Boswell's Bus Pass (8 page)

Boswell was bored by the journey to Aberdeen; ‘We had tedious driving, and were somewhat drowsy.’ Johnson seems to have endured the final 25 miles with more equanimity; ‘We were satisfied with the company of each other – as well riding in the chaise as sitting at an inn.’

Johnson may have regretted the comparison as there was not a room to be had at the New Inn at the junction of Union Street and King Street in Aberdeen. It was only when some minor lackey recognised that Boswell was the son of the circuit judge given to transporting miscreants that accommodation was found. ‘Don’t send me away My Lord, I was a help to your son a few years back …’

The inn became a bank and is now an inn again having been gobbled up by the Wetherspoon’s empire. If this trend continues all 18
^th
century towns will subtly recreate themselves. Like other pubs in the chain The Archibald Simpson has taken over the function previously fulfilled by social work day centres. The beer and food are so cheap that pensioners can sit and gently booze all day long for very little outlay until they shuffle happily out into the twilight to be replaced by the first wave of office workers pausing on the way home.

Ironically because the New Inn was built on to the end of the prison it is possible that the two men, sentenced a month previously by Boswell’s father to spend the rest of their days in the plantations for the heinous crime of petty theft, were languishing on the other side of the bedroom wall. They missed a small opportunity for noisy revenge as Boswell wrote ‘We had a broiled chicken, some tarts, and crab claws. Little was said tonight, I was to sleep in a little box-bed in Mr Johnson’s room. I had it wheeled out into the dining room, and there lay very well.’

They spent three days in Aberdeen hobnobbing, discussing
theology
, literature and education with sundry clergymen, professors and
old acquaintances. At the home of a local minister Johnson ‘laid hold of a little girl … and, representing himself as a giant, said he’d take her with him, telling her in a hollow voice that he lived in a cave and had a bed in the rock, and she should have a little bed cut opposite to it.’ If the Aberdeen asylum had a young person’s unit in 1773 the little girl would have been treated for trauma, while Johnson himself would have been interrogated by the local constabulary.

Boswell’s meticulous recording of every meal they consumed confirms that food featured large in Johnson’s life. ‘At dinner Mr Johnson eat several platefuls of Scotch broth with barley and pease in them … We had also skate, roasted chickens, and tarts.’

In Macaulay’s view, ‘Being often very hungry when he sat down to his meals, he contracted a habit of eating with ravenous greediness. Even to the end of his life, and even at the tables of the great, the sight of food affected him as it affects wild beasts and birds of prey. His taste in cookery, formed in subterranean ordinaries and
alamode
beef-shops, was far from delicate. Whenever he was so fortunate as to have near him a hare that had been kept too long, or a meat pie made from rancid butter, he gorged himself with such violence that his veins swelled, and the moisture broke out on his forehead.’

Adjacent to the prison was the Town house where the local
star-struck
burghers conferred the freedom of the city on their revered visitor. Johnson, his craving for honours largely unfulfilled during his life, accepted with joy and lumbered happily down College Bounds towards Old Aberdeen with the document stuck into his wig where it presumably became greasy and illegible.

The walk between King’s and Marischal colleges was totally familiar as it was one I travelled daily as a student at Aberdeen some forty years previously. Although I have visited many times since, I was not expecting to be jostled and bullied by quite so many ghosts and voices from the past. The experience went well beyond self-indulgent nostalgia for idealised undergraduate days. The voices and memories became so insistent that I had to stop and listen to them. The shades unveiled tableaux for which I was ill prepared as both past mistakes and emotional miscalculations were paraded in front of me.
Unhelpfully
the same ironic spirits arranged a mercifully brief dumb show of former friends now dead. I tried to break the unwelcome spell by concentrating on Johnson and Boswell but it didn’t work. I forced myself to look at the short walk down the cobbles through their eyes
only to be astonished to see two graveyards that I must have passed a thousand times before without ever noticing.

‘We walked down to the shore.’ I did the same. ‘Mr Johnson laughed to hear that Cromwell’s soldiers taught the Aberdeen people to make shoes and stockings, and to plant cabbages.’ I didn’t hear any condescending laughter borne on the sea air; just the gulls wheeling round the Beach Ballroom, the site of more gropings and
knee-tremblers
over the decades than there are grains of sand.

