The Burry Man's Day (4 page)

‘Dandy, this is Robert Dudgeon. Carpenter and Burry Man. Robert: Mrs Gilver has come to help Mrs de Cassilis with the Fair and she’s very much looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.’

Mr Dudgeon touched his forehead but said nothing.

‘So,’ said Cadwallader in a hearty patronizing voice. ‘You’re not really going to let Mrs Gilver down, are you? Not to mention the rest of us?’

Mr Dudgeon shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He was in his stocking soles, presumably having left his workboots at the door on his way in, and I felt a stab of pity, for his obvious discomfiture could only be deepened by having to hold this interview with no shoes on.

‘I was so surprised when Mr de Cassilis told me the Burry Man still went on, Mr Dudgeon,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to see it.’

‘Well now there, madam,’ said Robert Dudgeon. ‘I’m sorry about that then, but I’ve just been telling Mr de Cassilis here I can’t do it. It’s a shame, but there it is.’

‘Yes, but why?’ said Cadwallader, clearly very exasperated.

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid, sir. You’ll just have to take my word for it there.’

‘Now look, Dudgeon,’ said Cadwallader with a new note in his voice. ‘Obviously someone’s got to you’ – Mr Dudgeon’s head jerked up – ‘and I want to know who it is and what he said and then I’ll get to him.’

Robert Dudgeon stared at him, with his mouth stuck out in an obstinate purse making his large moustaches bristle.

‘But you’re being ridiculous,’ said Cadwallader. ‘What has he said? Is it Rev. Dowd? Is it the whisky? Could you do it without the whisky? Is it Rev. McAndrew? Has he said that you’ll bring down the wrath of God?’

‘It would be a wee bit late to be worrying about that now, sir,’ said Mr Dudgeon. ‘I’ve been the Burry Man for twenty-five year.’

‘Well, exactly!’ said Cadwallader. ‘Twenty-five years. Tradition. Not to mention the thousands of years of tradition before that.’

‘Don’t you think I know that? Sir,’ said Mr Dudgeon, glaring at Cadwallader. ‘Why do you think I’ve done it year in year out? It’s not easy.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Dudgeon,’ said Cadwallader. ‘And did I not say that I’d give you Monday off as a holiday? As well as Friday. And Saturday for the Fair. On top of last Monday.’

‘Last Monday was the August Bank, though,’ I said gently. ‘One can’t take credit for that.’

‘Bank holidays!’ said Cadwallader. ‘They’re a new one on me, I must say. I thought the servants were having me on. And there are dozens. All paid.’

‘A handful,’ I said. ‘And, speaking of pay, Mr Dudgeon, what about the Burry Man? Do they pay you for that?’ I am not the subtlest woman ever born and this was blunt even for me, only I was thinking that we might be witnessing a stand-off for higher wages and Cad, as an American, might not have been able to read the signs. I mean, an American who wanted more money might simply say in a loud voice: ‘Give me more money, pal!’ but a Scot would rather die.

‘Not to speak of, madam,’ said Mr Dudgeon. ‘It’s not the money.’

‘Although there
is
money,’ said Cadwallader. ‘And I wouldn’t have thought you could just thumb your nose at it, Robert. That’s very surprising.’

Mr Dudgeon glared at him again.

‘So how about it?’ said Cadwallader. ‘What would it take?’

Mr Dudgeon did not answer this, but just shook his head and curled his lip rather.

‘Oh yes, I know what you’re thinking. Coming over here, taking over, thinking he can buy anything,’ said Cad.

Mr Dudgeon and I were both squirming now. Someone would have to have a word with Cad about talking to servants.

‘But you mark my words,’ he went on. ‘They’ll find a way to blame me for this. Next year when all those so-called ladies and their tame pastors have stopped playing holier-than-thou and soberer-than-thou all they’ll remember –
all
they’ll remember – is that the Yank came and a thousand years of history went out the window. You just watch.’

‘Cad,’ I said, seeing that he was working himself into a temper, but he interrupted me.

‘And I’d like to know, Robert – as well as who’s threatening you – just exactly what they’re threatening you with. I mean you’re my estate carpenter and you live in one of my cottages, so who else
can
threaten you?’

‘Cad,’ I said again.

‘No, God damn it,’ said Cadwallader. ‘That’s a very good point. Robert, I am ordering you to do the Burry Man routine tomorrow, as your employer and as your landlord. Do I have to make it any plainer than that?’

‘Cadwallader!’ I said. ‘Can you give Mr Dudgeon and me a few minutes?’ Cad seemed more than ready to refuse, even though this was exactly why he had roped me in, but he caught hold of himself in time and, with a last disgusted look at Robert Dudgeon, he left.

