Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: While Brendan and Graham await their fate, the past catches up with Kathleen.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: While Brendan and Graham await their fate, the past catches up with Kathleen.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Catriona
1
What a mess! It never occurred to me, to any of us, that male homosexual activity was still a crime in Scotland. Why would it? Brendan and Kathleen knew nothing about Scotland until they moved here and I'd been living in Birmingham so long I'd forgotten, if indeed I'd ever known. My parents told me they hadn't realised either, otherwise they said they would have told us.
I asked myself how the police found out, particularly as so few people knew Brendan was gay and, as far as I was aware, no-one knew Graham was.
Then it struck me. Apart from me, Kathleen and my parents, the only person in Strathdubh who knew Brendan was gay was Andrew. It had to be him: it couldn't be anyone else. Everybody thought I was so placid and easy going, so laid back, and most of the time they'd be right. Even my parents were worried that when I went to university I wouldn't be able to stand up for myself, and when I returned with another woman in tow they were concerned Kathleen was using me. But never confuse being quiet with being a pushover. When need be I could stand up for myself and those I loved. When push came to shove I could, if necessary, be one mean bitch. As Andrew would find out – when I was ready.
After Brendan and Graham's arrest, Kathleen was in a right state, unable to focus on anything, alternating between fits of hysterical rage, bouts of silent apathy and periods of uncontrollable laughter. She scared me. I was worried in case she tried to harm herself, in case she attacked others. I kept my suspicions about Andrew to myself, concerned she would do something really stupid if I told her.
After the arrests I rang da. I must have been a wee bit incoherent as it took him some time to understand me, meanwhile Kathleen was yelling and swearing and threatening to go after the police and attack them. When da got the gist of what I was saying, he told me he and ma would be round, and within just a few minutes they were in our cottage. Da rang a solicitor he'd used in the past who promised to get in touch with the police to find out what was going on. Ma and I did our best to calm Kathleen but with only limited success. Eventually she fell into a restless troubled sleep. Each of us took turns sitting by her, and none of us got much sleep.
In the early hours while it was still dark, da said he had to go to see to the livestock. “Will you be okay, darling?” he asked me. I nodded. He said: “I'll leave your ma here.”
I shook my head. “There’s no need. You've both got work to do. Will the solicitor ring here or ring you?”
“Probably me, but when he rings I'll let you know what he says. And I'll ask him to keep in touch with you.” Da kissed me on my forehead and ma hugged me.
After they left I lay next to Kathleen and tried to get some sleep. When I woke up there was daylight and Kathleen wasn't beside me. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, calling her name. I found her in the kitchen with a cup of tea in front of her.
“I thought I'd leave you to sleep,” she said, pouring me a cup. “I'm sorry I was so fucking bad last night.”
I kissed her and told her not to worry, we'd get things sorted out.
She slammed her cup on to the table, spilling some of its contents. “And how the fuck are we going to do that?” I was about to respond when she said: “Sorry. That's unfair.”
“No, you're right. I haven't a clue how it's going to work itself out. At least we've got them a solicitor.”
Later that morning I received two phone calls. One was from the council's Education department: some pen-pusher told me I was being removed from the list of supply teachers, and that it would be confirmed in writing. He said he was phoning me so I wouldn't have a wasted journey the following day, when I was supposed to be teaching.
The second call was from da, telling me Graham had been released on bail. “I've said I'll go and collect him, as his car is still outside your cottage. Probably be back some time in the evening.”
“What about Brendan?” I asked.
“I'm afraid he's still in custody. Apparently there's a complication preventing his release at the moment. I've asked David Fritton, the solicitor, to let you know as soon as he finds out anything.”
When I told Kathleen about Brendan and asked her what the complication could be, she said: “Fuck knows.” I wasn't going to tell her about the supply teaching, but when she asked who the first call was from, she refused to accept my prevarication, so I had to come clean. Her response was typical: she blamed herself.
“Come on, girl,” I said, “none of this is your fault. None of it.”
“Well, who the fuck's fault is it, then?”
I shrugged. I was about to tell her I thought it was Andrew, but stopped myself in time: she was too raw to take that on board at the moment, so I just said: “No-one's. I suppose it's the fault of the law.”
Later, David Fritton rang me to tell me why Brendan was still in custody. “It appears he has an unpaid fine from Birmingham, from when he was convicted for possession of cannabis. That needs sorting before they'll give him bail.”
When I told Kathleen, she said: “The fucking idiot! I assumed he'd stuck to the agreed schedule. What was he thinking of?”
“He probably forgot, with everything else that was going on.”
“Yeah, well I didn't forget. I made fucking sure I'd paid it off before we left Birmingham. He should have done the same.”
“For God's sake, girl, just loosen up a bit. He's had a lot on his plate.” I was about to tell her she wasn't perfect, but I bit my tongue. She too had enough on her plate. Instead I said: “So what are we going to do about his fine?”
She stared at me like I was an imbecile. “Pay it, of course. What else?”
I rang David back, telling him we could pay what was left of the fine and asking if Brendan would then get bail. Like most solicitors he wouldn't commit himself, but he did imply it was likely. We agreed to travel there the following day, and we hoped we would be returning with Brendan.
We hadn't left the cottage all day, but we needed to get some food and other essentials. We knew we would have to face the gossipmongers at some stage, though neither of us felt strong enough to do so. After dithering we decided we had no choice.
As we were putting on our overcoats and about to leave we got another phone call. It was from the Ford Inn, telling us it would be best if we didn't turn up to play that evening. I was relieved it was me who picked up the phone: I'm sure Kathleen would have given them a mouthful and that would have done none of us any good. The phone rang again. This time it was a journalist wanting to know if we would like to make a statement. I said no, and slammed the phone down. It rang again. Another journalist. And again. We let it ring and left the cottage.
We were both feeling self-conscious and, even though the shop was less than a mile away, decided to drive. When we got out of the car, the few people hanging about refused to make eye contact with us. We walked through the door and the shop fell silent apart from a few disapproving tuts. As we approached the counter I heard someone say to Fiona: “You don't allow that sort in here, do you?”