The mischievous shades put in a last appearance thrusting a small photograph, with the unnatural colours that years ago passed for verisimilitude, in front of my eyes. They helpfully aligned the horizon in the photo with the real thing and made me look at the seven thin students playing tug of war with a salvaged rope. Two died years ago, one is still living in Greece breeding horses, one became a gender realignment surgeon, one the rector of a northern school about to retire – and the other two, who knows?

Before the Edinburgh train left Aberdeen station the same ghosts jostled to sit in the seats opposite and crammed their white dusty suitcases full of old dreams and laughter into the overhead luggage racks.

After travelling alone it was good to be joined again by David despite his insistence on wearing a camouflage jacket that last saw service in the jungles of either Borneo or Korea.

The immortal words ‘Get aaf m’bus!’ were perhaps redundant given that the 51 had reached its destination in Aberdeen and the young couple under threat of expulsion were already half-way down the steps. Their verbal assailant wore a cartoon honcho moustache, an obligatory part of the dress code for all drivers on Stagecoach buses. Who knows what they had been up to? Perhaps they were aspiring to join the bus equivalent of the Mile High Club and had foolishly attempted to copulate on a moving vehicle. They may simply have cultivated a nasty line in mocking drivers with truly strange
moustaches
. The half empty bottle of Buckfast provided the best clue. The incident passed with a final flurry of muttered abuse on both sides.

Despite its name there was more to the 51 than its Wild West moniker suggested. It must have been at least runner-up in the
most-luxurious
-bus-in-the-world competition equipped with Wi-Fi,
personal
ventilation systems and a toilet. We both waited for a bus hostess to stand in the corridor and demonstrate where the exits were, ‘In the unlikely event of the Buchan Link landing on water …’ Any residual pretence of paying homage to the bone-rattling, arse-aching travel of the eighteenth century was quietly dropped.

We cruised past the docks where rig supply boats and cable laying vessels with exotic Scrabble names, SKANDI OLYMPIA, MEARSK FEEDER, TOISA SONATA, were wedged together. It was as if some monstrous wave had hurled these massive ocean-going boats into the town centre, their lurid marine architecture clashing with the venerable granite spires.

Two elderly passengers boarding in Union Street were admonished when their passes failed to work. ‘I would strongly recommend that you renew your cards.’ Shamefaced, they hid in their seats.

It may have been the comfort that induced a collective mood of stillness in the travellers. They were all ancient and were all couples. Travelling through the Aberdeenshire countryside in complete luxury and at no cost must have knocked the dubious pleasures of the nursing-home lounge into a cocked hat. Middle class families in the know and eager to preserve their inheritance now wrap up their old people, give them a flask, pin their bus passes to their jackets, remind them to use the toilet and wave them off. Ten hours later after several circular tours they return, their eyes glazed with pleasure but ready for sleep.

There may have been other reasons why none of the couples spoke to each other. They may have said all there was to say in the final stages of long lives; they had no words left. Something else happens to married couples who have been together for ever. At some point in middle age it becomes obvious to both parties that it is no longer necessary to finish sentences. Quite simply the other knows how any unfinished sentence would have ended. This phase typically coincides with the onset of worrying that Lord Alzheimer might be pointing a long finger in their direction. The fact that sentences no longer finish as they used to can seem more sinister than it is. This process continues until there is no need to talk at all. Everything is understood.

The silence was broken when an elderly blind man and his pal joined. They shared a passion for dogs and flooded the bus with anecdotes about lurchers and a setter which had cost £100 in 1952. One of the tales actually started with, ‘It wis a braw moonlicht night …’ Gradually their mood changed. ‘Ma mither died o cancer when she was 52 …’; ‘… aa they millions on a war they canna win …’

The canine theme was echoed in the sign to Black Dog Rifle Range. At least the snipers were selective and spared the lives of
golden retrievers. A passing Dalmatian would provoke debate and would send them scurrying to consult the rule book.

A glance at the newspaper being shared by the couple in front yielded the headline, SATAN LIVES IN VATICAN SAYS CHURCH thereby vindicating generations of sectarian loyalist bigots who have always suspected as much. Across the aisle two grey heads joined at the temples devoured the non news that AFTER 35 YEARS (AND FOUR HUSBANDS) IN CORRIE I FEARED THIS PLOT WOULD BE MY LAST. The headlines were so large as to leave no room for any related article.

