Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Having left Birmingham far behind, Brendan, Kathleen and Catriona are settling into their new life in the north of Scotland, but just how long will their Highland idyll last?
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Having left Birmingham far behind, Brendan, Kathleen and Catriona are settling into their new life in the north of Scotland, but just how long will their Highland idyll last?
Chapter Seventeen: Brendan
1
It had been a long trek through rough, boggy and pathless terrain to get here, and I still had the journey back, but it was worth it. I sat on the peak of the mountain, eating a well-earned packed lunch, slurping from a flask of tea and thinking how lucky I was to be here, to have climbed it on one of the rare days when the peak was not shrouded in mist and the view was perfect. To the west I could see the Atlantic Ocean and the sheltered inlet where millennia ago people had chosen to build a settlement, since grown to the size of a small town. I could also see some of the Hebridean islands, a few of which I could name, and all of which seemed so tiny from this height. I could see fishing boats, recreational yachts and even a cruise ship in the harbour. To the north and east there was a seemingly endless array of lochs, rivers and mountains.
To the south was our new home at Strathdubh, and from this height I could see how it had got its name, which means black valley. The dark stones just below the surface of the water and the heavy foliage on the banks created the illusion the valley was black. The village of Strathdubh itself was a small settlement just a few miles from the coast and close to a spot where the river could, at one time, be forded, but there was no longer any need to get one's feet wet since a footbridge had been built, a bridge that was used by those who worked the land, as well as anglers, walkers, climbers and bird watchers.
Although the peak itself was arid rock, the route up had been teeming with life. There had been the ubiquitous sheep, but also some cattle. I had seen a herd of red deer, led by an antlered stag, who ran as soon as my scent reached them. As I marched through the undergrowth I saw and heard an array of different birds, only a few of which I could identify, and I spotted a large bird of prey circling above, too high for me to recognise, but looking big enough to be a golden eagle, though it may have just been a buzzard. There were newts and toads in the lochans (one of the many words that was new to me: it means little lake), and there were lizards sunning themselves on rocks. Bees and other insects were buzzing around the heather and gorse. I had no idea what most of the plants and flowers were called, but they looked beautiful, at least from a distance. Finding a route through them, and avoiding the various bogs and holes, was an entirely different thing. As were the midges: the longer I walked, the sweatier I got, and the more I sweated the more the midges liked it. When the wind got up, the midges disappeared, so I hoped it would stay breezy.
I felt happier and more contented than I could remember. All the dangers and violence of the city seemed so far away and I had all this beauty on my doorstep. Despite people having to work hard for long hours in all weathers, the pace of life appeared to be gentler, slower; though I suspected this was just the illusion of a city boy.
It had also been a long trek from Birmingham to this idyll: a journey of several hundred miles in a rickety second hand mini weighed down with all our worldly possessions, me driving and Kathleen navigating. Not that Kathleen was any good as the navigator: I lost count of the number of times she led us down dead ends or roads that took us in the wrong direction. Of course, she claimed it wasn't her fault: the map was out of date or the road signs weren't clear or... – any number of excuses. Sometimes she told me to turn left when she meant right, or vice versa. Sometimes she told me to turn so late I didn't have time to brake in order to make the turn, and then of course it was my fault for not doing what she'd told me to. I could go on. Suffice it to say it reached the stage when we were barely speaking to each other, and when we did it was fucking this and fucking that. All I can say is that I was glad she was a better singer than navigator.
We got to Strathdubh eventually. Once we were north of Glasgow, the scenery was ever more stunning and we both began to relax and became less worried about taking the wrong road, partly because there were fewer roads but mainly because there was so much to look at along the narrow, winding and sometimes single track roads. I could feel the stresses and anguish of the past year fall off me and after the loss of the lead weight, I seemed to be floating. Not perhaps the safest feeling to have when driving, perhaps.
When we reached the Atlantic coast, we were so enthralled we had to stop and, for a while, just stare, open mouthed. Despite living so far away from the coast, I had when much younger been to the seaside, but the view before us was as different from Blackpool and Skegness as the rugged mountains were to the bland farmland of much of Warwickshire. With a westerly blowing, the sea was a frenzy of rolling waves breaking on a rocky shore, sending spumes of salt water into the air, some landing on the surface of the road. The noise of the wind and the waves was joined by the caterwauling of gulls, gannets, terns and oystercatchers. For a while the road followed the sea, at one point rising to the top of a windswept cliff before descending again, and then heading inland for a few miles to avoid natural barriers, later re-joining the coast.
Although a few miles inland, Strathdubh was so close to the coast you could smell the salt air when the wind was from the west. It was spread over several miles, with stone and predominantly white buildings seemingly scattered haphazardly along the road. Searching for Catriona's cottage we passed two small shops, a garage, hotel, pub, campsite, a telephone kiosk and fields full of sheep. When we finally found the cottage, after asking for directions, Catriona's mother was waiting for us, as arranged in advance, and introduced herself as Morag.
Like her daughter, Morag was tall and slim, and had the same musical lilting accent. Indeed, if you closed your eyes you would think you were listening to Catriona. But, unlike her daughter, she had a no-nonsense, let's get down to business, attitude. The skin on her face, arms and hands was browned, probably from spending so much time working outside, and her hands were like those of a labourer, lined and coarse.
She showed us round the cottage, explaining that the electricity and water had only recently been reconnected. There was no phone, but there was a line for one. The only heating was by way of an open fire and she had kindly got some logs in for us, showing us where they were stored. Neither of us had ever had to cope with an open fire, but given it was summer we were sure we would get the hang of it before the cold weather returned. The ground floor consisted of a tiny lobby, a largish living room and a small kitchen containing an electric stove and a fridge, with a door leading out to the back garden. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a toilet and bathroom. As well as some basic furniture, there was also a piano in the lounge, but when she tried to play it Kathleen realised it needed tuning badly. The whole cottage was small but cosy and should prove easy to keep warm, particularly as it faced south. But Catriona was right: it did need a lot of work, both inside and outside. It was however clean.
“I thought I'd better give the place a good spring clean before you arrived,” Morag told us, “but I couldn't do anything about the state of disrepair.”
“Don't worry,” I said, “we'd just like to thank you for what you have done. We had to fumigate our last place before we could move in.”
She smiled, the same open generous smile we recognised from Catriona. “I've got some basic provisions in for you. Not much, and nothing fancy. Just some tea and coffee, milk, bread, butter, some eggs, some cheese. Hopefully keep you going until you can do a shop tomorrow.”
As we were thanking her again, we heard the whistle of a kettle. “Right,” she said, “I'll brew some tea for us.”
We insisted that we make the tea. “It'll help us find our way round the place,” Kathleen said.
Over tea she told us everything we needed to know about Strathdubh and the local area: who was who, what we could get where and much more. Not once did she ask us why we were moving up here, why we had left Birmingham. I didn't know what, if anything, Catriona had told her, but I soon discovered people here rarely asked a direct question, instead eliciting information by directing the conversation and allowing us to talk.
After giving us her phone number in case we needed anything, she left us to sort ourselves out. That first night, we ate at the nearby hotel, and after speaking with the owner I got myself a job. Apparently one of his staff had just left, leaving him shorthanded. I was to start at the weekend.
In the space of a few hours we'd settled into a new home and I'd got myself work. Not bad really.
2
Most of what needed fixing at the cottage was superficial and cosmetic, which was just as well, as there was no way we could have afforded to have employed plumbers or electricians. The two things we had to have done by professionals were repairing the roof and getting the chimney swept and, thanks to Catriona's contribution, we were able to pay for that and still have some savings left. The rest we did ourselves, just as we had done at the house in Balsall Heath. Before Catriona arrived, we had carpeted the floors, redecorated the walls and made it look homely with shelves and pictures. We also got a phone installed and the piano tuned: we were lucky in that the tuner was due to make one of his six monthly visits to the area a week after we arrived, and he was able to fit us in. We had begun work on cleaning up the garden, though neither of us had any experience of gardening, unlike Catriona who had green fingers. The outside walls needed repainting, but that would have to wait.
We were nervous about how people would react to us, whether they would welcome or at least tolerate us, whether we would understand them or they understand us. And to be honest at first some of the locals in the hotel bar took the piss out of my accent, but compared to my experiences working in pubs in Birmingham it was light hearted and lacked any malice. I think the regulars were just testing me, to see if I had a sense of humour, and once they realised I could not only laugh at myself but was good at the job I began to earn their respect and soon began to make friends. Most of the locals were hard working and down to earth crofters, shepherds, fishers and forestry workers, the rest being those who serviced their needs, including the local primary school teacher, the local doctor, tradespeople like the local joiner, who doubled as the undertaker, as well as those who worked in the two shops.
