Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Christmas and New Year bring mixed fortunes for the folk of Strathdubh, but especially for Brendan.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Christmas and New Year bring mixed fortunes for the folk of Strathdubh, but especially for Brendan.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Catriona
1
I loved teaching. Until I met Kathleen I never thought myself good enough to make it as a musician, but I knew I was a good teacher from the very first moment as a trainee I stood in front of a class. Perhaps it was because I was so enthusiastic about what I taught, but it must be more than that: I seemed to have the ability to pass that enthusiasm on to others.
It was my love of teaching that made leaving Birmingham such a wrench, but my love for Kathleen came before everything else. I believed she too would make a good teacher: she taught me so much without even realising it.
That was why I felt guilty about telling her I needed the money I earned from the supply teaching. I knew we could survive without me teaching, but it would mean us watching every penny. I didn't actually lie to her, but I wasn't as truthful as I could have been, and after all she'd been through she was entitled to expect me to be transparent, particularly as she had been so honest with me right from the start. So, in trepidation, one autumn night I told her the truth.
I was expecting her to react with potty-mouthed anger and accusations of me deceiving her, but her response surprised me. She leant across, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and said she knew how much teaching meant to me and that she would never attempt to stop me doing what I loved.
“But I thought you'd be angry.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Well, because I was less than honest with you.”
“No you fucking weren't. Without the money you earn we'd be struggling, and that's a fucking fact.”
What a roller coaster we'd been on: it was still less than a year since we'd met and during that time both our lives had been turned upside down. What we'd been through together would have been more than enough to destroy a lot of relationships, but it had strengthened ours. I just wish we could have been honest with everyone, been open about who and what we were. I don't think she would have had any issues about coming out publicly, but to my shame, I would.
Because I loved Strathdubh. I didn't realise how much until I moved back. Once I'd got over the homesickness, I enjoyed the vibrancy of Birmingham and I expected to spend much of my life living and working there. Even when my great aunt Beth left me the cottage in her will, I had no thought of moving back to Scotland, instead attempting to sell it. Thank God I was unsuccessful! And when I fell in love with Kathleen I knew I wanted to be wherever she was, which at the time was Birmingham.
Strathdubh held so many memories: the long summer days when the sun always seemed to shine, even though it was one of the wettest parts of Scotland; the long winter nights nestled round the peat fire listening to storytelling and fiddle playing only disturbed by the wind blowing a hoolie, even though the wind often brought down power lines, and colds and childhood diseases spread like wildfire through the school; being allowed to stay up past midnight on Hogmanay, even though Christmas celebrations were frowned on as pagan or – even worse in the minds of some – papist; letting our imaginations run as fast as our feet on the moors, even though we were regularly stung or bitten by midges, horse flies, wasps and nettles.
Nostalgia is a fine thing, even painting a veneer of pleasure on memories of Sunday tedium relieved only by the sound of metrical psalms escaping from the stern dour doors of the free kirk.
Returning to live in Strathdubh, I discovered that little had changed: the midges still bit us, the wind still brought down power lines, Hogmanay was still more important than Christmas, and nothing, not even the local park with its swings, opened on the Sabbath. Yet much had changed: power cuts were rarer, celebrating Christmas was no longer frowned upon, and so few people attended the free kirk our ears were no longer assaulted by the dissonance of metrical psalms.
Someone once said we shouldn't return to our past. They were wrong: I loved Strathdubh as much when I returned as I had in the past, perhaps even more so, as the sweet smell of nostalgia was spiced with the savoury taste of realism.
Whenever Kathleen moaned about the village I felt myself getting irritated. Of course, she was right: being so far from anywhere was a bit of a nuisance, but it was also one of the things that helped make Strathdubh unique; the midges were a blight, but they were here long before us; the wind and rain were often unpleasant, but without them we wouldn't have the mountains, lochs, burns, moors and coastlines. Don't get me wrong, Kathleen loved Strathdubh, but she also liked a good moan. And she was the most natural musician I had ever come across.
I loved music. I was singing almost as soon as I could talk, and I began to bang my fingers on the piano keys the moment my hands could reach them. Whether it was a keyboard or the strings of a guitar or fiddle, I thought I was creating the most wonderful music, whereas in reality it was a headache-inducing cacophony. God, my parents must have been patient! Perhaps them paying for all those music lessons for me was just an act of self-defence. Over time I learned what all the scribbles on sheet music meant and I was able to transfer them via my fingers to keyboards and stringed instruments and via my mouth to wind instruments, but I never mastered playing by ear. That was, until I met Kathleen. She could neither read nor write music, so the only way I could play her compositions was by practising them until I got them right.
I think I surprised her when on impulse I added some fiddle to the tune she wrote for me. I know I surprised myself.
My four great loves: Kathleen, music, Strathdubh and teaching. And I had them all: just how lucky can one person be?
My other great loves were my parents. Like many people, I had always taken them for granted: they were always there to guide and help me and, to be honest, sometimes to annoy the hell out of me. Then I met Brendan, who had lost his parents in a car accident, and Kathleen, whose parents had abused and mistreated her. It was only then I realised how lucky I was to have two caring, loving parents. When da told me how they'd met and the problems they'd experienced, I began to understand just how much they had sacrificed for me without seeing it as a sacrifice.
2
I'd lived in Birmingham for so long I'd forgotten about the Tattie Holiday: the two week half-term school break in October when children would help pick the potato harvest. Kathleen and Brendan had never heard of it and when I explained why schoolchildren got such a long holiday in October they stared at me open-mouthed. I'm not sure they believed me at first, until they saw it for themselves. The potato wasn't a major crop in the area around Strathdubh, but some farmers, including my parents, did grow a few. It wasn't just children who picked the crop, of course; adults did as well, particularly those who were out of work.
As Brendan was getting fewer hours at the hotel after the end of the tourist season, he signed up: we could always use the extra money. On his first day, there was a hoolie blowing accompanied by horizontal rain: a typical autumn day in Strathdubh. When he arrived back home, he was covered in mud and wet to the core.
“Fucking hell,” he complained, “that's the hardest I've ever had to work in my life.”
I couldn't help myself: I started laughing. As a kid, I'd helped with the tattie picking, but at that age it felt more like playing than work, though I do recall blistered feet and sore hands. Once he'd bathed and changed I apologised.
“I reckon expecting kids to do that is cruel.”
I started giggling again, I just couldn't control myself. “It was fun,” I told him. “Honestly, us kids used to look forward to it. It was a great change from school.”
He looked at me like I was mad. “Are you sure that's not just rose-tinted glasses? I've worked in factories and behind bars, and had to work fucking hard at times. But nothing like that.”
Kathleen was on his side. “Fuck that for a game of soldiers,” she said. “There has to be an easier way of earning a living other than pulling things in cold, wet and windy weather.”
That really got me guffawing. She looked at me, a hurt expression on her face, and asked me what so funny. Between laughs I managed to say: “I thought you were an expert on pulling in bad weather.”
That started Brendan laughing. “Oh yes,” he said, “very good. An expert on pulling in bad weather. Oh yes, indeed.”
Kathleen tried to be angry, but much as she tried she couldn't stop herself giggling.
To be fair, Brendan did stick to it and I think he began to enjoy it, though he would never admit it. Both Kathleen and I were hoping the hard physical labour would help him sleep at night and for a few nights it did, but soon his insomnia returned. We were both worried about him: after what he'd been through it would have been a surprise if it hadn't affected him. I thought he should have a word with the doctor, but he was adamant he wasn't going to go down that road.
“There's nothing wrong with me,” he told me.
When I tried to explain it wasn't his physical wellbeing we were worried about, I just made things worse. “So you think I'm fucking mad?” he asked. He refused to talk about it any more.
At first I had been concerned how it would work out with the three of us living together: one couple and one single. Would he feel left out? Would we feel constrained by him being there? As it turned out, things seemed to be working out okay, but we were a constant reminder to him of what he didn't have. Perhaps that was why he continued to see that nasty piece of work Andrew, even though he admitted he was an unpleasant character. Perhaps he just needed the escape he got from sex, even if it was only temporary.
