The peppermint tea chron.., p.12
The Peppermint Tea Chronicles, page 12
Her thoughts drifted. Of course, there were other people who dressed up to slaughter animals, particularly foxes. Elspeth had lived in the countryside long enough to know that foxes and farmers were not the closest of allies, but did you have to dress up to do what you felt needed to be done to protect your chickens and lambs?
She looked at her watch again. It was a pity, as Matthew had given it to her shortly after they had become engaged, and she had chosen it at Hamilton & Inches. Would they be able to fix it? They probably could, but she would have to go into town or give it to Matthew to drop off on George Street, and Matthew seemed to be so busy now and did not like to be burdened with errands, and…She stopped, and looked out toward the Moorfoots once more. Everything was so empty here. The land was empty; the sky was empty; there was nowhere for her to go for a cup of coffee with friends, or to read the newspaper or her e-mails. And there were so few e-mails to be read, anyway, as she never saw her friends any longer, now that she was stuck out here with the triplets. Every minute of the day was taken up with attending to the needs of the three small boys, except for those spells, as now, when James took them and entertained them. Without him, life would be utterly impossible, but even with him here and working in such an obliging manner and without complaint it seemed somehow to be so empty, like the sky, and the land, and…
Elspeth started to cry. I love my husband, she thought. I love my boys. I love this house. And yet I feel so miserable and alone and trapped. Yes, trapped is the word. I’m trapped. Caught. Pinned down. I wanted to be something, to have a career, to have a life of my own. I wanted to travel and see the world and get caught up in adventures with interesting people. I wanted to have those interesting people about me, saying interesting things and sending me interesting e-mails. But where are they? Not here in Nine Mile Burn. Not in my life.
There was a burst of sound—a banging of doors and the clatter of high-pitched young voices. This meant that James had brought in the boys from outside, and there would be mud on their boots—there always was—and that mud would be transferred to the carpets—it always was—and then onto the sofa, which had covers that did not detach easily and were impossibly light-colored, anyway, for a household with male triplets on the rampage. And then there was Matthew’s dog, Henderson, who was also always covered in mud and regarded the sofa as his territory when he could get away with it, and who had the irritating habit of grinding his teeth, which the vet had said dogs just did not do. The vet had offered pills, but Matthew had turned them down.
“You shouldn’t tranquilize dogs,” he had said. “It’s not natural.”
“But do we have to live with it?” Elspeth had asked.
“It’s a stage,” said Matthew. “Henderson’s young. He’ll get over it.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What then?”
Matthew had looked at her in the way in which men sometimes look at women. As if to imply that she did not know. But she did. She knew, and had always known.
And then, just as she was trying to compose herself, and not let the boys see her crying, the telephone rang and it was Matthew and he said that he had invited Pat round for dinner that night and he hoped she didn’t mind. And Elspeth closed her eyes and was unable to stop herself sobbing, more volubly now, so that Matthew thought there was a problem with reception and rang off with a jaunty, “That’s fine then. Bad line. See you later, sweetheart.”
30
Weegie Dugs
Ushered into the tent of the Grand Glasgow and Greater Clyde Circus and armed with two packets of popcorn purchased at the door, Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson took their seats and waited for the show to begin. The man with the wall eye and the hook for a hand had disappeared but now came back sporting a red tailcoat and a battered top hat. He was the ringmaster, and announced himself as such to the audience, which now more or less filled the tent. As he introduced the first act a small band—a keyboard player and a guitarist—provided background music: a hodgepodge of Harry Lauder, the Proclaimers and Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G major for solo cello. This was perhaps a little bit loud, as the ringmaster had difficulty in making himself heard. He threw several reproachful glances at the musicians, but they did not seem to notice, and, if anything, played slightly louder than before.
Bertie and Ranald watched with rapt attention as the first act began—a juggler who doubled as a fire-eater.
“They have special inflammable toothpaste,” said Ranald. “I know how it works.”
