by Rick Blechta
“This is Scotland. My friend Angus describes life in Scotland like this: ‘You’re born wet and cold and eventually you die.’”
He’s only exaggerating slightly.
***
We had to pull into the next service area to patch up the repair job on the window. I toyed with the idea of stopping in Glasgow at least to get the window repaired before returning the car to its owner, but the weather report changed my mind. The temperature would continue falling during the afternoon, and more snow or freezing rain could be expected, especially in the Highlands. Argyll starts on the northern edge of Glasgow more or less, but is actually part of the Highlands, and I did not want to be out in wretched weather on some of the roads we had to travel.
Shortly before noon, about fifty miles south of Glasgow, we hit a long line of traffic: a breakdown or accident, no doubt. As we crept forward, sleet, helped along by a stiff north wind, came almost vertically at us and soon covered the road in a slick coating. Driving became treacherous, even at slow speeds. Making a decision, I asked Regina if she wanted to spend the night at Angus’s, since I didn’t want to take the time to drop her in Glasgow. Night came very early at this time of year.
“He has a ramshackle old place north of a town called Dunoon, just over the Firth of Clyde.”
“Does he really have a savage temper?” she asked timidly.
“His bark is worse than his bite. Angus is big and loud, very Scottish, but all bluster. I’d trust him with my life. You’ll like him.” She nodded.
“All right. I wasn’t looking forward to being by myself another night.”
So we skirted around the southern end of Glasgow and turnedwest to Gourock and the ferry to Dunoon. The traffic eased a bit as we made our way along the River Clyde on the A8 through Port Glasgow and the seemingly endless town of Greenock.
I toyed with the idea of stopping for the night and trying to complete the trip in the morning when the weather forecast was better. That way I might also get rid of the girl. I did not wish to become any more embroiled in her mess than I already was.
Then the sleet let up, turning to rain. The ferry was in its slip and boarding at Gourock, and it looked like we’d be able to make it to Angus’s before nightfall.
Only once before had I made a worse decision.
Three
Crossing the Firth of Clyde from Gourock to Dunoon was something I hated to contemplate, much less experience—even on a calm day. The Quinns will never be sailors, if I’m any indication. Look up seasickness in any dictionary, and my photo will be front and centre.
Alternatively, we could have got to Angus’s by driving through Glasgow, up the western shore of Loch Lomond, crossing inland through the pass at Rest and Be Thankful then down the Cowel Peninsula. That was a hell of a long detour, especially in bad weather— compared to a twenty-three minute ferry crossing.
The water, kicked to life by a wind straight from the Arctic via the Hebrides, had a lot of the passengers on the ferry looking decidedly queasy. I spent the entire trip with my head hanging over the side, retching like a dog. Regina, after seeing she could do nothing to help me, went inside the boat to keep warm.
After many months at sea, our voyage came to a merciful halt. My mouth felt like the bottom of an ashtray as I got back into the car.
Angus’s place was located on a mostly single-lane B road, running over the hills from just north of Dunoon towards the Isle of Bute, a beautiful and enjoyable drive in good weather. That afternoon, with sleet again beginning to fall, the trip was automobile hell, consisting solely of trying to prevent two lives from coming to a premature end by sliding across the ice into a tree, another vehicle, a rock face or falling off a cliff. The laybys are decidedly narrow, and full-length transports zip over the road without a care. Even the thought of meeting a Mini Cooper had me breaking out in a sweat.
That Regina proved to be a nervous passenger didn’t help matters. “Jesus! You didn’t tell me your friend lived in the back of beyond,” she said after a particularly nasty slide that ended far too close to a rocky outcrop. “Why would anyone live in this desolation?”
“There’s a good reason,” I said, pulling hard on the wheel in an effort to straighten out.