November, my least favourite time of the year, brought with it the usual gales and rains. Some days the cloud was so low and black, it was dark even during the few hours of winter daylight, and there was a pall of melancholy over the whole village. I had a fair amount of teaching and we had as full a diary of gigs as we could cope with. Brendan had little: a few hours at the hotel, but nothing else. He spent much of the time moping about, often unshaven, sometimes having to be reminded he needed a bath. I veered between wanting to tell him to snap out of it and sympathising with him. Kathleen felt the same, so we thought it best just to let him get on with it, hoping he'd come through the other side and knowing if he fell we'd be there to catch him.
Then, in early December, he told us he'd finished with Andrew.
We both stared at him, open-mouthed. After a few moments silence, Kathleen asked: “What the fuck brought that on?”
“I thought you'd be pleased,” he said.
“We are,” I said, “but we're just surprised.”
“The other night, he was even more paranoid than normal. He was convinced someone was watching us, even though he'd taken more precautions than normal. He told me he was sure it was Rob, and when I asked why he'd be following us, he couldn't fucking answer. Anyway, seeing as how Rob lost his licence when he was caught drinking and driving, there's no way he could have followed either of us to the layby we parked in, the one near the path to that remote beach. And even if he had, we'd have heard him. As we made our way to the beach, he kept on and on about not getting caught, about how the likes of Rob were the scum of the earth. And then he got started on how women, blacks, scum like Rob and queers were taking over the world. When I pointed out that he was queer, he looked shocked. He insisted he wasn't really queer, just hadn't found the right woman yet. I asked him what would happen when he did find her. He laughed and told me he wouldn't need the likes of me anymore. I lost my temper, told him what I thought of him, told him if he thought he was going to continue fucking using me, he could go fuck himself. My parting shot was to tell him I didn't want to ever see him again. I stormed off, back to my car. He ran after me, yelling that I was being unfair. I just ignored him. Fuck him.”
We both agreed he was better off without him. He was still writing to Graham who wrote back occasionally, but Graham was still conflicted, unable to make up his mind, convinced he had to choose between God and Brendan. Kathleen had no patience with Graham, convinced part of Brendan's problem was the way he was being treated by the priest.
I didn't think Kathleen was being fair. After all, every denomination condemned homosexuality, and there were few more down on it than the free kirk, particularly our local minister who spent so much time and effort condemning sodomy I wandered if he was gay himself. But what I couldn't understand was why Catholic priests were expected to be celibate: after all, it was almost expected that kirk ministers be married. To be honest, I had no time for any of them.
3
Thanks to the holier-than-thou puritans, for 400 years Christmas was barely celebrated in Scotland. I can remember when Christmas Day became a public holiday in 1958. I was 9 years old at the time, and the whole school was excited because it would be the first time all our parents could spend the day with us. It didn't make that much difference to me: as farmers my parents would still need to milk the cows and do other essential tasks, but it changed our world in so many ways. There were of course those po-faced killjoys who objected, but they were in a minority. Even some of those who attended the free kirk were happy with the change, though the minister preached against it. Even so, it was only the year before I met Kathleen that Boxing Day became a public holiday.
When I went to university and heard people talking about how much they were looking forward to Christmas and what sort of celebrations they'd had in the past, I must admit to some jealousy. All that colour and ritual during the darkest time of the year was something I'd never really experienced. Of course, we had always got presents at Christmas and we did have Hogmanay, but that wasn't really the point.
So I was looking forward to celebrating a traditional English Christmas with Kathleen and Brendan. Imagine my disappointment when I mentioned this and they both said they'd never really liked the season.
“Oh,” I said, clearly looking downcast.
Kathleen and Brendan exchanged glances, before he said: “We used to have wonderful Christmases when my parents were alive, and that's the problem for me. It just reminds me of what I lost when they had that car accident. And last year was the first time since their death I spent Christmas with someone, with Kathleen. It can be a difficult time.”
Kathleen was nodding. “Yes, very difficult. The only fucking thing Christmas meant to me was it gave my dad more opportunities for getting pissed and abusing me. It wasn't any better at the children's home: we were all supposed to be so fucking nice to each other, kids and staff, no matter how nasty the cunts had been before and would be after. It was so fucking artificial and hypocritical, having to be nice to staff who forced me to give them blow jobs or who just looked the other way and kids who thought it fun to take the fucking piss out of me. Once I'd slapped them a few times, they no longer thought it was fun, but that just got me in the shit with the staff. And you can guess how they punished me.” Her eyes began to well up. “And when I was on the game, there was no-one to share it with. And it was the one day of the year there was no point working the streets. The few punters about always expected a free fuck as a Christmas present.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't realise it could be like that. I should have, but I didn't.”
Kathleen put her arms around me. “Don't worry,” she said, “I'm sure we can do something, even if it's only what me and Brendan did last year.” She looked over at Brendan and asked: “What do you think?”
Brendan was silent for what seemed ages, but was probably only a few seconds. “Look,” he said eventually, “there's no reason why our experiences should spoil your Christmas. Perhaps we should make a bit of an effort. After all, that shit from the past is over now.” He turned to Kathleen, and asked her: “How about giving it a go? If it turns out awful, we needn't repeat it next year. How about it?”
After a moment's thought Kathleen grinned. “Yeah. Okay. Let's give her the fucking Christmas she wants. But on one condition.”
“And what's that?” I asked.
“That you play that fucking fiddle of yours at some of our upcoming gigs.”
Check mate, I thought. Then said: “Okay, girl, you've got a deal. But don't get angry when I play a few bum notes.”
She stared at me, faux surprise on her face. “Me? Get angry? How can you say such a thing? It's fucking slander!”
We began to make arrangements for the biggest Christmas Strathdubh had ever seen. We invited my parents and Kathleen insisted on inviting Rob. “If we're going to do this,” she said, “then let's do it properly and invite someone who would otherwise be on their own, now his dad's in hospital and his mum's stopping in Glasgow to be near him.”
“You do know they're not his real parents, don't you? That they adopted him when he was a teenager.”
“So fucking what?” she said. “All the more reason for inviting him.”
Despite my dislike of Rob, I couldn't argue with that. Anyway, if Kathleen saw something worthwhile in him then that was good enough for me.
We ordered a large goose from a nearby poultry farmer and a side of ham from the local butcher, both to be delivered a couple of days before Christmas, and a tree from a local forestry estate. Then the three of us went to Glasgow on a shopping spree. Although celebrating Christmas was still relatively new in Scotland, it hadn't taken retailers long to catch on that there was loads of money to be made and I revelled in all the colour, carols and kitsch. Kathleen and Brendan let me get whatever I wanted, and I think they got as much pleasure as I did from watching me behave like a kid in a sweet shop.
We made a night of it, stopping at a cheap hotel and going to the folk club where we'd been made so welcome a few months earlier. We'd contacted the club in advance and been invited to play, even offering to pay us. We timed our Glasgow trip to coincide with club night.
The next day we travelled back, the car packed with coloured crepe paper, hanging decorations in a variety of shapes and colours, fake snow, kitsch Santas, a nativity set, coloured glass baubles for the tree and much more. “Fuck knows where we're going to put it all,” Kathleen said. We also got lots of booze, chocolate, confectionery, cakes and more.
Despite their initial reservations, Kathleen and Brendan oozed enthusiasm as they helped me decorate our cottage. Every ceiling, wall and shelf was transformed into a loud, gaudy, over-the-top clash of colour and mismatched shapes. Kathleen even decorated Frankie with some glitter. The centrepiece of the display was a too-large tree, decorated with crepe paper, battery operated lights, coloured baubles and chocolate money wrapped in shiny gold coloured paper.
