Strip the Willow (14 page)

That seemed a very long time ago, the time of her subterfuge.

Whereas January 1st ’68 was fresher than yesterday.

He didn’t get up for brunch. They ate dinner in the kitchen.

– Did you get through to Alison?

– Eventually.

– How was she?

– Distant.

– Is she the moody sort?

Lucy was absent a second.

– Is she?

– Not usually. Maybe Finlay and her split up.

– Didn’t you ask her?

– We didn’t get off the subject of work. The meeting I missed today was pretty important. She needed me, she’s under pressure. We’ve lost significant ground.

– Explain.

– Do you want the last tattie?

– No. Let it be.

– It’s only like this massive leisure multinational versus a city, said Lucy. The city has half-resisted, then quarter-resisted, but now we’re set to lose, big-time. Ready for pud? It’s my own blackcurrants.

– At this time of year?

– From the freezer. I’ve blatted them with ice-cream and yoghurt. Alison told me one thing. You won’t believe this. In the middle of all this, they want to change the city’s name. Again. Aberdeen for centuries, Uberdeen the last two years. They used to be so
traditionalist
. Now they only believe in change.

– Right.

– They mooted
Rookton
at first.
Marrdom
even. Now they’ve picked up my joke suggestion of
Leopardeen
.

– Who cares? It’ll make the football scores more interesting. Wolves 1 Leopardeen 2. More like American football.

– Unfortunately, said Lucy, I think that’s the general idea.

– I’ll do the dishes, he said.

– Dishwasher. Theo made sure I had all that before he died.

– Why didn’t you marry after? No ties, good salary, nice big house.

– Don’t. Come upstairs. Have you had enough to eat? We might need our strength for the very last bit.

– I hope that’s just a single entendre, he said.

They got on the bed.

– If Tam’s got this last part properly written, he said, it might propel me through my blanks.

Anyway, eh, what a ding-dong!

– Sorry? he said. You’ve lost me already.

– I’ve just started.

– Yes, go back, I’ve lost the thread.

This bacon roll’s the business. Goin roon ma hert like a hairy worm.

– That, yes, of course.

She does them good.

– That’s Iris speaking, said Lucy.

Anyway, eh, what a ding-dong!

– That’s—?

– You, said Lucy.

What? said Iris. Tonight, the New Year, he said, what a ding-dong. I was going to ask, said Iris. Have you lost weight? Your coat. Yeah, really suddenly. Hey but you look great, the bandana. Don’t, she said. What? I look how I look. Plain Iris, the washed-out rainbow. You used to call me
Bapface
. Hell, that was other people, he said. Hell is not always other people, she said. Deep, Iris. Not, she said. Anyway, what are you so hepped-up about? Two things, he said. Just been with this amazing person. Name? Dunno, he said. Person, said Iris. Mabel, Jean, Betty, Angela? Angeline?

– Not even close, said Lucy.

X, he said. She’s X to me. No surprise, you didn’t even spot me when you came in. And we sat in the same double desk for years. Yeah, that’s bad, he said, but that was a wee while back. Whereas X was what, an hour ago? True, he said, but X really exists. As in exist, you know. Yes, said Iris. She’s my very own X, he said, and that’s all about it. I’d give you my shrink’s number, she said, but in that coat you’d probably vanish. Ha, you’re good for me, Iris, I spend too much time brooding. Does she? If you can brood at a hundred miles an hour, he said,
probably
yes. He was silent for a moment.

Iris broke in. Do you want my advice? Sure, he said. Go with it, it may be your chance. But we’re no way due to meet again, he said. That does introduce a note of futility, said Iris. Tough, eh? he said. All I can do is develop my own existence, my existingness or something. She thinks I’m a twig, an interloper, some fleeting Mercury. Want to hear about my troubles? she said.

– Nice one, Iris, said Lucy.

Let me get a coupla cuppas, he said. Okay, she said. Lend me a bob, though, could you? he said. These are not my breeks.

– Wandering about in another man’s breeks? said Lucy. Tut-tut.

– I’m another man anyway, he said.

