Was he John Goblin to those rushing by? If he existed. Where did the old go on a Friday evening, anyway? Did they abandon the town centres – were they bussed out to the bingo-halls in the suburbs – or had they been shipped out there anyhow a long time ago, never to return? How they had all gone to Canada, sailing like handkerchiefs.
He went into a pub, but it was like nothing he remembered. No smoke. Poor John Goblin. No one playing dominoes or pool or cards: just huge throbbing music and vast video screens perched above every corner of the room, where even more young women with bare navels gyrated across the heavens. These were no giants, but giantesses, lithe and lissome and willowy. On some of the screens men played football, as seen from above: they moved like pawns, or warriors, across the starry sky.
Archie asked for a beer and was given a bottle, without a glass. He looked around him and saw that all the young people in the bar were drinking just like that, right out of the bottle. He felt at home. That’s what he’d always done, swilling down a whole bottle of milk in the heather, or a whole bottle of ale at the machair, or a whole half-bottle of whisky at the fank. This was just home with different pictures and music.
He smiled at two young women standing at the bar next to him. They smiled back. ‘Noisy,’ he tried to say to them, but the music drowned out the word and by the time he thought of another word they’d gone, carrying their drinks on a tray into the darkness.
A man was standing on the other side, so he tried the same word on him, but he just put his hand to his ear and shook his head, meaning: ‘Listen, mate, there’s absolutely no point in trying to talk in here. We’re like fish underwater, gawping at each other. Words can’t be heard here, so don’t even bother trying.’ And he too had gone, carrying his single beer bottle in his hand to the middle of the floor, where a crowd was dancing in sacred circles of their own, gesticulating to one another.
Don’t do it, a voice inside Archie’s head said. Whatever you do, don’t make an idiot of yourself by going out there and dancing. And since it was the only voice which he could hear, Archie listened. But then the surprising thing happened – this girl came up to him and handed him a piece of paper on which was written: ‘Hi. My name is Jewel. Would you like to dance?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I would,’ he said as she took him by the hand and led him to the centre of the crowded floor, where all the young people moved backwards and forwards, each with an open bottle in hand.
Jewel swayed to and fro in front of him like – well, like a jewel, of course, all glittering and shining in a silver top with sparkling purple trousers; though Archie thought of her more as a spray of the ocean, the way in which on a late spring day when the tide changes, the sea itself rises higher and moves in, splashing senselessly against the rocks.
Holding on to his bottle, he managed to keep sight of Jewel as she moved round the floor, occasionally making rapid hand signals to friends she passed as she danced, occasionally pecking other girls on the cheek, occasionally greeting other dancers with a sharp clapping noise of her palms, going rat-a-tat-tat, tat-a-tat-tat. It took Archie the whole beat of the dance and more to realise that all these young people were actually talking to each other in sign language.
Just like himself and Gobhlachan. The world interpreted through signs. A universe understood with a movement, and misunderstood through some invisible gesture. Archie tried to understand the conversation, but couldn’t. The girls would raise a finger, touch an ear lobe, smack the back of a hand with two fingers from the other, while the men pounded a fist against an open palm or brushed a wrist with one, two, three fingers. Archie had no idea where a word or sentence began or ended, or how you distinguished between movement and speech, or when the dance finished and the talk started, as if such mattered. It was all talk or dance.
Jewel suddenly stopped dancing and moved over to a table in the corner, beckoning him to follow.
Once seated, she made a whole series of quick movements with her hands, but halfway through she also clearly understood that he was a foreigner and that he wasn’t understanding a single thing she was saying. So she lowered the small pencil from behind her ear and wrote on the stacked pieces of paper set on every table.
‘Where are you from?’ she wrote.
‘Elitrobe,’ he wrote back.
‘Eh?’ she replied.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘A club,’ she wrote. ‘Deaf. But not dumb! Ha!’
‘What’s your name?’ her mouth asked.
‘Archie,’ he said.
