When We Got Lost in Dreamland

by Ross Welford

  ‘I’m so glad you remember,’ he says, regaining his composure and looking between the two of us. It really is as though a mist has just lifted in his head. ‘Your teacher said you were curious and diligent. I was beginning to wonder. Had I got to the bit about the warning? Had I?’

  A warning? What was he warning us about? We both shake our heads.

  ‘Hmm. Aye, well, Andi – I think we should take these two home with us. Let them have a wee look at that stuff out in the shed. I mean – no one else has ever shown any interest, and there may not be … may not be …’

  Whatever there may not be is lost in a coughing fit of a violence like I have never seen before. This is not a cough from the throat, or even the chest: the poor man’s entire thin body convulses, lifting his feet off the footrests of the wheelchair and turning him dark pink as he coughs again and again and again, louder and louder. He flaps his hands as if trying to fly.

  Andi holds him by his narrow shoulders, saying, ‘There, there, Kenneth …’ After several more coughs, he stops, and I genuinely worry that he has died in front of me, but a few seconds go past and then he takes an enormous, groaning, inward breath. He leans back in his chair while Andi gets a small canister of oxygen from the shelf under the seat. She holds the mask to his face, saying, ‘Okay, okay, there you go.’

  And, during all of this, I have a chill passing through me.

  That stuff out in the shed. Surely he can’t mean …?

  What the heck ELSE would he mean, Malky?

  No, no. There were other things in the shed. He could mean anything. Pots, a spade, tins of old paint …

  No, he means the bag of stuff that you stole, Malky. Obviously. Because he’s got one hanging over his bed. And you’re going to be found out …

  As he sucks greedily on the oxygen, Andi turns to us, a sad look on her face. ‘I’m sorry, kids. That must have been frightening for you. He’ll be all right in a minute.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ says Susan, asking exactly what I want to know.

  Before she answers, Andi looks at Kenneth, who has heard this. He gives a little nod – permission, I guess, for Andi to tell us. I hardly understand a word: there’s something ‘pulmonary’ and ‘acute’ and ‘syndrome’ and other words as well.

  Susan nods sympathetically and I imitate her.

  Another look is exchanged between Andi and the old man. Andi says, ‘You may as well know. The outlook is not, shall we say, very optimistic.’

  Kenneth removes the mask from his face. His colour has returned to normal and he smiles weakly. ‘Too many birthdays, that’s my problem. We all have to go one way or another, eh? But, before I do, I want to make sure my story is told once more. This time to a new generation. Andi – we’ll head back now and get the bags from the shed, please.’

  Oh no. That’s it. Only he said ‘bags’. Plural. Perhaps he’s referring to something else?

  Andi is looking at me closely. ‘Are you all right, son? You’ve gone pale.’

  She knows.

  ‘Ah no, I’m fine. I was just a bit, you know …’

  ‘Scared? I understand. Don’t worry, he’s fine now. Aren’t you, Kenneth?’

  ‘Ahem. Oh yes. Right as rain. Now let’s go, if you please. Are you coming, children? There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘Now?’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ says Kenneth. ‘Like I said, I don’t have much time.’

  And they lead the way to the house.

  All the way back to Kenneth McKinley’s house I’m running through the possibilities in my head. Susan has taken Dennis’s lead and doesn’t even complain when she has to pick up his huge poo in a little black bag that Andi gives to her. Honestly – a supermarket carrier bag would be a better size. She scratches his head and calls him a ‘good old boy’, while he thumps his tail against her legs. I stay well out of his way to be on the safe side.

  Susan and I wait with Mr McKinley and Dennis in the front room while Andi goes to the shed. I am terrified.

  She’s comes back, holding a paper bag. ‘I’ve got it, Kenneth!’

  She sounds cheery. Is it fake? I look at her face to check, but it’s giving nothing away. Their conversation is not exactly whispered, but it is taking place quietly, as though Susan and I are not supposed to be there.

  ‘Only one? There were two, as I recall. I’m not totally doolally yet.’

  ‘Yes. Just this one – with the videotape.’

  ‘And the other one? The one with the Dreaminators?’

  That word! I feel a charge go through me like a little electric shock.