After another hair-raising quarter of an hour, we’d slid our way down off the hills to the end of Loch Striven, passing the small hydroelectric power station there, then started up the steep road on the other side. If it hadn’t been recently sanded, we’d never have made it. About halfway up the hill, I turned left off the road and down the icy drive, gingerly pulling to a stop next to a beat-up green Land Rover Angus had purchased from a local sheep farmer.
The drive ended in a few boulders, all that kept the unwary from tumbling down a steep slope and into Loch Striven below. In summer, the grass-covered hillside would be dotted with contentedly munching sheep while gulls, calling raucously, wheeled in the air above. The ever-present wind blowing up the loch would carry the wanderlust-inspiring tang of seaweed and salt water on its wings.
“This is why my friend chooses to live in the back of beyond,” I said, indicating the breathtaking vista with a sweep of my hand.
Even with the heavy, leaden sky, driving sleet, and the teeth of a frigid wind bearing down at the bad end of a January day, the view was still worth taking in.
In clear weather, you could see far down the loch towards Bute. Angus’s stone farmhouse, clinging to the side of its hill like some sort of mad architect’s nightmare, had, in the owner’s words,“as fine a view as many a laird would pay good money to possess.” There was no place in the world Angus would rather live than in this place in his beloved Argyll. No matter where he might be, organizing the loading of mountains of gear on the never-ending tour of some band on the other side of the planet, or getting on yet another tour bus, his heart and soul were always firmly here.
I’d barely had time to switch off the engine when the “Laird o’ the Manor” bounded out the side door, no shoes, no coat, red beard and long red hair blowing in the gale. “Michael! I’ve been keeping my eye out for you since noon, what with this weather and...bloody hell!” Poor Angus braked to a halt and gawped, shock covering his face. “What have you done to her, you bloody great bastard!”
I got out. “I’ll pay for the damage in full, Angus. It was beyond my control.”
“But what happened?”
“Well...it’s like this,” I began, but got no further.
Regina was out of the car, hugging her coat around her to keep out the wind. “It’s my fault.”
“Who the hell are you?” Angus demanded.
“Michael stopped to help me and...this happened.” She faltered, looking rather intimidated by Angus’s bristling beard, not to mention his bristling tone.
“All right,” I said to both, “can we at least go inside to talk about this? It’s brutal out here.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Angus responded. “In we go, then.”
Life at Chez Angus revolved around his sitting room and kitchen, which shared the front wall of the house, both of which had enormous picture windows framing the vista down to the loch. We’d spent many an evening sitting in front of one or the other, drinking single malt and talking quietly while daylight drifted away to darkness. There were three other rooms on the ground floor, and I don’t think I’d ever done more than stick my nose in them.
Stomping our feet in the hallway, I noticed that the sitting room beyond looked as if an avalanche of loose paper had recently passed through, leaving the floor, tables, furniture, every horizontal surface buried.
“Please excuse the mess. I’m in the middle of doing my taxes. I didn’t know that Michael would be bringing a guest, or I’d have straightened up a bit.”
I let the little dig (and major lie) slide. Regina stood in the doorway, and it finally twigged with Angus that she expected someone to help her off with her coat. Behind her back, he raised an eyebrow, but kept his thoughts to himself as he took Regina’s coat, hangin
g it next to mine on the pegs beside the door.
We picked our way through the sitting room and into the kitchen, where it was warm and steamy and smelled as if Angus had been doing his laundry in the new little washer/dryer set he’d recently purchased—a big step up from the old laundry tub and drying room.
“Can I get you something to warm you? Coffee? Tea? A wee dram?”
“A dram for me,” I said. “I need it after that drive.”
Regina seemed hesitant, then shrugged. “I’ll have some, too.”
Angus went over to a cupboard. “Then I’ll just have to join you.”
Sitting down at the table, he lined up three smallish tumblers andpoured an amber measure into each. From a pitcher of water, he then doled out the merest splash into each glass. As we each took one, Angus intoned, “Slainte mhath!” and swallowed his scotch in a gulp. Slamming down his glass, he fixed each of us with a hard stare. “Now tell me just what the bloody hell happened to my beautiful automobile!”
