And the Land Lay Still (95 page)

A surprising number of people seem to know the words. With each verse, more and more join from all over the room in swirling, joyous affirmation, so that Marjory too finds herself humming the melody. And though Don beside her is silent, it’s clear from the way his head is nodding and his lips moving that he too is no stranger to the song:

There is one last verse, which the entire assembly now sets about with a kind of evangelical gusto –

– and a slowing down on the last line, and then a great round of applause for Walter. Marjory waits for it to die away and turns to Don. ‘That’s a good song,’ she says, but she sees at once that his mind is still set on the first one. He nods, ‘Aye, it is.’ And then, ‘There’s something I’ve no tellt ye. Aboot the war.’

‘What?’

‘Dae ye mind the name Jack Gordon? Dae ye mind me speaking aboot him, Jack Gordon?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she says. ‘I remember.’

‘He’s the only yin I ever tellt. There was never onybody else I could tell.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she says.

‘Aye,’ he says, ‘I dae, but later. When we get hame. No here.’ He eases himself on to his feet again. ‘But since we’re here let’s dae what we came tae dae. Let’s hae a look at these pictures.’

§

Mike passes Duncan Roxburgh, giving him a nod. Duncan momentarily makes his eyes go big, an SOS. He’s in some kind of confrontation with a tall, angular man, goatee beard and glasses, could be a professor or possibly the Moderator of the Free Church in mufti because he’s saying, ‘Four hundred and fifty-eight, I think you’ll find.’ Mike pauses to hear what’s going on, and Duncan replies, ‘Well, my memory is …’ and the prof-cum-cleric, oblivious to Mike’s presence, says, ‘Where did you get your information from?’ in a polite but determined tone that means
I am not going to let you go till we have resolved this
. Duncan says, ‘Well, um …’ and the other man says, ‘I know, I know. From MacMillan or some such supposed authority, or perhaps off the internet, yes? That’s how mistakes happen, you know, it’s how they get perpetuated. But there are four hundred and fifty-eight people in that painting and I know, I’ve counted them. I downloaded a copy of it and magnified it and printed it on to A3 sheets of paper and marked them all off. Four times, starting from a different corner each time. An X on every face and a number for every X. I could hardly believe it when I discovered the true number. This mistake has been handed down from one generation to another. Dictionaries of quotations are the same, you know. Compilers don’t bother to check, they just reproduce. It’s how history goes wrong. But there’s an even more crucial issue, the mystery I’m trying to clear up, and it’s this.’ Dramatic pause: the man really believes he’s on to something.
‘What is the identity of the extra person?’
It is clear that he is far from finished. Mike puts mock horror on his face, displays it to Duncan over the interrogator’s back, and moves on swiftly. Seconds later he’s face to face with the Eddelstanes.

‘Hello, Mike.’

‘David. Great to see you. Melissa, we’ve not met before. Good of you to come.’

‘Yes, well, we don’t usually do much of this sort of thing,’ David says, ‘but it was so kind of you to send the invitation, and we happened to be in Edinburgh, so …’

‘It
is
a wonderful exhibition,’ Melissa says, slightly apologetically. Did she come thinking it wouldn’t be?

‘Thank you.’

‘Marvellous,’ David says. ‘But rather like seeing your life flashing before you.’

Close up he’s not looking so good. Perhaps his life has flashed before him a few too many times. The face is very lined, the skin sallow. Mike notices that neither of them is drinking wine. They both look nervous, as if at any moment somebody may spring an unpleasant surprise on them.

‘I saw your rehab work mentioned in the news the other day,’ Mike says. ‘A parliamentary committee report, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ David says. He sounds exhausted. ‘Unfortunately there’s a question mark over our funding. Some MSPs are suggesting it should be cut because 30 per cent of the kids we take on reoffend within a year. They think we’re a cushy number for hardened criminals – the usual stuff, you know. And they say we’re not good value for money, but we are. For the kids that actually complete our course, the reoffending rate is only 10 per cent, but quite a few drop out early. And when you compare our record with average reoffending rates, we’re streets ahead. It’s frustrating, because we know we’re doing good work, and you can’t do it on the cheap.’

‘And it
isn’t
cheap,’ Melissa says, ‘but that’s not to say it isn’t cost-effective.’

