by Iain Banks
And just the way he says this – says that single, innocent-sounding, seemingly affirmative little word – suddenly it’s like there’s this sliver of fear sliding deep inside me. Powell glanced over at the Murston table again as he pronounced the word and there’s something about both his voice and his body language that shrieks uncertainty, even worry.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. I think my voice sounds hollow, but Powell doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Just don’t mention it to Mr M, eh?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of,’ I tell him.
Powell is smiling. It’s a good, believable smile; I’m already starting to convince myself I was reading far too much into a single word.
‘Aye. Right.’ He nods sideways. ‘You coming over to say hello?’
‘Just about to; Al and I missed the receiving line at the start – taking Mum back to her school. We were waiting for people to finish their food.’
‘Ah, they’re mostly just picking. Apart from the boys, of course. Come on over.’
‘Be with you momentarily.’
‘Hunky McDory,’ Powell says, nodding. ‘See you shortly.’
He heads off, still smiling. I’m thinking I definitely need to be a bit less fucking paranoid. I go to the buffet, right behind Ferg, pick up a sausage roll and stuff it in my mouth. ‘Off to pay my respects,’ I tell him, with a degree of flakiness.
Ferg has assembled an impressive plateful. ‘Okay. Play nice with the big boys.’
I go to get Dad, say hi to Mike Mac, Sue and Phelpie, and cheekkiss Jel. She looks…very controlled. A girl with a tight rein on herself. I’m sort of getting inevitable resonances about this place and this occasion, this size of gathering; maybe they’re getting to Jel, too. However, I think I can guarantee that she and I will not be getting up to any toilet-cubicle-related shenanigans, not this time.
Al and I head to the Murston table.
‘Will I do the talking?’ he asks quietly, en route.
‘Fine by me,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll speak if I’m spoken to.’
The three brothers are wolfing into seconds and Mrs M is staring into a small mirror, reapplying make-up when we arrive. Donald has seen us coming and stands to shake our hands stiffly, formally.
There are a few aunts and uncles and some older relatives I recognise from family occasions way back. I stand like Powell did, hands over lower belly, a little back from where Dad is, and nod when any of this lot catch my eye; they look away again quickly if they do.
‘Aye, well,’ Dad’s saying, ‘a good innings, like they say south of the border, but still before his time, eh? He’ll be missed. He’ll be missed.’ Mrs M reaches out and holds onto Dad’s forearm, gripping it.
‘Thanks, Alastair. Thanks.’
She doesn’t look at me. The two junior brothers do. Murdo is calmly ignoring me, eating onwards, but Fraser and Norrie, ties pulled loose by now and just generally not appearing too comfortable in their best suits, are trying hard not to glower over-obviously in my direction. Still, their plates beckon invitingly before them and I’d give it thirty seconds at most before the call of the nosh consumes their full attention. Norrie must have sculpted his beard for the occasion, limiting it to a centimetre-wide strip like a strap down the sides of his face and under his jaw. It’s not a good look. Fraser has a fairly full beard these days, much like the one Murdo used to have, though redder.
Ellie’s watching me, a small, sad smile on her face.
Sort of beside her – there’s an empty chair in between them that I suspect is Powell’s – Grier is using her veil to good effect, not shifting her head but her gaze darting round the important players at the table, concentrating on her dad – back to grimly shaking Al’s hand as they trade platitudes about old Joe’s general wonderfulness – Ellie and me. At least I think that’s what she’s doing; the veil does make it hard to be sure.
Ellie rises elegantly, moves to me – all eyes round the table and quite a few throughout the room on her now – and leans in, one hand lightly on my wrist, to touch cheeks. ‘Double kiss,’ she whispers on that first pass, so we do the continental double-kiss thing. I have no idea what the hell this signifies in the Murston family bestiary of acceptable greetings and other physical gestures: just not being marked out for imminent execution after an overnight change of heart, I hope.
‘Very sorry about Joe,’ I mumble, which is the best I can do.
She nods and smiles a little and sits down again, smoothing her skirt under her. I think I see Grier sort of gathering herself to maybe get up too, but Ellie leans over to her just then and says something to her. Looks light, inconsequential – El pats her little sister’s hand gently, affectionately – but…good timing there, girl, I think, if that was deliberate.