There were also some local amateur musicians and as soon as they realised Kathleen played guitar and sang she was invited to take part in jam sessions in the local pubs, and this also helped embed us in the local community. Knowing Catriona, who seemed to be popular, didn't do us any harm either.
After so long in the city, it took some time to adjust to the country. I'd been so used to falling asleep to the sound of traffic noise, the quiet made sleep difficult. There were plenty of sounds and smells during the day, but they were different from those in the city. The sound of cockerels crowing, of bird song, of sheep and cattle replaced the harsh noise of cars accelerating, and the smell of exhaust fumes was replaced with the aroma of fertiliser. At first I didn't notice the lack of street lighting: in the height of summer it hardly got dark this far north. But later in the year, as the days got shorter, I had to remember to take a torch out with me.
The open moorland and the lack of buildings was disconcerting at first. We were both intrigued as to why the houses were so far apart, so we asked Morag.
“Och,” she said, “that's because most of them are crofts.”
I'd never heard the word before, so I asked what it meant. She laughed at our ignorance. “They're parcels of land attached to a house, and the householder is supposed to work them. Some people grow basic crops, some keep sheep, a few keep cattle. It's a form of subsistence farming.”
When I asked if our cottage was on a croft, she shook her head. “Used to be, but it hasn't been for a while.” She also told us that her farm, which was considerably larger than any croft, was notionally owned by the local estate but the estate owners, who lived in a tax haven somewhere, rarely interfered in the running of the farm. “You'll find most people have little time for the absentee landlords who own most of the land here, apart from that owned by the kirk, as they can be slow to authorise repairs or any other changes. But the one advantage of them being thousands of miles away is they generally leave us alone to get on with things.” She also had to explain what the kirk was. Well, if the Church of England can own great tracts of land south of the border, I shouldn't be surprised at the Church of Scotland owning land up here.
The difference that took both of us the longest to get used to was the Scottish Sabbath, even though Catriona had warned us about it. Absolutely nothing opened on a Sunday, apart from the churches. If you forgot to stock up on a Saturday, then you had to go without until Monday. Even the children's playpark was locked on a Sunday, and everyday activities like putting the washing out or gardening or cleaning were actively discouraged. Walking, cycling or driving were frowned on unless you were on your way to or from church, though they were tolerated. The hotel bar and restaurant only opened on a Sunday for guests, and were run by the owner and his family without help from any employees. Even the people looked different on Sundays. No matter what the weather, many of them appeared in dark sober suits, carried hymn books and rarely smiled. I just couldn't understand it: surely for those who believed in God, the Sabbath should be a day of celebration. At least, that's what Catholics did: go to Mass, then to the pub, then a big lunch, then either fall asleep or go out to a park or a beach.
I continued to find Sundays oppressive throughout my time in Strathdubh.
I think Kathleen found the change easier than me. She had the knack of finding her way around new places and getting to know new people; it was probably something she'd had to learn in the past in order to survive. She even made an effort to tone down her language, though the four letter words did come out accidentally quite regularly. The first time, I think some people were shocked, but she always smiled so sweetly – what she referred to as her “tart smile” – they soon accepted it. Many of the men found her attractive and I believe the only reason none of them tried it on with her was because they assumed I was her boyfriend; nonetheless most of them would have done anything for her, and she wasn't above playing on that when we needed help with the house. I was worried in case their wives and girlfriends took badly to her; I needn't have: she went out of her way to treat them with deference, often asking advice even when she knew the answers and volunteering to help them whenever possible. She seemed to be as popular with the women as with the men.
Though if they'd heard what she said about some of them behind closed doors, her popularity would have plummeted. She would mimic them, bitch about the ones she didn't like and she even put some of them in her songs, carefully disguised of course.
Her repertoire, already large, began to get even bigger. She was like a sponge, soaking up everything she heard at the jam sessions, learning new songs, adapting tunes to her own needs.
All that was missing was Catriona. And Graham.
3
Catriona was due to arrive the day I climbed the mountain.
Ever since we'd had the phone installed, Kathleen spent much of her time speaking to Catriona. If I was in I just left them to it, but I was just as likely to be working at the hotel, something I was thoroughly enjoying most of the time. The punters were a lot more pleasant than I was used to and the owners helped out as well, something that rarely happened at the pubs I'd worked in Birmingham. Not only did I work the bar, I also had to do the drinks for the restaurant. And if any of the waiting staff were off I could be asked to serve at the tables. I had even worked in the kitchen one night when one of the staff there was off sick. I didn't mind, in fact I was happy to do so: the more experience I got, the better for any future prospects.
Work was far from my thoughts as I sat on the mountain peak. I was thinking about how excited Kathleen was at Catriona returning to Strathdubh. That morning she had rang Kathleen from a public phone box at the hotel she'd stopped at overnight to tell her roughly what time she expected to arrive. When she put the phone down, she picked up Frankie and began to play a medley of love songs. I winked at her and she began giggling. While she played I packed my rucksack and an overnight bag.
“What's that for?” she asked.
“Oh, I just thought the two of you needed some time together without me being around. So when I come down from the mountain, I'm going away overnight.”
“You don't have to do that. This your home too.”
I smiled at her. “I know.”
“Thank you,” she said, as the tears began to roll down her face. “You're so good to me. I don't fucking deserve it.”
“Oh, yes you do,” I replied.
“Oh, no I don't.” And so the pantomime sequence continued until we both collapsed on the floor with laughter. When she'd calmed down she asked me where I was going to spend the night.
“Never you mind. Just concentrate on the two of you making the most of my absence.”
“Come on,” she whined, “we don't keep secrets, do we? Tell me.” I just grinned at her. Wide eyed, she stared at me. “You don't mean... You haven't...” I just nodded, still grinning. “Fuck me, you're a fucking quick worker.” She was silent for a moment, then asked: “What about Graham?”
“There's no future there,” I said. “How can there be, when he's supposed to be celibate? He'd be hounded out of the church for breaking his vows with another man.” I shook my head. “No future there, more's the pity.”
“You did write to him, didn't you? You said you were going to, and it would be fucking wrong not to.”
“Oh, yes. I wrote a couple of weeks ago, gave him our new address and phone number. But I've not heard from him, so it's up to him now. If, as I suspect, he has decided to stick to his vows, it would only upset him more if I kept pestering him.”
“Perhaps,” she said, but she wasn't convinced. “Anyway, tell me all about this new bloke.”
I looked at my watch. “Not now. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but if I'm going to get up that mountain and then down in time to drive to the hotel and get cleaned up before meeting him, I'd better get my skates on.”
The truth was I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing. Not about giving Kathleen and Catriona time to spend alone. No, that was the right thing. I just wasn't sure about the man I was going to be with, partly because I felt I was betraying Graham, even though he hadn't written back to me. But mainly because I barely knew Andrew Buchan. All I knew about him was that he was our local councillor, and he was queer.
I'd first met him a week earlier when he was in the restaurant with two other people who, I gathered, were council officers. The three of them had been at a meeting and had decided to eat first before the officers made the long journey home. After they'd gone, he stopped in the bar.
“You're new, aren't you?” he asked.
“Yes, only moved up here a few weeks ago. I reckon I was lucky to get a job so quickly.”
“Och, I doubt it's to do with luck.” He took a gulp of his single malt. “In my experience, people make their own luck. And people who want to work generally find work. That's what I think.” He proffered his hand, which I shook. “I'm Andrew, Andrew Buchan, and I'm your local councillor – at least I will be once you're on the electoral roll. Any problems just contact me.”
I introduced myself, and that was that.
At least until later that evening when I was leaving work. Even though it was late, with the clear sky, the moon and stars, the lack of streetlighting wasn't a serious problem. As I was walking home, I heard someone coming towards me and when he got close saw it was Andrew.
“Hello again,” I said.
“Hello. Off home?”
I nodded, then realised he probably couldn't see that, so replied: “Yes.”
“It's such a beautiful night, I thought I'd go for a short walk along the strath. Fancy joining me for a while?”
I couldn't think of a reason why not. I knew Kathleen wouldn't be in: she'd joined some of the local musicians who were playing at a pub in a village several miles away and I doubted she'd be back before the early hours. I followed him down a track to the river Dubh, and along a path that followed the bank. Even though it was dark, I knew the path took us to the footbridge that crossed the river.
As we walked, he asked: “You're not married, are you?”
“No. I'm single and fancy free.”
“Same here. Never seem to be able to get on with the fairer sex.”
“Oh, I like women, but just as friends. Actually, I moved up here with a woman, a singer.”
“Ah would that be the one everyone's talking about? Catherine or something like that?”
“Kathleen.”
“Yes, that's right. Kathleen. Not heard her play myself, but I've heard she's excellent. And some of the lads quite fancy her.” I started giggling. “What's so funny?”
“I doubt any of them will get anywhere with her.”
