Strip the Willow (13 page)

He walked up the bleak Boulevard without looking back, looking at the hard immediate city skyline of turrets, towers, Town House spire and university. As he walked towards the town, he noted how the skyline shot up quick to mask the hills.

– Go on, he said. I like Bing Qing. When I need peace, I try to imagine her. Yet I only came across her once.

– Perhaps that distinguishes her, said Lucy. But that’s it. That’s the second folder.

– Fancy writing to your family like that. On sand.

– Straight on?

– Yes, we seem to be coping.

Spermy McClung couldn’t wait to be away. The
Spare Me
had been slipped for the last four weeks of the herring season, after a fouled prop burst the gland, buggered the gear box and left her trailing across a skerry. Now she rocked at Pocra Quay, while he was wending his way north to Fraserburgh on crunch-white roads in a blue Bedford van to pick up the dregs of his laid-off crew. If he couldn’t find his regular crew, he might have to take on pierhead jumps.

– Excuse me, said Lucy. I’m tempted to say,
Who is this spunky fella
?

– Didn’t Tam mention him in an earlier folder? Spermy McClung?

– Oh yeah, got him. Jim’s special something or other.

A problem like that was nothing to him. As he said himself, they didn’t call him Spermy Jed McClung for nothing. He paid them. I dinna care what state ye’re in, get in the fuckin van.

– Nice man, Mr Spermacetti, said Lucy.

Jesus, Jed, said Alec. I ken, I walk on water, said Spermy. All I’m askin is, get in the fuckin van. Tak a dram, Jed, it’s the New Year. Ye ken I never touch poison. C’mon. Whit’s the panic? said Alec. The panic is, said Spermy, we’ve been lyin on the slip the last month. I got Hall’s tae launch her special yesterday. The rivets are still glowin in her keel and belly. Ye widna sit here rottin your liver, when ye could be oot makkin a pay? One day, Jed, one day in the year. Collect your gear next time ye’re doon, I’ll get somebody else. Okay, okay, said Alec. Smart then, said Spermy. I’ll be back at five when I’ve picked up young Gibby and them.

Young Gibby wasn’t in. The house was dark. He found him round at Jock’s. Come in, come in, said Jock, a good New Year. Here’s Spermy, boys, here’s Jed. I’ll wait on the step, said Spermy. Wait on the step? Ye canna dae that, said Jock. That’s bad luck. Weel that’s jist ma bad luck, isn’t it, said Spermy. Ye mak your ain luck at this game, Jock. Fa else is in there wi you? Gib, that’s young Gibby like, Nat, an a hale lot mair. I mean men, said Spermy. Just young Gibby, me an Nat, said Jock.
Fishermen
, said Spermy. Me, Nat, an young Gibby, I tellt ye, said Jock. Five minutes, said Spermy. Stuff yir bags an let’s get mobile. I want to be through in the Minch the nicht afore the turn o the tide. Whit, said Jock, nae the Pentland Firth? It’s only wattir, said Spermy. I’m aff tae rouse Baxter. Be ready for me, right?

Baxter was the mate. He lived further out. Out amongst the
fence-posts
of wind-swept Buchan. I was knocking on your door three times there, said Spermy. Oh, hi, Jed. We had the radio up full blast. I heard,
I knocked three times. Whit’s up like? said Baxter. We’re for oot, said Spermy. For oot? said Baxter. When ye phoned last, ye said we wouldna be oot till the 2nd or 3rd. Dinna believe aathing ye hear on the phone, said Spermy, have ye seen the forecast? It’s northerly 8-9 imminent, nor-west 10, storm 11, possibly later. Better leave it then, is that what ye’re sayin? said Baxter, should fair up later in the week? Weel, in ye come. There’s a sprawl o folk, but maist o them’s decent. Spermy took one step inside the outer hall, as a concession, to drive his point home. Baxter, I dinna think ye’re gettin ma point, I dinna think ye’re really listenin. I am sut, said Baxter. Ye are not, said Spermy. Look, Baxter. I’ve only had the boat six weeks, an she’s been on the slip for ower muckle o that. There’s herrin oot there wi
Spare Me’s
name written aa ower them, but they’re fed up waitin. I dinna blame them, I’m fed up waitin masel. We’ve a chance tae get through the Firth afore the warst o’t. Once we’re oot Wast, in some o thae Gaelic holes, it’ll be like a mill dam. Ye’re the boss, ye ken best, I’m nae arguin wi ye. I’ll wait in the van, said Spermy. Come in, said Baxter. At least say
hello. Hello cheerio
? Fit’s the point? Na, I’ll come intae yir hoose an gladly, Baxter, when baith o us hae a few bricht scales aboot us, a few scales. Please yersel, said the mate. I’ll get ma thingies.