Bertie was impressed. He had always admired Ranald’s independence, but the organising of this trip, along with his apparent familiarity with the ways of circuses, raised Bertie’s respect for him to a new level. How lucky Ranald was, Bertie thought, to have the parents he had: parents who drank and did Scottish country dancing. How lucky he was to have avoided psychotherapy and yoga, and all the other clouds that had hung over Bertie’s life for as long as he could remember, even if now, with his mother in Aberdeen, his situation had improved so dramatically. Perhaps from now on, he said to himself, my life will be more like Ranald’s; perhaps now I shall be able to do the things I’ve longed to do all these years.
The juggler finished with a flourish and a final exhalation of volatile fluid and flame. There was thunderous applause, even as every parent in the tent mentally rehearsed the warning they would give to their impressionable offspring after the show: do not try that at home, darling.
Now came the clowns, two knockabout endomorphs in loud tweed jackets, tartan trousers, and outsize glengarry bonnets. These were Chuck and Chick, and in broad Glaswegian they assailed one another with comic accusations while attempting to make bread in a large mixing bowl. The resulting doughfight brought squeals of delight from the audience, some of whom were spattered with lumps of dough in the process.
Then, with the band playing a valiant, Wagnerian fanfare, into the ring came Wee MacTavish and his Brainy Dugs. Wee MacTavish, a Glaswegian dwarf, was assisted by his wife, Ma MacTavish, also of limited stature, and their friend Sammy Cameron, a Gaelic-speaking dwarf from Mallaig.
“Sammy here’s a teuchter,” Wee MacTavish shouted to the audience. “He canna tell a banana frae an apple. You dinnae get either up in Mallaig!”
(Loud laughter. Cries of “Donald, where’s your troosers?” More laughter.)
Sammy then said something in Gaelic, which brought hoots from the audience and a cry of “Aye, mine will be a double, Sammy!”
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” shouted Wee MacTavish. “Kindly shut yer gobs. Thank you. It’s time for ma brainy dugs, every one of them with a degree frae Strathclyde University!”
Into the ring now ran four Highland terriers, each sporting a large tartan bow around its neck. These dogs sat down in a line and looked expectantly at Wee MacTavish.
“Right,” said Wee MacTavish. “These dugs, ladies and gentlemen, are able to do mathematics. Aye, I’m no making this up. I shall show you if you kindly sit down on your bahookies and let me continue uninterrupted.”
“Is that how they talk in Glasgow?” asked Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, his voice lowered.
Bertie nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “I can understand quite a bit of it, Ranald. I could translate if you like.”
“No,” said Ranald. “That’s all right, Bertie. I think I’ll understand a bit too.”
Wee MacTavish now stood on a stool and faced his brainy dugs. “Right, boys,” he said, wagging an admonitory finger at the dogs. “Noo then, what’s two plus two?”
One of the dogs raised a paw.
“Yes, Hamish?” said Wee MacTavish.
Hamish barked four times.
“See?” said Wee MacTavish. “That’s Hamish for you. Two plus two equals four. Nae flies on that dug!”
There was loud applause.
“Now something harder,” said Wee MacTavish, pointing to another dog. “What’s eight minus six, Jeanie?”
The dog barked twice.
“Is that the right answer?” Ranald asked Bertie.
“Yes,” said Bertie. “It’s amazing, Ranald. These dogs are really clever.”
Wee MacTavish turned back to the audience and took a bow, as did Ma MacTavish and Sammy Cameron.
“Now,” announced Wee MacTavish, “here’s a good question for ma clever dugs: which is better—Edinburgh or Glasgow? One bark for Edinburgh; two for Glasgow.”
Without hesitating, the dogs, in unison, gave voice to two barks. This brought immediate laughter, and hissing, from the audience.
“Weegies!” shouted a voice from the back. “Weegie dugs!”
“Aye,” said Wee MacTavish. “Good Weegie dugs!”
The dogs performed a few more tricks and then, to uproarious applause, they left the ring.
“That’s the best show I’ve ever seen in my life,” said Bertie.
“It was amazing,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “Those dogs are very clever, Bertie. They may come from Glasgow, but they’re very clever.”