“Why not?”
I realised I'd probably said too much, so I just replied: “Oh, you know, she just concentrates on her music. She doesn't have time for anything else, she's so committed.”
“Ah, another hard worker.” He was silent for a while, then said: “So if you're not interested in girls, what do you do for fun?” I didn't know how to answer that, not without revealing I was queer, so I remained silent. I thought I knew where this was going, but I've never been good at taking the initiative. I felt his hand touch mine, so lightly I wasn't sure if I'd imagined it. Then he grabbed me. “Sorry, I thought you were about to fall in the water.” But he didn't let go, and I didn't make any attempt to escape from his embrace. By this time we were at the footbridge. “Shall we cross to the other side?” he asked.
I nodded. There was no path on the north bank, just bushes and heather, flora that hid what happened next. Later he invited me to spend the night with him sometime. He explained we would need to be discreet because of his position: no-one could know about us. I agreed, and we arranged to meet at a hotel in a town about forty miles away. He had some council work to do there, and he told me to book a room and he would see me there when he'd finished his work.
I made my way down the mountain, across the footbridge and to my car.
Chapter Eighteen: Kathleen
1
When I opened the door, it was her. I just stood there, speechless, staring. Despite all those long phone conversations where neither of us were at a loss for words, I couldn't think of a thing to say. It wasn't as if her presence was a surprise, for fuck's sake; it wasn't as if I hadn't been waiting for this moment ever since we left Birmingham; but whatever the reason all I could do was look at her.
She broke the silence. “Aren't you going to let me in, girl?”
I nodded. The most enormous grin spread across her face, mirroring the one on mine, and we just sat there grinning at each other with tears rolling down our faces, saying nothing. Eventually she said: “Come here, girl.” The next moment we were in each other's arms.
Later, as I helped her unpack, she told me how much she admired the work we'd done to make the cottage look like it did. “Oh, it's just a bit of paint, carpet and fucking elbow grease. That's all. I hate to admit it, but I couldn't have done it without Brendan.”
“Where is he?” she asked. “I expected him to be here as well. Is he working? Great he's got a job, by the way.”
I shook my head. “He said he thought we needed some time together by ourselves. He went climbing earlier, and he's probably on his way to a hotel now.”
“That's nice of him.”
“Yeah. But it's not just altruism. He's only gone and fucking found himself someone. They're spending the night together.”
“Wow! He's a quick worker. So that priest is off the agenda now?”
I shrugged. “It seems so. He assured me he wrote to him, but he hasn't had a reply as of yet. He's a typical man, really: where his fucking prick leads, he follows.”
Catriona giggled. “Fucking prick sounds about right. Anyway, who is he? How did he meet him? Tell me all about it.”
I made a face. “I can't. He wouldn't tell me anything other than he'd met someone, and that had to be pulled out of him like teeth. He claimed he didn't have time to tell me, but that's just a fucking excuse if you ask me.”
“Oh dear, I hope it's no-one unpleasant. He's been through enough. Well, we've all been through enough.” She took a swig of tea. “Anyway, tell me all about the singing. How's it going.”
“I think you know it all, for fuck's sake, there's nothing really to tell.”
“Nothing to tell, girl! Away with you. Within days of moving up here and you're playing with some local musicians; that's not nothing, that's wonderful. So tell me all about it, or I walk back out that door.”
“No you fucking don't,” I told her, standing up and grabbing her. “You’re not going anywhere ever again without me. Understand?”
“Ha! I hope you don't intend to follow me to the loo. I'm not into water sports.” After I'd stopped giggling, she continued: “So, tell me all about it.”
“Nothing to tell really, at least nothing other than what I've already told you.” She folded her arms, looking like the schoolmistress she was. I sighed. “Okay.”
I'd already told her about going to the pub and seeing a group of musicians in a circle, playing for each other and for anyone who cared to listen. There were some guitars, a couple of fiddles, a mandolin and a five string banjo, plus those who just sang. One person would begin a tune and then others joined in as and when they wanted to; sometimes only two or three took part; sometimes the whole group; on one occasion a solitary singer with a guitar played on his own. I happened to know the song he was singing, so I joined in, singing a harmony part. I wasn't even aware of doing so until some people looked at me, and I thought I'd done something wrong, something totally against an etiquette I didn't understand. But no: when the song finished, people started fucking applauding me.
They asked me to join them. I demurred, saying I didn't have Frankie with me, and then I had to explain what Frankie was, and that seemed to impress them: naming my guitar after my favourite singer. One of them offered me her guitar, and I played “The Crafty Maid”, and that went down well. I sat back and accompanied others as they played or sang until it came round to me again, when I sang the waulking song Catriona had taught me, even though I was worried that might be a bit presumptuous of me. Others joined in, and afterwards one of them said: “Shit! An English girl who can sing the Gaelic.”
I had to admit I couldn't speak Gaelic and explained I had been taught the song by someone from up here who was living in Birmingham. When I mentioned Catriona, most of them said they knew her or her parents. I also told them she was moving back up here soon. One of them nodded. “Yes, Morag told us. She's really pleased her daughter's coming back.” I didn't tell them we were lovers, just that we sang together.
From then on, whenever I went there I always took Frankie with me. Most nights there were some musicians there, not always the same ones, but over time I got to know them all. I was amazed by their repertoires. I had assumed they would all be singing Scottish or Gaelic folk songs, and yes there were plenty of those, but there was much else beside. Rock'n'roll, country music, blues, pop, there was even someone who had produced a guitar arrangement of Miles Davis' jazz classic “So What”. Now that was fucking impressive. He taught it to me, though I never played it in public: it was his arrangement, let him get the credit for it.
Some of them also played at other pubs in the area, sometimes just for the fun of it, sometimes passing the hat around and sometimes for a set fee, and I was invited to join them. Of course, they took the piss out of my Brummie accent, but they weren't being cunts, it was playful banter of the best kind. And I gave as good as I got. I've been told I'm a good mimic, and I put it to good use. I even wrote a silly little song which was about them and in which I imitated some of them.
I loved Strathdubh. I loved everything about it: the people, the atmosphere, the scenery, the sense of remoteness, everything. I was happier than I'd ever been, and all I needed to make everything perfect was for Catriona to be here with me. And now she was.
2
That evening we went to the pub and Catriona joined in with the musicians. Most people knew her from when she'd been a kid and everyone seemed so pleased to see her and wanted to talk to her. Part of me was proud she was popular, but I have to admit that part of me was pissed off that she was spending so much time with other people. Still, it was wonderful to be able to perform with her again: we played some of the material we had prepared for that last gig in Birmingham, a gig that seemed a lifetime away. It felt like we'd never been apart. By the time we left, we were both a little drunk.
Over breakfast the next day I told her of all the ideas I had for new songs, and for arrangements of old songs. When I'd first started singing I'd stuck mainly to folk based material, apart from the occasional excursion into popular music with songs like “Love for Sale”. During those busking days I had played some popular songs because familiar material meant more money in the hat, but even those had tended to be by songwriters associated with folk music, people like Dylan and Paul Simon. It wasn't that I was some sort of folk purist who thought that songs should sound like they were hundreds of years old, it was just that I played what I knew and what spoke to me, something that was encouraged in the Birmingham folk collective I'd been involved with. Though no-one would have stopped me, I suspect both the rest of the collective and the audience would have frowned on me singing pop songs. Perhaps I avoided such material because it reminded me of my days as a prostitute: after all, my working name had been the same as the Beatles' song that pervert at the children's home had taught me: Michelle.
Having heard some of the musicians in the round singing rock, soul and country and western material alongside folk songs, both traditional and contemporary, I thought it would be fun to extend my repertoire, but perform them in my own way without copying the original singers.
I'd also been writing some new stuff. I never found writing easy, despite what Catriona thought: I always struggled, but sometimes the results were worth the effort. I wasn't above stealing traditional melodies and putting new words to them, but – hey – if that was good enough for Guthrie and Dylan then it was good enough for me.
But so far I had not played any of this new material – either the new songs or the new arrangements to popular songs – in public. I had played some of them to Brendan, but he was hardly a critical listener: he seemed to think everything I ever sang was brilliant, and I knew that wasn't the case. So that morning, after breakfast, I played some for Catriona: she was always honest with me about anything new I played, sometimes brutally so.
That day was no exception. She listened in silence wearing a poker face. After about half an hour, I stopped, and still there was no response from her. “Don't you like them?” I asked, nervously.
After a few seconds, she said: “Sounds like you want to be a pop singer.”
“No, not at all. I just thought I'd extend my repertoire. That way there'll be more opportunities to play. Anyway, what the fuck's wrong with pop?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“So this new stuff is just fucking crap. Is that what you mean?”
“Not at all. Some of those arrangements are very good, very good indeed.”
“What's the fucking problem, then?”