Fiona's response was brusque. “I decide who gets served in here, not you.” Then, turning to us and smiling, she said: “Now what can I do for you?”
Because of her arthritis she wasn't able to bend to the lower shelves or reach the higher ones, but she had a young assistant who did that for her. There were many days when Fiona was in too much pain to work, but when she could make it she would be in the shop. It was part of the life she and her late husband had built for themselves and, even if she couldn't do much, she liked the company. And she didn't trust anyone else to cash up and do the banking.
As she passed us our messages and we paid, she said: “I'm really sorry about what's happened. I don't know why people can't just let others get on with their lives when they're not doing any harm to anyone. Rob wants to know if it's okay to come and see you. He said he didn't know if you'd want to see anyone after what's happened. It must have been awful for you – and for Brendan and his friend.”
We thanked her and said we'd love to see him. We told her we'd be collecting Brendan the following day, but we'd be in for the rest of today.
She nodded. “I'll tell him.” She leaned across the counter and, taking Kathleen's hand, said: “You know, we both owe you a lot. If it wasn't for you, Rob would still be drinking every hour that God sends. Without you he'd probably end up killing himself with the booze.”
Kathleen blushed. “I didn't do anything. Really I didn't,” she said.
Fiona folded her arms. ”Oh yes you did. You were nice to him. You treated him like a human being, not like a piece of dirt like most of these people did. And you let him be your friend, and all you did for us when... Well, you know. Whatever troubles you have, whatever anyone else thinks, we'll both be here for you all.” She smiled. “Now, away with you. I've got other customers to serve.”
Back home the phone kept ringing every few minutes. It was always either a journalist or some idiot screaming obscenities. We would have pulled the socket from the wall except the solicitor and my parents needed to be able to contact us. When the doorbell rang I asked who was there before opening it to Rob.
“I don't know what to say,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm really sorry. Why is it bad things always happen to the best people?” Unable to settle, he kept stalking from one end of the room to the other.
Kathleen smiled at him. “Why don't you sit down. You're making me fucking dizzy.”
“Sorry,” he said. He sat down, then stood up again. “I tell you what, shall I make us a pot of tea?”
“I was just going to do that, Rob. You're our guest,” I told him.
“Oh, don't worry about that. It'll give me something to do with these useless hands of mine. I promise to try and not break anything.”
“Let's do it together,” Kathleen said, standing up. So we all marched to the kitchen.
Rob was shaking his head as we waited for the kettle to boil. “What harm have they done to anyone? Who cares if they're queer? They've never tried it on with me, and it's no-one else's business anyway. Some people just can't keep their noses out of other people's affairs. I'm sorry. I just think it's so unfair.” His face creased and tears began to fall from his eyes as he sobbed loudly and uncontrollably.
Kathleen put her arm around him. “Look, Rob, don't you worry. Everything'll be okay.” As I made the tea, she led him back to the living room and made him sit down.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he exclaimed. “Here's you comforting me and I should be comforting you. I'm sorry.”
“That's okay,” I said. “It's just nice to see a friendly face.”
I looked across at Kathleen with a question in my eyes. She nodded. Turning to Rob, she said: “Now you're here, we've got something to tell you.” He looked at her and she took a deep breath, before continuing: “Brendan and Graham aren't the only queers who live here.”
“You mean...” he said, pointing at us. Kathleen nodded. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I never realised, it never entered my head. I mean, you both look too pretty to be dykes. Not that you have to be ugly to be a dyke, but isn't one of you supposed to be more masculine than the other? At least that's what I always thought, what people told me. That one had to wear trousers and have a deep voice and act like a man. Shit, this isn't coming out right. I hope I haven't offended you.”
By this time, we were both in fits of laughter, tears rolling down our cheeks. When we could finally get any words out I told him he was funny and no, he hadn't offended us, adding: “We both wear the trousers, that's why we argue so much.” That started Kathleen giggling again.
After she'd calmed down a bit, she managed to say: “Hope you don't mind that we laughed at what you said. But just so you know you and your ma have cheered us both up. I tell you what. If I was fucking straight, I'd marry you.”
He grinned, staring at Kathleen with wide open eyes. “Me? But I'm no good for anyone. Can't get a job. Was an alcoholic. Can't read or write much. I mean, I'm a waste of space.”
“That's one thing you're not. I don't know any bloke who's less of a waste of space than you. And I hope you find the right woman one day, just as I have.” After she'd said this, she took my hand.
Rob stopped for lunch, insisting on washing up when we'd finished eating. Afterwards we played and sang for him. He'd heard us perform several times and he had his own favourites which he requested. The only interruption was the ringing of the phone, but Rob proved how useful he could be. He offered to answer it and unless it was our solicitor, my parents or a close friend he would tell the callers we were out, then put the phone down.
After he'd gone we both slumped on the sofa. For the few short hours he had been here we had been able to put the severity of our problems to one side. Now they stared us in the face. We were emotionally drained and, given how little sleep we'd had the previous night, physically drained. We were also frightened, having no idea what would happen next.
We were woken by the noise of the front door opening. We both jumped up, worried who it might be. Then we heard my da's voice: “Anyone home?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I hugged da, followed by embracing Graham. “It’s good to see you,” I said.
“Likewise,” Graham replied. He looked as if he'd aged ten years in a day. When we asked him what it was like, he shook his head. “Like nothing I've ever been through. I've ministered to prisoners before, and I thought I knew all about it. I was wrong. You're not a human being, you're just a thing that has no freedom of action, that can be moved here and moved there at the whim of someone you have no influence over. Once they lock that door behind you and you realise you can't just walk out, everything changes. I can still see the door being locked, hear the key turning, smell the sour stink of fear.” He sat down.
Kathleen was nodding. “I know. I've been there several times, and it never gets easier. Over time you learn to put on a face, but inside it is still a fucking shock when that door locks. Anyone who says prison is easy ought to be made to feel what it's like being deprived of your freedom, even for a few hours. It's one of the worst feelings in the world.” She took his hand, gently patting it. I made some tea.
When I returned they were engaged in earnest conversation. Kathleen was saying: “Look, stop here for a few days just to get yourself together.”
Da was nodding his head. “Yes, and if you feel uncomfortable about stopping here after what's happened, we've got a spare room at the farmhouse.”