‘Look,’ she said. She placed the forefinger of her right hand onto the forefinger of her left. ‘E,’ her mouth said, soundlessly. The same finger to the thumb of the left hand. ‘A,’ she said. The same finger to the middle finger of the left hand, and he understood that to be ‘I’.
How eloquent, the forefinger.
She was from Ayr, though her grandmother was from Lochinver. And he? Travelling. Where? O – north. North? Aye, north. North like Inverness? No. North like Spitsbergen. North like Alaska. North like Nansen. Fridtjof Nansen.
‘That far?’ her fingers said.
They stopped talking and resumed dancing. For a while, Gobhlachan disappeared.
‘Do you believe there’s a new story?’ he asked her as they danced, though she didn’t hear.
But that didn’t make much difference. How beautiful she was: tall and slim, like a pole. To carry a creel, the women wore an old còta, a loose kilted skirt, rolled up to form a dronnag, a creel pad on the lower part of the back, where the creel could rest. Along with a well-made breastband, this made it much easier for women to carry their burdens, and even made it possible for them to carry much heavier loads. The male islander of this period had no desire for women who were tall and slender. Strong, sturdy, broad-backed women who could also help to push the boats up the beaches were appreciated.
Her nails painted red, her body moving endlessly in front of him like the seismographic waves he once saw on an X-ray machine at the local cottage hospital.
Everyone at the club was going to a party at the flat of a couple who’d just gotten engaged that evening – Belfast Tommy and Frieda from Orkney. They had a flat in Ingram Street in the merchant city.
‘Come if you want,’ she said.
They all walked home together down Hope Street. McDonald’s was still open and some of them went in there. Archie and Jewel entered with them. How bright the lights were after the darkness of the pub. They bought chips and Coke and went upstairs.
‘Jewel?’ he asked.
‘Shorthand,’ she wrote back, ‘for Julie Ann.’
‘Ah!’ he said. And added, ‘Sìleas – the Gaelic for Julie. And Jewel means Seud.’
‘Sìleas Seud then,’ she said.
The conversation was broken and fragile, like all conversations. She taught him a little by hand; he wrote now and then. How the club met monthly, on the last Friday. His age. She? Don’t ask. Why the invitation-note? Just that she saw him and that he’d reminded her of someone. Her grandfather? At least a laugh. You can recognise danger, other senses compensate for the loss of some. Like the antelopes: they can smell danger beneath the savannah swamp.
‘I’ve got a fortnight,’ her fingers said. ‘Holidays. Camping in Poolewe, but the Pole will do.’
Another laugh.
‘One tent.’
‘Two sleeping-bags.’
‘Right.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Bird and bush.’
‘Fine.’
‘Done.’
Since the world was 24/7, a travel agency was still open next to McDonald’s, Central Station. It was called GO4U.
‘Let’s,’ their bodies said. ‘Let’s look anyway.’
And while the others walked down towards Ingram Street, Archie and Sìleas entered the shop, laughing.
Not only was there the usual row of computers where you could choose your own holiday, but the agency also had a row of desks where the agents sat.
They went over to an Indian girl sitting at Desk 5, which was headed Aurora Borealis.
Had they brochures for travelling north? Near the Arctic Circle?
She opened a drawer and handed them four thick brochures – North Pole Ski Expeditions; North Pole Dogsled Expeditions; North Pole Champagne Flights, and one simply called Seasonal Specials.
‘These are the only brochures we have in stock,’ she said. ‘They’re all run by the one company – the Northwest Passage Polar Adventures Company – though there are others. They of course have a website too, if you want to check that out.’ And she wrote polarexplorers.com, in a spindly line.
They took the brochures and made their way to Thomas and Frieda’s flat. No one bothered much with them. Some danced; some ate; some watched a silent Russian film on DVD; couples hid in various nooks and crannies. The flat had a miniature roof garden and Archie and Jewel climbed up there via the attic stair. They looked at Glasgow, all lit down below them. The silent decorative cranes in Govan, the windmills beyond Bearsden.
