by Hall, Ian
“Okay,” she gave an excited smile.
So began the great Princes Street play.
We walked westward, strolled twenty yards, and I pulled us to a stop. “So do you want to go in?”
“Yes, I want to go in.” Alice looked so petulant, she almost stamped her foot.
“Then we’ll go in!” I swiveled us the remaining ninety degrees and began to stride back to the store. I could hardly keep a straight face when our pursuer, so once confident and calm, now suddenly terrified, and pushing people out of the way to duck inside the store doorway. Of course, seconds later I pulled Alice into the same opening, and pushed her through the revolving doors, once such a childhood treat.
Through the turning polished glasses I saw the man again panic and retreat further inside. I then pulled Alice towards the main directory board.
Gramophones, second floor.
There is little a follower can do inside a store but lurk, and there were so many exits from the store that he couldn’t cover them all from outside. He simply had to stay with us. The conversation was so ordinary, I swear that for the twenty minutes we spent looking at Frances Christmas present we were the most boring people on the planet.
And when we had played the game long enough, we walked off, slipped back onto the wide pavement, and caught a tram at the very last minute, leaving him floundering in the yellow sunshine of a Princes Street sunset.
We’d lost our tail, but we’d done it so badly, there was no way he could tell we’d been trained in the art.
“So what do we do now?” Alice asked as the tram pulled along, turned onto the Bridges, and past the very newspaper office we’d left an hour ago.
The Beautiful Game
Monday was boring, quiet in terms of all the stories under my purview.
I pulled myself to the German HQ with some reluctance; the collection of papers were so commonplace there seemed little that Möller could possibly object to. I felt I could certainly have done it over the phone. When my new friend flipped through all my pages without reaching for his sharpened pencil, I wasn’t the least surprised.
His opening question, as he slid the pile of banality over his desk to me, took me by complete surprise. “Are you a football fan, Herr Baird?”
Instant memories sprang to my mind of 70,000 screaming fans at Easter Road, and me, a boy who could hardly see the pitch over the cloth caps of the men in front of me. “Hibernian 3, Clyde 1.” I said with a tear in my eye.
“A good result?”
I nodded. “The last game my grandfather took me to.”
“Ach. He is still alive?”
I shook my head, gathering both my thoughts and the papers. “No, sadly he died that year, consumption.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked. “Your team is Hibernian?”
Again I nodded. “Yes, I’m not catholic, but Grandad was a Leith man, so he passed it on to Dad and me.” I didn’t mention that he’d killed Germans, ‘The Hun’, in the Great War, and came home with gruesome tales of shooting them by the hundreds.
“Hibernian is one team that has decided to play in our cup competition.”
I could hardly believe it. Football had been played as normal until ten games or so into the 1939-40 season. When petrol got rationed, the leagues had been hastily organized into regional sections to save both the clubs and fans. When the crap hit the fan in the spring of 1940, even the regional leagues were disbanded. “A cup?”
“Yes, we will call it the Scottish League Cup. It will play from now through the summer. The leagues will be encouraged to start next season; we must get normality back into Britain.”
I was overwhelmed, yet caught in two minds. “That’s great news.” I said, celebrating the getting-back-to-normal, yet hating the fact that occupation was now a settled matter.
He handed me a sheet. “This is the official newsletter telling all the details, the clubs taking part, the list of proposed games.” He almost beamed at me. “It is your ‘scoop’; you have first telling of this great occasion.”
I got a visit by the boss because of that. And not the little boss either, the actual owner of The Scotsman newspaper came into my office, Sir Edmund Findlay himself. On a rare visit north of the border, he strode into the building creating a virtual panic. Nonplussed, he’d asked my whereabouts, found my office, and leaving his entourage outside, he sat congratulating me on my ‘fitba’ scoop. After a modest introduction, he shook my hand, closed the door behind him, and we spoke for half an hour.