‘It’s a lot cheaper than having someone spend the rest of their life in and out of prison,’ David says. ‘That’s the thing that matters. Still,’ he says, trying to brighten up, ‘you don’t want to hear about our worries on an occasion like this, do you? Sorry about the lecture.’

‘Hopefully sense will prevail,’ Mike says, trotting out a platitude because David is right, he doesn’t want to hear their worries. Then, immediately guilty and concerned for them both, he adds, ‘But all that aside, you’re well? You’re doing all right, are you?’

‘Yes, yes, we’re in good spirits,’ David says. There is a pause, threatening to become awkward. He adds, ‘We just keep our heads down and get on. And you?’

‘I’m doing fine,’ Mike says, and the exchange stutters to another halt. ‘Look, I’d better circulate.’

‘Absolutely, catch you later.’

‘And thanks again for asking us,’ Melissa says.

He moves on, wondering if this is what happens as you age – you even start to feel sorry for fallen Tories.

A space has cleared, a line of vision opened up. Over against the far wall he sees two people moving along the lines of photographs, examining each one with care. They have the Bell Rock lighthouse to their left, Arbroath Abbey to their right. An elderly couple, man and woman. The man is tall but stooped, distinguished-looking. Mike thinks he ought to know who he is. Did he invite them? He’ll have to get across and speak to them.

Near them is another figure, solitary, dishevelled, drifting past the 1960s. Second sighting in five months but this time Mike recognises him at once. It’s Dick, Duffelcoat – or should that now be Duffelcoatless – Dick, and he suddenly remembers something else about him: that it was
his
name on the story which forced Eddelstane to resign. Yes, of course it was. Peter Bond. What on earth is he doing here? Have he and the Eddelstanes encountered each other yet? But why would they recognise Bond? Most likely they never met and David never knew the face of his nemesis. Peter Bond is somebody else Mike is determined to have a word with, but the throng is closing in again. Will he be able to reach him, or will Dick slip away in the confusion, now you see him now you don’t, the way he used to?

Walter bars his way, expansive, relaxed now his job is done, a glass of wine in hand.

‘All right, Mike?’

‘Great. Walter, thank you, you were superb. Not a dry eye in the house.’ Another bloody cliché. ‘What are you doing after this?’

‘I thought I’d wander up tae Jean’s, see how she is. Maybe pick up a fish supper or something on the way.’

‘I’m staying with her,’ Mike says. ‘I tried to persuade her to come, but she wouldn’t.’

‘Dinna take it personally,’ Walter says. ‘She’s a thrawn besom. If ye’d tellt her she was barred she might have turned up.’

‘I’ll remember that for next time. Well, I’ll see you there then. Or we can head up together. I’m not sure when they’ll want us out of here.’

‘Maybe we should take a few o the others wi us, turn it intae a ceilidh.’

‘Now that’s an idea. If she’ll not come to the party, the party will have to go to her.’

‘Right, I’ll pit the word oot. A ceilidh at Jean’s.’

‘She’ll hate us for it.’

‘Aye, but she’ll love it really. It’ll shake her oot o hersel,’ Walter says gleefully.

‘Mike!’ Somebody else is wanting his attention. Indeed, the next twenty minutes are full of exchanged greetings, business cards pressed into his hand, promises to meet for lunch next time he’s in town. He thinks, what do I need their business cards for? But maybe it’s time to re-engage. He scribbles his signature on the title-page of several copies of the book, spends time with Ellen and Gavin, catches up with Kirsty, reminisces with Eric Hodge about the nightmare landlady of their early student days. And he knows he’s doing that thing he hates, glancing over people’s shoulders as they’re speaking to him, so they believe that he’s not interested in them, that he’s anxious to move on and network with the important people just over
there
. Whereas what he really wants to do is connect with the
un
important people off in the distance. He keeps seeing them, the three misfits, through or beyond the churning scrum in the centre of the room. In fact, they seem to be almost the only people bothering to look at the pictures. Clearly they don’t know how to behave at a launch party. He likes them more for it, wants to join them. Even Duffelcoatless Dick, the sleekit creeping bastard, he warms to him because he’s inspecting Angus’s photographs so closely. He redoubles his efforts to break away. If he speaks to no one else tonight, he must do this.