They opened one of the brochures.
Day 1 – Meet at Longyearbyen Airport, Norway. Transfer from airport to Lodge. Unpack gear and relax. Opportunity to explore Longyearbyen. Welcome reception and dinner.
Day 2 – Final equipment review, warm-up ski/dogsledding near Longyearbyen. Last chance to get goodies and/or clothing or equipment in town!
Day 3 – Fly to 89 degrees North latitude. Depending on weather conditions, we may immediately depart for 88 degrees north (by helicopter) or we may set up camp and spend the night.
Day 4 through 14 – From 88 degrees, we’ll dogsled and ski the final 2 degrees to the North Pole! Days are spent mushing the dogs.
‘The last thing on earth I want to do,’ said Jewel, ‘mushing the dogs, whatever that means.’
Good God, thought Archie, how sweet she smells.
…and skiing. Generally, one or two people work with each dog team while other participants ski.
Jewel: ‘But I can’t ski!’
Evenings are spent setting up camp, feeding and caring for the dogs…
‘And I really hate dogs!’ she said.
Day 15 – Arrive at the Geographic North Pole! Enjoy a Polar celebration with champagne…
And I don’t drink! thought Jewel.
This itinerary is highly dependent on a number of factors and is subject to change. Price: 22,500 euros.
‘I haven’t got 22,500 euros,’ Archie wrote on a slip of paper, ‘and I also hate dogs.’
Jewel opened the fourth brochure.
Seasonal Specials, Santa Holidays, it said.
‘Look,’ said Jewel, ‘that’s cheaper. £249 for a round day-trip from Glasgow!’
He was amazed how quickly he was learning to lip-read. He read with her:
At last the elves have revealed the location of the original Post Office of Santa Claus which can be found in a forested setting to the north of Rovaniemi above the Arctic Circle.
How beautiful her fingers were, moving so faithfully across the words.
This day visit will evoke memories of brass counters, sealing wax and Santa’s original star navigation system for letter deliveries.
The night was clear and even through the orange streetlights they could see the stars far to the north.
Here in the original Post Office, Santa continues to handle letters from all over the world with the assistance of his elves and looks forward to welcoming you on this auspicious occasion.
What was permitted?
Your day begins with a flight from your local airport to Rovaniemi. Breakfast will be served during your outward flight and where possible aircraft equipped with video entertainment systems will be used.
He remembered another way of travelling. By bonnet. The shepherd who lived by himself in Kintail, in a small bothy, at the back of the ben.
One evening, having lit a fine, the shepherd lay down in the heather-bed he’d made up in the corner. So cold outside, all the animals began to creep in. Twenty cats entered and sat round the fire holding up their paws and warming themselves. One went to the window, put a black cap on its head, cried ‘Hurrah for London!’, and vanished.
The other cats, one by one, did the same. But when the last cat put the cap on his head, it fell off and the shepherd grabbed the bonnet, stuck it on to his own head and shouted ‘Hurrah for London!’ And he too disappeared.
He reached London in a twinkling, and with his companions went to drink wine in a cellar. He got drunk and fell asleep. In the morning he was caught, taken before a judge, and sentenced to be hanged. At the gallows he entreated to be allowed to wear the cap he had on in the cellar: it was a present from his mother, and he would like to die with it on. When it came, the rope was already round his neck. He clapped the cap on to his head, and cried ‘Hurrah for Kintail!’
He disappeared with the gallows about his neck, and his friends in Kintail, having by this time missed him and being assembled in the bothy prior to searching the hills, were much surprised by his strange appearance.
Wasting nothing, they set to work dismantling the wooden gallows round his neck and turned it into the stern and keel of a boat, which may still be seen fishing in the area in the half-light between sunset and darkness.