We had several gigs in the run-up to Christmas and we extended our repertoire by the inclusion of some Christmas material. Brendan too had a busy couple of weeks with lots of hours at the hotel, but he did get Christmas Day off.
We spent Christmas Eve on the final preparations, including preparing the goose, cooking the ham and making the sherry trifle, as well as wrapping the presents we'd bought for the guests. When Brendan appeared after finishing his shift, we were relaxing with a drink.
“Okay for some,” he said.
Kathleen responded: “Fuck off.” Then threw a bauble at him.
He laughed, grabbed himself a beer, took a swig, belched and sat down. “Fuck, it was busy tonight,” he said. “There'll be a few hangovers tomorrow for sure.”
“And there was me thinking people didn't celebrate Christmas much up here.”
Brendan shook his head. “It wasn't Christmas they were celebrating, so much as not having to go to work for the next two days.”
Despite going to bed quite late, we had no choice but to be up early, there was so much still to do, including cooking the goose, something none of us had ever done before. It was still dark when we reluctantly rose, Kathleen telling me we must be “fucking mad”. Brendan was already up, cooking us all breakfast. Kathleen's response was: “Fucking hell, this is a first.”
He gave her the two finger salute, while preparing a massive feast of Lorne sausage, back bacon, Stornoway black pudding, fried eggs and fried bread. When I stared at the mountain of high fat food, I gawped, open-mouthed. Kathleen told me to close my mouth before I swallowed a fly “and you know what happened to the fucking old lady who swallowed a fly”, following this by singing the old song about it.
Brendan said: “It's just some lining for the stomach. It'll probably be early afternoon by the time we eat, and I reckon we'll be drinking a bit before then.” He swallowed a piece of black budding smeared in brown sauce. “You can thank me later.” He ducked, avoiding the slap from Kathleen.
After cleaning up the breakfast remains, we laid the table for the main meal: fancy placemats with Highland views, matching coasters, glasses, cutlery and each place containing a Christmas napkin, Christmas cracker and a miniature Christmas tree.
As well as those for the guests we'd also got each other gifts. Kathleen's to me was a violin bow, engraved on the side with my name and I'd got her a box set of LPs of traditional Gaelic songs. Apart from the ones from us, Brendan received two other presents: Graham had sent him a book of poetry, the other was from Andrew and typically impersonal. It was a calendar with a printed message saying: A Merry Christmas to my constituents from your councillor. It was a cheap, mass-produced thing that would probably curl at the edges before the new year began. Brendan tossed it to one side.
Rob arrived with a hangover and some bottles, moaning about having drunk too much the night before. Nothing new there then. Shortly after, ma and da appeared, loaded down with gifts plus food and drink – “in case we run short,” da said, grinning. We began as we intended to continue: with a drink. Brendan opened a bottle of champagne, and once that had gone we started on the wine, and after that whatever took our fancy. After we'd stuffed ourselves with as much goose and trimmings and trifle and mince pies as we could manage, we all collapsed, silly paper hats still on our heads.
All, that is, apart from ma who insisted on clearing the table and doing the washing up. “Leave it, ma,” I told her. “We'll do it all later on.”
“The sooner it's done, the sooner we can all relax,” she said.
I knew there was no arguing with her, so I made to follow her into the kitchen, but Rob stopped me. “Let me help her,” he said. “I know I'm not much use, but I can at least help with the clearing up.”
Kathleen winked at me. “See, he's not good for nothing, is he?” she said. I laughed.
Shortly after, we had a bit of a ceilidh. Kathleen and I played and sang, both together and separately. Ma, who had a pleasant soprano, sang some traditional Gaelic songs and Kathleen, who could pick up a tune so quickly, accompanied her on Frankie. Kathleen also insisted on me playing a fiddle solo, much to my chagrin. The men just sat there, drinking.
Until, that was, Kathleen said: “Now, come on boys, each of you has to do something. Don't care what it is.” She then grabbed their glasses before adding: “But no more booze until you've performed.”
They moaned, of course they did, but she wasn't going to let them off the hook. When da stood up and began crooning “White Christmas” in his booming baritone, Kathleen stared open-mouthed, surprise written on her face. I smiled: despite having a good voice, da rarely sang except on special occasions. Rob regaled us with a tall story about the crew of a fishing boat who almost drowned when their boat sank, but who were saved by a whale. Brendan got his own back on Kathleen for taking his drink away by telling one of his infamous and lengthy shaggy dog stories.
Then for the first time that day we switched on the TV. Kathleen said: “It wouldn't be Christmas without Morecambe and Wise.”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “I really missed it last year.”
It seemed, like most of the country, we were all Morecambe and Wise fans.
And just to make the day perfect Kathleen only said “fuck” once during the festivities, and even then apologised. When the guests had gone I said to her: “See, you can control your mouth, can't you?” I was a bit slow in ducking out of the way of her slap, and we were giggling as we made our drunken way to bed.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Brendan
1
I had no idea why Andrew had sent me a Christmas present. I'd made it clear when I finished with him that I wasn't interested in seeing him or hearing from him again. In any case, it was the cheapest and tackiest calendar I'd seen in a long time. Perhaps he'd given his secretary a list of people to send them to or perhaps she just sent them to all his constituents, though that would have cost a fortune in postage, unless he'd mailed them through the council. I wouldn't put that past him: using ratepayers’ money to drum up support for himself.
Sometimes I looked at Kathleen and Catriona and felt envy writhing itself around me, crushing me with its tentacles of hate. When that happened, I couldn't stay in the same room with them, at least not without a drink, and would excuse myself, take myself across the moors regardless of the weather. For all his faults, Andrew had provided some momentary comfort, but that only led me to realise how lonely and miserable I was much of the time.
Other times I looked at them and, seeing in their eyes the love they had for each other, felt like a spare part that was no longer needed. Even worse, sometimes I felt like a guest who had overstayed his welcome or as if my presence was inhibiting them, like a gooseberry.
If only Graham wasn't so hung up, so confused about his feelings. If only he would make up his mind: either tell me he no longer wanted anything to do with me, or tell me he would like to see me again. I would have agreed to any conditions: only meeting him in secret, not contacting him unless he contacted me first, I'd even start going to Mass again if he asked me. If he told me we had no future, at least I would have known where I stood, could have put him behind me and moved on with my life.
I had thought of breaking off all contact with him, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. Instead I hoped he would, given time, make up his mind. Perhaps the poetry anthology he'd sent me as a Christmas present was a sign of where he was at. After all, why else would he give me a collection of love poetry?
I was pleased we'd celebrated Christmas the way we had. At first Kathleen and I had just gone along with what Catriona wanted, she looked so disappointed when we'd told her why neither of us were fond of the season. But soon we got into the spirit of the thing, spending far too much money, acting like kids and generally enjoying making fools of ourselves. The build-up, the anticipation, reminded me of when my parents were alive.
The day itself was special. Of course, we all drank and ate too much, ending up stuffed and pissed; but it was more than that, much more. Spending the day with Catriona's parents was a wonderful experience: to see how much they loved her and how proud they were of her, and not just that but their willingness to accept Kathleen and me as a part of their family. Like the rest of us, they enjoyed the day and let their hair down, forgetting for a few hours they were responsible adults with a farm to run.
Even Rob was fun: I saw another side of him. I realised he wasn't just a feckless and irresponsible drunk. At one stage we found ourselves alone together and, his tongue lubricated by the drink, he told me a bit about his background. He told me his parents had been strict teetotallers and his father an elder in the free kirk. He wasn't allowed to go out and play with his school friends and the only book they let him read was the Bible, and that was compulsory: he had to memorise verses from the good book, his parents concentrating on the most dour and miserable parts. Not that he could read much of the Bible: his literacy level was minimal, but he had a good memory. While his peers were twisting or jiving, he was lectured about the evils of the devil's music: the only songs they allowed were unaccompanied metrical psalms. Dancing, pop music, all instruments were made by Satan. Television was also from Satan, as were the cinema and the theatre. Radio was allowed, but only for the news, weather forecast and religious programmes.