“Look, love, there are countless club singers out there making a decent living doing covers of pop songs. They play at social clubs, weddings, birthday parties and the like, and people talk over them while getting drunk, rarely listening to the music. The musicians are expected to play the originals note by note and the only interaction from the audience is when the drunken dancing starts. Don't know about you, but I'd find that disheartening. If that's the road you want to go down, fine, but it's such a waste of your talent.”
“So you want me pigeon-holed as a folk singer.”
“No, I just want you to use the talent you have, not waste it on copying others.”
“Copying others! Is that what you think? I've worked fucking hard to make these songs my own, and you insult me by calling me a fucking covers act. Just fuck off.”
I picked up Frankie and stormed out of the house, and made my way to the path that led to the river. I sat at the bench near the footbridge, looking at the water and the mountains and moorlands beyond it. I was fuming and the more I replayed in my head the conversation we'd had, the angrier I got. She'd only arrived the previous night and already she was interfering, telling me what I should and shouldn't play. Gradually, as I looked at the timeless peaks, the ducks floating on the river and airborne birds capturing insects in mid-flight, I began to calm down. The sound of the light wind rustling through the undergrowth and the gurgling of the water as it flowed over stones and rocks created a melody in my head. I cradled Frankie and began to transfer the melody to the guitar. I was so entranced in playing I failed to hear the noise of someone approaching. It was only when he said: “Beautiful!” that I realised someone was beside me.
I looked round, smiled and thanked him. I recognised him from the pub. He wasn't one of the musicians, just one of the regular drinkers when he was at home. Rob worked at the fishing and he was often away on a trawler for several days at a time, always heading for the pub when he landed once again on shore, gradually drinking his way through his wages until it was time for him to go to sea again. Although he was in his thirties, he was still single and lived at home with his parents, who worked in one of the local shops. I got the impression he was lonely, and he drank so much because of this: sadly a vicious circle – he drank because he was lonely and was likely to stay that way while he continued to get drunk every day he was on land. Some people took the piss out of him because of the way he looked, dressed and behaved, but they were always willing to let him buy them drinks while his money lasted. He had lost all his teeth and had never got round to getting dentures, but claimed his gums were so strong he could eat a steak with them. He was barely literate and had managed to get through school without learning to do much more than write his own name.
I invited him to sit next to me and asked him how he was doing. “Fine. Just passing time until the pubs open.” I looked at my watch and could see it would be almost an hour until then. “Where did you learn that tune?” he asked.
“I didn't. I just made it up.”
“You're kidding me. Fuck's sake. How does someone do that: just make up something like that like it's nothing.”
“I suppose we all have different skills. I wouldn't know the first thing about landing haddock and cod.”
“Oh, anyone can do that, even someone as thick as me. All you have to do is avoid sea sickness and falling overboard. Can you play some more for me?”
I picked up Frankie again and began to repeat the melody, adding to it. I asked him if it brought anything to mind.
He nodded. “Yes. It sounds like the river and the wind, but it also sounds sad.”
“Does it make you feel sad?”
He shook his head. “No. At least not while you're playing, but when you stop there's just – just nothing, just emptiness, just loneliness. Sorry, that probably makes no sense.” He turned away.
“I suppose it is a bit sad,” I said. “It's just the way it comes out sometimes, I suppose the music just reflects my mood.”
He looked at me, scrutinising me. “Are you sad too? And lonely.”
“No,” I said, “most of the time I'm fine, but everyone gets sad sometimes.”
“I'm like that all the time, except when I'm drunk. I need a girlfriend, someone to help take the loneliness away.”
I thought I knew where this was going, but all I could say was: “I hope you find someone soon, I'm sure you will.”
Sure enough, I was proved correct. He said: “I think I may be looking at her.”
Fuck's sake, I thought. If he knew what I had been he wouldn't be saying that. Or perhaps he would: after all, tarts are supposed to be easy, aren't we? I thought I must be mellowing because I tried to let him down easily: “Sorry, Rob, I'm not the one for you. I'm already...” then I stopped. I was about to tell him I had a partner, and that would have led to him asking who and to outing Catriona.
I was about to rephrase when he said: “I thought so. You're going out with that barman, aren't you? I should have guessed, after all the two of you moved up here together.”
I didn't disabuse him. It was just simpler to let him think that, though I hated myself for not putting him right. Wouldn't life be so much easier if everyone could be honest with each other? Or perhaps not, perhaps that degree of honesty would be too much for people. After all, look at how I had reacted to Catriona's honesty.
He told me he had better be going and wished me well. I told him any time he wanted to hear me play, he was welcome, and he thanked me, shaking my hand. After he'd gone I thought back to the row with Catriona, and decided she was right. Not only that, I was calling myself the most fucking ungrateful bastard in the world. I sighed, put Frankie back in her case and began to make my way back. No sooner had I stood up than I saw her walking towards me. She waved sheepishly at me, and I ran towards her then hugged her.
“I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry,” I said, “I don't deserve someone like you.”
“I'm sorry too. I was too harsh, I just came on too strong. I realise how hard you must have worked on all that stuff.” She gave me a peck on the cheek, then said: “Shall we go back and start again?”
I nodded. When we got back we discussed the new material. She refused to let me off the hook, making me work hard. “You're too good to accept second best,” she told me, “and I love you too much to allow that to happen.” I suppose that's what is meant by tough love.
By mid-afternoon I was knackered and told her so. “Slavery was abolished fucking years ago,” I complained.
“More's the pity,” she said, laughing.
I told her she was a cunt, and that made her laugh even more. “That's why you love me,” she said. I didn't know whether to get angry or burst into tears or hug her, but decided hugging her was the best option.
She was right. Of course she was right, but that just made it even more fucking annoying. The truth was that in the weeks since leaving Birmingham I had been a bit lazy: I hadn't worked hard enough on the new material and I had spent the time just coasting, basking in the glow of all the nice things others said about me. I had lost a bit of my edge, and Catriona was making sure I got that back. We discussed which of the new material would work, ditching the rest. She had the knack of getting the best out of me.
Then again, she was a teacher. And clearly a fucking good one if she could get me to do what we both knew was necessary.
I was looking forward to us performing some of the new material together.
3
When Brendan got back from his overnight adventure, we were still working, so he made us all some tea and sandwiches. Catriona was impressed. “Seems you've got him well trained,” she said.
I nodded. “Still some way to go, but he's getting there.”
“Hey,” he screamed, “I'm here, you know.”
Catriona giggled, then hugged him. She told him she was pleased he'd got a job so quickly and asked him how it was going.
“Okay,” he said. “It's certainly better than the places I worked in Brum. Not that that's saying much.”
With a wicked grin on her face, she said: “Kathleen was telling me it's not just a job you've found.”
Brendan blushed, shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. “Yeah. I suppose so.”
“And how was it?” she said, still grinning.
“Okay, I suppose.”
“Only okay?”
“I suppose you want every last detail?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you're not fucking getting them. There are some things I refuse to tell you two.”
We both laughed raucously. When we'd calmed down, he told us how secretive the man had been, insisting that Brendan book the hotel room and that he'd meet Brendan there after he'd finished his work. “He's really paranoid about anyone finding out. But then, that's understandable I suppose as he's the local councillor.”
Catriona sat up. “The local councillor?” she asked. “That isn't Andrew Buchan, is it?”
Brendan nodded.
“Shit!” she exclaimed. We both knew something was amiss, because Catriona so rarely swore. “Look, Brendan, watch him. He's not to be trusted. The only reason he gets re-elected at every election is because people are just too scared to stand against him.”
“Why are people scared of him? I mean, he's not normally my type, but he seemed nice enough, if a bit paranoid and, well, a bit right wing.”
“Right wing! He's a bloody fascist, and a bully. He's also one of the biggest employers in the village.”
“Yes, he told me that as well as his council work he also owns the local joiners and undertakers.”
Catriona was clearly annoyed. “And he bullies and underpays his staff, and he makes sure they know which side their bread's buttered, and woe betide any of them who step out of line. It's not just them, it's also their families. And forget about the saying about the customer always being right. He's the only joiner and undertaker for miles around. If you want any work done, either you agree with everything he says or you go bottom of the list. And if he thinks you've slighted him in any way, then he's not above spreading rumours, even to the extent of telling outright lies.”
“Doesn't sound like the sort of person you'd want to get the wrong side of,” I said.
Catriona nodded. “He isn't. He's probably the most unpopular person in the area, but no-one dare say anything against him in public. I didn't know he was gay, though. I don't think anyone does: he's kept that well-hidden.” She looked at Brendan. “Be careful, be very careful. He can do you a lot of harm, if he chooses to.”
“Oh, I don't think he can do me much harm. After all, he's so paranoid about being outed, and I've got that over him. But I suspect it'll just be a one night stand. As I said, he's not really my type.” He left to get changed, as he was working that night.