It was all there: darkness, loneliness, witchcraft, fleeing, drunkenness, judgement, salvation, humour. He knew it was all before him. Even with a cap, he would not get her, except as a skiff in the memory in the twilight. Jewel’s finger said,
Following arrival at Rovaniemi Airport, transportation will be provided to Santa’s secret location. To protect all members of the group from the cold, appropriate arctic clothing consisting of an all-in-one-suit and boots has been organised. The elves have previously advised us that during December Santa may be seen regularly, close to his post office, supervising the handling of all his present requests, and that he will always spare time to meet with visitors to his Arctic homeland.
Jewel looked up from the text, her face glowing. She was almost translucent: like one of these gossamer days back home in Gobhlachan’s forge when a sudden gust of wind would catch the liquid iron coming out of the kiln and sent fragments of flames up into the sky. You could see through the fragments as they flew, and the remarkable thing was the way in which they transformed the colour of the air. The world altered. That which was dark or red or blue was suddenly luminous and green and yellow. Things invisible became evident.
‘Would you teach me?’ he wrote on a slip of paper.
‘Teach what?’ she wrote back.
He splayed his stubby fingers out in a fan-shape in front of his face, holding back the tears. Those thick working fingers which had frozen so long ago in the seaweed. Which had never really done anything gentle or sweet or completely selfless. He wanted to cry out, ‘To teach me how to love!’ but the words remained frozen inside him. He knew fine he was the deaf-mute, not this limpid, articulate woman sitting before him.
‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it!’ And taking the sheet of paper she offered him from her handbag, he wrote, ‘Teach me how to be. How to speak. How to feel. How to love. How to hold you.’
She stretched her hand across the table, wiping the solitary tear away from his cheek, and took hold of his hands.
‘A,’ she mouthed, raising the thumb on his right hand off the table. ‘B,’ she said, raising the forefinger on the right hand, and in a much gentler way than Gobhlachan, taught him the complete alphabet she knew, from beginning to end.
Not instantly, but over the course of the days and the years, so that he learned how to speak out of the silence, how to communicate with more than mere words. Not just how to hear, as with Gobhlachan, but how to tell. And not just how to tell, but how to conceive and invent.
A universe gathered in her fingertips. And when she touched his forehead or arms or face with her fingers, how electrified he became, and how she removed gravity from him, like a magnet shifting iron. Electromagnetism. The Hadron Collider of Love, as St
Paul once put it.
But still there was no union. Despite – or perhaps because of – the quarks and protons, they divided. Despite every fastening, every tactile signal, the gap was too wide. The sea-channel was too broad, and they couldn’t quite work our why, except that it was so. Rocks in the way, seaweed clinging to the propeller, the oars uncoordinated. No known bearings, the compass outdated and unreliable, the tiller awry, the lanyard torn. The galleys that had sunk in the Sound of Barra! The burning Viking longships which had foundered on the reefs. She was too young, maybe, or too beautiful, or too perilous. He was too old, perhaps, or too demanding or fearful or fixed. Bearing too many burdens, too much history. Too familiar with the old story to learn a new one. Too rigid for a new fiction, a different gospel.
And that wind began again, small and thin and narrow and far away at first, but so well known to the ear. Maybe that was the problem: the permanent anxiety which fed every movement. A hint of a breeze. A gasp of oxygen. Where doubt enters, certainty departs.
And they separated, like summer from autumn: before you notice, you are in another season.
4
HE REMEMBERED THAT the streets of London were paved with gold, and so took the night bus to the big city through the dark shires of England.
When he woke, it was raining on the motorway. His watch read 05.23 and a sign rushed by saying J63 Service Station. He put his face flat to the darkened window, but could see nothing except more sweeping lights and rain.
He used to sweep the sand dunes with a torch, hunting for rabbits. In those long-ago, pre-television days when all was wind and rain and hope. It took skill. To stalk the hollows by moonlight, the unlit torch gripped in the palm of the hand, listening for the eternal scratching. ‘There it is! There!’ And with one flick of the switch the whole machair was illuminated.
Archie and the North Wind Page 6