He ran away from home several times, each time dragged back and beaten. Eventually, in his early teens, he ended up in Strathdubh, where a couple found him sleeping outside the shop they ran. They took him in, fed him and contacted a social worker. When he refused to go back home, threatening to kill himself, the social worker agreed to let the couple foster him temporarily. They ended up adopting him and he told me as far as he was concerned, they were his parents.
“But I've treated them so badly, getting pissed all the time,” he told me. “I can't seem to help myself. They've done their best, but...” His voice tailed off. After a few moments he began speaking again: “And now da's really sick. I keep thinking I'm probably responsible for his heart attack.”
I told him how I'd lost my parents. I asked him if his dad was expected to recover. “Dunno,” he said. “No-one knows. He's still alive, so that's something.” He eyes began to fill with tears. “Let me tell you, if he does get well enough to come home, I'm going to change. I'm going to cut back on the booze, get a job and look after him – and ma. That's a promise.”
2
I was pleased to have so much work between Christmas and the new year: I'd not had that many hours at the hotel since October and I was happy to work all the hours I could, earn as much money as possible. The owners of the hotel had advertised a special Hogmanay deal consisting of three nights bed and breakfast, a Hogmanay party complete with food and music and a hangover clearing walk on 1st January, and the hotel was full. As many of the locals wanted to be home in time for the bells before going out first footing or attending any parties they were invited to, the owners asked for volunteers to work the evening.
Although we'd all been invited by Catriona's parents to their Hogmanay party, I volunteered to work. I had never been that confident at large gatherings, much preferring being with a handful of people, and as Catriona and Kathleen were performing at the hotel, I wouldn't know many people at the party. Instead, the three of us agreed to visit her parents on the afternoon of the 1st.
It was a great evening. Kathleen and Catriona weren't the only musicians booked: there was also a piper and a ceilidh dance band who, accompanied with much drunken hilarity, attempted to show revellers how to do traditional dances such as the Gay Gordon and Strip the Willow. The booze flowed but no-one turned nasty, not even when drinks were accidentally spilled over them. The kitchen staff regularly replenished the running buffet. At midnight, a piper led us all in the singing of “Auld Lang Syne”, after which there was a loud knocking on the door. When it was opened a tall dark stranger entered carrying a lump of coal, a black bun and a bottle of whisky. In reality he was the driver of the post bus, who though tall was neither dark nor a stranger and whose ginger hair had been covered in a black wig, making him look very strange indeed. As the celebrations continued into the early hours, the dance band, the piper and Kathleen and Catriona got together and improvised a loud and raucous jam session. For once Kathleen broke her rule about not drinking alcohol during a gig, and her playing towards the end became ever more idiosyncratic.
The last stragglers eventually left at about four in the morning and by the time I got home after clearing up it hardly seemed worth going to bed, though I did try to get a few hours kip. When the three of us finally emerged about midday, I was the only one without a hangover: one of the advantages of working the bar and therefore having to stay sober.
When, with a wide grin on my face, I asked Kathleen what she wanted for breakfast: “A fry up? Alka Seltzer? A bucket to be sick in?”, she told me to “fuck off”. I burst out laughing, and Catriona asked me not to laugh so loud. I told them I'd taped the end of their performance, when they were both pissed out of their heads. Kathleen responded by telling me: “I'll fucking kill you if you have” and Catriona by asking “you haven't, have you?” I nodded and said: “I think I'll play it for your parents this afternoon.”
It was only when I burst out laughing they realised I was joking. I'm not sure how funny they found it.
The new year had entered on the back of high winds that over the next few days became gale force and worse. There'd been high winds in November, but compared to these they were just gentle breezes. I'd never experienced winds like them. Anything that wasn't strapped down was blown over or away, trees fell knocking down power and phone lines and for over a week we were without either. Thanks to the open fire we were able to keep warm and thanks to batteries we were able to listen to the radio, but we were unable to cook or make hot drinks and we had to wash in cold water. Fortunately, Catriona's parents, who had a cooking range, fed us at their farmhouse and gave us flasks full of tea to take home with us.
The community came together. Old rivalries were either forgotten or put on the back burner as people helped each other to cope, made sure the ill and the old were okay and opened their doors to anyone in need. The Dubh Hotel, the Ford Bar, the kirk meeting room and the village hall became centres from which food and hot drinks were distributed to those in need. After the Hogmanay celebrations, the hotel rooms were empty and they were all given over to those whose heating was from electricity: thanks to its generator, the hotel was able to function. With their freezers and fridges out of action the two local shops distributed the thawing food to local people rather than leaving it to rot. The village hall held daily and evening entertainments featuring musicians, storytellers, indoor games and whatever else people could think of. Those of us with cars volunteered as drivers, others gave of whatever skills they had. Even our local councillor helped out. In short, we all did what we could and we learned the value of community.
Although it was a relief when the power was restored, a part of us missed the camaraderie that had built up during those ten days.
3
The winds and horizontal rain were replaced by cold and crisp but bright and sunny winter days, the sort of weather it was great to go out in providing you were wrapped up. After the storms, the clean-up began. Local tradespeople repaired damaged roofs and walls, fixed fences and cleared the debris; volunteers helped the infirm clear their gardens; the council sent out workers to remove trees and other barriers that had made some of the roads impassable; the electricity board repaired pylons and power lines, and engineers fixed telephone lines and reconnected people, though this last task took some time. Our phone line was one of the last to be reconnected, partly because of our location, partly due to the damage to our wires. Eventually we were able to use our phone again.
Rob's father was improving slowly, though we were told he would never fully recover, and he returned home shortly after the power was restored. Rob was as good as his word, not only cutting down on the amount he drank but giving up booze altogether. He even stayed sober on Hogmanay, something that must have taken an iron will. Perhaps Catriona and I had been wrong about him and, as so often, Kathleen had been right.
There have always been those who think the worst, who seem to revel in cynicism and Strathdubh was no exception: a few of the local gossips were dogmatic in their belief that as soon as the novelty wore off Rob would be back to drinking all day every day, and who believed it their duty to tell everyone else. These were the same people who, despite knowing little about his father, were convinced Rob was responsible for his ill health. Fortunately, they were in a minority: most were pleased Rob had gone on the wagon and that his father was out of hospital.
Rob's chances of getting a job were, sadly, remote. His mother had arthritis and limited mobility so Rob was their carer. Even if he could have got work on a boat it would have been impractical: there was no way he could have spent several days at sea, leaving no-one to care for his parents. And, apart from skilled jobs like joinery, work was hard to come by in the winter. His low literacy and numeracy skills meant he couldn't work in his parents' shop, apart from unskilled jobs such as cleaning, dealing with the rubbish and doing any lifting that was necessary. He did help with those tasks, but he didn't ask or receive any payment: it was difficult enough to find the money to pay staff to run the business now neither his parents were able to work, and they had talked of trying to sell it. Kathleen, who when working as a tart had known her way round the benefit system and had helped other tarts, made sure he got everything he was entitled to.
It wasn't just Rob she helped in this way. She'd got hold of a manual that listed all the available benefits, who could apply for them and what the regulations were. It really pissed off the staff at the social security office and Kathleen took great pride in getting people their money. She had even helped people appeal when they'd been refused benefits.
I hadn't heard from Graham since the beginning of the new year and as soon as our phone was back on I'd tried calling him to insist he made up his mind, but there was no answer. One evening, just a couple of days before the snow came, I arrived for an evening shift at the hotel. The bar was quiet most of January: once the new year was over most people seemed to hibernate until Burns Night, which was still a few days away. During my few shifts I'd been occupying myself doing all those boring but necessary cleaning jobs: polishing the mirrors, dusting the shelves and optics and cleaning the windows. So all that needed doing before opening that evening was restocking the shelves and checking the float in the till. I was expecting a handful of locals and a tedious session listening to the same stories and jokes I'd heard countless times.