Yes, the first few minutes were on the football question, the games, the knockout tournament, yet he quickly switched to my dealings with Möller. “For my part, I am on the Parliamentary Intelligence Committee.” He said, “And as such, your first-hand knowledge of your dealings with the Germans is invaluable to us.” For the remainder of his time, he pressed me for many details, most of which I found able to divulge. My workmates outside passed the door many times, getting the first glimpse of the big man, the full owner of the company, and a sitting Member of Parliament for Banffshire. Findlay’s political undertakings kept him firmly in London, and very rarely did he take an active interest in his company; I felt honored that he’d taken notice of my little part.
As he stood to leave, he then did something which I immediately understood to be out of character. “Send me a letter, once a month, James.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Mum’s the word, you know, tell me of your dealings with the Germans. I have contacts in very high places. Important people in important places.” He produced a stiff business card, which he placed firmly in my shirt pocket. “Keep this very safe; it’s my personal address in London.” He shook my hand again, and pulled me close, looking back at the underling poised outside, ready to open the door. “No-one else in this building has this address. This is not newspaper talk, this is way more important. There’s one more thing, James, it’ll take me a few days to organize, but present yourself at the Bank of Scotland in St. Andrews Square next week, just mention your name, and maybe mine; they’ll know what to do. Okay?”
To some considerable degree I felt immensely proud that he’d taken so much time from his schedule to talk to me, but with the hasty enigmatic ending, as he walked out of my office, I felt so many questions rising.
I sat in a stupor as my own peers crowded in, asking their own questions, shaking my hand, patting me continually on the back and shoulders. From somewhere a bottle of whisky landed on my desk, and before I’d had time to thank anyone for the gift, it was snatched and opened. The neck was instantly at my lips, completely unbidden by me, a group decision. The taste was made obligatory on my palate by an unknown hand, yet I found it pleasant enough to drink. The forcing hand caused the bottle to hit my teeth, and as I began to struggle against the deluge, the source of the nectar was cruelly ripped away.
Other mouths sampled the golden liquid, laughing. I could hardly think that such a small room could host so many carousing people. I caught the bottle as it passed over my desk, and took a larger pull, noting that the liquid was already more than halfway gone.
Then my head was pulled to one side, and a whisky kiss landed on my lips. My first thoughts of Alice were soon dispersed when I tasted cigarettes very strongly; Deirdre Brownlee from the main desk downstairs. She grinned and winked as she pulled away from me, I had no doubt as to the expression on her face.
Slowly, as the whisky diminished, so did the numbers in my room.
Soon only Alice stood. “Well, that’s a turn-up for the books and no mistake,”
My head was swimming on so many levels. “You can say that again.”
That night, in our usual haunt, the Golf Tavern, I told her most of the conversation with Sir Edmund Findlay, what I could remember. I felt a little guilty not telling her about the business card, but somehow it seemed ‘important’ enough to keep to myself. I also didn’t mention my impending trip to the Bank of Scotland; that trip alone had so many questions around it, I didn’t know where to begin.
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sp; That Saturday, Hibernian played Alloa in the first round of the Scottish League Cup. Determined to enjoy every minute of it, I walked the whole way, maybe a good three miles across town.
The fan’s journey to the ground begins with him decking himself in his team’s colors.
I had a Hibernian scarf of my own, but I dug in the walk-in closet for grandad’s old green and white woolen one. Wrapping it round my neck over my jacket, I could swear I smelled his old tobacco oozing from the worn green wool.
I almost cried. Today I would relive many old memories.
I opened the door onto the street, the noonday sun hitting me, and making me shield my eyes and squint. Turning right, I soon got onto Bruntsfield Place and took off down the hill. I remembered grandad’s words as I walked, my scarf the only green I could see on the street. “You’re the rain on the moor, the first water that oozes out of the ground, looking for a stream to take you down to the sea. You’re alone, but you know there’s more. The ground is oozing green; Hibernian green.”
He was a wordsmith, my Grandad Baird. Maybe that’s where I take it from. We’d played the game many times, walking to the ground, looking around for the next drop of water.