  I glance over to where Susan is looking at the table of photos. For probably the first time since I met her, she’s not paying attention to her surroundings, but seems lost in fascination.

  ‘Couldn’t see it, Kenneth.’ Andi’s voice is airy-don’t-carey. I’m convinced now that she’s putting it on. She adjusts a cushion behind his back. ‘It won’t have gone far. It’s probably just fallen behind a shelf. I’ll have to move stuff to get to it later.’

  Kenneth grunts grumpily. ‘I certainly hope so. They were the last two in the world so far as I know. Well, apart from the original …’ His voice trails off and he starts coughing again after which he says nothing and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he coughs again and says, ‘I’m afraid I’m very, very tired. I don’t feel at all well, to be quite honest. Thank you for coming. Take the video with you and have a wee look at it, eh? We’ll expand on it next time you come. Andi will show you out.’

  ‘Mr McKinley?’ says Susan. She has picked up a photograph from a sidetable. ‘Is this you? With … the Beatles?’ I look at the faded picture: a young Kenneth McKinley, with long blond hair, wearing baggy cotton clothes, among a group of other people, most of them with beards and moustaches and beads … I might not have recognised the Beatles, but it’s the sort of thing that Susan would know.

  The old man nods weakly. ‘Aye. I knew them on and off for years. George especially. He was very interested in my work. I toured with them in 1962. I was visiting Paul when he wrote that song “Let It Be”. I might have been the first person to hear it …’ His voice becomes an almost-inaudible whisper, then the words turn into another coughing fit, and Andi steps in.

  ‘Time to go, you two.’

  In the hallway, there’s a framed poster that Andi points to and says, ‘He has quite a story for anyone who wants to listen.’

  KIRKCALDY TOWN HALL

  TEEN DANCE-ATHON!

  23 October 1962

  FEATURING

  RICKY THUNDER AND

  THE LIGHTNING BOLTS

  plus

  England’s newest pop stars

  THE BEATLES

  And there at the bottom, in much smaller writing,

  Full variety support acts

  JERRY MURAD’S HARMONICATS

  ‘Madcap Music from the USA’

  KENNETH MCKINLEY

  ‘The Mystic o’ the Highlands’

  She hands the bag to Susan. ‘He wants you to see this.’ Inside is an old video cassette – black plastic with a transparent window showing the tape inside. ‘It’s VHS. Have you got a machine to play it on?’

  Susan nods. ‘Yes. My grandmother watches old films like these. What is on it?’

  Andi shrugs. ‘Never seen it. I wouldn’t pay too much attention. It’s probably just his old mystical, hippy ramblings.’

  It isn’t that long since I asked Susan if I was going mad, and she said no, then added a ‘but’ that was left in the air when Andi greeted us on the Tyne path. I keep thinking about it, and wondering whether I should prompt her to finish her thought. It’s probably going to be along the lines of what she said before: you know, ‘it can mess with your head,’ and so on.

  It turns out it’s all going to become a lot clearer, but not necessarily in a good way.

  Susan’s house has a back entrance in the lane near the end of my street that – until recently – was
so overgrown you couldn’t really see in. It’s the gate that Susan let me out of the first time I met her before term started.

  I wasn’t really paying attention to the house that night I jumped over the wall. So, if you were to ask me, I’d have guessed it would be big and old with tall, grand windows, and a wide verandah – all that sort of stuff. Spooky, I suppose, and crumbling.

  In fact, it’s not like that at all. It’s big all right, but more modern-looking and square. It looks completely out of place in the middle of the large, overgrown grounds and the only thing that seems right is that it is definitely crumbling. The tiled roof is dotted with patches of green moss and sags in the middle, and one window is boarded up. The walls have graffiti on them. There are weeds everywhere: on the path, in the flowerbeds. In the corner of the lawn, a small bonfire is smouldering in a firepit, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the ashes.

  I remember, with a flush of shame, what I said to Susan about her living in a big house. It’s big but very run-down and not a bit ‘posh’.

  I really, really don’t want to be here. For a start, I’m supposed to go back home straight from school. Mam is working an extra shift packing parcels at the Swift Centre. We’ll talk tonight her text had said, and that won’t be fun. What’s more, I should be home when Seb gets back from his goalkeeper training and I’m in enough trouble as it is.

