The Gran Tour

by Ben Aitken

  ‘The ones you won in the raffle?’ says Alice.

  ‘Exactly. I tried one and they’re very good.’

  ‘Do you reckon they’ll get married?’ says Alice.

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s not the marrying type. He’s too all over the place. He fitted a bathroom for his sister last weekend, and he’s taking a week off work to help his brother build a man-cave. I sometimes think you can tell more about a person from how they are with their family than how they are with their wives or husbands. It’s easy to love your wife, to love your partner. It’s not easy to love all your family. I mean actively love them. Oh, I don’t know. All I’m saying is he’s up every weekend to see me and he’s all the kids’ favourite uncle. He uses his love in a different way. That’s what it is. He spreads it. Of course it does his girlfriend’s head in. She wasn’t happy when she heard about the man-cave. There’s one chocolate left, Ben. Will you have it?’

  ‘No, I’m alright.’

  ‘No go on.’

  ‘Save it for Kitty.’

  ‘Sod that,’ says Monica, popping it in her mouth.

  I have dinner at the Old Mill down the road (a trio of salmon – poached, smoked and pickled) and then go back to the hotel for the entertainment. Tonight, it’s a guy called Ronnie Ross, who’s going to sing a few songs, tell a few stories. They’ll be of a Scottish ilk, I fancy, given that Ronnie is wearing nothing but a kilt and an accordion.

  I sit next to Jenny, the lady who looked up Mark’s kilt last night. She’s from near Leeds and her husband has been dead seventeen years. (Some people reveal their widowhood quickly, as if to explain or excuse their being alone. They needn’t.) She’s into horse racing mostly. Always has been. When she was about thirteen, she got a paper round so she could start saving up for a horse. After about three years, she was able to buy a small one with a leg missing called MacDuff. Then she saved up again and bought another one, and so on until she had a whole stable of them. Now she’s only got a small share in a three year old (horse, I presume). She follows it around the country, wherever it’s racing. She asks if I mind if we stop talking and listen to this song.

  I don’t. Not at all. It’s a nice song. And Ronnie’s belting it out. It’s called ‘Enjoy Yourself’ by the sound of it. Its central message isn’t ambiguous: time’s getting on so have a laugh. This lot are getting the message alright. One bloke’s got his arms in the air; another’s doing a pretend drum solo that’s completely at odds with the music; and plenty of others are clapping and swaying. You can tell Ronnie’s done this before. Whereas Mark had the audience under his kilt, Ronnie’s got them in the palm of his hand. One gentleman has had enough. He’s bored of tapping his foot and mouthing the words, so against the advice of his wife, he gets to his feet and starts dancing around the sofas and even right in front of Ronnie for a bit. When the song finishes, he does a little curtsy and takes a little bow. I get it on video. I’m not sure what I’ll do with the footage. Maybe I’ll watch it every time the internet is slow, or the traffic is heavy, or I’m upset because Portsmouth lost – that is, when I’m joyless without good reason.

  Ronnie shifts gears. He drops an octave. He does ‘The Ghosts of Culloden’, which is a mournful ballad about a battle Scotland lost, and then ‘Flower of Scotland’, which is a mournful ballad about a battle they didn’t. The gear shift causes a few to call it a night. They pass me on their way out. Basia asks where I got to at dinner. Pauline asks if I’m doing the excursion tomorrow. Kitty asks if I like her shoes. I don’t mean to publicise my popularity, but rather the friendliness of my companions. I don’t think I’ve been in a more friendly room (per capita) my whole life, apart from maybe once in Budapest.

  Ronnie says let’s finish with a classic, ladies and gents, let’s finish with a favourite. The favourite is ‘We’ll Meet Again’, the old war song. It was Vera Lynn who made it famous but it was Sheridan Smith who did it on the telly this morning, in front of the veterans. ‘We’ll meet again …’ It moved me. Her performance, I mean. The words. I watched it with Tom and Monica and Zoltan. ‘… don’t know where, don’t know when …’ The song suits Ronnie. Suits his timbre, if that’s the word. Although, I dare say it would suit anyone right now. ‘But I know we’ll meet again …’ They’re all singing along now. We’re all singing along now. And there’s a few who mean the words all right. ‘… one sunny day’. When it’s done, they shout for more. When it’s done we shout for more.