Half an hour later, a bunch of guys, sheer dregs, the best available, were trying to prop up on or spew beneath the bare benches that lined the back of the van. Slow doon, Jed, I’m pukin ower somebody sleepin I think, I canna see in the dark. Eat mair carrots then, Gib. Cunt.

– Cutting edge, said Lucy.

Never say
can’t
tae me, Gibby ma loon, nae even in a whisper. The word
can’t
is nae in my vocabulary. Pull in for us, Jed, said Alec. I’m desperate for a pish. Ye’d be a target on the open road, said Spermy. Ye micht get run ower, an me already twa men short. Wait till I hash on tae Ellon. Canna wait till nae Ellon, said Alec.

By the time he came into Aberdeen, still two hours before sun-up, and across the Bridge of Don, most of the human stuff in the back had, in its own sharp stinks, subsided. Is that you still drivin? said the mate,
blearing an eye against the sodium lights of King Street. Na, this is me eatin candy floss, said Spermy McClung.

When Jim got down the harbour to the red-roofed Shack Café, it was probably nigh-on six. He was still feeling light in the head from his adventures and encounters, and tingled by her challenge.

– Still? said Lucy.

He nodded.

He’d tried sex, air, ice, fire, Cretan philosophy and Chinese poetry. But fear of the powers-that-be closed his horizon in. With a last check round for Provost or Senator, and a hoist of his baggy breeks, he made to open the black door.

– Are those the same clothes you gave me this time?

– Don’t be a twit, said Lucy. You took them away. I never saw them again. The things that people will do for a free set of clothes.

– No doubt, he said.

The door tinged as he went in. He made his way to the counter. There was nobody attending. Fat hanging in the air betrayed the menu. A woman with iron-grey curls detached herself from a seated customer. Hi, he said, morning. Could I get. Hailstones bulleted across the
corrugated
tin of the roof. Sorry, dear, speak up. He mimed lifting a mug of tea in one fist. Mimed clawing a bacon roll to his face in the other. She turned away to attend to his whims.

–
Whims
, said Lucy.

– Yes, thanks, Tam, he said.
Whims,
I’m famous for them. Terrible man.

There were three frying pans, plus a deep pot, on four gas rings. Pan one had its bacon, sausage, wheels of black pudding. Pan two displayed sunny-side up egg, and clouded egg. Pan three boasted half-toms, collapsed, red, seedy, watery. Deep pot for beans.

He turned to look at the other occupants. Three old farts, nodding and smoking, inclined to each other, without speaking, over a chipped, formica table. For all he knew, not speaking because of the hail, the bullets. Not speaking because they were fatigued beyond tiredness, with faces like scorched ravines. He wasn’t that tired himself. Not speaking because they were all out of yarns, stories, whys, becauses.

Young woman in a red bandana, fawn duffle coat, green woven midi, and black knee-boots at another table. She was sideways on to him. He knew her, couldn’t place her. That happened all the time in the city. She stirred round. He made his mouth open cautiously towards her, half-a-hello without commitment, then turned to see how breakfast was getting on.

– Who’s this then? said Lucy. Another conquest? Wait, I know, there’s one missing. This’ll be Iris.

– You’ll be peeping at the ending next.

Iron Curls was using a fish-slice in pan one to deal with hopeless
casualties
, and drag them across to one side out of triage. Burst sausage, scab of bacon, cauterized blood pudding. In a clearing she carefully laid a fatty rasher, as though stretching out a pale victim after an
air-raid
. She turned her surgical attentions to a white softie, a species of bap. She half-slit it and tore its pith. She spread it with a fluted
metal-handled
knife from a half-pound block of Stork, with its wrapper open like a greasy nappy. She wiped her fingers on each other, the better to mingle the dust of raw flour from the top of the softie with the oleo of pig, ox, possibly whale, and vegetable fats.

– I’m not sure I like the tone here, she said. Lord Snooty springs to mind.