Next morning when the post arrived, there was a letter for Brendan. From Birmingham.
1
It had been a long trek through rough, boggy and pathless terrain to get here, and I still had the journey back, but it was worth it. I sat on the peak of the mountain, eating a well-earned packed lunch, slurping from a flask of tea and thinking how lucky I was to be here, to have climbed it on one of the rare days when the peak was not shrouded in mist and the view was perfect. To the west I could see the Atlantic Ocean and the sheltered inlet where millennia ago people had chosen to build a settlement, since grown to the size of a small town. I could also see some of the Hebridean islands, a few of which I could name, and all of which seemed so tiny from this height. I could see fishing boats, recreational yachts and even a cruise ship in the harbour. To the north and east there was a seemingly endless array of lochs, rivers and mountains.
To the south was our new home at Strathdubh, and from this height I could see how it had got its name, which means black valley. The dark stones just below the surface of the water and the heavy foliage on the banks created the illusion the valley was black. The village of Strathdubh itself was a small settlement just a few miles from the coast and close to a spot where the river could, at one time, be forded, but there was no longer any need to get one's feet wet since a footbridge had been built, a bridge that was used by those who worked the land, as well as anglers, walkers, climbers and bird watchers.
Although the peak itself was arid rock, the route up had been teeming with life. There had been the ubiquitous sheep, but also some cattle. I had seen a herd of red deer, led by an antlered stag, who ran as soon as my scent reached them. As I marched through the undergrowth I saw and heard an array of different birds, only a few of which I could identify, and I spotted a large bird of prey circling above, too high for me to recognise, but looking big enough to be a golden eagle, though it may have just been a buzzard. There were newts and toads in the lochans (one of the many words that was new to me: it means little lake), and there were lizards sunning themselves on rocks. Bees and other insects were buzzing around the heather and gorse. I had no idea what most of the plants and flowers were called, but they looked beautiful, at least from a distance. Finding a route through them, and avoiding the various bogs and holes, was an entirely different thing. As were the midges: the longer I walked, the sweatier I got, and the more I sweated the more the midges liked it. When the wind got up, the midges disappeared, so I hoped it would stay breezy.
I felt happier and more contented than I could remember. All the dangers and violence of the city seemed so far away and I had all this beauty on my doorstep. Despite people having to work hard for long hours in all weathers, the pace of life appeared to be gentler, slower; though I suspected this was just the illusion of a city boy.
It had also been a long trek from Birmingham to this idyll: a journey of several hundred miles in a rickety second hand mini weighed down with all our worldly possessions, me driving and Kathleen navigating. Not that Kathleen was any good as the navigator: I lost count of the number of times she led us down dead ends or roads that took us in the wrong direction. Of course, she claimed it wasn't her fault: the map was out of date or the road signs weren't clear or... – any number of excuses. Sometimes she told me to turn left when she meant right, or vice versa. Sometimes she told me to turn so late I didn't have time to brake in order to make the turn, and then of course it was my fault for not doing what she'd told me to. I could go on. Suffice it to say it reached the stage when we were barely speaking to each other, and when we did it was fucking this and fucking that. All I can say is that I was glad she was a better singer than navigator.
We got to Strathdubh eventually. Once we were north of Glasgow, the scenery was ever more stunning and we both began to relax and became less worried about taking the wrong road, partly because there were fewer roads but mainly because there was so much to look at along the narrow, winding and sometimes single track roads. I could feel the stresses and anguish of the past year fall off me and after the loss of the lead weight, I seemed to be floating. Not perhaps the safest feeling to have when driving, perhaps.
When we reached the Atlantic coast, we were so enthralled we had to stop and, for a while, just stare, open mouthed. Despite living so far away from the coast, I had when much younger been to the seaside, but the view before us was as different from Blackpool and Skegness as the rugged mountains were to the bland farmland of much of Warwickshire. With a westerly blowing, the sea was a frenzy of rolling waves breaking on a rocky shore, sending spumes of salt water into the air, some landing on the surface of the road. The noise of the wind and the waves was joined by the caterwauling of gulls, gannets, terns and oystercatchers. For a while the road followed the sea, at one point rising to the top of a windswept cliff before descending again, and then heading inland for a few miles to avoid natural barriers, later re-joining the coast.
Although a few miles inland, Strathdubh was so close to the coast you could smell the salt air when the wind was from the west. It was spread over several miles, with stone and predominantly white buildings seemingly scattered haphazardly along the road. Searching for Catriona's cottage we passed two small shops, a garage, hotel, pub, campsite, a telephone kiosk and fields full of sheep. When we finally found the cottage, after asking for directions, Catriona's mother was waiting for us, as arranged in advance, and introduced herself as Morag.
Like her daughter, Morag was tall and slim, and had the same musical lilting accent. Indeed, if you closed your eyes you would think you were listening to Catriona. But, unlike her daughter, she had a no-nonsense, let's get down to business, attitude. The skin on her face, arms and hands was browned, probably from spending so much time working outside, and her hands were like those of a labourer, lined and coarse.
She showed us round the cottage, explaining that the electricity and water had only recently been reconnected. There was no phone, but there was a line for one. The only heating was by way of an open fire and she had kindly got some logs in for us, showing us where they were stored. Neither of us had ever had to cope with an open fire, but given it was summer we were sure we would get the hang of it before the cold weather returned. The ground floor consisted of a tiny lobby, a largish living room and a small kitchen containing an electric stove and a fridge, with a door leading out to the back garden. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a toilet and bathroom. As well as some basic furniture, there was also a piano in the lounge, but when she tried to play it Kathleen realised it needed tuning badly. The whole cottage was small but cosy and should prove easy to keep warm, particularly as it faced south. But Catriona was right: it did need a lot of work, both inside and outside. It was however clean.
“I thought I'd better give the place a good spring clean before you arrived,” Morag told us, “but I couldn't do anything about the state of disrepair.”
“Don't worry,” I said, “we'd just like to thank you for what you have done. We had to fumigate our last place before we could move in.”
She smiled, the same open generous smile we recognised from Catriona. “I've got some basic provisions in for you. Not much, and nothing fancy. Just some tea and coffee, milk, bread, butter, some eggs, some cheese. Hopefully keep you going until you can do a shop tomorrow.”
As we were thanking her again, we heard the whistle of a kettle. “Right,” she said, “I'll brew some tea for us.”
We insisted that we make the tea. “It'll help us find our way round the place,” Kathleen said.
Over tea she told us everything we needed to know about Strathdubh and the local area: who was who, what we could get where and much more. Not once did she ask us why we were moving up here, why we had left Birmingham. I didn't know what, if anything, Catriona had told her, but I soon discovered people here rarely asked a direct question, instead eliciting information by directing the conversation and allowing us to talk.
After giving us her phone number in case we needed anything, she left us to sort ourselves out. That first night, we ate at the nearby hotel, and after speaking with the owner I got myself a job. Apparently one of his staff had just left, leaving him shorthanded. I was to start at the weekend.
In the space of a few hours we'd settled into a new home and I'd got myself work. Not bad really.
2
Most of what needed fixing at the cottage was superficial and cosmetic, which was just as well, as there was no way we could have afforded to have employed plumbers or electricians. The two things we had to have done by professionals were repairing the roof and getting the chimney swept and, thanks to Catriona's contribution, we were able to pay for that and still have some savings left. The rest we did ourselves, just as we had done at the house in Balsall Heath. Before Catriona arrived, we had carpeted the floors, redecorated the walls and made it look homely with shelves and pictures. We also got a phone installed and the piano tuned: we were lucky in that the tuner was due to make one of his six monthly visits to the area a week after we arrived, and he was able to fit us in. We had begun work on cleaning up the garden, though neither of us had any experience of gardening, unlike Catriona who had green fingers. The outside walls needed repainting, but that would have to wait.
We were nervous about how people would react to us, whether they would welcome or at least tolerate us, whether we would understand them or they understand us. And to be honest at first some of the locals in the hotel bar took the piss out of my accent, but compared to my experiences working in pubs in Birmingham it was light hearted and lacked any malice. I think the regulars were just testing me, to see if I had a sense of humour, and once they realised I could not only laugh at myself but was good at the job I began to earn their respect and soon began to make friends. Most of the locals were hard working and down to earth crofters, shepherds, fishers and forestry workers, the rest being those who serviced their needs, including the local primary school teacher, the local doctor, tradespeople like the local joiner, who doubled as the undertaker, as well as those who worked in the two shops.
There were also some local amateur musicians and as soon as they realised Kathleen played guitar and sang she was invited to take part in jam sessions in the local pubs, and this also helped embed us in the local community. Knowing Catriona, who seemed to be popular, didn't do us any harm either.