The dogs were followed by acrobats and by the reappearance of the clowns. Then there was a strongman, who tore the Glasgow telephone directory in half with his bare hands, a trapeze artist, a pair of female tango dancers, who danced together for ten minutes, and finally a man who sang “Flower of Scotland” in Japanese while riding around the ring on a unicycle.
It ended far too early for Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, and only too soon they found themselves leaving the tent with the rest of the audience. They were not quite as pushy as others, and so were out last, coming face to face with Wee MacTavish, who was smoking a cigarette outside a small caravan parked near the big top.
“Hey, youse boys,” he shouted. “You want tae see some-thing?”
“It’s Mr. MacTavish,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, digging Bertie in the ribs. “What do you think he wants, Bertie?”
31
A Gift from Glasgow
Wee MacTavish stubbed his cigarette out under the heel of his shoe and beckoned to Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson.
“Youse boys,” he called out. “Did you like the dugs?”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson nudged Bertie. “We ought to go and talk to him, Bertie,” he said.
Bertie nodded and led his friend over to the MacTavish caravan, where the diminutive showman was waiting for them. There was a light on in the caravan and he could see Ma MacTavish and Sammy Cameron sitting inside, a teapot and mugs on the table in front of them.
It was an unusual experience for the boys to be talking to an adult who was more or less the same height as they were, but if they felt that, neither Bertie nor Ranald showed it. It had been stressed to Bertie and the others in his class at school that physical difference was not something that should be remarked upon, and that tact and courtesy should be shown when confronted with it. Wee MacTavish was a dwarf—they knew that—but they knew that this should make no difference.
And as for Wee MacTavish, a lifetime’s experience of being stared at, of being the object of surprise, embarrassment, and sometimes sheer unkindness had inured him to the reactions of others. He had reached the point of not caring too much; he was a showman, and as such he knew that the last laugh was often his own. Nor did he care much for elaborate efforts to find words for who he was. Dwarf was the word that everybody understood and that many of the people who spoke on behalf of dwarfs said should be used. Midget was different: that rubbed it in, he thought, and had a derogatory ring to it.
“If you’re wondering what to call me,” he had said to the proprietor of the circus when he had first joined it, “how about my name?”
The proprietor had shifted his feet awkwardly. “I didn’t want you to…”
Wee MacTavish cut him short. “Like everybody else,” he said, “I have a name. That’s the important bit.”
“Very well,” said the proprietor. “But do you really want me to bill your act as Wee MacTavish?”
“Well that’s what I’ve always been called, pal,” said Wee MacTavish. “And I’m no big, am I? If you called me something like Big MacTavish it would be a bit odd, don’t you think?”
Now Wee MacTavish surveyed the two small boys who had been in his audience and wondered. He did not really like Edinburgh, which he thought a stuck-up place that thought itself better than Glasgow, where he had been born and brought up, in Possilpark. These two boys had that Edinburgh look about them, although they were only weans, for heaven’s sake. He did not hold that against them, of course—children were children wherever you went—but he could just imagine their parents. And he smiled as he thought of what they would think. You could just see it? He gave you what? You accepted it? That would be one in the eye for Edinburgh, with all its smugness. That would be Glasgow saying, “Here you are, then, here’s a wee present from Glasgow! You know, we’re the other place just over there, the place you’re so sniffy about! Here’s a wee present!”
“Do you like dugs?” Wee MacTavish asked.
Bertie had no hesitation in answering. “Yes, Mr. MacTavish. We both like dogs, don’t we, Ranald?”
Ranald nodded. He was still a bit in awe of Wee MacTavish, and his voice was not very loud as he answered. “Yes, I like dogs too, Mr. MacTavish.”
Wee MacTavish was surveying the two boys. “So, you’re called Ranald,” he said. “And you, young man? What’s your name?”
“I’m called Bertie Pollock,” said Bertie.
Wee MacTavish smiled. “Bertie Pollock. That’s a good name. I know a couple of Pollocks over in Glasgow. Both of them in Barlinnie, but you boys wouldnae know much aboot that.”