She came with him to the counter. Two teas, Mum, okay? said Iris. That your Mum? he whispered, as Iron Curls disappeared into the back of the premises. She nodded. He glanced at the three old men with faces like scorched ravines. And who are the old farts? he whispered again. These three? she said. Well, Freddie on the right, Freddie Tait, used to let various parties load up free on his tram and out to Woodside to break up Mosley’s rallies, ’36, ’37, that kind of time. He’s a good guy, Freddie, but his mind’s awander. Then Charlie, him in the middle, his wife’s just died, used to have a milk float, Co-opie Milk, and a
Clydesdale
to pull it, the length of King Street. Rosie he called his mare, he kept her droppings in a bucket and distributed it to gardens. Hector Smith on the left was pretty much straight, a docks shop steward for the T&G. They had their strikes, they maintained conditions, slowly improved them. The old farts stirred themselves, as though they knew they were being talked about. They made a show of peering through the snow-flecked pane.

I see, said Jim. I’m not knocking it, said Iris. I just think the heyday for unions and party stuff is past, as well as for dependable, lovable workers like Charlie there. These struggles were too titanic, too
set-piece
. We need to take over the actual workplace, large and small, that’s where it’s at, with workers’ councils. You don’t develop enough confidence treading a union line. I know, said Jim. Do you? said Iris. There was some commotion or other on the dockside. The door tinged. Iron Curls reappeared. A guy with a scuffed leather jacket and a rakish Lennon cap entered and crossed to the counter. In a hurry, pal, dae ye mind? said the guy. Carry on, said Jim. I’ve got the rest of existence. Cheers, said the guy. Mina darlin, fit are ye like for biscuits, tea-bags? Ony sugar? Course, Nat. I’m a café, amn’t I? Rax us ower a bunch, then. Onything ye can spare. Pit it doon tae the
Spare Me
. Nae accounts, Nat, said Mina. Dinna dae accounts. Young Mr McClung can come in and pay me personal. That’ll mak his day, Mina, said Nat. There ye go, said Mina. Abernethies, one packet. Digestives, one packet. Butter biscuits, two packets. Four pund o sugar and four quarters o Lipton’s tea. And where’s Master McClung headed this fine morning? Tell him I dinna work wi tea-bags. The wild West, said Nat. In that case tell him tae pay me afore he sails. Or I’ll hae his guts for
garters when he comes back. The three at the window had stirred as far as having a chuckle. It’s time ye lot were buyin fresh mugs, said Mina. Ye think ye can jist bide here aa nicht, an sit an ogle.

Jim thought he could see Spermy rumbling about in the dockside shadows. He pulled up his coat collar. Ye cauld? said Nat. Ye fisher? Ye dinna look the type. No – na. Why – fit wey like? said Jim. We’re stuck for a coupla men, said Nat, that’s fit wey. When are you – fan ye aff like? said Jim. When we’re fuelled and watered, an hour at the ootside. Good luck, said Jim.

Jim went back and sat opposite Iris, with the mugs. The good thing, if there was a good thing, about stewed tea, was that it was never too hot. Know who that was? he said to Iris. I’ve seen him, I don’t know him, said Iris. Just some guy off Spermy’s boat, topping up supplies. Spermy McClung, he said, there’s a name to conjure with. You know I’m working at our old school? she said, Frederick Street. Fredericker, he said, I would have thought you. Oh I had choices, said Iris, but I chose Fredericker. Remember that time Pinners gave three of us a camera? she said. And we went round shipyards, down the docks, and up the Citadel? It was Timmer Market time, said Iris. With me I think it dates back to then. Photographing the occupied faces. That was the day it began to sink in. You’re either a tourist in your own place, or you’re in deeper.

Christ, Iris, he said, admire that. You’re off your tiny rocker working in Fredericker, but yeah, admire that. Since we moved to Northfield, I’ve got a bit unattached. Or detached, I suppose. From? said Iris. The old haunts, folk, other people’s purposes. Varsity lulls you away. Are you still at Varsity? No, building sites. Building sites? she said. But they’re nae real, he said, I’m jacking that in. You’re not seriously happy, he went on, at Frederick Street School? Not entirely, said Iris. But, fair do’s, they’re not happy with me. The kids are great, total
toerags
, pretty damn loyal. We’ve started a big project on Eskimos. You know how a couple came to be washed up, more likely dumped and
deposited, in Aberdeen? Still in their kayaks. A couple of centuries back. Well it started from there. Now we’re about to build our own. Never had you down as a kayakist, he said. Got an intro at College, said Iris. At Stonehaven, the Summer Isles. In bouncier water a low centre of gravity seems to help.