After so long in the city, it took some time to adjust to the country. I'd been so used to falling asleep to the sound of traffic noise, the quiet made sleep difficult. There were plenty of sounds and smells during the day, but they were different from those in the city. The sound of cockerels crowing, of bird song, of sheep and cattle replaced the harsh noise of cars accelerating, and the smell of exhaust fumes was replaced with the aroma of fertiliser. At first I didn't notice the lack of street lighting: in the height of summer it hardly got dark this far north. But later in the year, as the days got shorter, I had to remember to take a torch out with me.
The open moorland and the lack of buildings was disconcerting at first. We were both intrigued as to why the houses were so far apart, so we asked Morag.
“Och,” she said, “that's because most of them are crofts.”
I'd never heard the word before, so I asked what it meant. She laughed at our ignorance. “They're parcels of land attached to a house, and the householder is supposed to work them. Some people grow basic crops, some keep sheep, a few keep cattle. It's a form of subsistence farming.”
When I asked if our cottage was on a croft, she shook her head. “Used to be, but it hasn't been for a while.” She also told us that her farm, which was considerably larger than any croft, was notionally owned by the local estate but the estate owners, who lived in a tax haven somewhere, rarely interfered in the running of the farm. “You'll find most people have little time for the absentee landlords who own most of the land here, apart from that owned by the kirk, as they can be slow to authorise repairs or any other changes. But the one advantage of them being thousands of miles away is they generally leave us alone to get on with things.” She also had to explain what the kirk was. Well, if the Church of England can own great tracts of land south of the border, I shouldn't be surprised at the Church of Scotland owning land up here.
The difference that took both of us the longest to get used to was the Scottish Sabbath, even though Catriona had warned us about it. Absolutely nothing opened on a Sunday, apart from the churches. If you forgot to stock up on a Saturday, then you had to go without until Monday. Even the children's playpark was locked on a Sunday, and everyday activities like putting the washing out or gardening or cleaning were actively discouraged. Walking, cycling or driving were frowned on unless you were on your way to or from church, though they were tolerated. The hotel bar and restaurant only opened on a Sunday for guests, and were run by the owner and his family without help from any employees. Even the people looked different on Sundays. No matter what the weather, many of them appeared in dark sober suits, carried hymn books and rarely smiled. I just couldn't understand it: surely for those who believed in God, the Sabbath should be a day of celebration. At least, that's what Catholics did: go to Mass, then to the pub, then a big lunch, then either fall asleep or go out to a park or a beach.
I continued to find Sundays oppressive throughout my time in Strathdubh.
I think Kathleen found the change easier than me. She had the knack of finding her way around new places and getting to know new people; it was probably something she'd had to learn in the past in order to survive. She even made an effort to tone down her language, though the four letter words did come out accidentally quite regularly. The first time, I think some people were shocked, but she always smiled so sweetly – what she referred to as her “tart smile” – they soon accepted it. Many of the men found her attractive and I believe the only reason none of them tried it on with her was because they assumed I was her boyfriend; nonetheless most of them would have done anything for her, and she wasn't above playing on that when we needed help with the house. I was worried in case their wives and girlfriends took badly to her; I needn't have: she went out of her way to treat them with deference, often asking advice even when she knew the answers and volunteering to help them whenever possible. She seemed to be as popular with the women as with the men.
Though if they'd heard what she said about some of them behind closed doors, her popularity would have plummeted. She would mimic them, bitch about the ones she didn't like and she even put some of them in her songs, carefully disguised of course.
Her repertoire, already large, began to get even bigger. She was like a sponge, soaking up everything she heard at the jam sessions, learning new songs, adapting tunes to her own needs.
All that was missing was Catriona. And Graham.
3
Catriona was due to arrive the day I climbed the mountain.
Ever since we'd had the phone installed, Kathleen spent much of her time speaking to Catriona. If I was in I just left them to it, but I was just as likely to be working at the hotel, something I was thoroughly enjoying most of the time. The punters were a lot more pleasant than I was used to and the owners helped out as well, something that rarely happened at the pubs I'd worked in Birmingham. Not only did I work the bar, I also had to do the drinks for the restaurant. And if any of the waiting staff were off I could be asked to serve at the tables. I had even worked in the kitchen one night when one of the staff there was off sick. I didn't mind, in fact I was happy to do so: the more experience I got, the better for any future prospects.
Work was far from my thoughts as I sat on the mountain peak. I was thinking about how excited Kathleen was at Catriona returning to Strathdubh. That morning she had rang Kathleen from a public phone box at the hotel she'd stopped at overnight to tell her roughly what time she expected to arrive. When she put the phone down, she picked up Frankie and began to play a medley of love songs. I winked at her and she began giggling. While she played I packed my rucksack and an overnight bag.
“What's that for?” she asked.
“Oh, I just thought the two of you needed some time together without me being around. So when I come down from the mountain, I'm going away overnight.”
“You don't have to do that. This your home too.”
I smiled at her. “I know.”
“Thank you,” she said, as the tears began to roll down her face. “You're so good to me. I don't fucking deserve it.”
“Oh, yes you do,” I replied.
“Oh, no I don't.” And so the pantomime sequence continued until we both collapsed on the floor with laughter. When she'd calmed down she asked me where I was going to spend the night.
“Never you mind. Just concentrate on the two of you making the most of my absence.”
“Come on,” she whined, “we don't keep secrets, do we? Tell me.” I just grinned at her. Wide eyed, she stared at me. “You don't mean... You haven't...” I just nodded, still grinning. “Fuck me, you're a fucking quick worker.” She was silent for a moment, then asked: “What about Graham?”
“There's no future there,” I said. “How can there be, when he's supposed to be celibate? He'd be hounded out of the church for breaking his vows with another man.” I shook my head. “No future there, more's the pity.”
“You did write to him, didn't you? You said you were going to, and it would be fucking wrong not to.”
“Oh, yes. I wrote a couple of weeks ago, gave him our new address and phone number. But I've not heard from him, so it's up to him now. If, as I suspect, he has decided to stick to his vows, it would only upset him more if I kept pestering him.”
“Perhaps,” she said, but she wasn't convinced. “Anyway, tell me all about this new bloke.”
I looked at my watch. “Not now. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but if I'm going to get up that mountain and then down in time to drive to the hotel and get cleaned up before meeting him, I'd better get my skates on.”
The truth was I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing. Not about giving Kathleen and Catriona time to spend alone. No, that was the right thing. I just wasn't sure about the man I was going to be with, partly because I felt I was betraying Graham, even though he hadn't written back to me. But mainly because I barely knew Andrew Buchan. All I knew about him was that he was our local councillor, and he was queer.
I'd first met him a week earlier when he was in the restaurant with two other people who, I gathered, were council officers. The three of them had been at a meeting and had decided to eat first before the officers made the long journey home. After they'd gone, he stopped in the bar.
“You're new, aren't you?” he asked.
“Yes, only moved up here a few weeks ago. I reckon I was lucky to get a job so quickly.”
“Och, I doubt it's to do with luck.” He took a gulp of his single malt. “In my experience, people make their own luck. And people who want to work generally find work. That's what I think.” He proffered his hand, which I shook. “I'm Andrew, Andrew Buchan, and I'm your local councillor – at least I will be once you're on the electoral roll. Any problems just contact me.”
I introduced myself, and that was that.
At least until later that evening when I was leaving work. Even though it was late, with the clear sky, the moon and stars, the lack of streetlighting wasn't a serious problem. As I was walking home, I heard someone coming towards me and when he got close saw it was Andrew.
“Hello again,” I said.
“Hello. Off home?”
I nodded, then realised he probably couldn't see that, so replied: “Yes.”
“It's such a beautiful night, I thought I'd go for a short walk along the strath. Fancy joining me for a while?”
I couldn't think of a reason why not. I knew Kathleen wouldn't be in: she'd joined some of the local musicians who were playing at a pub in a village several miles away and I doubted she'd be back before the early hours. I followed him down a track to the river Dubh, and along a path that followed the bank. Even though it was dark, I knew the path took us to the footbridge that crossed the river.
As we walked, he asked: “You're not married, are you?”
“No. I'm single and fancy free.”
“Same here. Never seem to be able to get on with the fairer sex.”
“Oh, I like women, but just as friends. Actually, I moved up here with a woman, a singer.”
“Ah would that be the one everyone's talking about? Catherine or something like that?”
“Kathleen.”
“Yes, that's right. Kathleen. Not heard her play myself, but I've heard she's excellent. And some of the lads quite fancy her.” I started giggling. “What's so funny?”
“I doubt any of them will get anywhere with her.”
“Why not?”
I realised I'd probably said too much, so I just replied: “Oh, you know, she just concentrates on her music. She doesn't have time for anything else, she's so committed.”