Bertie gestured to Ranald. “His full name is Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, Mr. MacTavish.”
Wee MacTavish grinned. “Now there’s a name and a half. Braveheart? That’ll put the fear of God into one or two people. Good for you, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson!”
“Thank you,” said Ranald.
Wee MacTavish pointed into the caravan. “We’ve got a dug in there that’s had puppies. Six of them.”
“That’s a lot of puppies, Mr. MacTavish,” said Bertie.
“Aye, you’re right there, Bertie,” said Wee MacTavish. “Too many for one maw to deal with, I’d say. And I can’t give all of them a job in the act, can I? It takes a lot of training to get a dog up to scratch in mathematics.”
Bertie nodded politely. “Your dogs are very clever, Mr. MacTavish.”
“So that’s why I’d like to give you one of the puppies,” Wee MacTavish continued. “As a present, mind. I’m not going to ask you to pay for it.”
Bertie drew in his breath. “But…” He trailed off. A puppy?
“That’s really kind, Mr. MacTavish,” said Ranald. “Bertie loves dogs, don’t you, Bertie? There’s that dog called Cyril.”
“Cyril?” asked Wee MacTavish. “That’s a good name for an Edinburgh dug.”
“He’s got a gold tooth,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “He has, hasn’t he, Bertie?”
Bertie confirmed this, and Wee MacTavish whistled in admiration. “A gold tooth? Well, well, that’s a good class of dug you have over here, I must say. A gold tooth? Well, well.” He paused. “But you come in, boys, and we’ll get Ma to help you choose a puppy. One hundred percent free, as I said.”
Bertie hesitated. What would his father say if he came home with a dog? Or his granny? Or—although he hardly dared think it—his mother? What if Irene came back from Aberdeen some weekend and found that they had a dog? She was always so rude about dogs. She called them middle-class. She hated dogs. Bertie was sure of that.
But Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was whispering to Bertie now. “We can share it, Bertie. We can take it back to my house to begin with and keep it in the garden. Then you can have a shot of it and take it over to your house.”
Bertie swallowed. The temptation was just too great, and the solution that Ranald proposed would be bound to work—there was plenty of room for dogs in Morningside.
“So, it’s all agreed,” said Wee MacTavish. “You come in and choose. Ma will help.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. MacTavish,” said Bertie.
Wee MacTavish laughed. “Well, so I am, now that you come to mention it.”
32
A Free Man Thinks
With Bertie on the other side of town safely under the eye, Stuart assumed, of Ranald Braveheart Macpherson’s parents, and with Ulysses in the charge of Nicola, who, having taken him for an ice cream at Luca’s Holy Corner Ice-Cream Parlor, had then gone on to the museum in Chambers Street, Stuart was left with time on his hands. The flat at 44 Scotland Street was uncharacteristically quiet, and he felt vaguely ill at ease. For years his Saturdays had been given over to the demands of fatherhood; suddenly not having any child-related duties unsettled him. It was the same feeling he had had in his student days, when he had always felt that there was something he should be doing, some book he should be reading for a future exam, some essay or assignment that needed attention before the deadline for submission crept up. Now he realized that the whole afternoon was his, and his alone; that he could do as the spirit moved him rather than what duty required.
Like most of us, Stuart had rarely given more than cursory thought to freedom. He understood, of course, that he lived in a country where certain freedoms were protected—where he could not be arbitrarily arrested at the whim of some malicious official, nor indicted for some nonexistent crime, nor thrown into prison or even shot. He understood that if he so desired he could walk up the hill to Waverley Station, purchase a ticket—even if at astonishing cost—board a train, and travel down to London, or even further afield. He could travel to Paris, or Rome, or wherever he decided to go, and nobody would do anything to stop him. In that respect he was fortunate in a way in which so many others were not. There were so many whose lives were led under bombardment or threat, who could not go anywhere because nobody wanted them or because it was too dangerous to make the attempt; who clung to life by their fingernails, and could do nothing about it. Stuart knew all that and understood that none of it applied to him. He was free.