Instead I got the biggest surprise imaginable. The door from the residents only area opened and in walked Graham, grinning from ear to ear.
1
I loved teaching. Until I met Kathleen I never thought myself good enough to make it as a musician, but I knew I was a good teacher from the very first moment as a trainee I stood in front of a class. Perhaps it was because I was so enthusiastic about what I taught, but it must be more than that: I seemed to have the ability to pass that enthusiasm on to others.
It was my love of teaching that made leaving Birmingham such a wrench, but my love for Kathleen came before everything else. I believed she too would make a good teacher: she taught me so much without even realising it.
That was why I felt guilty about telling her I needed the money I earned from the supply teaching. I knew we could survive without me teaching, but it would mean us watching every penny. I didn't actually lie to her, but I wasn't as truthful as I could have been, and after all she'd been through she was entitled to expect me to be transparent, particularly as she had been so honest with me right from the start. So, in trepidation, one autumn night I told her the truth.
I was expecting her to react with potty-mouthed anger and accusations of me deceiving her, but her response surprised me. She leant across, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and said she knew how much teaching meant to me and that she would never attempt to stop me doing what I loved.
“But I thought you'd be angry.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Well, because I was less than honest with you.”
“No you fucking weren't. Without the money you earn we'd be struggling, and that's a fucking fact.”
What a roller coaster we'd been on: it was still less than a year since we'd met and during that time both our lives had been turned upside down. What we'd been through together would have been more than enough to destroy a lot of relationships, but it had strengthened ours. I just wish we could have been honest with everyone, been open about who and what we were. I don't think she would have had any issues about coming out publicly, but to my shame, I would.
Because I loved Strathdubh. I didn't realise how much until I moved back. Once I'd got over the homesickness, I enjoyed the vibrancy of Birmingham and I expected to spend much of my life living and working there. Even when my great aunt Beth left me the cottage in her will, I had no thought of moving back to Scotland, instead attempting to sell it. Thank God I was unsuccessful! And when I fell in love with Kathleen I knew I wanted to be wherever she was, which at the time was Birmingham.
Strathdubh held so many memories: the long summer days when the sun always seemed to shine, even though it was one of the wettest parts of Scotland; the long winter nights nestled round the peat fire listening to storytelling and fiddle playing only disturbed by the wind blowing a hoolie, even though the wind often brought down power lines, and colds and childhood diseases spread like wildfire through the school; being allowed to stay up past midnight on Hogmanay, even though Christmas celebrations were frowned on as pagan or – even worse in the minds of some – papist; letting our imaginations run as fast as our feet on the moors, even though we were regularly stung or bitten by midges, horse flies, wasps and nettles.
Nostalgia is a fine thing, even painting a veneer of pleasure on memories of Sunday tedium relieved only by the sound of metrical psalms escaping from the stern dour doors of the free kirk.
Returning to live in Strathdubh, I discovered that little had changed: the midges still bit us, the wind still brought down power lines, Hogmanay was still more important than Christmas, and nothing, not even the local park with its swings, opened on the Sabbath. Yet much had changed: power cuts were rarer, celebrating Christmas was no longer frowned upon, and so few people attended the free kirk our ears were no longer assaulted by the dissonance of metrical psalms.
Someone once said we shouldn't return to our past. They were wrong: I loved Strathdubh as much when I returned as I had in the past, perhaps even more so, as the sweet smell of nostalgia was spiced with the savoury taste of realism.
Whenever Kathleen moaned about the village I felt myself getting irritated. Of course, she was right: being so far from anywhere was a bit of a nuisance, but it was also one of the things that helped make Strathdubh unique; the midges were a blight, but they were here long before us; the wind and rain were often unpleasant, but without them we wouldn't have the mountains, lochs, burns, moors and coastlines. Don't get me wrong, Kathleen loved Strathdubh, but she also liked a good moan. And she was the most natural musician I had ever come across.
I loved music. I was singing almost as soon as I could talk, and I began to bang my fingers on the piano keys the moment my hands could reach them. Whether it was a keyboard or the strings of a guitar or fiddle, I thought I was creating the most wonderful music, whereas in reality it was a headache-inducing cacophony. God, my parents must have been patient! Perhaps them paying for all those music lessons for me was just an act of self-defence. Over time I learned what all the scribbles on sheet music meant and I was able to transfer them via my fingers to keyboards and stringed instruments and via my mouth to wind instruments, but I never mastered playing by ear. That was, until I met Kathleen. She could neither read nor write music, so the only way I could play her compositions was by practising them until I got them right.
I think I surprised her when on impulse I added some fiddle to the tune she wrote for me. I know I surprised myself.
My four great loves: Kathleen, music, Strathdubh and teaching. And I had them all: just how lucky can one person be?
My other great loves were my parents. Like many people, I had always taken them for granted: they were always there to guide and help me and, to be honest, sometimes to annoy the hell out of me. Then I met Brendan, who had lost his parents in a car accident, and Kathleen, whose parents had abused and mistreated her. It was only then I realised how lucky I was to have two caring, loving parents. When da told me how they'd met and the problems they'd experienced, I began to understand just how much they had sacrificed for me without seeing it as a sacrifice.
2
I'd lived in Birmingham for so long I'd forgotten about the Tattie Holiday: the two week half-term school break in October when children would help pick the potato harvest. Kathleen and Brendan had never heard of it and when I explained why schoolchildren got such a long holiday in October they stared at me open-mouthed. I'm not sure they believed me at first, until they saw it for themselves. The potato wasn't a major crop in the area around Strathdubh, but some farmers, including my parents, did grow a few. It wasn't just children who picked the crop, of course; adults did as well, particularly those who were out of work.
As Brendan was getting fewer hours at the hotel after the end of the tourist season, he signed up: we could always use the extra money. On his first day, there was a hoolie blowing accompanied by horizontal rain: a typical autumn day in Strathdubh. When he arrived back home, he was covered in mud and wet to the core.
“Fucking hell,” he complained, “that's the hardest I've ever had to work in my life.”
I couldn't help myself: I started laughing. As a kid, I'd helped with the tattie picking, but at that age it felt more like playing than work, though I do recall blistered feet and sore hands. Once he'd bathed and changed I apologised.
“I reckon expecting kids to do that is cruel.”
I started giggling again, I just couldn't control myself. “It was fun,” I told him. “Honestly, us kids used to look forward to it. It was a great change from school.”
He looked at me like I was mad. “Are you sure that's not just rose-tinted glasses? I've worked in factories and behind bars, and had to work fucking hard at times. But nothing like that.”
Kathleen was on his side. “Fuck that for a game of soldiers,” she said. “There has to be an easier way of earning a living other than pulling things in cold, wet and windy weather.”
That really got me guffawing. She looked at me, a hurt expression on her face, and asked me what so funny. Between laughs I managed to say: “I thought you were an expert on pulling in bad weather.”
That started Brendan laughing. “Oh yes,” he said, “very good. An expert on pulling in bad weather. Oh yes, indeed.”
Kathleen tried to be angry, but much as she tried she couldn't stop herself giggling.
To be fair, Brendan did stick to it and I think he began to enjoy it, though he would never admit it. Both Kathleen and I were hoping the hard physical labour would help him sleep at night and for a few nights it did, but soon his insomnia returned. We were both worried about him: after what he'd been through it would have been a surprise if it hadn't affected him. I thought he should have a word with the doctor, but he was adamant he wasn't going to go down that road.
“There's nothing wrong with me,” he told me.
When I tried to explain it wasn't his physical wellbeing we were worried about, I just made things worse. “So you think I'm fucking mad?” he asked. He refused to talk about it any more.
At first I had been concerned how it would work out with the three of us living together: one couple and one single. Would he feel left out? Would we feel constrained by him being there? As it turned out, things seemed to be working out okay, but we were a constant reminder to him of what he didn't have. Perhaps that was why he continued to see that nasty piece of work Andrew, even though he admitted he was an unpleasant character. Perhaps he just needed the escape he got from sex, even if it was only temporary.