At Tollcross, I spied my first green scarf. At the same time, he saw me, and we shared a common wave across the street; two water droplets heading in tandem for the same sea. On Lauriston Place I found myself catching up with two more, a father and son. The father carried his scarf in his hand, the boy, no older than ten, wore a green and white woolen hat, green pom-pom bouncing as he walked. I slowed my pace to walk behind them, wallowing in my secret companionship.
At Forest Road, two men stumbled out of the Doctor’s Bar, both proudly twirling their own scarfs round their necks. Seeing us they waved at their new companions, and set off, leading us past Sandy Bell’s, where we’d abducted poor Leutnant Derwall, just months ago.
As the two men turned down into Chamber’s Street, I realized the ‘burn’ had begun, the old Scot’s word for a small stream. On the Bridges, we picked up a few more ribbons of green, and a few disappeared into the open arms of the many pubs lining the route. Regardless of the charms of the eager ‘boozers’, by Leith Street, the stream had grown.
I caught my breath; it was time for my first stop.
The Black Bull was the pub that grandad met up with his friend; one-o’clock, every Saturday. I checked the time as I walked down the small steps to the door. Always crowded on Hibs home game day, the small ‘snug’ was a magical childhood reminiscence of smells and sounds. I fought my way to the bar and ordered a pint of mild. Turning, I lifted the glass to my lips. “Here’s to you, old man,” I said fondly before downing the beer as only a thirsty man can; three large tasty deluges into a parched throat.
Back out onto Leith Street, I walked down the hill, rounded the corner, and ploughed straight into the second stop; The Conan Doyle. This was a bar of large open rooms, lots of men, drinking, looking at Saturday newspapers, checking horse results, looking at the greyhound races planned for that night at Powderhall. With a tear in my eye, I toasted a different Baird. “Here’s to you, Dad. Wherever the heck you are. Scots Greys!” A couple nearby caught the end of my toast. “Seaforths!” they cheered proudly. “K.O.S.B.’s!” shouted an old-timer, white haired enough to have fought in the last war. He grinned toothlessly and waved his pint glass at me. More took up the proud call. I took a drink at the mention of every regiment, and there were many. My glass was empty in no time, and still the toasts rang round the room. I bought a second and wallowed with my new temporary comrades.
Once done, I crossed the busy intersection and walked along Picardy Place, passed the statue to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, green and oxidized from the winter’s attentions. I almost laughed at the warm beautiful sunshine hitting the back of my neck.
With The Playhouse on the opposite side, I got onto Leith Walk proper. Hibs green was now on every fifth person, all walking in the same direction, flowing downhill. “It’s the river, son. Feel it around you.” The old man’s words made me cry openly, enjoying every second of the experience. I was a raindrop, now mingling with many others, heading downstream in a youthful torrent. I wished my grandad were here to share the memory, or even dad. I crossed the road at the top of Elm Row, just up from the German radio station, and onto London Road. Now the river of green was there for all to see. Bobbing heads on the arrow-straight street as far as your eyes could see.
“It’s the Big River son,” I remember his pipe clenched tightly in his false teeth as he spoke. “As wide as the Amazon, son, as straight as a die.”
I never ever found out what a ‘die’ was.
And the river had slowed. With so many people, there was neither the room nor the need to pass. I slowed to the pace of the masses, and let myself flow to the top of Easter Road, savoring every minute of being part of the swell.
The last stop; The Claymore.
Grandad’s last stop. A wee dram ‘for the road’. I copied his actions to the last, sipping the expensive draft, loving every minute of it. If I’d thought London Road was slow, the narrow street of Easter Road was worse. Almost every head faced north, we were in a queue for the turnstiles hundreds of yards away. The sluggish river had reached the sea.
Considering the Germans had organized the competition, the gates were incredibly busy, the terraces packed. Inside the stadium, I didn’t see one single German uniform, and for a whole ninety minutes I completely forgot the war. For a few seconds in the second half, it began to drizzle, but I don’t think anyone cared much.