“Ah, another hard worker.” He was silent for a while, then said: “So if you're not interested in girls, what do you do for fun?” I didn't know how to answer that, not without revealing I was queer, so I remained silent. I thought I knew where this was going, but I've never been good at taking the initiative. I felt his hand touch mine, so lightly I wasn't sure if I'd imagined it. Then he grabbed me. “Sorry, I thought you were about to fall in the water.” But he didn't let go, and I didn't make any attempt to escape from his embrace. By this time we were at the footbridge. “Shall we cross to the other side?” he asked.
I nodded. There was no path on the north bank, just bushes and heather, flora that hid what happened next. Later he invited me to spend the night with him sometime. He explained we would need to be discreet because of his position: no-one could know about us. I agreed, and we arranged to meet at a hotel in a town about forty miles away. He had some council work to do there, and he told me to book a room and he would see me there when he'd finished his work.
I made my way down the mountain, across the footbridge and to my car.
Chapter Eighteen: Kathleen
1
When I opened the door, it was her. I just stood there, speechless, staring. Despite all those long phone conversations where neither of us were at a loss for words, I couldn't think of a thing to say. It wasn't as if her presence was a surprise, for fuck's sake; it wasn't as if I hadn't been waiting for this moment ever since we left Birmingham; but whatever the reason all I could do was look at her.
She broke the silence. “Aren't you going to let me in, girl?”
I nodded. The most enormous grin spread across her face, mirroring the one on mine, and we just sat there grinning at each other with tears rolling down our faces, saying nothing. Eventually she said: “Come here, girl.” The next moment we were in each other's arms.
Later, as I helped her unpack, she told me how much she admired the work we'd done to make the cottage look like it did. “Oh, it's just a bit of paint, carpet and fucking elbow grease. That's all. I hate to admit it, but I couldn't have done it without Brendan.”
“Where is he?” she asked. “I expected him to be here as well. Is he working? Great he's got a job, by the way.”
I shook my head. “He said he thought we needed some time together by ourselves. He went climbing earlier, and he's probably on his way to a hotel now.”
“That's nice of him.”
“Yeah. But it's not just altruism. He's only gone and fucking found himself someone. They're spending the night together.”
“Wow! He's a quick worker. So that priest is off the agenda now?”
I shrugged. “It seems so. He assured me he wrote to him, but he hasn't had a reply as of yet. He's a typical man, really: where his fucking prick leads, he follows.”
Catriona giggled. “Fucking prick sounds about right. Anyway, who is he? How did he meet him? Tell me all about it.”
I made a face. “I can't. He wouldn't tell me anything other than he'd met someone, and that had to be pulled out of him like teeth. He claimed he didn't have time to tell me, but that's just a fucking excuse if you ask me.”
“Oh dear, I hope it's no-one unpleasant. He's been through enough. Well, we've all been through enough.” She took a swig of tea. “Anyway, tell me all about the singing. How's it going.”
“I think you know it all, for fuck's sake, there's nothing really to tell.”
“Nothing to tell, girl! Away with you. Within days of moving up here and you're playing with some local musicians; that's not nothing, that's wonderful. So tell me all about it, or I walk back out that door.”
“No you fucking don't,” I told her, standing up and grabbing her. “You’re not going anywhere ever again without me. Understand?”
“Ha! I hope you don't intend to follow me to the loo. I'm not into water sports.” After I'd stopped giggling, she continued: “So, tell me all about it.”
“Nothing to tell really, at least nothing other than what I've already told you.” She folded her arms, looking like the schoolmistress she was. I sighed. “Okay.”
I'd already told her about going to the pub and seeing a group of musicians in a circle, playing for each other and for anyone who cared to listen. There were some guitars, a couple of fiddles, a mandolin and a five string banjo, plus those who just sang. One person would begin a tune and then others joined in as and when they wanted to; sometimes only two or three took part; sometimes the whole group; on one occasion a solitary singer with a guitar played on his own. I happened to know the song he was singing, so I joined in, singing a harmony part. I wasn't even aware of doing so until some people looked at me, and I thought I'd done something wrong, something totally against an etiquette I didn't understand. But no: when the song finished, people started fucking applauding me.
They asked me to join them. I demurred, saying I didn't have Frankie with me, and then I had to explain what Frankie was, and that seemed to impress them: naming my guitar after my favourite singer. One of them offered me her guitar, and I played “The Crafty Maid”, and that went down well. I sat back and accompanied others as they played or sang until it came round to me again, when I sang the waulking song Catriona had taught me, even though I was worried that might be a bit presumptuous of me. Others joined in, and afterwards one of them said: “Shit! An English girl who can sing the Gaelic.”
I had to admit I couldn't speak Gaelic and explained I had been taught the song by someone from up here who was living in Birmingham. When I mentioned Catriona, most of them said they knew her or her parents. I also told them she was moving back up here soon. One of them nodded. “Yes, Morag told us. She's really pleased her daughter's coming back.” I didn't tell them we were lovers, just that we sang together.
From then on, whenever I went there I always took Frankie with me. Most nights there were some musicians there, not always the same ones, but over time I got to know them all. I was amazed by their repertoires. I had assumed they would all be singing Scottish or Gaelic folk songs, and yes there were plenty of those, but there was much else beside. Rock'n'roll, country music, blues, pop, there was even someone who had produced a guitar arrangement of Miles Davis' jazz classic “So What”. Now that was fucking impressive. He taught it to me, though I never played it in public: it was his arrangement, let him get the credit for it.
Some of them also played at other pubs in the area, sometimes just for the fun of it, sometimes passing the hat around and sometimes for a set fee, and I was invited to join them. Of course, they took the piss out of my Brummie accent, but they weren't being cunts, it was playful banter of the best kind. And I gave as good as I got. I've been told I'm a good mimic, and I put it to good use. I even wrote a silly little song which was about them and in which I imitated some of them.
I loved Strathdubh. I loved everything about it: the people, the atmosphere, the scenery, the sense of remoteness, everything. I was happier than I'd ever been, and all I needed to make everything perfect was for Catriona to be here with me. And now she was.
2
That evening we went to the pub and Catriona joined in with the musicians. Most people knew her from when she'd been a kid and everyone seemed so pleased to see her and wanted to talk to her. Part of me was proud she was popular, but I have to admit that part of me was pissed off that she was spending so much time with other people. Still, it was wonderful to be able to perform with her again: we played some of the material we had prepared for that last gig in Birmingham, a gig that seemed a lifetime away. It felt like we'd never been apart. By the time we left, we were both a little drunk.
Over breakfast the next day I told her of all the ideas I had for new songs, and for arrangements of old songs. When I'd first started singing I'd stuck mainly to folk based material, apart from the occasional excursion into popular music with songs like “Love for Sale”. During those busking days I had played some popular songs because familiar material meant more money in the hat, but even those had tended to be by songwriters associated with folk music, people like Dylan and Paul Simon. It wasn't that I was some sort of folk purist who thought that songs should sound like they were hundreds of years old, it was just that I played what I knew and what spoke to me, something that was encouraged in the Birmingham folk collective I'd been involved with. Though no-one would have stopped me, I suspect both the rest of the collective and the audience would have frowned on me singing pop songs. Perhaps I avoided such material because it reminded me of my days as a prostitute: after all, my working name had been the same as the Beatles' song that pervert at the children's home had taught me: Michelle.
Having heard some of the musicians in the round singing rock, soul and country and western material alongside folk songs, both traditional and contemporary, I thought it would be fun to extend my repertoire, but perform them in my own way without copying the original singers.
I'd also been writing some new stuff. I never found writing easy, despite what Catriona thought: I always struggled, but sometimes the results were worth the effort. I wasn't above stealing traditional melodies and putting new words to them, but – hey – if that was good enough for Guthrie and Dylan then it was good enough for me.
But so far I had not played any of this new material – either the new songs or the new arrangements to popular songs – in public. I had played some of them to Brendan, but he was hardly a critical listener: he seemed to think everything I ever sang was brilliant, and I knew that wasn't the case. So that morning, after breakfast, I played some for Catriona: she was always honest with me about anything new I played, sometimes brutally so.
That day was no exception. She listened in silence wearing a poker face. After about half an hour, I stopped, and still there was no response from her. “Don't you like them?” I asked, nervously.
After a few seconds, she said: “Sounds like you want to be a pop singer.”
“No, not at all. I just thought I'd extend my repertoire. That way there'll be more opportunities to play. Anyway, what the fuck's wrong with pop?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“So this new stuff is just fucking crap. Is that what you mean?”
“Not at all. Some of those arrangements are very good, very good indeed.”
“What's the fucking problem, then?”