  26

  There was that lark in the end

  I wake up in bits. I’ve always struggled to do it in one go. But I don’t mind. For me, the hour between the time one intends to get up and the time one does get up is the best in the world. I’ll tell you who is up – the lark perched on the roof of the staff quarters across the courtyard. It’s awake and doesn’t care who knows about it. I’d love to know what it’s got in mind. Its glee is unreal.

  The curtains are the same as Scarborough. I noticed the lack of difference as I pulled them in stages as the kettle boiled – a little game to see if the widening frame threw up surprises. There was that lark in the end.

  There are many things I’m getting used to regarding these holidays – the slow, absorbent journeys; the drivers’ gags; the sight and sound of my elders – and other things I’m still at odds with. One is walking into the dining room on my own. It still causes a spot of discomfort and anxiety. Daft, really, because nobody cares, but still – there’s a reason Jill wrote that poem about dining alone. You have to be a particular type to walk into a dining room like you own the hotel and everyone owes you a favour; to walk in with your back straight and your chin up and give everyone a virtual high-five in your head. When Monica approaches and says I should wear shorts more often, I think of Mick from Leicester.

  I have a bowl of fruit and yoghurt and then a plate of hot stuff – black pudding, mushrooms, fried eggs and bacon. I try and savour it all. The atmosphere, the noise, the simple fact of being on holiday, of being away. But it never works when you try and do it. I suppose the trick is to savour things all the time and then just stop realising you’re doing it. The couple next to me get up for seconds but take so long reloading that when they get back to their table it has been reset, which confuses the hell out of them. They both look at me as if I did it. I tell them what happened. He says: ‘They’d jump in my grave.’

  I have sugar in my tea for a change. Plopping in the cube, I think of Prince Philip in St Ives. What was it he said about tea and his wife?39 In any case, I take the tea through to the lounge, where there’s a group of four or five working on a puzzle. One of them started it on Tuesday afternoon, and now there’s a select committee that does what it can as and when. They seem to enjoy it – the looking, the joining, the solving. It’s social in a quiet, steady way: every hundred pieces brings them a bit closer. They’re trying to piece together an idyllic scene. They’re unlikely to finish, but I suppose that’s not the point.

  I’m on the coach and Pauline says she didn’t sleep well owing to a lack of steps. I invite, with my expression, her to explain. She says she averages 7,000 a day, but yesterday didn’t get anywhere near that – probably because she was in the jacuzzi a fair bit, and you can’t get very far in one of them. She says she’s done 1.5 million in the last six months.

  ‘Christ, where’ve you been?’

  ‘Just walking round the shops really. It helps that I’m fussy.’

  ‘How do you count them?’

  ‘On me phone. I have to keep it on me at all times. Which is easier said than done. I’ve dropped it in the shower more than once. I’m quite strict about it because I get money off me insurance.’

  Malcolm’s chatting with those in the first few rows. He’s not being asked about Scotland or Perthshire or where the heck we’re off to, but rather his home life – what he does with his days off (nowt), what he likes to eat (owt), what his wife thinks of him being away so much (she thinks it’s class, mon). People like to know such things. Normal stuff. They
want to know how he likes his tea and what he’s got in his garden and what he watches on telly. Not everyone though. Not everyone has a taste for the domestic. Pauline’s not interested. She’s reading a sci-fi novel set on Uranus. I ask her what’s going on. ‘It’s set in a future where everyone’s programmed to live until they’re 150, but people keep committing suicide at 115.’

  Our first stop of the day is Dunkeld, a big village of low, whitewashed buildings situated around a few main streets – High and Brae and Atholl and Bridge – and a marketplace called The Cross. The buildings were put up after the previous lot were put down during the Battle of Dunkeld, whereat the forces of William gained revenge for their defeat to the forces of James at Killiecrankie. One of the houses says that a Prime Minister of Canada was born on site, while the hotel next door boasts that Queen Victoria once had lunch here, which is far from an endorsement of the current chef.