‘Now then,’ I said. I gestured to a chair and Dudgeon, after hesitating a moment, sat down stiffly and rested his rough, red fists on his knees. ‘I am quite sure Mr de Cassilis didn’t mean a word of that, and of course if you are adamant then you must have very good reasons, but let’s see if we can work something out.’ Robert Dudgeon looked at me stonily but seemed ready to listen. I thought for a moment or two.

‘Surely someone else in the village could step in,’ I said at last.

‘It’s hard work, madam, it takes a load of stamina and willpower to keep going all the day long. It would be a very bad thing if someone tried and failed. A very bad thing.’

‘You mean bad luck?’

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Mr Dudgeon, and shuddered.

‘But isn’t it almost as bad if no one does it at all?’ I said. Perhaps if I kept him focused on this aspect he would come round of his own accord. His face showed me that he was struggling, but he won himself over in the end.

‘It’s worse. It’s the blackest bad luck you could have, but it can’t be helped.’

‘And can’t you think of someone,
anyone,
who feels as strongly as you do about it? Who would just make himself find the stamina no matter what? Do you pass it down the generations? Do you have a boy you could play the heavy father with?’ His face was clouding as I spoke, and I should have known better. One should always know better now, since the war, than gaily to ask a man of fifty if he has sons.

‘He didn’t come home, madam,’ said Mr Dudgeon and we sat a while in silence.

‘I say, what about Mr de Cassilis!’ I was half joking and was delighted to get a smile out of Mr Dudgeon in spite of himself. ‘He seems keen enough, judging by what we just saw, doesn’t he? And he certainly has a vested interest.’ The more I thought about this, the more the idea grew on me. ‘There might be a bit of talk about an incomer taking over,’ I said. ‘But if we can swear the inner circle to secrecy, once the burry suit is on, it will be too late for anyone to do a thing about it. And no one would go as far as to rip it off again, now would they?’

He was still shaking his head but at least he seemed to be thinking, his eyes darting back and forth over the pattern in the rug.

‘Are you having an idea?’ I asked, eagerly. ‘Is there someone?’

‘Eh? Oh no, there’s no one I can think of, madam. But . . . mebbes it’ll be all right after all.’ He was looking at me without seeing me, plotting furiously at something or other.

‘You can do it?’ I asked. He chewed his lip for a bit before answering.

‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Aye, I can. I’m sure I can, madam, yes.’

We chatted on for a bit about this and that, his work on the castle roof, the determination of Cad and Buttercup to live here. I had not been used to think of myself as handling servants well – my own run rings around me – but after all, I had been mistress of my house for over fifteen years now and I must be almost exactly what Mr Dudgeon was used to, compared with Cadwallader at least.

So I fairly bounced downstairs to the Great Hall ten minutes later. On entering it, I found the guests departed and Cad, Daisy and Buttercup sitting on the table, for want of anywhere else to rest themselves, looking dejected.

‘Was any blood shed?’ I asked. ‘I heard no klaxons.’

‘All very well for you,’ said Daisy. ‘You escaped. I’ve had “fresh air and exercise” in one ear and “the demon drink” in the other for a solid half-hour, Dan.’

‘So much for your sip of something delicious, darling,’ I said to Buttercup. ‘Expect to be damned in every pulpit come Sunday.’

‘Yes,’ said Buttercup. ‘But even the ones who drink seem to disapprove of me anyway. Father Whatsisname was fearfully sour.’

‘They think you’re divorced,’ I told her.

‘They’re a little premature,’ said Cadwallader, but at Buttercup’s pout, he shoved her with his elbow and said: ‘I’m only joking, Droopy,’ and Buttercup cheered up and beamed.

I took pity on them at last and told my news.

‘Miracle worker!’ said Buttercup. ‘What did you say to him?’

‘Oh, I haven’t told you about Dandy’s new-found talent for . . . well, everything, have I?’ said Daisy.

‘I got chummy and then appealed to his pride,’ I said. ‘And I’ve promised him a ten-pound tip.’ I had done no such thing, had only just thought of it there and then, but I felt Cadwallader needed to make some reparation for his outburst.

‘We’ll call it twenty,’ said Cadwallader. ‘Another Manhattan before dinner? I would advise it – Mrs Murdoch is a good plain cook with lots of plain.’

‘Ugh,’ I said, goose pimples rising at the very suggestion. ‘Nothing with whisky for me, darling, please.’

