The Complete McAuslan (66 page)

So during our stay there was a permanent semi-circle, thousands strong, a few hundred yards from the walls, staring in dead silence at the kilted sentries and waiting for the piper to start up again. They were entirely peaceful, but I suppose our presence may have spared the nuns some pilfering and annoyance. That was all there was to it, except that I had to spend every spare hour in attendance on the ancient Mother Superior, who was a clock-golf freak and counted all time lost when she wasn’t beating the daylights out of visitors with her putter. Constant practice had sharpened her game to the point where she could have given Greg Norman a stroke a hole, and after two days of watching her sink fifteen-footers I didn’t care if I never saw a golf ball again. (You were called on to do some peculiar things in the old British Army, but I can’t recall many stranger than following that bird-like little old woman in her white robe and wimple as she hopped round the clock-golf layout, rattling her putts across the baked earth with invariable accuracy and chirping triumphantly in Italian. Beaten seven and five in a Garden of Allah in the Sahara Desert. I wonder if it’s still there.)

On the third morning the oasis was deserted; the buddoo had vanished back into the big desert. The Catholic members of Eleven Platoon went to an early Mass while the Protestants stood about outside with arms folded, sniffing; I thanked the Mother Superior for her marathon putting lesson; the entire convent staff stood on the walls waving as we left, apparently convinced that we alone had saved them from sack and pillage – and only as we drove back into town did I recall that other minor crisis I had left behind in barracks three days ago. Had the iron discipline of Lance-Corporal McAuslan provoked a mutiny yet? Had he perhaps failed in some duty and been reduced to the ranks – the battalion would have been back home for two days now (I had missed the Waterloo Ball the previous night) and I couldn’t believe that the Colonel would lose much time in returning him to private life, so to speak. Yet with McAuslan, you never knew; he might have got himself recommended for a commission by now, or deserted.

I was not kept in suspense. Almost the first thing I saw as our lead truck turned into the barrack gate was the familiar unkempt figure crouching in the little rock-garden outside the guardroom, apparently foraging for bugs under stones. He had all the appearance of a defaulter on fatigues, which suggested that he was a private again, but with the sleeve of his denims in its usual mouldering state it was hard to tell whether there was still a stripe there or not. I got out, told the trucks to carry on to the barrack-block, and addressed him.

‘What happened to you?’

He rose, shedding loose soil and debris, and gave me cordial greeting. ‘Aw, hullaw rerr, surr. Ye got back. The Fenian wimmen a’right, then?’

I assured him that the convent was safe, and repeated my question, and he wiped his nose audibly with a hand covered in compost; it didn’t make him a whit dirtier than he already was.

‘Ah got stripped,’ he announced, and heaved a sigh of deep resignation. ‘Bustit.’

‘Oh dear, that’s a shame,’ I lied. ′How did it happen?’

‘Aye, weel, ye see.’ He frowned, meditating, and passed a hand through his tangled hair, dislodging a well-built earthworm. ‘It wis because o’ MacGonagal.’

For a wild moment I thought he meant the poet. You see why: from taking up the cudgels in one branch of the arts, music, it would be a short step to brawling on the slopes of Parnassus – and then I remembered there was a MacGonagal in Three Section, a pugnacious Glaswegian recently posted to us from the Highland Light Infantry.

‘He got impident, an’ Ah belted him.’ That settled which MacGonagal it was, anyway. ‘It was just last night, efter the Waterloo Ball, when we were clearin’ up on the bandstand, pittin’ the furniture away, an’ that – ’

‘Don’t tell me the band had been playing “Because” and MacGonagal didn’t like it.’

‘Ach, no.’ He made a contemptuous gesture, scattering loam broadcast. ‘They widnae hiv the gumption tae play onything that good. Naw, MacGonagal just startit makin’ remarks, an’ Ah wisnae havin’ it – ’

‘McAuslan,’ I said patiently. ‘You were still a lance-corporal, weren’t you? Yes, so if MacGonagal was insolent to you, the proper course was to book him, not belt him. Right?’

‘Ye don’t understand, sur. It wisnae me he was cheeky to. Ah couldnae book him.’ He clawed at his midriff in perplexity, and there was a sound of damp cotton tearing. ‘It was just that he startit makin’ insultin’ remarks, about the pictur’. Ye know, the big pictur’ o’ oor fellas haudin’ ontae the cavalry’s stirrups an’ chargin’ alang wi’ them an’ gettin’ tore intae ra Frogs. Aye, ra Stirrup Charge. Here, it’s a smashin’ paintin’, yon, so it is!’ He beamed in admiration through his grime. ‘Ought tae be onna calendars an’ whusky bottles, so it should.’

I decided I wasn’t hearing aright. McAuslan the music critic I had been prepared to accept – just. But McAuslan stirred to violence because of aspersions cast on a Victorian painting . . . no. Where would it end? He’d be battering people over Henry Moore and Stravinsky before you knew it.