***
“I still think you’re a great fool to get yourself boxed in like that. I wouldn’t have slowed down until I’d put a hundred miles or more between myself and those bastards,” Angus said from over by the stove, where he was cooking. “I’m lucky there’s anything left of my car!”
Regina and I had given Angus an edited version of what had taken place the previous night. Even though we hadn’t discussed what to say beforehand, working in tandem, we supplied enough information to satisfy him, the interesting thing being what we’d left out. I felt it was up to Regina if she wanted to be as frank with him as she’d been with me. She said nothing. I also left out the part about the handguns. They aren’t seen that much in the UK —being highly illegal. Knives and pieces of pipe Angus could understand. Guns were a different matter. He would have questioned those. So as far as he knew, two carloads of thugs had been after Regina, and she didn’t know why. I’d happened along, tried to help, and the bashed-in Jaguar was the result.
“It just shows you can’t go anywhere these days,” Angus told us unnecessarily.
By that time, we were all growlingly hungry, and Angus offered to make some neeps and tatties and sausage—about the only thing he eats or can cook, for that matter. Regina had to have it all explained to her and looked as if she’d rather be served something else, but in the end gamely decided to take a chance, the alternative being a bowl of porridge.
“It’ll be good. You’ll see,” Angus said as he came over and poured another ‘wee dram’ in each of our glasses. “I have some rather splendid venison and oatmeal sausages.”
Regina looked rather appalled. “Venison and oatmeal?”
“Aye, lassie. Tuck into a couple of those, and you’ll soon be farting like a hero!”
The poor girl coloured deeply and hastily took a gulp of her whisky—too big or too quickly because she began coughing, to the point where Angus had to pound on her back.
In the end, it turned out to be an excellent, warming meal. We sat in candlelight and watched the weather outside deteriorate. When we finally pushed our plates away, Angus poured more whisky. I was definitely beginning to feel tight.
“So, did you buy the instrument, Michael?” he asked.
I nodded. “The lads at Rugeley did a fine job restoring it. It’s a good investment.”
“But a mellotron? Those buggers are more trouble than they’re worth!”
I shrugged. “They’re hot right now. Studios will pay a good buck to rent them, and besides, the things have always fascinated me.”
“What are you talking about?” Regina asked.
“Some silly instrument Quicksilver here came over to the UK to purchase.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called Michael ‘Quicksilver’.”
Angus raised an eyebrow at me. “Didn’t you tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
“Our Michael used to be a bloody great rock star. Called himself Michael Quicksilver.”
“That was a long time ago,” I protested.
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Regina said, half to herself.
“Ever hear of a band called Neurotica?” Angus eyed me mischievously, knowing full well how uncomfortable I was becoming.
“Yes!” Regina said. “I remember my older cousins playing their CDs all the time when I was about ten.” She turned to me excitedly. “You were in that band?”
“Ah, yes, I was,” I answered neutrally.
“He was the bloody band!” Angus roared. “Wrote all of their early hits!”
“Angus, that’s not really true,” I protested. “Rolly co-wrote them with me.”
“Bollocks! Those were your songs, and no one knows that better than me. I was there! You know ‘Don’t Push Me’? Our Michael wrote that. Neurotica’s biggest hit, too. Keeps him in mell-o-trons, it does!”
“That is so cool!” Regina said excitedly, humming a few bars of the song. “I remember seeing a clip of your band playing ‘Don’t Push Me’ on Saturday Night Live.” She peered closely at me. “Yeah, you’re him. How come you didn’t say anything, Michael?”
“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Angus answered for me.
“I left the band pretty early on,” I clarified.
Regina seemed surprised. “But why?”
Angus poured himself a larger drink than his previous ones. It was going to be one of those nights. “He doesn’t like talking about that, either.”
“Can’t we just drop it?” I asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it if it makes Michael uncomfortable,” Regina added.