“Look, love, there are countless club singers out there making a decent living doing covers of pop songs. They play at social clubs, weddings, birthday parties and the like, and people talk over them while getting drunk, rarely listening to the music. The musicians are expected to play the originals note by note and the only interaction from the audience is when the drunken dancing starts. Don't know about you, but I'd find that disheartening. If that's the road you want to go down, fine, but it's such a waste of your talent.”
“So you want me pigeon-holed as a folk singer.”
“No, I just want you to use the talent you have, not waste it on copying others.”
“Copying others! Is that what you think? I've worked fucking hard to make these songs my own, and you insult me by calling me a fucking covers act. Just fuck off.”
I picked up Frankie and stormed out of the house, and made my way to the path that led to the river. I sat at the bench near the footbridge, looking at the water and the mountains and moorlands beyond it. I was fuming and the more I replayed in my head the conversation we'd had, the angrier I got. She'd only arrived the previous night and already she was interfering, telling me what I should and shouldn't play. Gradually, as I looked at the timeless peaks, the ducks floating on the river and airborne birds capturing insects in mid-flight, I began to calm down. The sound of the light wind rustling through the undergrowth and the gurgling of the water as it flowed over stones and rocks created a melody in my head. I cradled Frankie and began to transfer the melody to the guitar. I was so entranced in playing I failed to hear the noise of someone approaching. It was only when he said: “Beautiful!” that I realised someone was beside me.
I looked round, smiled and thanked him. I recognised him from the pub. He wasn't one of the musicians, just one of the regular drinkers when he was at home. Rob worked at the fishing and he was often away on a trawler for several days at a time, always heading for the pub when he landed once again on shore, gradually drinking his way through his wages until it was time for him to go to sea again. Although he was in his thirties, he was still single and lived at home with his parents, who worked in one of the local shops. I got the impression he was lonely, and he drank so much because of this: sadly a vicious circle – he drank because he was lonely and was likely to stay that way while he continued to get drunk every day he was on land. Some people took the piss out of him because of the way he looked, dressed and behaved, but they were always willing to let him buy them drinks while his money lasted. He had lost all his teeth and had never got round to getting dentures, but claimed his gums were so strong he could eat a steak with them. He was barely literate and had managed to get through school without learning to do much more than write his own name.
I invited him to sit next to me and asked him how he was doing. “Fine. Just passing time until the pubs open.” I looked at my watch and could see it would be almost an hour until then. “Where did you learn that tune?” he asked.
“I didn't. I just made it up.”
“You're kidding me. Fuck's sake. How does someone do that: just make up something like that like it's nothing.”
“I suppose we all have different skills. I wouldn't know the first thing about landing haddock and cod.”
“Oh, anyone can do that, even someone as thick as me. All you have to do is avoid sea sickness and falling overboard. Can you play some more for me?”
I picked up Frankie again and began to repeat the melody, adding to it. I asked him if it brought anything to mind.
He nodded. “Yes. It sounds like the river and the wind, but it also sounds sad.”
“Does it make you feel sad?”
He shook his head. “No. At least not while you're playing, but when you stop there's just – just nothing, just emptiness, just loneliness. Sorry, that probably makes no sense.” He turned away.
“I suppose it is a bit sad,” I said. “It's just the way it comes out sometimes, I suppose the music just reflects my mood.”
He looked at me, scrutinising me. “Are you sad too? And lonely.”
“No,” I said, “most of the time I'm fine, but everyone gets sad sometimes.”
“I'm like that all the time, except when I'm drunk. I need a girlfriend, someone to help take the loneliness away.”
I thought I knew where this was going, but all I could say was: “I hope you find someone soon, I'm sure you will.”
Sure enough, I was proved correct. He said: “I think I may be looking at her.”
Fuck's sake, I thought. If he knew what I had been he wouldn't be saying that. Or perhaps he would: after all, tarts are supposed to be easy, aren't we? I thought I must be mellowing because I tried to let him down easily: “Sorry, Rob, I'm not the one for you. I'm already...” then I stopped. I was about to tell him I had a partner, and that would have led to him asking who and to outing Catriona.
I was about to rephrase when he said: “I thought so. You're going out with that barman, aren't you? I should have guessed, after all the two of you moved up here together.”
I didn't disabuse him. It was just simpler to let him think that, though I hated myself for not putting him right. Wouldn't life be so much easier if everyone could be honest with each other? Or perhaps not, perhaps that degree of honesty would be too much for people. After all, look at how I had reacted to Catriona's honesty.
He told me he had better be going and wished me well. I told him any time he wanted to hear me play, he was welcome, and he thanked me, shaking my hand. After he'd gone I thought back to the row with Catriona, and decided she was right. Not only that, I was calling myself the most fucking ungrateful bastard in the world. I sighed, put Frankie back in her case and began to make my way back. No sooner had I stood up than I saw her walking towards me. She waved sheepishly at me, and I ran towards her then hugged her.
“I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry,” I said, “I don't deserve someone like you.”
“I'm sorry too. I was too harsh, I just came on too strong. I realise how hard you must have worked on all that stuff.” She gave me a peck on the cheek, then said: “Shall we go back and start again?”
I nodded. When we got back we discussed the new material. She refused to let me off the hook, making me work hard. “You're too good to accept second best,” she told me, “and I love you too much to allow that to happen.” I suppose that's what is meant by tough love.
By mid-afternoon I was knackered and told her so. “Slavery was abolished fucking years ago,” I complained.
“More's the pity,” she said, laughing.
I told her she was a cunt, and that made her laugh even more. “That's why you love me,” she said. I didn't know whether to get angry or burst into tears or hug her, but decided hugging her was the best option.
She was right. Of course she was right, but that just made it even more fucking annoying. The truth was that in the weeks since leaving Birmingham I had been a bit lazy: I hadn't worked hard enough on the new material and I had spent the time just coasting, basking in the glow of all the nice things others said about me. I had lost a bit of my edge, and Catriona was making sure I got that back. We discussed which of the new material would work, ditching the rest. She had the knack of getting the best out of me.
Then again, she was a teacher. And clearly a fucking good one if she could get me to do what we both knew was necessary.
I was looking forward to us performing some of the new material together.
3
When Brendan got back from his overnight adventure, we were still working, so he made us all some tea and sandwiches. Catriona was impressed. “Seems you've got him well trained,” she said.
I nodded. “Still some way to go, but he's getting there.”
“Hey,” he screamed, “I'm here, you know.”
Catriona giggled, then hugged him. She told him she was pleased he'd got a job so quickly and asked him how it was going.
“Okay,” he said. “It's certainly better than the places I worked in Brum. Not that that's saying much.”
With a wicked grin on her face, she said: “Kathleen was telling me it's not just a job you've found.”
Brendan blushed, shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. “Yeah. I suppose so.”
“And how was it?” she said, still grinning.
“Okay, I suppose.”
“Only okay?”
“I suppose you want every last detail?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you're not fucking getting them. There are some things I refuse to tell you two.”
We both laughed raucously. When we'd calmed down, he told us how secretive the man had been, insisting that Brendan book the hotel room and that he'd meet Brendan there after he'd finished his work. “He's really paranoid about anyone finding out. But then, that's understandable I suppose as he's the local councillor.”
Catriona sat up. “The local councillor?” she asked. “That isn't Andrew Buchan, is it?”
Brendan nodded.
“Shit!” she exclaimed. We both knew something was amiss, because Catriona so rarely swore. “Look, Brendan, watch him. He's not to be trusted. The only reason he gets re-elected at every election is because people are just too scared to stand against him.”
“Why are people scared of him? I mean, he's not normally my type, but he seemed nice enough, if a bit paranoid and, well, a bit right wing.”
“Right wing! He's a bloody fascist, and a bully. He's also one of the biggest employers in the village.”
“Yes, he told me that as well as his council work he also owns the local joiners and undertakers.”
Catriona was clearly annoyed. “And he bullies and underpays his staff, and he makes sure they know which side their bread's buttered, and woe betide any of them who step out of line. It's not just them, it's also their families. And forget about the saying about the customer always being right. He's the only joiner and undertaker for miles around. If you want any work done, either you agree with everything he says or you go bottom of the list. And if he thinks you've slighted him in any way, then he's not above spreading rumours, even to the extent of telling outright lies.”
“Doesn't sound like the sort of person you'd want to get the wrong side of,” I said.
Catriona nodded. “He isn't. He's probably the most unpopular person in the area, but no-one dare say anything against him in public. I didn't know he was gay, though. I don't think anyone does: he's kept that well-hidden.” She looked at Brendan. “Be careful, be very careful. He can do you a lot of harm, if he chooses to.”
“Oh, I don't think he can do me much harm. After all, he's so paranoid about being outed, and I've got that over him. But I suspect it'll just be a one night stand. As I said, he's not really my type.” He left to get changed, as he was working that night.
Next morning when the post arrived, there was a letter for Brendan. From Birmingham.
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.