November, my least favourite time of the year, brought with it the usual gales and rains. Some days the cloud was so low and black, it was dark even during the few hours of winter daylight, and there was a pall of melancholy over the whole village. I had a fair amount of teaching and we had as full a diary of gigs as we could cope with. Brendan had little: a few hours at the hotel, but nothing else. He spent much of the time moping about, often unshaven, sometimes having to be reminded he needed a bath. I veered between wanting to tell him to snap out of it and sympathising with him. Kathleen felt the same, so we thought it best just to let him get on with it, hoping he'd come through the other side and knowing if he fell we'd be there to catch him.
Then, in early December, he told us he'd finished with Andrew.
We both stared at him, open-mouthed. After a few moments silence, Kathleen asked: “What the fuck brought that on?”
“I thought you'd be pleased,” he said.
“We are,” I said, “but we're just surprised.”
“The other night, he was even more paranoid than normal. He was convinced someone was watching us, even though he'd taken more precautions than normal. He told me he was sure it was Rob, and when I asked why he'd be following us, he couldn't fucking answer. Anyway, seeing as how Rob lost his licence when he was caught drinking and driving, there's no way he could have followed either of us to the layby we parked in, the one near the path to that remote beach. And even if he had, we'd have heard him. As we made our way to the beach, he kept on and on about not getting caught, about how the likes of Rob were the scum of the earth. And then he got started on how women, blacks, scum like Rob and queers were taking over the world. When I pointed out that he was queer, he looked shocked. He insisted he wasn't really queer, just hadn't found the right woman yet. I asked him what would happen when he did find her. He laughed and told me he wouldn't need the likes of me anymore. I lost my temper, told him what I thought of him, told him if he thought he was going to continue fucking using me, he could go fuck himself. My parting shot was to tell him I didn't want to ever see him again. I stormed off, back to my car. He ran after me, yelling that I was being unfair. I just ignored him. Fuck him.”
We both agreed he was better off without him. He was still writing to Graham who wrote back occasionally, but Graham was still conflicted, unable to make up his mind, convinced he had to choose between God and Brendan. Kathleen had no patience with Graham, convinced part of Brendan's problem was the way he was being treated by the priest.
I didn't think Kathleen was being fair. After all, every denomination condemned homosexuality, and there were few more down on it than the free kirk, particularly our local minister who spent so much time and effort condemning sodomy I wandered if he was gay himself. But what I couldn't understand was why Catholic priests were expected to be celibate: after all, it was almost expected that kirk ministers be married. To be honest, I had no time for any of them.
3
Thanks to the holier-than-thou puritans, for 400 years Christmas was barely celebrated in Scotland. I can remember when Christmas Day became a public holiday in 1958. I was 9 years old at the time, and the whole school was excited because it would be the first time all our parents could spend the day with us. It didn't make that much difference to me: as farmers my parents would still need to milk the cows and do other essential tasks, but it changed our world in so many ways. There were of course those po-faced killjoys who objected, but they were in a minority. Even some of those who attended the free kirk were happy with the change, though the minister preached against it. Even so, it was only the year before I met Kathleen that Boxing Day became a public holiday.
When I went to university and heard people talking about how much they were looking forward to Christmas and what sort of celebrations they'd had in the past, I must admit to some jealousy. All that colour and ritual during the darkest time of the year was something I'd never really experienced. Of course, we had always got presents at Christmas and we did have Hogmanay, but that wasn't really the point.
So I was looking forward to celebrating a traditional English Christmas with Kathleen and Brendan. Imagine my disappointment when I mentioned this and they both said they'd never really liked the season.
“Oh,” I said, clearly looking downcast.
Kathleen and Brendan exchanged glances, before he said: “We used to have wonderful Christmases when my parents were alive, and that's the problem for me. It just reminds me of what I lost when they had that car accident. And last year was the first time since their death I spent Christmas with someone, with Kathleen. It can be a difficult time.”
Kathleen was nodding. “Yes, very difficult. The only fucking thing Christmas meant to me was it gave my dad more opportunities for getting pissed and abusing me. It wasn't any better at the children's home: we were all supposed to be so fucking nice to each other, kids and staff, no matter how nasty the cunts had been before and would be after. It was so fucking artificial and hypocritical, having to be nice to staff who forced me to give them blow jobs or who just looked the other way and kids who thought it fun to take the fucking piss out of me. Once I'd slapped them a few times, they no longer thought it was fun, but that just got me in the shit with the staff. And you can guess how they punished me.” Her eyes began to well up. “And when I was on the game, there was no-one to share it with. And it was the one day of the year there was no point working the streets. The few punters about always expected a free fuck as a Christmas present.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't realise it could be like that. I should have, but I didn't.”
Kathleen put her arms around me. “Don't worry,” she said, “I'm sure we can do something, even if it's only what me and Brendan did last year.” She looked over at Brendan and asked: “What do you think?”
Brendan was silent for what seemed ages, but was probably only a few seconds. “Look,” he said eventually, “there's no reason why our experiences should spoil your Christmas. Perhaps we should make a bit of an effort. After all, that shit from the past is over now.” He turned to Kathleen, and asked her: “How about giving it a go? If it turns out awful, we needn't repeat it next year. How about it?”
After a moment's thought Kathleen grinned. “Yeah. Okay. Let's give her the fucking Christmas she wants. But on one condition.”
“And what's that?” I asked.
“That you play that fucking fiddle of yours at some of our upcoming gigs.”
Check mate, I thought. Then said: “Okay, girl, you've got a deal. But don't get angry when I play a few bum notes.”
She stared at me, faux surprise on her face. “Me? Get angry? How can you say such a thing? It's fucking slander!”
We began to make arrangements for the biggest Christmas Strathdubh had ever seen. We invited my parents and Kathleen insisted on inviting Rob. “If we're going to do this,” she said, “then let's do it properly and invite someone who would otherwise be on their own, now his dad's in hospital and his mum's stopping in Glasgow to be near him.”
“You do know they're not his real parents, don't you? That they adopted him when he was a teenager.”
“So fucking what?” she said. “All the more reason for inviting him.”
Despite my dislike of Rob, I couldn't argue with that. Anyway, if Kathleen saw something worthwhile in him then that was good enough for me.
We ordered a large goose from a nearby poultry farmer and a side of ham from the local butcher, both to be delivered a couple of days before Christmas, and a tree from a local forestry estate. Then the three of us went to Glasgow on a shopping spree. Although celebrating Christmas was still relatively new in Scotland, it hadn't taken retailers long to catch on that there was loads of money to be made and I revelled in all the colour, carols and kitsch. Kathleen and Brendan let me get whatever I wanted, and I think they got as much pleasure as I did from watching me behave like a kid in a sweet shop.
We made a night of it, stopping at a cheap hotel and going to the folk club where we'd been made so welcome a few months earlier. We'd contacted the club in advance and been invited to play, even offering to pay us. We timed our Glasgow trip to coincide with club night.
The next day we travelled back, the car packed with coloured crepe paper, hanging decorations in a variety of shapes and colours, fake snow, kitsch Santas, a nativity set, coloured glass baubles for the tree and much more. “Fuck knows where we're going to put it all,” Kathleen said. We also got lots of booze, chocolate, confectionery, cakes and more.
Despite their initial reservations, Kathleen and Brendan oozed enthusiasm as they helped me decorate our cottage. Every ceiling, wall and shelf was transformed into a loud, gaudy, over-the-top clash of colour and mismatched shapes. Kathleen even decorated Frankie with some glitter. The centrepiece of the display was a too-large tree, decorated with crepe paper, battery operated lights, coloured baubles and chocolate money wrapped in shiny gold coloured paper.
We had several gigs in the run-up to Christmas and we extended our repertoire by the inclusion of some Christmas material. Brendan too had a busy couple of weeks with lots of hours at the hotel, but he did get Christmas Day off.