When the referee blew the final whistle, the cheer and release of tension was palpable. I jumped up and down on my spot for many minutes, cheering the teams for their efforts in such times.
In my mind I could see the headlines on Monday’s back page; Hibernian Two, Brave Alloa Nil.
From Memories, Into the Fire
I’d had a great day.
We’d had the first football match in Edinburgh of any note for many months, and although we knew the Germans had organized it, somehow it didn’t matter one iota.
I looked at my watch, just ten minutes after six. I had a whole twenty minutes to walk a five minute walk to meet Alice in the Golf Tavern. Perfect timing. I scoffed the last of my beer, said my goodbyes to the new friends at the bar, and walked outside.
The street was quite busy for the time of day, so I walked on the road side of the pavement, away from the tempting shop windows.
Suddenly a hand swept over my mouth, cradling me back into a tall strong body. I started to struggle, but the punch in the kidneys took a bit of the sting from my attack. The three pints I’d had on the way home from the game didn’t help.
I heard the screech of tyres, then I was manhandled into the back of a van; dark windows, a hard metal floor, a punch in my gut that cleared me of all breath, and the will to speak for a moment. Then a pin-prick in my neck.
The route to blackness took only seconds.
I woke to find myself firmly hog-tied, hand and feet, the musty room was pitch black, not a glimmer of light anywhere. My mouth was also confined by tight rope, a piece of toweling bundled together, rammed between my teeth. There was no point in struggling against my bonds; they’d been tied by a professional. I was a captive.
Somehow I shimmied myself across the concrete floor to a wall, and got my back onto it. There I slept again, not knowing how long I’d been a prisoner.
I heard the sound of footsteps; a corridor lay outside my room. The footfalls came nearer, and a bolt was slid. My door opened to a dim hallway, many other doors on it.
Abruptly a torch shone into my eyes, blinding me completely.
“He’s awake.” A Scots voice.
“Good, take his gag off.”
My hair was pulled, and my head yanked forward. Strong fingers attacked the knot behind me, then I felt the pressure on my mouth released, the towel roughly tugged from my mouth.
Then I fell back against the wall.
The torchlight shifted, illuminating the face in the doorway. MacManaman. “Hello, young Baird. I just thought I’d let you know your captor.” He sneered like the worst villain on the silver screen. “You’re going on a little trip, hope you’ve packed the essentials.” The lingering sneer slipped from his face, replaced by a cold emotionless void. “Hit him a few times. I don’t care if you break bones this time. Enjoy yourself, Alfie.”
Alfie the bastard didn’t waste any time. As MacManaman provided the lighting, Alfie did his job with due diligence. Whack, one-two to the face, hitting both sides of my fragile jaw with equal ferocity. Then, as I crumpled to the ground, he started with his boots. Face, gut, ribs, man-parts, he seemed to have no favorite, and no system. I would recoil from one blow to find he’d changed position, and hit me elsewhere.
I lost consciousness to him kicking me and thanked God for the simple act. I knew blood and tears mingled on my swelling lips as I swooned into oblivion.
In my sleep I remember being tossed onto the back of a truck, and the rocking motion of been driven somewhere.
When I felt the stinging of iodide on my lips, and the smell bursting into my blood-clogged nostrils, I pulled my head away. “Easy, easy.” Another Scottish voice. More dabs to my face, a wet cloth now soothing on my forehead. “You took quite a beating, young man.” My hands and feet were free, but my heavy eyelids afforded me little view. I saw a white coat, an old man, and a jab in my thigh. “This will take the pain away.”
Only when he’d said it did I recognize the agony my body was feeling. Somehow I’d detached myself from it, but his reminder ruined the trick, and pain flowed from every square inch. Luckily the serum now in my blood carried sleep too. Deep sleep.
I awoke to being jostled; jerked back and forth like the worst tram driver was having fun at my expense. I saw dirty floorboards, a wooden wall, and caught the odor of cattle manure. Then I was in motion, gliding smoothly.