  We’re decanted near the cathedral. It’s a grey, moss-spotted erection, and twice as old as any of the Willies or Jimmies that fought at the Battle of Dunkeld. Its great age explains why it’s getting some work done. I stare at the scaffolding and enjoy the mess of fabrics, the clash of meanings. I welcome all reminders that when it comes to religion, and when it comes to churches, there was no immaculate conception.

  The best thing inside the church is also a fabrication – a tapestry of the last supper. Jesus and his fellow diners are evidently enjoying the occasion. They appear ebullient, almost manic. Perhaps they all knew this was it, that time was up. Such knowledge can transform one’s appetite. Either way, beneath the tapestry are two chairs. The back of one says Joy. The back of the other says Gentleness. Nice things to lean on. Basia sits in the latter.

  ‘It reminds me of Christmas in Poland,’ I say.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘All the people, all the action.’

  ‘No, I mean how do you have the memory?’

  ‘I lived there for a year.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, and on Christmas Eve – you know the custom of laying an extra setting at the table in case a stranger turns up?’

  ‘I do, yes. We do it in fact.’

  ‘And has anyone ever turned up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well I did.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Turned up.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I just knocked on a random door and said, “You know the lonely stranger? Well here he is.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I didn’t like the carp.’

  ‘So they let you in?’

  ‘Let me in? It was a struggle to get out, Basia.’

  The churchyard is popular. And quite right too. It’s in a lovely spot next to the River Tay, among the undated trees and flowers. I watch a lady absent-mindedly lean against a headstone while nattering about her grandchildren, before realising and apologising to Douglas Murray (1712–67).

  Mary wanders over and says casually that she just got a text from her daughter saying they’re going to blast his kidney stones. Either she thinks I’m someone else (unlikely) or I’ve forgotten something she told me (less unlikely). Then she looks at my shoes and says I might want to clean them later with a toothbrush.

  I excuse myself to take a picture of a lady between trees with the river behind. She’s got her hands on her hips and a walking stick hanging from her pocket. She senses what I’m doing and apologises and shuffles off. I tell her the picture’s better with her in it, but she thinks I’m joking.

  I go to the butcher’s on Bridge Street hoping for something tasty and local. The butcher is Scottish Indian, or so he says. He also says the chicken curry pie is nice, but I might not want it because it’s not properly Scottish. I suggest that anything made by a Scot in Scotland is Scottish, thinking he might find the idea attractive, but the butcher’s not persuaded. He picks up the pie in question and says it’s about as Scottish as … He looks to his colleague. ‘Wha’s not Scottish?’ he says.

  In the end he gives me a Scotch Pie for nothing, which I eat just up the road on Telford Bridge. I’m happy with it. I like the chewy pastry and the well-seasoned meaty interior. And I like that I’ve stumbled upon Telford again. He’s popped up a few times, has Tommy. He’s repeated on me and I don’t mind a bit. I liked his crossing in Wales and I like his go-between here, and Jill was from Telford of course. Telford isn’t the only thing to have recurred now that I think about it. War has. Loss has. Pride has. Love has. Love has a lot in fact, one way or another. It’s been the main thing, I’d say, all things considered, which I’m not going to moan about. Love and bingo.

  I sit in the wrong seat. I don’t realise until the lady who apologised for being in my picture is stood over me thinking, ‘So now who’s the one in the way?’

  ‘Ah. Sugar. Whoops. Am I in your seat?’

  ‘You’re fine, love. I’ll sit behind.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. It will be a change of scenery.’

  We head south towards Dundee, away from the Highlands. The sky is a fair share of blue and white. Trees are remarkable for being few, and sheep are creamy hints in the distance. Looking at it all, I realise my face is hurting less. It feels like my brain is shrinking, which is nice.

  Our final stop is Blairgowrie, whose nickname is Berry Toon, which is much nicer, I think. The fruit pickers used to migrate here from Glasgow and treat the harvest like a holiday, but not anymore. Now others are getting a turn at the berries. Malcolm puts us down by the River Ericht and says we’ve got an hour. Someone asks what we’re meant to do. Malcolm shrugs and says, ‘The world’s your oyster, pet,’ but the woman isn’t convinced. ‘I don’t like oysters,’ she says.