  He’s got a key, though. A few weeks ago, I’d have been certain he’d snitch on me. Now I’m going to have to trust him …

  Ahead of me Susan’s babbling on as though she’s a grown-up showing me around. ‘We are making a lot of progress. The place was awful when we moved in, but Mummy reckons it will be shipshape in a few weeks.’

  Her mum. I’ve never met her, but then … why would I? ‘Is she in? Your mam? Mum, I mean?’

  ‘She has gone to London for some meetings. My daddy may be coming home. Well, I say “home”: he has never lived here.’ For a second, I think she’s going to tell me more about her dad. We’re standing at the front door now, which has been freshly painted in smart navy blue. She chews her lip and glances quickly at me. ‘He, erm …’ She stops, then starts again. ‘The house was rather run-down. It’s the only way we could afford to move here after … after what happened.’

  Is she trying to tell me something? I look at her, but she has moved ahead of me.

  Inside, it’s like I’m immediately wrapped in a thick blanket. There is a little lobby filled with houseplants and beyond that is a dark, warm hallway with an old, patchy carpet. The house smells different too. There are cleaning smells, and a warm, comforting spice aroma that reminds me of when Mam cooks curry.

  ‘Shoes!’ commands Susan, and I kick mine off. She picks them up and places them neatly on a shoe rack, then hands me a pair of grey felt slippers from a box. She must have noticed my face, although I’m trying hard to look as though this is normal. She does her half-smirk.

  ‘It’s Mummy. She’s a bit, erm … particular about stuff like that.’ Susan takes a breath, and I know she’s going to tell me more, but at that second Mola’s piercing old-lady voice screeches from upstairs in Tibetan. Susan yells a reply, and, when our eyes meet again, we both know the moment has been lost.

  There’s a small room off the main hallway that is black-dark when Susan opens the door and, when she hits a switch, dim lights illuminate ancient-looking velvet-covered sofas facing a huge screen.

  ‘Wow! A home cinema! Is this where you watch telly?’

  I forget – she probably doesn’t watch television.

  ‘Not really. It was here when we moved in. But it’s great for movies. And Mola uses it to watch her old Indian films.’

  She points to a rack of ancient video cassettes in brightly coloured boxes.

  I’m confused. ‘I thought she was Tibetan?’

  ‘She is. Only there are almost no Tibetan films, and she won’t watch Chinese ones, so she likes these ones, in Hindi with English subtitles, if she can get them.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘How many languages does she speak?’

  ‘Loads. Tibetan, obviously. Ladakhi, where she grew up. Cantonese if she has to. A bit of Hindi and Nepali. English …’ She turns back to a cupboard. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll set it up.’

  Susan opens the cupboard to reveal various box-shaped machines with wires coming from them. One I can tell is a DVD player, the other two I don’t really know what they are.

  I carefully take one or two of the boxed films out of the rack. Some of the titles are in squiggly writing that I can’t understand. Others I can read because the letters are the same as we use, but I still don’t know what they mean. One has a picture on the front of a young couple gazing at each other lovingly. Susan takes it from me gently.

  ‘Mola loves her romantic films! Don’t you, Mola?’

  The old lady is standing in the doorway, watching us and smiling.

  ‘Ah! It’s my favourite Dream-boy!’ she beams. ‘How nice that you come to visit! You watching films?’ She points at the one I’m holding. ‘That’s the one I like best. Such a beautiful story. I watch it every year at least one time. What we watching now?’

  Susan takes the videotape out of the bag and holds it up to show her grandmother. ‘It’s an old VHS that has been lent to us by Mr McKinley. You know – the old man we visited? Malcolm here wants to know what is on it.’

  Mola narrows her little eyes. ‘It might not be … ah … suitable for kids, huh? Could be too violent or, or … saucy or something, no?’

  Susan thinks for a moment, then she says, ‘Mola – it’s part of … it’s a school outreach project.’ She turns to me. ‘Isn’t it, Malcolm?’

  ‘Yes!’ I say, too enthusiastically, but I think it goes unnoticed. ‘Yes, it’s a school thing.’