On the Ellon road, overshadowed by a humpy ribbon of dunes, Johnson observed, ‘In one place the sand of the shore had been raised by a tempest and carried to such a distance that an estate was overwhelmed and lost.’ In 1814 when Sir Walter Scott sailed along the coast in a Lighthouse Yacht he recorded in his diary, ‘Along the Bay of Belhelvie a whole parish was swallowed up by the shifting sands, and is still a desolate waste.’

From the bus we failed to catch sight of weather-cocked steeples peeping through the coarse grass while the noise from the diesel engine drowned out any plaintive sand-muffled church bells.

How Boswell with his penchant for the supernatural and the spooky must have wallowed in the local legends. Sir James Lawson of Humbie, Gentleman of the Bedchamber to King James VI was sucked to his death by the sinking sands. His body was eventually retrieved but there was no sign of his horse. There is an omen here for Donald Trump whose monolithic multinational empire is hoovering up the dunes and regurgitating them as manicured and managed golf courses.

‘Donald, step away from the horse, remember what happened last time!’

Further North at Culbin on the Kinnaird estate a Great House, a church, 300 acres and an entire orchard disappeared overnight. The lord of the manor was evidently being punished for placing a curse on the local witches before playing cards with the devil, the way one does.

It was a relief then to see that Ellon had been spared inundation by sand. Boswell and Johnson slaked their thirst in an inn to the north of the Old Ythan Bridge. In the interests of research and historical verisimilitude David and I did the same. The Buchan Hotel, on the
same site as the 18
^th
century hostelry, is a pleasant enough boozer but quite unremarkable. The business sponsors the local football team judging by the framed team photographs that date back like Banquo’s children into the mists of time.

Especially poignant somehow was the sepia print of the 1940 team; all bright eyes and Brylcreem. Some of the players must have perished in the war while others may have reached a ripe old age only dying in the last decade or so. Dr W Geddes looked a fine sort of chap staring into an eventful future, ditto G Gammack and W Slessor. There should be a national day of mourning when all citizens are required to think about the life of some long dead, complete stranger; this way something like a memory could live on even for those for whom the spark of recall perished with the demise of their longest surviving relative.

I glanced at my mobile phone as we settled into the 260 to Cruden Bay. There were no missed calls or messages. Earlier in the week, aware that Johnson had commandeered a boat so that he could inspect the geological features of the seascape, I had placed an advertisement in the personal column of the
Aberdeen Press and Journal
; ‘Two old eccentrics would like to be ferried from Cruden Bay to the Bullers on Thursday pm.’ Four kindly souls phoned offering a lift by car, but in nothing that was seaworthy.
The Daily Mail
printed an article on the proposed journey that made us hope that they might have arranged a surprise for us when we arrived at the harbour; at the very least a full flotilla of small craft, a tabloid-sponsored armada. Failing that we would settle for nautical bunting and a hornpipe serenade.

These thoughts were interrupted by an official with clipboard and lots of keys who had been skulking undetected at the front of the bus. He was checking the validity of each and every proffered
concessionary
travel card. Until this moment it had never occurred to us that forging bus passes was a cottage industry in rural Aberdeenshire. Forget the twenty pound notes and passports, go for the real money! In small crofts master-forgers with croupier shades were risking their health etching with mercury, determined to conjure the exact shade of blue in the Saltire and faithfully replicate the typeface of the proud logo
One Scotland accessing public services
. Many pensioners have been
the victims of identity theft, their bins ransacked under cover of darkness. From the salvaged mess of unpayable utility bills, repeat Viagra prescriptions, betting slips and related old person’s
paraphernalia
, sufficient personal details had been gleaned to support this underworld of deception. There was also a black market in latex masks complete with straggly wisps of hair and strange facial lumps that unscrupulous young people would stretch over their heads at bus stops up and down the country.

No bunting or boats in Cruden Bay. Bugger all, basically, and certainly nothing to eat. Eventually a multi-tasking newsagent agreed to microwave us some macaroni cheese for a modest fee. David, fearful of salmonella poisoning, opted for a lump of pre-packed cheddar which he attacked with a Ben Gunn-like ferocity.