  The water’s brown and not dragging its heels. This river used to support a dozen textile mills, which harnessed its flow to get one thing from another. They’ve all gone now. All those mills. They’ve stopped weaving, stopped spinning, stopped turning out yarns. Most are apartments now, where people make tea and toast instead. I can see someone by the kettle now. It could be my nan or Imelda or Rita. They look at me looking at them, which is nice for about a second and then awkward.

  I enjoy the water’s dumb, ceaseless slide. I can see myself in it. I’m as swift and as small in the end, and so are you. And yet despite that swift smallness, our lives can feel slow and big, long and vital. The misunderstanding is good for us – it puts a spring in our step, it puffs us up. But it’s also good to look at a river and be reminded that our time on stage is but an hour, that our candle is but brief. To know we’re quick and only passing can settle us, can humble us, can open us to what is new and other and else. It can make us wider and deeper, without altering our course.

  The salmon is king. That’s what I read. It’s born here and then swims to the mouth of the River Tay before taking a left and rounding the top of Scotland and making for America. The journey does the salmon some good. It changes its shape and nature. It makes it pink and plump and mature. Then, when the salmon decides it’s close enough to the States thank you very much, it retraces its outward journey back to where it was spawned, back to Berry Toon, where it makes love and dies. The cycle gives me food for thought, especially the bit about going home to reproduce. It might explain why I’ve been feeling a bit uneasy being back home in Portsmouth. I know that, at some level, people are expecting me to bonk and then die.

  I continue upstream to Cargill’s Leap, so-called because once upon a time, a bloke surnamed Cargill leapt across the river here. He had good reason to. He was a heretical Presbyterian on the run from Bonnie Prince Charlie. An onlooker who observed the leap is thought to have remarked, ‘Not bad for an Elder.’40 Following his leap, Cargill managed to evade capture for sixteen years before being surprised in a chicken shop preaching about predestination. One hopes that Cargill enjoyed his extra time.

  I stand in a doorway on Allan Street. Opposite, two old boys in flat caps are eyeing up rental options in the window of Next Home. Down
the road a bit, Zoltan and Basia are doing their jackets up outside a pub, while Flicker’s just gone into a fishing shop, leaving Mary in a café across the street, chewing someone’s ear off on the phone. A walker has been abandoned in front of Davidson’s the chemist. Its bright frame looks good next to the red pillar box on the sunlit pavement. The scene suggests someone got carried away and posted themselves. Here comes the owner. He’s got a big can of shaving foam in each pocket, which bodes well.

  I return to Wellmeadow for the pick-up. It’s a triangular green with a war memorial in the middle. Quite a few of my lot are sat on its steps, enjoying the sun. Tom’s showing someone his tongue. One shelf of the memorial is covered with rhododendrons. Mary wanders over to my bench. I wonder if she’s going to mention kidney stones again. In the event, she wants to show me a very different type of stone, one fashioned from the compressed stems of heather. She’s bought a dozen of them but doesn’t know who they’re for yet. She’s going to keep them in the kitchen at the church and just wait and see. She asks me to make a note of her church in Derby, and then checks to make sure I’ve got it right.

  ‘If you turn up, I’ll give you one of these stones,’ she says.

  ‘But what if they’ve all gone?’

  ‘Then I’ll get one back and give it to you.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Did you have a good walk by the river?’

  ‘I did. I read about salmon. What they get up to. It’s quite miraculous really. They swim from Scotland to Nova Scotia practically, then come back to breed and die.’

  ‘Aye, and that’s why they’re great with dill and new potatoes.’

  On our way back to the hotel, I poke Pauline and point to a coach with ‘Insight Vacations’ written on its side. I say I wouldn’t mind a bit of that, but Pauline says she’s been with them before and it was rubbish. Heading north on the A9, betwixt lush this and verdant that and all the chlorophyll you could care for, Pauline nods towards all the greenness and says she wouldn’t mind living around here if it wasn’t for the rain.