We spent Christmas Eve on the final preparations, including preparing the goose, cooking the ham and making the sherry trifle, as well as wrapping the presents we'd bought for the guests. When Brendan appeared after finishing his shift, we were relaxing with a drink.
“Okay for some,” he said.
Kathleen responded: “Fuck off.” Then threw a bauble at him.
He laughed, grabbed himself a beer, took a swig, belched and sat down. “Fuck, it was busy tonight,” he said. “There'll be a few hangovers tomorrow for sure.”
“And there was me thinking people didn't celebrate Christmas much up here.”
Brendan shook his head. “It wasn't Christmas they were celebrating, so much as not having to go to work for the next two days.”
Despite going to bed quite late, we had no choice but to be up early, there was so much still to do, including cooking the goose, something none of us had ever done before. It was still dark when we reluctantly rose, Kathleen telling me we must be “fucking mad”. Brendan was already up, cooking us all breakfast. Kathleen's response was: “Fucking hell, this is a first.”
He gave her the two finger salute, while preparing a massive feast of Lorne sausage, back bacon, Stornoway black pudding, fried eggs and fried bread. When I stared at the mountain of high fat food, I gawped, open-mouthed. Kathleen told me to close my mouth before I swallowed a fly “and you know what happened to the fucking old lady who swallowed a fly”, following this by singing the old song about it.
Brendan said: “It's just some lining for the stomach. It'll probably be early afternoon by the time we eat, and I reckon we'll be drinking a bit before then.” He swallowed a piece of black budding smeared in brown sauce. “You can thank me later.” He ducked, avoiding the slap from Kathleen.
After cleaning up the breakfast remains, we laid the table for the main meal: fancy placemats with Highland views, matching coasters, glasses, cutlery and each place containing a Christmas napkin, Christmas cracker and a miniature Christmas tree.
As well as those for the guests we'd also got each other gifts. Kathleen's to me was a violin bow, engraved on the side with my name and I'd got her a box set of LPs of traditional Gaelic songs. Apart from the ones from us, Brendan received two other presents: Graham had sent him a book of poetry, the other was from Andrew and typically impersonal. It was a calendar with a printed message saying: A Merry Christmas to my constituents from your councillor. It was a cheap, mass-produced thing that would probably curl at the edges before the new year began. Brendan tossed it to one side.
Rob arrived with a hangover and some bottles, moaning about having drunk too much the night before. Nothing new there then. Shortly after, ma and da appeared, loaded down with gifts plus food and drink – “in case we run short,” da said, grinning. We began as we intended to continue: with a drink. Brendan opened a bottle of champagne, and once that had gone we started on the wine, and after that whatever took our fancy. After we'd stuffed ourselves with as much goose and trimmings and trifle and mince pies as we could manage, we all collapsed, silly paper hats still on our heads.
All, that is, apart from ma who insisted on clearing the table and doing the washing up. “Leave it, ma,” I told her. “We'll do it all later on.”
“The sooner it's done, the sooner we can all relax,” she said.
I knew there was no arguing with her, so I made to follow her into the kitchen, but Rob stopped me. “Let me help her,” he said. “I know I'm not much use, but I can at least help with the clearing up.”
Kathleen winked at me. “See, he's not good for nothing, is he?” she said. I laughed.
Shortly after, we had a bit of a ceilidh. Kathleen and I played and sang, both together and separately. Ma, who had a pleasant soprano, sang some traditional Gaelic songs and Kathleen, who could pick up a tune so quickly, accompanied her on Frankie. Kathleen also insisted on me playing a fiddle solo, much to my chagrin. The men just sat there, drinking.
Until, that was, Kathleen said: “Now, come on boys, each of you has to do something. Don't care what it is.” She then grabbed their glasses before adding: “But no more booze until you've performed.”
They moaned, of course they did, but she wasn't going to let them off the hook. When da stood up and began crooning “White Christmas” in his booming baritone, Kathleen stared open-mouthed, surprise written on her face. I smiled: despite having a good voice, da rarely sang except on special occasions. Rob regaled us with a tall story about the crew of a fishing boat who almost drowned when their boat sank, but who were saved by a whale. Brendan got his own back on Kathleen for taking his drink away by telling one of his infamous and lengthy shaggy dog stories.
Then for the first time that day we switched on the TV. Kathleen said: “It wouldn't be Christmas without Morecambe and Wise.”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “I really missed it last year.”
It seemed, like most of the country, we were all Morecambe and Wise fans.
And just to make the day perfect Kathleen only said “fuck” once during the festivities, and even then apologised. When the guests had gone I said to her: “See, you can control your mouth, can't you?” I was a bit slow in ducking out of the way of her slap, and we were giggling as we made our drunken way to bed.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Brendan
1
I had no idea why Andrew had sent me a Christmas present. I'd made it clear when I finished with him that I wasn't interested in seeing him or hearing from him again. In any case, it was the cheapest and tackiest calendar I'd seen in a long time. Perhaps he'd given his secretary a list of people to send them to or perhaps she just sent them to all his constituents, though that would have cost a fortune in postage, unless he'd mailed them through the council. I wouldn't put that past him: using ratepayers’ money to drum up support for himself.
Sometimes I looked at Kathleen and Catriona and felt envy writhing itself around me, crushing me with its tentacles of hate. When that happened, I couldn't stay in the same room with them, at least not without a drink, and would excuse myself, take myself across the moors regardless of the weather. For all his faults, Andrew had provided some momentary comfort, but that only led me to realise how lonely and miserable I was much of the time.
Other times I looked at them and, seeing in their eyes the love they had for each other, felt like a spare part that was no longer needed. Even worse, sometimes I felt like a guest who had overstayed his welcome or as if my presence was inhibiting them, like a gooseberry.
If only Graham wasn't so hung up, so confused about his feelings. If only he would make up his mind: either tell me he no longer wanted anything to do with me, or tell me he would like to see me again. I would have agreed to any conditions: only meeting him in secret, not contacting him unless he contacted me first, I'd even start going to Mass again if he asked me. If he told me we had no future, at least I would have known where I stood, could have put him behind me and moved on with my life.
I had thought of breaking off all contact with him, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. Instead I hoped he would, given time, make up his mind. Perhaps the poetry anthology he'd sent me as a Christmas present was a sign of where he was at. After all, why else would he give me a collection of love poetry?
I was pleased we'd celebrated Christmas the way we had. At first Kathleen and I had just gone along with what Catriona wanted, she looked so disappointed when we'd told her why neither of us were fond of the season. But soon we got into the spirit of the thing, spending far too much money, acting like kids and generally enjoying making fools of ourselves. The build-up, the anticipation, reminded me of when my parents were alive.
The day itself was special. Of course, we all drank and ate too much, ending up stuffed and pissed; but it was more than that, much more. Spending the day with Catriona's parents was a wonderful experience: to see how much they loved her and how proud they were of her, and not just that but their willingness to accept Kathleen and me as a part of their family. Like the rest of us, they enjoyed the day and let their hair down, forgetting for a few hours they were responsible adults with a farm to run.
Even Rob was fun: I saw another side of him. I realised he wasn't just a feckless and irresponsible drunk. At one stage we found ourselves alone together and, his tongue lubricated by the drink, he told me a bit about his background. He told me his parents had been strict teetotallers and his father an elder in the free kirk. He wasn't allowed to go out and play with his school friends and the only book they let him read was the Bible, and that was compulsory: he had to memorise verses from the good book, his parents concentrating on the most dour and miserable parts. Not that he could read much of the Bible: his literacy level was minimal, but he had a good memory. While his peers were twisting or jiving, he was lectured about the evils of the devil's music: the only songs they allowed were unaccompanied metrical psalms. Dancing, pop music, all instruments were made by Satan. Television was also from Satan, as were the cinema and the theatre. Radio was allowed, but only for the news, weather forecast and religious programmes.