‘What,’ I asked with bated breath, ‘did MacGonagal say about the painting, McAuslan?’

‘He said it wis bluidy rubbish,’ replied McAuslan indignantly. ‘Ah didnae mind that, but. Fella’s entitled tae his opinion, like ye said. But then he sez: “Whit’s it meant tae be aboot, onywye?” So Ah tellt him. Ah sez: ”That’s oor fellas – oor regiment, no’ the bluidy H.L.I. – haudin’ ontae the cavalry’s stirrups an’ chargin’ alang wi’ them an’ gettin’ tore intae ra Frogs. Winnin’ ra Battle o’ Waterloo, MacGonagal,” Ah sez, “pittin’ the hems on Napoleon, see?” “Zatafact?” sez he – ye know, sarcastic-like. “Weel, Ah’ll tell ye sumpn, McAuslan,” sez he. “Ah don’t think your bluidy regiment wis chargin’ wi’ the cavalry at a’. Ah think they were tryin’ tae haud them back.”’

‘Dammed cheek!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s whit Ah said!’ cried McAuslan, vindicated. ‘Ah sez: “Look, MacGonagal, no bluidy fugitive frae the Hairy-Legged Irish is gaun tae say that aboot
this
regiment! Ye bluidy leear, you tak’ that back or Ah’m claimin’ ye!” “Ach, away an’ shoot a few more cheeses,” sez he, an’ gives me the V-sign. So that wis when Ah pit the heid on him.’

So it hadn’t been a case of wounded artistic sensibilities, but ” of regimental honour, which was rather different.

‘An’ he beltit me back, an’ we got tore in.’ His voice took on a plaintive chant which was familiar. ‘An’ then the Gestapo came, an’ beltit the both o’ us, and pit us in the cooler – ’

‘Yes, I understand,’ I said. ‘Well, he had provoked you, but you shouldn’t have hit him, just the same.’ An intriguing thought struck me. ‘You came up before the Colonel this morning, I suppose – what did he say when he heard why you’d been fighting?’

‘Och, he wis awfy decent, but. He’s a great man, yon,’ said McAuslan affectionately. ‘When we wiz marched in, an’ the R.S.M. cries: “Here Lance-Corporal McAuslan an’ Private MacGonagal been gettin’ wired intae each ither’ – or sumpn like that, onywye – ra Colonel tak’s one look at me an’ sez: “Ah don’t believe it.” Funny, him sayin’ that, sur; Ah mean, Ah’ve been marched in before.’ He shook his matted head, puzzled, and I didn’t like to tell him it was the lance-corporal’s stripe the Colonel hadn’t been able to believe.

‘Aye, weel, he heard the evidence frae ra Gestapo, an’ we didnae hiv nuthin’ tae say, so he gives MacGonagal seven days and shoots him oot. Then he sez tae me: “Ah sympathise wi’ yer reaction, Corporal, but Ah’m afraid ye cannae continue as an N.C.O. Ah’ll hiv tae reduce ye tae the ranks, an’ gi’ ye one day’s C.B.” But he smiled, quite joco. An’ that wis it.’

Trust the Colonel to find a painless way of busting him. It had been bound to happen eventually, and it couldn’t have been done more tactfully – mind you, the excuse had been made in heaven. I surveyed him, grubby and dishevelled but apparently content, and since we were conversing so amiably, for once, I ventured a sensitive question.

‘Tell me, McAuslan . . . something that’s been puzzling me. That tune, “Because”. Where did you first hear it, d’you remember? And why do you like it so much? Does it just appeal to you, or is there some special reason?’

‘Och, Ah can tell ye that, sur.’ He scratched happily. ‘First time Ah ever heard “Because” wis in the auld Happy Days cabaret in Port Said, back in ’42. Ye know the Happy Days, sur – in behind Simon Arts?
⁶
No? Aye, weel, that’s where Ah heard it. Greatest tune that ever wis. So it is. Efter that, Ah used tae get ma mate Wullie Ferguson tae play it on his mooth-organ, when we wis inna desert, inna war.’

‘Fifty-first Div? Eighth Army?’

‘That’s right, sur. Wullie played it awfy bonny, but.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Wullie? He bought his lot just efter Alamein. Land-mine.’ He shook his head. ‘He wis a good mucker, just the same, Wullie.’

So that was it. Only it wasn’t, apparently, for he went on: ‘But whit Ah like best aboot “Because” is that it minds me o’ the auld Happy Days. Aw, we had some rerr terrs in that place, Ah’m tellin’ yel’ He scrubbed his nose with his sleeve, beaming with reminiscence. ‘Aye, wi’ the wog band playin’ “Because”. See, there wis this big belly-dancer, an’ it wis her signature tune, an’ she did her stuff tae it. Goad, but Ah fancied that wumman! Never got near her, mind. None o’ us did. But the tune stuck in ma heid. Fatima, her name wis.’ He gave a rasping sigh. ‘Ma Goad, see her an’ her tambourine!’