Graham shook his head. “No. Thank you, but no. I really do have to get back to Birmingham, try and sort things out. I know I'm likely to be laicised, I know that.” He saw the look of incomprehension on my face. “Sorry, you probably know it as being defrocked. I know I won't be allowed to continue as a priest, but to be honest before the arrest I was close to leaving anyway so I could be with Brendan. I've got to get back, even if it's only to put things in order. I think I'll make it easy for the authorities by requesting laicisation.” He made no attempt to stop the tears rolling down his face. “All those years of ministering to people, all those years of loneliness and prayer and fighting temptation, all those years – wasted.”
“No,” I said, surprising myself by the loudness of my voice. “No, none of it has been wasted. None of it. Think of how many people you've helped. How many couples you've married, how many babies you've christened, how many bereaved people you've comforted, how much hope and succour you've brought to people. Think about that. And remember, if you hadn't been a priest out late at night coming back from giving someone the last rites you wouldn't have met Brendan, you wouldn't have felt the love of another human being. No, whatever happens now, none of your time as a priest has been a waste of time.”
Kathleen was nodding. “She's right. Irritating as it is, she normally is right.” That got a smile from Graham.
“Thank you for everything.” he said.
“Bugger that,” Kathleen said. “Nothing to thank us for. I know you have to get back, but at least wait until you've seen Brendan. We're going to collect him tomorrow. He'll be devastated if you go without seeing him. Stop for a couple of nights at least.”
He nodded. “Okay. I think I need to get some sleep now.”
2
Unlike Kathleen, Brendan and Graham I had no experience of being arrested and interrogated by the police. Of course I had seen TV programmes like Z Cars, Softly Softly and the Sweeney, and read some crime fiction, but I doubted they were really that realistic. Although their experiences were different, there was one thing they agreed on: the feeling of claustrophobia when that door was locked, the awfulness of the deprivation of freedom. Even Kathleen, who had seen the inside of cells on several occasions in the past, said that was something that never got easier.
When, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, Brendan walked out of the police station, he squinted at the winter sun and took a deep breath of fresh air. At first he didn't want to get in the car, saying he'd had enough of enclosed spaces for a while. Instead he walked around the small Highland town, with us close behind him. We meandered around the park, stopping at the ornamental lake to look at the ducks, did a bit of window-shopping on the High street, sat by the war memorial for a few minutes before stopping at a small cafe for tea and cakes. Most of the time he was silent and when we asked him anything his replies were monosyllabic. By the time he was ready to travel back to Strathdubh, dusk was falling and I knew we'd be doing most of the journey in the dark.
A few minutes into the journey he asked Kathleen how many times she'd been arrested and locked in the cells.
“Oh, loads of times,” she replied. “It was a hazard of the job, like getting covered in shit is one of the hazards of being a plumber.”
“I don't know how you could stand it. Only been twice for me, and I can tell you I was crawling up the walls. It was even worse after lights out. I thought I was going to go mad. Apparently at one stage I was screaming, because one of the guards came to tell me to shut the fuck up.” He was silent for a few moments, then said: “Thanks for paying the fine.”
“No problem. But next time stick to the fucking arrangement, hey?”
“I hope there isn't a next time. Though God knows what's going to happen now. I can't understand why the law on gay sex can be different in different parts of the country.”
I almost told him he should read about the history of Scotland, and how it had a different legal system to England, but thought better of it. Instead, I asked him how he'd been treated. As I was concentrating on navigating the single track road in the dark, I didn't see his response, but he didn't reply. I didn't push him for an answer, letting him remain silent.
After a few more minutes of some inane pop music blaring from Radio One, Kathleen fiddled with the controls, but unable to find anything that suited her, she exclaimed: “Fuck that!” and switched it off.
“Hey,” Brendan said, “I was listening to that.”
I switched the radio back on. Kathleen reached across to switch it off again, but I slapped her hand away. “If he wants to listen to the radio, let him. You're not the one whose been locked up for two nights.”
She fell silent, obviously sulking. At times like that I could hate her. The weather had turned: the wind had got up and swirling horizontal rain reduced visibility, even with the headlights on full beam. All we need now, I thought, was a bloody deer to run out in front of us or for a vehicle to be coming towards us driving too fast. The weather matched the mood inside the car.
Kathleen was the first to break the silence. She swivelled her head round to look at Brendan in the back. “How are you feeling now?” she asked.
“Better than I was before you got me out of that place.” After a short silence, he continued: “At least this time the bastards didn't beat me up or threaten me.” He began to giggle. “It was quite funny at one stage. I overheard the officer who booked me telling one of the others what a waste of time it all was. 'I don't like fucking queers,' he said, 'but all this paperwork just because one of them's being buggered by a black. By the time I've logged them, the pub'll be closed.' They took my statement, then found out I'd got an unpaid fine, sighed again and locked me up.” He paused. “It didn't seem funny at the time, though.”
“They thought it hilarious when they found out I was a priest.” It was the first time Graham had spoken for what seemed hours. “I won't repeat what they said, but I'm sure you can imagine the fun they had with a black queer priest. To be honest I've heard worse, but...” His voice tailed off.
It was all over the papers. But that was only to be expected and was the least of our problems. Today's news is tomorrow's chip paper. None of us knew what would happen next. Would they be sent to prison or fined? Would they be sent for psychiatric treatment? How were we going to live without any of us working? For I was sure some, if not most, of our bookings would be cancelled, I'd already lost my supply teaching, Graham was not going to be able to remain a priest and I doubted Brendan would want to work at the hotel, with all the hassle he'd get, even if he wasn't sacked first. We had some savings, particularly Kathleen whose post office account was healthy. But that wouldn't last for ever.
I didn't say any of this: there was no point in discussing it when we were all so tired and on edge, and anyway I thought it better to wait until we'd talked to David, our solicitor. Still, it was all going round and round in my head like one of those fairground rides, making me feel dizzy.
We got home eventually. Tired as we were, there was still something to be sorted out before we went to our beds. It was Graham who said it: “Brendan and I, we can't sleep in the same bed.”