At last the hail stopped drumming. Was it a bacon roll? It was. Was it a cup of tea? It also. A mug, if you’ve got one. We only do mugs. That seemed to him sufficient philosophy.

– Or very early Beckett, that bit, he said. We all have our influences. Surf’n’ Turf, Tam’n’ Sam.

– Do you still read?

– I did in exile, if that’s what it was. Only two problems. Couldn’t remember characters’ names from one page to the next, couldn’t follow plots.

– What else is there?

– Style, sudden incident. Lucy, you know that.

– Ye gods, she said. Here he goes again.

The bacon, searing away like Joan of Arc, was denied a moment’s peace. It sizzled, arched, frazzled, on both sides and along edges. That’s fine, he said. Just say, she said. Spot on, he said. I can’t stand cinders, replied the woman. Murder, he said. Fit? she said. They’re murder, cinders, he retorted. Charcoal’s supposed to be good for you, she said. I’m
bothered
wi ma stomach. Your stomach? Aye, it’s no right. My auntie’s the same, he said. She posed the frizzle on the spread softie, and shut the pliant lid, pressing it down with the flat of her fingers. A docked tail stuck out one side. Did you want ketchup? No, he said. It’s not too late, there is ketchup. No, it’s okay. My doctor says I’ve to keep off condiments, she said. She handed him the bacon softie, seated on a side-plate. Is there tea ready? he said. Did you want fresh? No, it’s okay. It’s been stewing a whilie, she said, fine and strong. What time do you open? he said. I work wi the pubs, she said. Open when they shut, shut again as soon as they open. Must be some long night, he said. Nights are long wherever you are, she said, a body has tae get on. Wait till the revolution, he said. Eh? she said. Just wait till the revolution, he said. That’ll be ninepence, dear, she said. Oh god, he thought, these are not, wait. Thruppence, a button, a daud of gum, sixpence, that do? he said. That’s us square, said the woman, keep a hold of your button and stuff. Thought I was away to scrub pans there, he said. Mind, dinna forget, there is ketchup, she said. Dandy, he said, ravenous.

After the ordering ritual was over, he turned to face the rest of society. The girl in the green midi beckoned him over. Christ, he said, It is you, Iris. What you doing here? Really, she said, I could ask you the same.

He pulled out a tubular chair with a plastic-covered pink-cushioned portion. Psychedelic, eh, in here? he said. He sat down opposite her. She laid aside her book,
The Iron
Heel
by Jack London. You do acid? said Iris. Do you? he said. Asked you first, said Iris. Naw, athlete, he said, well, runner. And I’m in trouble enough at school without getting busted, she said. What kinda? With the heidie, the flaming hierarchy. But you were always Goodie-Two-Shoes. There’s such a thing as biding your time, replied Iris. Iris, sorry, here’s me with tea, do you want? It’s okay, I’m floating in tea. This bacon roll’s the business, he said. Roon ma hert like a hairy worm. One of his father’s phrases.

– Alison’s like that, my assistant, my colleague, said Lucy. Always coming out with these strong expressions. Doric.

– For a laugh?

– Partly. Never heard her do that one.
Roon ma hert like a hairy worm.
Must ask her if she knows it.
Roon ma hert like a hairy worm.

– It’s possibly rude, he said.

– Alison won’t mind. Wonder how she’s getting on.

– Going to phone?

– Don’t want to break this.

– You’ve been leaning on my thigh for the last I don’t know how long. A break won’t hurt.

– Diddums, said Lucy. Don’t you like me tampering with your blood supply?

When she got back upstairs, he was sleeping. She didn’t wake him and went back and made another call from the house phone
downstairs
. She hadn’t had a clue what time it was. Then she made brunch, and sat and ate it, ravenous herself, glad of the peace, strangely.

She cleared away her plate and put clingfilm on his. She thought Alison might have phoned her back. It was the first time she had stepped off for ages, into pure life, that limbo. Probably the world went on, but how could you know. It was like stepping off
pavementette
and going down the Back Wynd Steps during a Spectacle.

She took out some sheets of paper from the printer in the
downstairs
study and took them back to the kitchen where it was warm. She wrote down some alphabet and wrote as many names, neat per column, as she could, for each initial,
Andrew, Arthur, Anthony, Bob, Bill, Bert, Colin, Ciaran, Chris,
and so on. She soon ran out of paper, then realised there were three lots sitting blank in the worn folders on the worktop, beside the kettle.