  Mola scrunches up her face in confusion.

  Susan says, ‘Homework, Mola.’

  ‘Ah! Homework! You are a good girl! You must do lots of homework and you will be a diplomat like your pha. You must love homework too, boy?’

  Ah, she means me. ‘Erm … I … ermm …’

  ‘Malky loves homework, Mola. Don’t you, Malky?’

  The old lady nods approvingly and winks at me, as if she’d known all along that I love homework. As if.

  ‘I knew it! Susan always chooses very clever friends. Very well. But I will watch with you in case it is too saucy.’ She sits down heavily. ‘And now you will bring me tea, because you are such a good girl, Susan. And butter cake. And another cushion.’

  I sit down on the faded velvet sofa while Mola beams at me, silently delighted that Susan has a friend who loves homework.

  Susan reads out from the handwritten label on the cassette. ‘It says Scotland Loud And Live – May 1981.’ She slots the cassette into the machine and presses ‘play’.

  The picture is a bit scratchy, the colours are too vivid and blurry, and the sound isn’t great, but here it is.

  The programme starts with the theme tune, which sounds like it’s played on an accordion, and lots of pictures of Scottish landmarks, like hills and castles and that famous bridge, and deer with antlers and stuff like that. The programme title comes up in big tartan letters:

  SCOTLAND

  LOUD & LIVE

  WITH YOUR HOST

  ROBBIE FERGUSON

  A grinning man comes down the lit-up steps of the TV studio as the audience applauds and whoops. He has a fat, drooping moustache and long hair over his ears. He’s wearing a baggy dark green suit and a tiny, narrow tie and, even if I didn’t know this programme was from the 1980s, I could tell it was ancient.

  ‘… wonderful programme for you tonight on Scotland Loud and Live! I’ll be meeting the Dundee woman with Scotland’s biggest collection of antique jam jars, our roving, raving reporter, Donny Greig, is finding out how people all over the country are preparing for the Royal Wedding, and tonight he’s in Galashiels in the beautiful border country. Are you there, Donny …?’

  ‘Is this the right programme?’ I say t
o Susan.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is he wearing?’ said Mola. ‘He looks like a huge …’

  ‘Shh … watch.’

  The camera cuts back to Robbie Ferguson.

  ‘… my first guest tonight. Known to many of you as the Mystic o’ the Highlands, Kenneth McKinley toured Scotland’s theatres for nearly two decades with a wonderful act that combined mind-reading, levitation – oh yes! – with some feats of mystery that were so baffling that many people began to think he was the real thing! He befriended stars like the Beatles before vanishing from the public eye. Well, he’s back. Here’s a quick clip of him in action at the Pavilion Theatre, Glasgow, ten years ago …’

  Here the picture cuts to a stage where a man in a kilt – easily recognisable as Kenneth – is talking to a lady next to him. The film is in black and white.

  ‘Now, Maureen,’ Kenneth is saying in his musical Scots accent, ‘I’d like you to take my hand.’ The lady does so and the two stand side by side. With his other hand, he reaches down to where a short sword hangs from a belt, and I breathe in sharply.

  ‘Look, Susan! That’s the … the thing that was hanging over the back of his chair!’

  There’s no mistaking it. The camera shows a close-up of the carved handle.

  ‘Hold my dirk in your other hand, Maureen, there you go, and, when I say so, raise it up slowly.’

  Kenneth allows his chin to drop to his chest as though he is sleeping. Seconds tick by, as the theatre band plays a slow, spooky melody.

  ‘Raise the dagger, Maureen.’ She does so, and Kenneth, dramatically lifting his head and widening his eyes, cries, ‘Float!’

  Maureen gasps. Still holding her hand, Kenneth’s feet rise a little way off the stage floor. One centimetre, two, three. The audience starts a ripple of applause that gets louder. Kenneth’s feet are now at least ten or fifteen centimetres off the ground. He is floating!

  ‘Oh my!’ says Mola, breathlessly.

  On-screen, Kenneth lifts his head and says, ‘Now, Maureen, please check above me and behind me for wires or supports of any kind. Careful with my dirk!’ She moves her other hand round him. The crowd applauds again.