“Why the fuck not?” Kathleen asked. And then, when her mouth made a circle and her eyes opened wide, I could see the penny had dropped.
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “I'll grab some sheets and sleep on the sofa.”
“No way, man,” Graham said. “No way. This is your home, you have the bed.”
Brendan looked at him. “Look. It was me got you in this mess. If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have been arrested and you wouldn't be about to have to give up the priesthood. If only I'd left you alone.”
Graham shook his head. “I was a willing partner. It was mutual. I'll sleep on the sofa.”
Kathleen was getting exasperated. “For God's sake, you two. Why not just toss for it?”
In the end, it was Brendan who slept on the sofa. We all went to bed thinking things couldn't get any worse. How wrong we were.
3
Graham left the following morning. Brendan asked him if he really had to go. He nodded. “Afraid so. Even without all this mess, I would have to leave to continue my duties. But now – well – there's a lot to sort out.” He kissed Brendan, who held him close. “One way or the other, I'll make sure when all this is over we can be together.”
“When will you be back?” Brendan asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as I can. Other than that I don't know. I'll have to be back for any court case, of course.” He sighed. “There's so much to sort out. But we'll keep in touch: we can phone and write to each other.” He kissed Brendan again, told him he loved him, picked up his suitcase and was gone.
The cottage felt empty without him and the three of us mooched around, doing nothing, not being able to settle to any task. If I missed Graham, God knows how Brendan must be feeling. He'd stand up, look out of the window, sigh, walk back to his chair, sit down, stand up again and repeat the process.
I tried to occupy myself with a book, but after having read the same paragraph several times I realised I hadn't taken in a single word. I was thinking about Andrew and how I could expose him for the malicious hypocrite he was. I hadn't a clue how to raise it with Kathleen and Brendan, nor how they would react. Badly, I suspected. My mind was going round in circles again.
Even Kathleen, who would normally find some comfort in playing her guitar, kept picking up Frankie, idly strumming the out of tune instrument for a few seconds before putting it back down. At one stage she began to tune it but gave up the attempt. Eventually she stood up and said: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers, let's get out of this place. Let's go for a drive somewhere.”
“Where?” Brendan asked.
“Fucked if I know,” Kathleen replied. “Anywhere.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I'll make us some sandwiches and a flask of tea.”
“But where?” Brendan repeated.
“Anywhere,” Kathleen repeated. She turned to me. “Any suggestions?”
I grinned. “Let me surprise you.”
Half an hour later the three of us were sat in my car. It was one of those glorious still winter days when the sky was almost cloudless, the sun was low in the sky and the lochs looked like sheets of glass, reflecting the moors and mountains. I've always loved those rare cold, crisp and bright days when, providing one is well wrapped up, being outdoors is like a piece of heaven.
They kept asking me where we were going and I kept telling them they would find out soon enough. I drove down single track roads I hadn't travelled along since childhood when we used to take a picnic to a secluded beach surrounded by cliffs and sand dunes and sheltered from the worst of the prevailing westerlies. The road became little more than a track, with grass growing through what remained of the tarmac, then petered out before a badly repaired wooden gate, hanging loose from its hinges.
It was exactly as I remembered it. As a child I used to stare in wonder at what seemed to my nine or ten year old eyes to be a vast wilderness of fine sand and pebbles with grasses growing from it. It had been a long time since I'd been there, and I had been afraid I would be disappointed. I wasn't.
“This is as far as we can drive,” I told them. “The rest of the way is by foot.”
As she got out of the car, Kathleen looked around her, open mouthed, staring at the hills behind us and the long narrow sea loch we had been driving along for several miles. The air held the sweet scent of the winter grasses growing around us and the saltiness of the nearby sea. For once, she was speechless, as was Brendan. There was not a building, not another vehicle in view. Just a wilderness paradise where the only break in the silence came from birds overhead and our feet as we tramped through the gate and followed a pebble strewn track. As we walked the mile to the beach, the smell of salt became stronger and gentle sea breezes reddened our faces.
We passed a few cattle who stopped chewing on the machair flora to stare at us, their eyes following us as we walked on, before they returned to chewing the cud. We came to a range of sand dunes that led down to an almost white beach that seemed to stretch for miles in either direction, bounded by jagged rocks that led to dark ominous looking cliffs. We found a way through the dunes down to the beach. In silence we walked to the water's edge, the foam lapping our feet, as we stared at the vast ocean before us.
We looked at each other, grinning. Faced with the vastness of nature all our problems seemed distant concerns, hardly worth worrying about in the scheme of things. It was at times like this I could see why people believed in God, because if God was anywhere it was in places such as these.
We ate our picnic sat on the soft dry sand below the dunes. Afterwards, we raced each other along the waterline from one end of the beach to the other and back again, laughing like kids as we scooped salt water in our hands and threw it at one another. Eventually, worn out, we collapsed on the sand. As the sun began to fall over the horizon and with the tide coming in, we decided reluctantly it was time to go. It was almost dark when we got back to the car. As I drove back Kathleen serenaded us with some improvised tunes, melodies that recreated the sound of the water lapping the beach, the rustling of the breeze through the machair, the songs of the wintering birds and the stomping of the cattle's feet.
That night, exhausted but happy, we slept deep and long, only woken by the sun shining through the windows the following morning. After a hearty breakfast we spent most of the rest of the morning leisurely cleaning and tidying the cottage. The weather remained dry, so I took the opportunity to prepare the garden for the spring. As we sat down to an early lunch, the doorbell rang. It was da. He didn't look happy.
He refused the offer of lunch and got straight to the point. “Have you seen the local paper today?”
We all shook our heads. In silence, he passed it to me. The headline in large black print was: EX PROSTITUTE STRIPS FOR AUDIENCE, with a photograph of the naked Kathleen, her guitar by her side and me fully clothed next to her. The story reminded readers of who we were: the probably lesbian house mates of the two gay men arrested by police for gross indecency. This was followed by a heavily distorted account of the awful gig where, in anger, Kathleen removed her clothes and sang songs about male impotence. The journalist had used inverted commas when referring to us as singers and musicians, but not when writing about Kathleen as a prostitute. The writer knew about her time working the streets in Birmingham and about her convictions for soliciting, strongly hinting that our music was just a cover for selling sex.