– So quite big hips? said Lucy.

– Iris and I— he said.

– Were just good friends, said Lucy.

It turned out Iris had let herself become influenced by the deschoolers while at College. Nothing of that in the lectures, of course, but you can’t keep a good library down. She’d devoured everything from Neill to RF Mackenzie, from Goodman to Ivan Illich. I see the problem in our society as hierarchy, said Iris. I’ve already had an oral and a written warning. For thinking? he said. For building Eskimo kayaks? For getting too close to the kids. For not accepting that I was getting too close to the kids. And for challenging the heidie. I’ve got feelers out on a teachers workers’ council, she continued. And I was one of the ones who called this meeting tonight, you heard? The solve
lovelessness
in a jiffy malarkey? said Jim. Sorry, Group to Unstick Stuckness isn’t it? The same, said Iris. GUST. Lots of the potentials said they’d try and come. What about you? Dunno, he said. I was attracted, but it seems a bit forced, a bit put-on. Okay, said Iris, but everything the Left starts up seems awkward at first. It’s only since I started teaching I’ve realised the forces that hold us down, said Iris. We’ll never achieve much if we’re stuck on our own. Say you’ll come? Might, said Jim. Which strand do you represent? Strand? he said. Which group? said Iris. Eh, existentialists, said Jim. Hardline? Very. What’s your line on Vietnam? said Iris. Coexist. On stuckness? Get a new life. On
lovelessness
? We seem to be still out on that one, said Jim. Anyway, apart from X, you said there was something else, said Iris.
Two things,
you said, wasn’t it? Did I? he said.

– Your memory was rubbish even then, said Lucy.

Yes, said Iris. I’ll maybe come to it, he said. By the way, X is the
daughter of a Commie sculptor. That’s about all I was able to pick up. Lucy Legge, said Iris, that’s who that’ll be. She’s a one. Fancies herself culturally, I’ve been told.

– Bitch, said Lucy, and read on quickly.

The door opened. Master McClung, said Mina, good tae see ye, that’ll be four pounds twelve and fourpence. Spermy glowered at the pair nearest the door and ignored her. Seein it’s yersel, said Mina, four pounds twelve. I’m nae a grocer boy, said Spermy, I’m a press gang. This twat’ll do. He pulled the twat up by the scruff of its coat, and located its scrawny elbow. Let’s keep it in the family, eh? Your Da’s fishin for ma Ma, so ye’re fishin wi me. Let’s go. Let him go, said Iris. Fit’s in it for me? said Spermy. You’ll be lucky, said Iris. Lucky? said Spermy. Iris, doll, I wouldna gie ye typhoid. C’mon, twat. Take proper care, skirled Iris, pair o ye! Be in touch, Jim said, as he was propelled.

Eventually, at half past eight, the first sun of the year arose, fierce as gold from a forge. Julie gazed across the sea as it vibrated into view. She snapped it.

– Julie again, said Lucy. Going down.

– That’s her business, said Jim.

Then zipped herself into her 8mm neoprene longjohn.

– Sure you don’t shag her later?

– Read on and I’ll find out.

She kicked into her second jetfin, spat generously in her mask, bent to the sea and swilled it. There was no substitute for human spit. No proprietary substitute. Even Dow Chemical, who had managed to gel petroleum, couldn’t come up with one. Her father, the Lord Provost, had shares in Dow. They’d had a row about that. When she was doing her Masters in Massachusetts, half the demos, more than half, were
against Dow, for the napalm. Not that she’d been on one. Then her parents gave her a Calypso Nikkor for Christmas, with Dow lube for the rubber seals. She’d made a show of binning it, then retrieved it. Water in your new camera was not ideal.

She was on a shingle beach. Any stray crab or brittle star would soon be crushed by wave action. She clenched the hard rubber snorkel between her teeth, and waded backwards till she felt resistance against her thighs. She lay back, trusted herself to the water, and was borne up. A chill eel entered her suit at the neck and channelled along her spine. Julie turned on her belly so that she could see the underwater shingle redeemed by bubbles. There were pulses of swell coming from seaward, against a strong riverine ebb pushing her out. Poised between two forces, she felt her own decisive. She exchanged snorkel for demand valve, blew to clear it, checked round quick for boats and beasts, jackknifed her jetfins high, and slid on down.