Well, there are worse reasons for being a music-lover, I suppose. He sighed again and spat, surveying the guardroom rockery with sloth-like reluctance.

‘Aye, weel, this’ll no’ pay the rent. Mind if Ah cairry on, sur? Ah’ve tae finish weedin’ this lot or big McGarry’ll kill me, swine that he is.’ He scooped up a pawful of mud. ‘It wid scunner ye, no kiddin’. Stoor an’ muck an’ wee crawly beasties! See them, Ah hate them! Ach!’

‘Carry on, McAuslan,’ I said, and as I turned away I added, not quite insincerely: ‘Anyway, I’m sorry you lost your stripe.’

‘Ach, Ah’m no’ bothered,’ said he, clawing at the soil. ‘It’s better bein’ back wi’ the boys, Fletcher ‘n’ Forbes an’ them. Ah didnae like havin’ tae boss them aboot. Ye know sumpn, sur?’ He paused, squatting, weighing a handful of ordure in a philosophic way. ‘Ye hiv tae be a right pig tae get promotion. Aye, an’ it turns ye intae a worser pig, the higher up ye get, Ah’m sure o’ that. Weel, ye ken that yersel’.’ Grunt, grunt, I thought. ‘So Ah’m no’ carin’ aboot getting bustit. Ah wisnae much o’ a lance-jack onywye. Ah did everythin’ wrang.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you did too badly,’ I consoled him. ‘At least you never lost a guardroom.’

‘Loast a guardroom?’ said McAuslan incredulously. ‘How the hell could Ah? Ah mean, Ah know Ah’m dumb, but it would tak’ a right bluidy eejit tae dae that!’

‘You’re probably right,’ I said humbly. ‘Carry on, McAuslan.’

The Gordon Women

There is a story they tell in Breadalbane:

Gordon of Achruach was at feud with Campbell of Kentallan, who hired certain Gregora, landless men, who took the Gordon unawares while he was hunting in the Mamore. And they cut off his head and put it in a bag to show the Campbell that the work was done. That was the way of it.

And as they fared for Kentallan the Gregora came by the Gordon’s door at Achruach, and went in, and the Gordon’s wife (little knowing she was a widow) bade them to table, as the custom is, and went out for the Athol brose. And while she was gone the Gregora winked at one another, and set the Gordon’s head on a dish, with an apple in the mouth, to see what the good wife would make of it. That is the Gregora for you, hell mend the black pack of them.

And the good wife came in, and saw her man’s head bloody on the board, but kept her countenance and said never a word, only smiled on the Gregora and bade them good cheer. The Gregora wondered at this. Has she not seen it? was in the mind of each of them. Still looked she never on the head, but said a word to her ghillie and sent him forth. And smiling on the Gregora, she told them a tale, never looking at the head, and held them spellbound, for she was great at the stories, and very fair besides. The Gregora wondered, has she not seen it yet? This is not canny, was in their minds, and they said they must be for the road, but she held them there by her tale and her presence, and so they bided whether they would or no. That was the way of it.

And still she spoke and looked not on the head, until theghillie returned with her men of Achruach, who came in swift and sudden and stood behind the Gregora seated, one to one, and each Gordon with his dirk at a dirty Gregora neck. And she told on till the tale was done – aye, she was great at the stories – and then said she: ‘I see my man is come home, and has but an apple to eat. Give him to drink also, wine red and warm.’ And at her word they slew the Gregora where they sat, and the red blood ran. That was the way of it.

And the ghillie said: ‘Oh, mistress, how did you keep your countenance this long while in the presence of yon fell thing, and beguile these stark men?’ And she answered: ‘The day I cannot keep my countenance, and hold men in their place and work my will on them, that is a day you will never see.’ That was the way of it. That was a woman of the Gordons for you.

Wade’s House stands on the rocky side of a lovely little green cleft in the hills, with a deep brown burn gurgling under its white walls. In summer it is half-hidden among the rowans and silver birches and tall bracken, and you can pass by on the main highway two hundred yards below and never know it is there, which may be why General Wade made it his headquarters when he was building those roads which tamed the Scottish North two and a half centuries ago. It was the edge of beyond in his day, the last outpost before the hostile wilderness which Wade himself described as ‘a land as far away as Africa’, the home of the last savages in Europe, the Highland clans. From his little valley he could look up at Ben Dorain, the first spur of the great Grampian range towering away north-east to the mists; only a few miles ahead of him was the mouth of the Killing Place, Glencoe, under the shadow of the most menacing mountain in Britain, the Buchaille Etive; how harsh and dangerous to his English ears must have sounded the names of those wild tracts beyond the hills – Rannoch, Badenoch, Lochaber, and they weren’t the half of it.