1
What a mess! It never occurred to me, to any of us, that male homosexual activity was still a crime in Scotland. Why would it? Brendan and Kathleen knew nothing about Scotland until they moved here and I'd been living in Birmingham so long I'd forgotten, if indeed I'd ever known. My parents told me they hadn't realised either, otherwise they said they would have told us.
I asked myself how the police found out, particularly as so few people knew Brendan was gay and, as far as I was aware, no-one knew Graham was.
Then it struck me. Apart from me, Kathleen and my parents, the only person in Strathdubh who knew Brendan was gay was Andrew. It had to be him: it couldn't be anyone else. Everybody thought I was so placid and easy going, so laid back, and most of the time they'd be right. Even my parents were worried that when I went to university I wouldn't be able to stand up for myself, and when I returned with another woman in tow they were concerned Kathleen was using me. But never confuse being quiet with being a pushover. When need be I could stand up for myself and those I loved. When push came to shove I could, if necessary, be one mean bitch. As Andrew would find out – when I was ready.
After Brendan and Graham's arrest, Kathleen was in a right state, unable to focus on anything, alternating between fits of hysterical rage, bouts of silent apathy and periods of uncontrollable laughter. She scared me. I was worried in case she tried to harm herself, in case she attacked others. I kept my suspicions about Andrew to myself, concerned she would do something really stupid if I told her.
After the arrests I rang da. I must have been a wee bit incoherent as it took him some time to understand me, meanwhile Kathleen was yelling and swearing and threatening to go after the police and attack them. When da got the gist of what I was saying, he told me he and ma would be round, and within just a few minutes they were in our cottage. Da rang a solicitor he'd used in the past who promised to get in touch with the police to find out what was going on. Ma and I did our best to calm Kathleen but with only limited success. Eventually she fell into a restless troubled sleep. Each of us took turns sitting by her, and none of us got much sleep.
In the early hours while it was still dark, da said he had to go to see to the livestock. “Will you be okay, darling?” he asked me. I nodded. He said: “I'll leave your ma here.”
I shook my head. “There’s no need. You've both got work to do. Will the solicitor ring here or ring you?”
“Probably me, but when he rings I'll let you know what he says. And I'll ask him to keep in touch with you.” Da kissed me on my forehead and ma hugged me.
After they left I lay next to Kathleen and tried to get some sleep. When I woke up there was daylight and Kathleen wasn't beside me. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, calling her name. I found her in the kitchen with a cup of tea in front of her.
“I thought I'd leave you to sleep,” she said, pouring me a cup. “I'm sorry I was so fucking bad last night.”
I kissed her and told her not to worry, we'd get things sorted out.
She slammed her cup on to the table, spilling some of its contents. “And how the fuck are we going to do that?” I was about to respond when she said: “Sorry. That's unfair.”
“No, you're right. I haven't a clue how it's going to work itself out. At least we've got them a solicitor.”
Later that morning I received two phone calls. One was from the council's Education department: some pen-pusher told me I was being removed from the list of supply teachers, and that it would be confirmed in writing. He said he was phoning me so I wouldn't have a wasted journey the following day, when I was supposed to be teaching.
The second call was from da, telling me Graham had been released on bail. “I've said I'll go and collect him, as his car is still outside your cottage. Probably be back some time in the evening.”
“What about Brendan?” I asked.
“I'm afraid he's still in custody. Apparently there's a complication preventing his release at the moment. I've asked David Fritton, the solicitor, to let you know as soon as he finds out anything.”
When I told Kathleen about Brendan and asked her what the complication could be, she said: “Fuck knows.” I wasn't going to tell her about the supply teaching, but when she asked who the first call was from, she refused to accept my prevarication, so I had to come clean. Her response was typical: she blamed herself.
“Come on, girl,” I said, “none of this is your fault. None of it.”
“Well, who the fuck's fault is it, then?”
I shrugged. I was about to tell her I thought it was Andrew, but stopped myself in time: she was too raw to take that on board at the moment, so I just said: “No-one's. I suppose it's the fault of the law.”
Later, David Fritton rang me to tell me why Brendan was still in custody. “It appears he has an unpaid fine from Birmingham, from when he was convicted for possession of cannabis. That needs sorting before they'll give him bail.”
When I told Kathleen, she said: “The fucking idiot! I assumed he'd stuck to the agreed schedule. What was he thinking of?”
“He probably forgot, with everything else that was going on.”
“Yeah, well I didn't forget. I made fucking sure I'd paid it off before we left Birmingham. He should have done the same.”
“For God's sake, girl, just loosen up a bit. He's had a lot on his plate.” I was about to tell her she wasn't perfect, but I bit my tongue. She too had enough on her plate. Instead I said: “So what are we going to do about his fine?”
She stared at me like I was an imbecile. “Pay it, of course. What else?”
I rang David back, telling him we could pay what was left of the fine and asking if Brendan would then get bail. Like most solicitors he wouldn't commit himself, but he did imply it was likely. We agreed to travel there the following day, and we hoped we would be returning with Brendan.
We hadn't left the cottage all day, but we needed to get some food and other essentials. We knew we would have to face the gossipmongers at some stage, though neither of us felt strong enough to do so. After dithering we decided we had no choice.
As we were putting on our overcoats and about to leave we got another phone call. It was from the Ford Inn, telling us it would be best if we didn't turn up to play that evening. I was relieved it was me who picked up the phone: I'm sure Kathleen would have given them a mouthful and that would have done none of us any good. The phone rang again. This time it was a journalist wanting to know if we would like to make a statement. I said no, and slammed the phone down. It rang again. Another journalist. And again. We let it ring and left the cottage.
We were both feeling self-conscious and, even though the shop was less than a mile away, decided to drive. When we got out of the car, the few people hanging about refused to make eye contact with us. We walked through the door and the shop fell silent apart from a few disapproving tuts. As we approached the counter I heard someone say to Fiona: “You don't allow that sort in here, do you?”
Fiona's response was brusque. “I decide who gets served in here, not you.” Then, turning to us and smiling, she said: “Now what can I do for you?”
