resemblance between us. I see you have two bottles of whisky before you. May I ask, did you take these from the bar or are they your own personal bottles? If the latter, I regret to inform you that only beverages purchased on the premises are permitted to be consumed in the public areas of the hotel.’
‘You deny that you are MacCrimmon?’
‘I do. I am MacLagan. I will not tell you a third time.’
‘Then what is his car doing outside?’
‘I have no idea, but if he does not remove it by tomorrow there will be trouble, I tell you. And a parking fine. Now, I must ask you again, do these bottles belong to you – or to me?’
A new sharpness was in his voice, portending menace or even violence. And this was striking because up until that point he had spoken in a light, gentle manner quite unlike the surly tones of MacCrimmon, and in an accent that Douglas took to be local. He was also staring at Douglas with a great intensity, and Douglas understood this stare to mean that MacLagan knew of the store of illicit whisky, that he knew that Douglas knew of it, and that claiming ownership of the bottles would be an admission of that knowledge. And that it might not be wise to make that admission.
To Be Continued Page 23