We were initially reluctant to interrupt the barman in The Fairway so we joined him in watching a daytime TV show which featured a touch rugby match between two sets of very fat holiday makers on some distant sun-drenched sceptic isle. At half time we asked about the possibility of hiring a boat. Without taking his eyes from the screen in case he missed a far-from-action replay he directed us up the hill to the St Olaf Hotel. His eyes, when they finally made contact betrayed a hint of warning and sadness as he intoned ‘Ask for the Boatman. He’s the one wearing combat fatigues and a baseball cap.’

Before leaving we mentioned that we hoped to visit the ruined Slaines castle just along the coast. This time a different expression took a grip. Nostalgia mixed with lust as he smiled into the distance at a much, much younger version of himself enjoying adolescent fumbles in the ruins. ‘It was dark and scary mind, and the girls needed to be held.’ Strangely I found myself wondering if the castle would have the same effect on David.

We followed the dreamer’s advice but not before a
health-and-safety
orientated discussion about the likelihood of drowning if we hired an ancient mariner who presumably spends every waking hour stopping at least one in three and extracting drink with menaces.

Although our fears were unfounded our hopes were equally unmet. The Boatman, visibly pleased to be so called, and indeed dressed as if he had just returned from a major war, explained that sadly he had recently sold his boat.

On the way down to the harbour David suggested borrowing a large vessel parked in someone’s drive. He thought he could start the 
outboard motor if I was prepared to kill anyone who asked what we were doing. Hastening on, a quick tour of both the inner and outer harbours revealed not a boat in the water or indeed a single human being to accost. Out of the water a flat-bottomed vessel with strange metal arms rested against a wall. It had been liberated from a boating pond and its paddles brutally hacked off, a wingless dragon fly.

As Boswell and Johnson must have done on many occasions when neither a chaise nor horses were at hand, we walked.

Slaines Castle is a deeply disconcerting ruin. Only the cellars remain from the original building where the urbane Earl of Errol and his brother entertained the travellers. The whole castle was demolished, rebuilt and partially demolished again. From a distance it looks one dimensional, a ransacked, roofless, black silhouette; the charred
backcloth
to a child’s worst nightmare. On approach, innumerable
doorways
and window spaces beckon into an eerie inner labyrinth of small interconnected rooms. The brickwork was reminiscent of Second World War newsreels featuring images of the blitz, ovens and camps. The graffitied walls were charred from fires; there were indecipherable hieroglyphics everywhere. Spiral staircases that seemed to be climbing with a purpose unexpectedly opened onto precipitous nothingness above a boiling sea. Steps disappeared into dark holes. It is easy to see why Bram Stoker stayed and was inspired to write
Dracula
. The guest list also features in no particular order: Hitler, Beelzebub, Vlad the Impaler and Margaret Thatcher.

It was difficult to stand on the twice ruined site of the original drawing-room previously hung with portraits by Reynolds and Hogarth and recreate the urbane, philosophical discussion between the travellers and the Earl of Errol. Johnson talked of corporal punishment – a pleasure always dear to his heart. Boswell refrained from comment on the view that beating children is ultimately good for them. Boswell’s complex relationship with his own father had its origins in frequent childhood chastisement.

Johnson stared out to sea and half apologised for wishing he could witness a storm. The Earl chipped in with a lugubrious anecdote about a convicted murderer obliged to lie in a wood until a stronger rope could be found to hang him with. The Earl’s brother pointed out the narrowest of ledges outside the window where a would-be intruder once plunged to a nasty death.

It was no surprise that Boswell recorded a troubled night. ‘I had a 
most elegant room. But there was a fire in it which blazed, and the sea, to which my windows looked, roared, and the pillows were made of some sea-fowl’s feathers which had to me a disagreeable smell. So that by all these causes, I was kept awake a good time. I began to think that Lord Errol’s father, Lord Kilmarnock (who was beheaded on Tower Hill in 1746), might appear to me, and I was somewhat dreary.’

Birkbeck Hill records how in more recent times the castle’s servants were petrified by ghostly moans emanating from the fireplace only to find in the morning that a ship had foundered on the rocks and the entire crew had drowned.