Because of her arthritis she wasn't able to bend to the lower shelves or reach the higher ones, but she had a young assistant who did that for her. There were many days when Fiona was in too much pain to work, but when she could make it she would be in the shop. It was part of the life she and her late husband had built for themselves and, even if she couldn't do much, she liked the company. And she didn't trust anyone else to cash up and do the banking.
As she passed us our messages and we paid, she said: “I'm really sorry about what's happened. I don't know why people can't just let others get on with their lives when they're not doing any harm to anyone. Rob wants to know if it's okay to come and see you. He said he didn't know if you'd want to see anyone after what's happened. It must have been awful for you – and for Brendan and his friend.”
We thanked her and said we'd love to see him. We told her we'd be collecting Brendan the following day, but we'd be in for the rest of today.
She nodded. “I'll tell him.” She leaned across the counter and, taking Kathleen's hand, said: “You know, we both owe you a lot. If it wasn't for you, Rob would still be drinking every hour that God sends. Without you he'd probably end up killing himself with the booze.”
Kathleen blushed. “I didn't do anything. Really I didn't,” she said.
Fiona folded her arms. ”Oh yes you did. You were nice to him. You treated him like a human being, not like a piece of dirt like most of these people did. And you let him be your friend, and all you did for us when... Well, you know. Whatever troubles you have, whatever anyone else thinks, we'll both be here for you all.” She smiled. “Now, away with you. I've got other customers to serve.”
Back home the phone kept ringing every few minutes. It was always either a journalist or some idiot screaming obscenities. We would have pulled the socket from the wall except the solicitor and my parents needed to be able to contact us. When the doorbell rang I asked who was there before opening it to Rob.
“I don't know what to say,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm really sorry. Why is it bad things always happen to the best people?” Unable to settle, he kept stalking from one end of the room to the other.
Kathleen smiled at him. “Why don't you sit down. You're making me fucking dizzy.”
“Sorry,” he said. He sat down, then stood up again. “I tell you what, shall I make us a pot of tea?”
“I was just going to do that, Rob. You're our guest,” I told him.
“Oh, don't worry about that. It'll give me something to do with these useless hands of mine. I promise to try and not break anything.”
“Let's do it together,” Kathleen said, standing up. So we all marched to the kitchen.
Rob was shaking his head as we waited for the kettle to boil. “What harm have they done to anyone? Who cares if they're queer? They've never tried it on with me, and it's no-one else's business anyway. Some people just can't keep their noses out of other people's affairs. I'm sorry. I just think it's so unfair.” His face creased and tears began to fall from his eyes as he sobbed loudly and uncontrollably.
Kathleen put her arm around him. “Look, Rob, don't you worry. Everything'll be okay.” As I made the tea, she led him back to the living room and made him sit down.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he exclaimed. “Here's you comforting me and I should be comforting you. I'm sorry.”
“That's okay,” I said. “It's just nice to see a friendly face.”
I looked across at Kathleen with a question in my eyes. She nodded. Turning to Rob, she said: “Now you're here, we've got something to tell you.” He looked at her and she took a deep breath, before continuing: “Brendan and Graham aren't the only queers who live here.”
“You mean...” he said, pointing at us. Kathleen nodded. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I never realised, it never entered my head. I mean, you both look too pretty to be dykes. Not that you have to be ugly to be a dyke, but isn't one of you supposed to be more masculine than the other? At least that's what I always thought, what people told me. That one had to wear trousers and have a deep voice and act like a man. Shit, this isn't coming out right. I hope I haven't offended you.”
By this time, we were both in fits of laughter, tears rolling down our cheeks. When we could finally get any words out I told him he was funny and no, he hadn't offended us, adding: “We both wear the trousers, that's why we argue so much.” That started Kathleen giggling again.
After she'd calmed down a bit, she managed to say: “Hope you don't mind that we laughed at what you said. But just so you know you and your ma have cheered us both up. I tell you what. If I was fucking straight, I'd marry you.”
He grinned, staring at Kathleen with wide open eyes. “Me? But I'm no good for anyone. Can't get a job. Was an alcoholic. Can't read or write much. I mean, I'm a waste of space.”
“That's one thing you're not. I don't know any bloke who's less of a waste of space than you. And I hope you find the right woman one day, just as I have.” After she'd said this, she took my hand.
Rob stopped for lunch, insisting on washing up when we'd finished eating. Afterwards we played and sang for him. He'd heard us perform several times and he had his own favourites which he requested. The only interruption was the ringing of the phone, but Rob proved how useful he could be. He offered to answer it and unless it was our solicitor, my parents or a close friend he would tell the callers we were out, then put the phone down.
After he'd gone we both slumped on the sofa. For the few short hours he had been here we had been able to put the severity of our problems to one side. Now they stared us in the face. We were emotionally drained and, given how little sleep we'd had the previous night, physically drained. We were also frightened, having no idea what would happen next.
We were woken by the noise of the front door opening. We both jumped up, worried who it might be. Then we heard my da's voice: “Anyone home?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I hugged da, followed by embracing Graham. “It’s good to see you,” I said.
“Likewise,” Graham replied. He looked as if he'd aged ten years in a day. When we asked him what it was like, he shook his head. “Like nothing I've ever been through. I've ministered to prisoners before, and I thought I knew all about it. I was wrong. You're not a human being, you're just a thing that has no freedom of action, that can be moved here and moved there at the whim of someone you have no influence over. Once they lock that door behind you and you realise you can't just walk out, everything changes. I can still see the door being locked, hear the key turning, smell the sour stink of fear.” He sat down.
Kathleen was nodding. “I know. I've been there several times, and it never gets easier. Over time you learn to put on a face, but inside it is still a fucking shock when that door locks. Anyone who says prison is easy ought to be made to feel what it's like being deprived of your freedom, even for a few hours. It's one of the worst feelings in the world.” She took his hand, gently patting it. I made some tea.
When I returned they were engaged in earnest conversation. Kathleen was saying: “Look, stop here for a few days just to get yourself together.”
Da was nodding his head. “Yes, and if you feel uncomfortable about stopping here after what's happened, we've got a spare room at the farmhouse.”