§

But by the time he gets through, Dick has disappeared. Briefly Mike wonders if he only imagined seeing him, but he knows he did
see him – not once, fleetingly, but several times. There was no mistaking him. But it seems he has made his exit.

On a night of such celebration, Mike feels unaccountably let down.

He is standing at one end of a long wall of photographs. Halfway along are the old couple. At least
they’ve
not escaped. He homes in on them. They’re just leaving M. Lucas and arriving at the family paddling in Loch Lomond.

‘Are you enjoying yourselves?’

The woman turns and gives him a big smile. ‘Very much so.’

‘I’m Mike,’ he says. ‘Mike Pendreich.’

‘We know
that
,’ she says, taking the hand he proffers. ‘I’m Marjory and this is Don. We were just admiring Don when he was younger. Probably when he was about your age actually.’

The old man turns and puts a firm, brown hand into Mike’s, and suddenly Mike understands why he looks familiar – because in the photograph behind him is himself, thirty years before.
DON AND SALEEM, WHARRYBURN, 1978
.

‘That’s you in front of the shop!’ Mike says.

‘It is,’ Don says.

‘You were on all the invitations we sent out.’

‘So I was,’ Don says.

Mike points at the photograph. ‘Wharryburn’s near Drumkirk, isn’t it?’

‘Just a few miles,’ Marjory says.

‘I’ve never been there. Is that where you stay now?’

‘Aye,’ Don says. ‘I’ve been there sixty year. No much point in flitting noo.’

‘And your friend, Saleem, is he …’ He hesitates for a second, stops the word ‘still’ and changes tack. ‘Is he here?’

‘No,’ Don says. ‘We tried tae get him tae come but he wouldna. I’ve bought a book for him though.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have to pay for a book. Not if you’re in it.’

‘That’s what I said to him,’ Marjory says.

‘I bought two,’ Don says.

‘I’ll sort something out with the gallery, get you a discount at least.’

‘That’s aw right, son.’

Mike looks at the image again, then back at Don. ‘This is wonderful.
I thought I recognised you earlier, but I couldn’t work it out. Oh, I wish my dad could be here to meet you again.’

‘We never really
met
that time,’ Don says. ‘He was there and then he was away. But I liked that. Nae messing aboot.’

Mike remembers the email from Catriona. ‘Wait a minute,’ he says. ‘You’re … you’re …’ But the name doesn’t come.

‘I’m Don Lennie, and this is Marjory Forrester. We’re gatecrashers really.’

‘No, I remember now. You’re Catriona MacKay’s partner’s father. Is that right? She emailed to say she couldn’t come, but you were on the invitation – I mean, really
on
it – so you’d come instead.’

‘Aye, that’s aboot the strength o it,’ Don says. ‘Catriona’s my son’s bidie-in.’ A wee light is in his eyes. ‘I never got used tae folk haein partners,’ he says. ‘We prefer the term “bidie-in”, don’t we?’

Marjory says, ‘We do,’ and giggles like a teenager.

‘Catriona sends her apologies and asks tae be remembered tae ye, by the way.’

‘Catriona MacKay from Inverness,’ Mike says. ‘ This is incredible. We were students together.’

‘So she tellt us.’

‘We were good friends. Close friends. And your son, what’s your son’s name?’

‘Billy.’

Mike becomes aware of Duncan Roxburgh hovering at his side, no doubt wanting to take him off to meet someone else. He tries to ignore him. ‘Billy Lennie?’ he says. ‘I’ve never met him. But then I’ve not seen Catriona for years. It’s a shame they couldn’t come too.’

‘They’re in France,’ Don says. ‘They have tae keep tae the school holidays because of the bairns, and because Billy’s a teacher.’

Again, Mike is taken aback. Catriona, a mother. But why wouldn’t she be? ‘How many kids do they have?’ he asks.

‘Two,’ Marjory says. ‘A boy and a girl. Fifteen and thirteen.’

‘They were late developers,’ Don explains. ‘The parents, I mean.’

They all laugh and in the break of conversation Duncan Roxburgh makes his move. ‘Mike, I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a queue of folk wanting their books signed, and a photographer from
The Times
who needs us as well. Would you mind?’ This last half-question is addressed to all of them.