‘All right, then, a Sidecar,’ said Cadwallader. ‘But don’t let them hear you tomorrow, Dandy. About the whisky, I mean. This town runs on the stuff.’

Chapter Two

It did indeed. One could not help thinking that the various reverends were wasting their time rather, pushing Temperance, in a town where most of the inhabitants who did not fish or farm or shop-keep worked for the whisky distiller who had an enormous bottling hall and bonded store a stone’s throw up the hill from the High Street. From what I understood, moreover, since the Ferry Fair day was a holiday, many of the workers would be quite a bit
more
sober this day than most others, it being their practice not to filch the whisky in bottles or flasks but simply to glug it down during their shift, then stagger home and sleep it off. As well as ‘the bottling’, of course, there was the usual, more than generous, quota of pubs. A town the size of South Queensferry in Wiltshire, say, would boast a coaching inn and perhaps a backstreet beer shop, but here there were upwards of a dozen separate establishments selling the demon drink, from the Hawes Inn at the top, drawing its respectability from History and Literature and its trade from the ferryboat trippers come to look at the bridge, all the way to the drinking shops such as ‘Broon’s Bar’ at the bottom. The even less salubrious-sounding ‘Hole i’ the Wa’’ had recently fallen down, suggesting that its name perhaps had referred to its architecture as much as its social standing.

Cadwallader regaled us with all of this as we motored into town the next morning, and seemed heartily in favour both of the distillery men topping themselves up as they worked and of the ratio of beer pumps to head of population.

‘Because when you’ve just been through what we’ve just been through . . .’ he said grimly.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Buttercup. ‘I thought Prohibition was rather fun. You didn’t have to worry too much at home so long as you chose your servants carefully, and the speakeasies were really quite jolly.’

Cadwallader shook his head at her as he stopped to let a crowd of tattered little children cross the road at Dalmeny village.

‘For God’s sake, Freddy, don’t start singing the praises of speakeasies in front of anyone today, will you?’ he said, waving and tooting at the children as we started up again. ‘Off to see the Burry Man?’ he called.

‘It’s hardly likely to come up in conversation,’ said Buttercup. ‘I must say, though, gangsters are much better value at a party than our new neighbours showed themselves to be last night, aren’t they, Cad?’

Cadwallader tried to laugh this off as ‘Freddy’s nonsense’ and although she protested – ‘Well, what would you call him, darling? He always brings a case of gin and one never sees him without those two boys who look like boxers!’ – Daisy and I thought it best to feign deafness.

Within minutes, we arrived at the parking yard of the garage by the Hawes and stepped down. It was a fine morning, a clear sky and just the merest flutter of a breeze from the river and Daisy, Buttercup and I debated together whether to take our little coats and our sun parasols, or both, or neither.

‘Only I do hate putting on a coat and crumpling my frock sleeves then taking it off later when it’s hot,’ said Daisy. ‘I’d rather feel cold until this afternoon and keep my pleats crisp.’

‘Come on, come on,’ said Cadwallader who was holding open the gate for us. ‘Good grief, think about poor Robert Dudgeon, stumping around covered in burrs all day. Stop fussing.’

‘Let’s leave the coats but take the –’ Buttercup began, but broke off at an ostentatious sigh from the gate. She blew a kiss at Cadwallader in passing.

There were a few knots of people already on their way along the road, and there was a definite sense of anticipation about their hurry as well as high spirits. Somewhere ahead of us a clock tower sounded a single note.

‘Quarter to,’ said an old woman, marching along with a giggling grandchild (I guessed) held firmly by the arm, and she quickened her step.

From the Hawes around the sweep of the river there is a shingly beach on one side, separated from the road by the tidewall, and a pleasant wooded bank opposite with just a few prosperous-looking villas. The road itself is broad and even, and I began to wonder why we could not have ridden on in the car, but then all of a sudden one turns an awkward corner and finds oneself right in the middle of a rather quaint little town, with higgledy-piggledy shops and houses jutting out into one’s path, as though the river had washed them up the shore a bit now and then over the years. Across the road, there were some ancient buildings, square and solid, and in between them the town had grown in the most ingenious way: above us, up smart sets of steps, broad walkways led to some really rather grand merchants’ houses, while below, little shops had been tucked in underneath. I had never cared for the vertical ordering of the social classes one sees in Edinburgh, where the rich sit up-top hogging the light and simply pour their potato water (and worse) down on the heads of the poor below, but South Queensferry’s terraces were as pleasing to the eye in their nattiness as collectors’ cabinets or dolls’ houses can be, and I daresay if the plumbing were all that one could wish for, one could live and work above or below in perfect comfort.