Graham shook his head. “No. Thank you, but no. I really do have to get back to Birmingham, try and sort things out. I know I'm likely to be laicised, I know that.” He saw the look of incomprehension on my face. “Sorry, you probably know it as being defrocked. I know I won't be allowed to continue as a priest, but to be honest before the arrest I was close to leaving anyway so I could be with Brendan. I've got to get back, even if it's only to put things in order. I think I'll make it easy for the authorities by requesting laicisation.” He made no attempt to stop the tears rolling down his face. “All those years of ministering to people, all those years of loneliness and prayer and fighting temptation, all those years – wasted.”
“No,” I said, surprising myself by the loudness of my voice. “No, none of it has been wasted. None of it. Think of how many people you've helped. How many couples you've married, how many babies you've christened, how many bereaved people you've comforted, how much hope and succour you've brought to people. Think about that. And remember, if you hadn't been a priest out late at night coming back from giving someone the last rites you wouldn't have met Brendan, you wouldn't have felt the love of another human being. No, whatever happens now, none of your time as a priest has been a waste of time.”
Kathleen was nodding. “She's right. Irritating as it is, she normally is right.” That got a smile from Graham.
“Thank you for everything.” he said.
“Bugger that,” Kathleen said. “Nothing to thank us for. I know you have to get back, but at least wait until you've seen Brendan. We're going to collect him tomorrow. He'll be devastated if you go without seeing him. Stop for a couple of nights at least.”
He nodded. “Okay. I think I need to get some sleep now.”
2
Unlike Kathleen, Brendan and Graham I had no experience of being arrested and interrogated by the police. Of course I had seen TV programmes like Z Cars, Softly Softly and the Sweeney, and read some crime fiction, but I doubted they were really that realistic. Although their experiences were different, there was one thing they agreed on: the feeling of claustrophobia when that door was locked, the awfulness of the deprivation of freedom. Even Kathleen, who had seen the inside of cells on several occasions in the past, said that was something that never got easier.
When, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, Brendan walked out of the police station, he squinted at the winter sun and took a deep breath of fresh air. At first he didn't want to get in the car, saying he'd had enough of enclosed spaces for a while. Instead he walked around the small Highland town, with us close behind him. We meandered around the park, stopping at the ornamental lake to look at the ducks, did a bit of window-shopping on the High street, sat by the war memorial for a few minutes before stopping at a small cafe for tea and cakes. Most of the time he was silent and when we asked him anything his replies were monosyllabic. By the time he was ready to travel back to Strathdubh, dusk was falling and I knew we'd be doing most of the journey in the dark.
A few minutes into the journey he asked Kathleen how many times she'd been arrested and locked in the cells.
“Oh, loads of times,” she replied. “It was a hazard of the job, like getting covered in shit is one of the hazards of being a plumber.”
“I don't know how you could stand it. Only been twice for me, and I can tell you I was crawling up the walls. It was even worse after lights out. I thought I was going to go mad. Apparently at one stage I was screaming, because one of the guards came to tell me to shut the fuck up.” He was silent for a few moments, then said: “Thanks for paying the fine.”
“No problem. But next time stick to the fucking arrangement, hey?”
“I hope there isn't a next time. Though God knows what's going to happen now. I can't understand why the law on gay sex can be different in different parts of the country.”
I almost told him he should read about the history of Scotland, and how it had a different legal system to England, but thought better of it. Instead, I asked him how he'd been treated. As I was concentrating on navigating the single track road in the dark, I didn't see his response, but he didn't reply. I didn't push him for an answer, letting him remain silent.
After a few more minutes of some inane pop music blaring from Radio One, Kathleen fiddled with the controls, but unable to find anything that suited her, she exclaimed: “Fuck that!” and switched it off.
“Hey,” Brendan said, “I was listening to that.”
I switched the radio back on. Kathleen reached across to switch it off again, but I slapped her hand away. “If he wants to listen to the radio, let him. You're not the one whose been locked up for two nights.”
She fell silent, obviously sulking. At times like that I could hate her. The weather had turned: the wind had got up and swirling horizontal rain reduced visibility, even with the headlights on full beam. All we need now, I thought, was a bloody deer to run out in front of us or for a vehicle to be coming towards us driving too fast. The weather matched the mood inside the car.
Kathleen was the first to break the silence. She swivelled her head round to look at Brendan in the back. “How are you feeling now?” she asked.
“Better than I was before you got me out of that place.” After a short silence, he continued: “At least this time the bastards didn't beat me up or threaten me.” He began to giggle. “It was quite funny at one stage. I overheard the officer who booked me telling one of the others what a waste of time it all was. 'I don't like fucking queers,' he said, 'but all this paperwork just because one of them's being buggered by a black. By the time I've logged them, the pub'll be closed.' They took my statement, then found out I'd got an unpaid fine, sighed again and locked me up.” He paused. “It didn't seem funny at the time, though.”
“They thought it hilarious when they found out I was a priest.” It was the first time Graham had spoken for what seemed hours. “I won't repeat what they said, but I'm sure you can imagine the fun they had with a black queer priest. To be honest I've heard worse, but...” His voice tailed off.
It was all over the papers. But that was only to be expected and was the least of our problems. Today's news is tomorrow's chip paper. None of us knew what would happen next. Would they be sent to prison or fined? Would they be sent for psychiatric treatment? How were we going to live without any of us working? For I was sure some, if not most, of our bookings would be cancelled, I'd already lost my supply teaching, Graham was not going to be able to remain a priest and I doubted Brendan would want to work at the hotel, with all the hassle he'd get, even if he wasn't sacked first. We had some savings, particularly Kathleen whose post office account was healthy. But that wouldn't last for ever.
I didn't say any of this: there was no point in discussing it when we were all so tired and on edge, and anyway I thought it better to wait until we'd talked to David, our solicitor. Still, it was all going round and round in my head like one of those fairground rides, making me feel dizzy.
We got home eventually. Tired as we were, there was still something to be sorted out before we went to our beds. It was Graham who said it: “Brendan and I, we can't sleep in the same bed.”
“Why the fuck not?” Kathleen asked. And then, when her mouth made a circle and her eyes opened wide, I could see the penny had dropped.