He ran away from home several times, each time dragged back and beaten. Eventually, in his early teens, he ended up in Strathdubh, where a couple found him sleeping outside the shop they ran. They took him in, fed him and contacted a social worker. When he refused to go back home, threatening to kill himself, the social worker agreed to let the couple foster him temporarily. They ended up adopting him and he told me as far as he was concerned, they were his parents.
“But I've treated them so badly, getting pissed all the time,” he told me. “I can't seem to help myself. They've done their best, but...” His voice tailed off. After a few moments he began speaking again: “And now da's really sick. I keep thinking I'm probably responsible for his heart attack.”
I told him how I'd lost my parents. I asked him if his dad was expected to recover. “Dunno,” he said. “No-one knows. He's still alive, so that's something.” He eyes began to fill with tears. “Let me tell you, if he does get well enough to come home, I'm going to change. I'm going to cut back on the booze, get a job and look after him – and ma. That's a promise.”
2
I was pleased to have so much work between Christmas and the new year: I'd not had that many hours at the hotel since October and I was happy to work all the hours I could, earn as much money as possible. The owners of the hotel had advertised a special Hogmanay deal consisting of three nights bed and breakfast, a Hogmanay party complete with food and music and a hangover clearing walk on 1st January, and the hotel was full. As many of the locals wanted to be home in time for the bells before going out first footing or attending any parties they were invited to, the owners asked for volunteers to work the evening.
Although we'd all been invited by Catriona's parents to their Hogmanay party, I volunteered to work. I had never been that confident at large gatherings, much preferring being with a handful of people, and as Catriona and Kathleen were performing at the hotel, I wouldn't know many people at the party. Instead, the three of us agreed to visit her parents on the afternoon of the 1st.
It was a great evening. Kathleen and Catriona weren't the only musicians booked: there was also a piper and a ceilidh dance band who, accompanied with much drunken hilarity, attempted to show revellers how to do traditional dances such as the Gay Gordon and Strip the Willow. The booze flowed but no-one turned nasty, not even when drinks were accidentally spilled over them. The kitchen staff regularly replenished the running buffet. At midnight, a piper led us all in the singing of “Auld Lang Syne”, after which there was a loud knocking on the door. When it was opened a tall dark stranger entered carrying a lump of coal, a black bun and a bottle of whisky. In reality he was the driver of the post bus, who though tall was neither dark nor a stranger and whose ginger hair had been covered in a black wig, making him look very strange indeed. As the celebrations continued into the early hours, the dance band, the piper and Kathleen and Catriona got together and improvised a loud and raucous jam session. For once Kathleen broke her rule about not drinking alcohol during a gig, and her playing towards the end became ever more idiosyncratic.
The last stragglers eventually left at about four in the morning and by the time I got home after clearing up it hardly seemed worth going to bed, though I did try to get a few hours kip. When the three of us finally emerged about midday, I was the only one without a hangover: one of the advantages of working the bar and therefore having to stay sober.
When, with a wide grin on my face, I asked Kathleen what she wanted for breakfast: “A fry up? Alka Seltzer? A bucket to be sick in?”, she told me to “fuck off”. I burst out laughing, and Catriona asked me not to laugh so loud. I told them I'd taped the end of their performance, when they were both pissed out of their heads. Kathleen responded by telling me: “I'll fucking kill you if you have” and Catriona by asking “you haven't, have you?” I nodded and said: “I think I'll play it for your parents this afternoon.”
It was only when I burst out laughing they realised I was joking. I'm not sure how funny they found it.
The new year had entered on the back of high winds that over the next few days became gale force and worse. There'd been high winds in November, but compared to these they were just gentle breezes. I'd never experienced winds like them. Anything that wasn't strapped down was blown over or away, trees fell knocking down power and phone lines and for over a week we were without either. Thanks to the open fire we were able to keep warm and thanks to batteries we were able to listen to the radio, but we were unable to cook or make hot drinks and we had to wash in cold water. Fortunately, Catriona's parents, who had a cooking range, fed us at their farmhouse and gave us flasks full of tea to take home with us.
The community came together. Old rivalries were either forgotten or put on the back burner as people helped each other to cope, made sure the ill and the old were okay and opened their doors to anyone in need. The Dubh Hotel, the Ford Bar, the kirk meeting room and the village hall became centres from which food and hot drinks were distributed to those in need. After the Hogmanay celebrations, the hotel rooms were empty and they were all given over to those whose heating was from electricity: thanks to its generator, the hotel was able to function. With their freezers and fridges out of action the two local shops distributed the thawing food to local people rather than leaving it to rot. The village hall held daily and evening entertainments featuring musicians, storytellers, indoor games and whatever else people could think of. Those of us with cars volunteered as drivers, others gave of whatever skills they had. Even our local councillor helped out. In short, we all did what we could and we learned the value of community.
Although it was a relief when the power was restored, a part of us missed the camaraderie that had built up during those ten days.
3
The winds and horizontal rain were replaced by cold and crisp but bright and sunny winter days, the sort of weather it was great to go out in providing you were wrapped up. After the storms, the clean-up began. Local tradespeople repaired damaged roofs and walls, fixed fences and cleared the debris; volunteers helped the infirm clear their gardens; the council sent out workers to remove trees and other barriers that had made some of the roads impassable; the electricity board repaired pylons and power lines, and engineers fixed telephone lines and reconnected people, though this last task took some time. Our phone line was one of the last to be reconnected, partly because of our location, partly due to the damage to our wires. Eventually we were able to use our phone again.
Rob's father was improving slowly, though we were told he would never fully recover, and he returned home shortly after the power was restored. Rob was as good as his word, not only cutting down on the amount he drank but giving up booze altogether. He even stayed sober on Hogmanay, something that must have taken an iron will. Perhaps Catriona and I had been wrong about him and, as so often, Kathleen had been right.
There have always been those who think the worst, who seem to revel in cynicism and Strathdubh was no exception: a few of the local gossips were dogmatic in their belief that as soon as the novelty wore off Rob would be back to drinking all day every day, and who believed it their duty to tell everyone else. These were the same people who, despite knowing little about his father, were convinced Rob was responsible for his ill health. Fortunately, they were in a minority: most were pleased Rob had gone on the wagon and that his father was out of hospital.
Rob's chances of getting a job were, sadly, remote. His mother had arthritis and limited mobility so Rob was their carer. Even if he could have got work on a boat it would have been impractical: there was no way he could have spent several days at sea, leaving no-one to care for his parents. And, apart from skilled jobs like joinery, work was hard to come by in the winter. His low literacy and numeracy skills meant he couldn't work in his parents' shop, apart from unskilled jobs such as cleaning, dealing with the rubbish and doing any lifting that was necessary. He did help with those tasks, but he didn't ask or receive any payment: it was difficult enough to find the money to pay staff to run the business now neither his parents were able to work, and they had talked of trying to sell it. Kathleen, who when working as a tart had known her way round the benefit system and had helped other tarts, made sure he got everything he was entitled to.
It wasn't just Rob she helped in this way. She'd got hold of a manual that listed all the available benefits, who could apply for them and what the regulations were. It really pissed off the staff at the social security office and Kathleen took great pride in getting people their money. She had even helped people appeal when they'd been refused benefits.
I hadn't heard from Graham since the beginning of the new year and as soon as our phone was back on I'd tried calling him to insist he made up his mind, but there was no answer. One evening, just a couple of days before the snow came, I arrived for an evening shift at the hotel. The bar was quiet most of January: once the new year was over most people seemed to hibernate until Burns Night, which was still a few days away. During my few shifts I'd been occupying myself doing all those boring but necessary cleaning jobs: polishing the mirrors, dusting the shelves and optics and cleaning the windows. So all that needed doing before opening that evening was restocking the shelves and checking the float in the till. I was expecting a handful of locals and a tedious session listening to the same stories and jokes I'd heard countless times.
Instead I got the biggest surprise imaginable. The door from the residents only area opened and in walked Graham, grinning from ear to ear.
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.