Angus eyed me. “Speaking of which, Rolly called yesterday.”
My stomach tightened. “What did he want?”
“To know if you’d changed your mind. Somehow he got wind you were in the UK .”
“And I suppose he wanted you to talk me into it.”
I could tell from Angus’s expression that was exactly what the lead singer and “guiding light” of my former band had asked him to do, same as always. Idiot! Just because I’d remained friends with our old road manager didn’t mean I harboured any good feelings for Rolly or wanted a thing to do with him.
“There would be very good money in a reunion of Neurotica,” Angus stated.
He’d reminded me of that before, too. Two days earlier, as a matter of fact, when I’d been through to see him—and to borrow his car for the trip down to Birmingham. It was supposed to have been an enjoyable little ride down and back. A chance to spend some time with me mum. Decompress a bit...
“You can tell Rolly the answer is still, and will always be: when hell freezes over. That’s when it will bloody well happen! I’ve moved on.”
Angus looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows for a long moment before asking softly, “Have you then, lad? You could at least talk to him.”
“No. If he’s so hot to re-form the band, he can use what’s-his-name to play keyboards.”
“Rolly and the others want you and only you. None of the replacements could ever hold a candle to what you brought to the band, and even they acknowledge that. Come on, don’t have such a stiff neck!”
“No.”
Regina, silently watching the rising heat between Angus and me, decided a change of subject was in order. “Tell me about your house, Angus,” she slid in effortlessly. “It looks as if it’s very old.”
He took the bait (and another drink). “Nay, lass. It’s barely four hundred.”
My old friend soon was off with his standard exposition on the history of the house, its outbuildings, the property, the immediate area, Argyll (“Don’t ever trust a Campbell, lassie!”) and would eventually get to an overview of all Scotland from the beginning of time if she showed the slightest enthusiasm.
I stared out at the snow blowing onto the hillside below and a distant gleam of light from another lonely house on the opposite shore of Loch Striven.
When would Rolly ever get the message?
***
Some time after eight, Angus showed us to our rooms, since we were completely knackered. With amusement, I noticed he gave Regina (whom he’d taken to calling The Princess) the room I usually got—it being closest to the loo, a very cold excursion on a winter night in the unheated upstairs.
Angus surprised me by producing a flannel nightgown for The Princess, probably a leftover from one of his failed attempts to form more than a passing acquaintance with a member of the fair sex.
He seemed quite taken with her in his own way. Seen without a bulky coat buttoned up to her chin, Regina certainly merited a second glance. She seemed taller, probably because of her slenderness and long neck. And even though she had on the regulation clothing of the young set these days, designer jeans and sweatshirt, Regina did exude a certain, I don’t know, regalness, something which probably owed its origin to the way she was brought up. So, The Princess it was.
She again thanked both of us for our kindness, and as Angus stomped off to his room, she told me in a low voice how fortunate it was that I’d happened along. “You’re kind of a knight in shining armour, you know, although reading between the lines from what was said tonight, you’ll probably find that embarrassing.” Leaning forward, she kissed my cheek. “Thank you, Michael.”
Even though I’d missed a night, as usual sleep remained far away, and a half hour later, I was trying to decide if I wanted to read a bit, when someone knocked softly on my door.
“Are you awake?” Regina whispered.
“Yes,” I called out, clicking on the bedside light. “Come in.” When she’d slid in the door, I added, “You’ll excuse me for not getting out of bed but I’m, ah, not dressed at the moment.”
An indefinable expression flitted across her face. “Sorry to have bothered you. After all you’ve done for me, it’s not fair to keep you awake, but...”
“What is it?”
She sat down on the chair by the door. “I guess it’s a delayed reaction to what happened. I mean, you can imagine what a rollercoaster this past week has been. Back in my bedroom, alone with my thoughts, it finally hit me what kind of danger I was in—am in. I know my father truly loves me. There’s no doubt of that. It’s just...it’s just...”