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “I'll grab some sheets and sleep on the sofa.”
“No way, man,” Graham said. “No way. This is your home, you have the bed.”
Brendan looked at him. “Look. It was me got you in this mess. If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have been arrested and you wouldn't be about to have to give up the priesthood. If only I'd left you alone.”
Graham shook his head. “I was a willing partner. It was mutual. I'll sleep on the sofa.”
Kathleen was getting exasperated. “For God's sake, you two. Why not just toss for it?”
In the end, it was Brendan who slept on the sofa. We all went to bed thinking things couldn't get any worse. How wrong we were.
3
Graham left the following morning. Brendan asked him if he really had to go. He nodded. “Afraid so. Even without all this mess, I would have to leave to continue my duties. But now – well – there's a lot to sort out.” He kissed Brendan, who held him close. “One way or the other, I'll make sure when all this is over we can be together.”
“When will you be back?” Brendan asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as I can. Other than that I don't know. I'll have to be back for any court case, of course.” He sighed. “There's so much to sort out. But we'll keep in touch: we can phone and write to each other.” He kissed Brendan again, told him he loved him, picked up his suitcase and was gone.
The cottage felt empty without him and the three of us mooched around, doing nothing, not being able to settle to any task. If I missed Graham, God knows how Brendan must be feeling. He'd stand up, look out of the window, sigh, walk back to his chair, sit down, stand up again and repeat the process.
I tried to occupy myself with a book, but after having read the same paragraph several times I realised I hadn't taken in a single word. I was thinking about Andrew and how I could expose him for the malicious hypocrite he was. I hadn't a clue how to raise it with Kathleen and Brendan, nor how they would react. Badly, I suspected. My mind was going round in circles again.
Even Kathleen, who would normally find some comfort in playing her guitar, kept picking up Frankie, idly strumming the out of tune instrument for a few seconds before putting it back down. At one stage she began to tune it but gave up the attempt. Eventually she stood up and said: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers, let's get out of this place. Let's go for a drive somewhere.”
“Where?” Brendan asked.
“Fucked if I know,” Kathleen replied. “Anywhere.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I'll make us some sandwiches and a flask of tea.”
“But where?” Brendan repeated.
“Anywhere,” Kathleen repeated. She turned to me. “Any suggestions?”
I grinned. “Let me surprise you.”
Half an hour later the three of us were sat in my car. It was one of those glorious still winter days when the sky was almost cloudless, the sun was low in the sky and the lochs looked like sheets of glass, reflecting the moors and mountains. I've always loved those rare cold, crisp and bright days when, providing one is well wrapped up, being outdoors is like a piece of heaven.
They kept asking me where we were going and I kept telling them they would find out soon enough. I drove down single track roads I hadn't travelled along since childhood when we used to take a picnic to a secluded beach surrounded by cliffs and sand dunes and sheltered from the worst of the prevailing westerlies. The road became little more than a track, with grass growing through what remained of the tarmac, then petered out before a badly repaired wooden gate, hanging loose from its hinges.
It was exactly as I remembered it. As a child I used to stare in wonder at what seemed to my nine or ten year old eyes to be a vast wilderness of fine sand and pebbles with grasses growing from it. It had been a long time since I'd been there, and I had been afraid I would be disappointed. I wasn't.
“This is as far as we can drive,” I told them. “The rest of the way is by foot.”
As she got out of the car, Kathleen looked around her, open mouthed, staring at the hills behind us and the long narrow sea loch we had been driving along for several miles. The air held the sweet scent of the winter grasses growing around us and the saltiness of the nearby sea. For once, she was speechless, as was Brendan. There was not a building, not another vehicle in view. Just a wilderness paradise where the only break in the silence came from birds overhead and our feet as we tramped through the gate and followed a pebble strewn track. As we walked the mile to the beach, the smell of salt became stronger and gentle sea breezes reddened our faces.
We passed a few cattle who stopped chewing on the machair flora to stare at us, their eyes following us as we walked on, before they returned to chewing the cud. We came to a range of sand dunes that led down to an almost white beach that seemed to stretch for miles in either direction, bounded by jagged rocks that led to dark ominous looking cliffs. We found a way through the dunes down to the beach. In silence we walked to the water's edge, the foam lapping our feet, as we stared at the vast ocean before us.
We looked at each other, grinning. Faced with the vastness of nature all our problems seemed distant concerns, hardly worth worrying about in the scheme of things. It was at times like this I could see why people believed in God, because if God was anywhere it was in places such as these.
We ate our picnic sat on the soft dry sand below the dunes. Afterwards, we raced each other along the waterline from one end of the beach to the other and back again, laughing like kids as we scooped salt water in our hands and threw it at one another. Eventually, worn out, we collapsed on the sand. As the sun began to fall over the horizon and with the tide coming in, we decided reluctantly it was time to go. It was almost dark when we got back to the car. As I drove back Kathleen serenaded us with some improvised tunes, melodies that recreated the sound of the water lapping the beach, the rustling of the breeze through the machair, the songs of the wintering birds and the stomping of the cattle's feet.
That night, exhausted but happy, we slept deep and long, only woken by the sun shining through the windows the following morning. After a hearty breakfast we spent most of the rest of the morning leisurely cleaning and tidying the cottage. The weather remained dry, so I took the opportunity to prepare the garden for the spring. As we sat down to an early lunch, the doorbell rang. It was da. He didn't look happy.
He refused the offer of lunch and got straight to the point. “Have you seen the local paper today?”
We all shook our heads. In silence, he passed it to me. The headline in large black print was: EX PROSTITUTE STRIPS FOR AUDIENCE, with a photograph of the naked Kathleen, her guitar by her side and me fully clothed next to her. The story reminded readers of who we were: the probably lesbian house mates of the two gay men arrested by police for gross indecency. This was followed by a heavily distorted account of the awful gig where, in anger, Kathleen removed her clothes and sang songs about male impotence. The journalist had used inverted commas when referring to us as singers and musicians, but not when writing about Kathleen as a prostitute. The writer knew about her time working the streets in Birmingham and about her convictions for soliciting, strongly hinting that our music was just a cover for selling sex.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.