Dad seems to be addressing the whole table now. ‘I’m sorry Morven – that’s my wife’ – he explains for the benefit of the farflung rellies – ‘couldn’t take any more time off after the funeral, but we all’ – he extends one arm a fraction to include me here – ‘want you to know we’re very sorry for your loss. A good man gone, and he’ll be sorely missed.’
Al nods a couple of times, then nods once more to Donald, who nods back, and we’re out of there at last, turning as one and heading away from this uncannily calm eye of the room.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
‘I better get back to work,’ Al tells me, near the doors. He holds my elbow briefly. ‘You take it easy, chief, okay?’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
‘No. Seriously, son.’
‘Seriously aye-aye, Dad. I’ll be fine.’
‘Aye, well, get some food down you and don’t stay too long.’
‘Will do, Pop.’
Dad gives me a very slightly dubious look, then departs.
Ferg is loitering by the end of the buffet table, filling his face and eyeing the desserts. I lift a sticky cocktail sausage from his plate.
‘Get your own, you freeloading bastard, Gilmour.’
‘Intend to.’ I inspect the sausage, eat a chunk and put it back on his plate. ‘But then we should get drunk.’
‘Back on-message at last. About time.’ He nods at the half-eaten sausage. ‘I’m still going to eat that, you know.’
I’m sitting minding my own business and tucking into my own plateful of food five minutes later at a half-empty table – I don’t recognise the other people – when a jolly-looking, well-upholstered lady with frizzy grey hair and wearing a dark-plum suit sits down beside me. Another half-remembered face.
‘Stewart, how you doing? You probably don’t remember me. Joan Linton. How you doing yourself, son? Oh, it’s awful good to see you again, so it is. Is it London you’ve been away to all this time? Aye? London? Aye? I’m sorry, here I am, blabbering away to you and you trying to get some food down you, I know; what am I like? A couple of Bristol Creams and I’m yacking away fifteen to the dozen. It’s that good food, though, isn’t it? D’you not think so? Wait till you try the desserts. Oh my God! I’ve had seconds, twice. I’ll be bursting out of this dress, I will! No, but, seriously, it’s a lovely send-off, is it no? They’ve done the old guy proud. Not think so? I didn’t really know old Joe that well, to be honest, but you can’t know everybody, can you?’
I’ve been waving my hand at my face during all this, trying to indicate that the only thing stopping me from answering – or at least attempting to interrupt – is the fact that I’ve got a mouth full of food, which I have, though this has also been a good way of giving myself time to try to remember who Mrs Linton actually is. How do I know her?
‘Mrs L,’ I say, swallowing. ‘Course. Was meaning to come over and say hi,’ I lie. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, me? I’m great, I’m great, I’m firing on all cylinders, I am. Alan’s the same. Well, he had a wee heart thing last year and took a while off work but he’s fine now. Hardly slowed down at all. Taken up golf. Doctor told him to. Practically an order. I said, Can you get the green fees on
prescription, then? But of course that’s just me having a wee joke, I’m no that daft! Anyway, here’s me stopping you enjoying your meal, I just wanted to pop over and say it’s great to see you again, so it is, it really is, and you’re looking lovely! Don’t you mind me saying that now, because you have, you’ve turned into a very handsome young man, you have. And it’s just a lovely thing to see. And I just wanted to say that I’m awful sorry about what happened. I’m not making excuses for anybody, I would never do that, but if it hadn’t been for those bloody cameras – excuse my language, but those bloody cameras – it might all have been totally different. It could, couldn’t it? And I’m not, like I say, I’m not making excuses for anybody, but we all know we’re none of us perfect and I thought it was very harsh on you, very harsh, that’s all I’m going to say. I’ve said to Alan umpteen times we should never have done that – who wants to look at a load of kids’ photies anyway? But of course he says it was actually our Katy’s idea and she says it was one of her daft friends – oh, we’re a terrible family for passing the buck, we are! – but it was us paid for the bloody things and Alan who showed those stupid photographs on the big screen and I know he’s felt bad about it ever since, even though he didn’t know and it was just bad luck. He’d apologise himself but he’s too embarrassed. No me; I don’t embarrass easily at all, but that’s what I wanted to say, is that okay? So I’m sorry, honey, you get on with your lunch there and I’ll just make myself scarce, okay? Those wee sausages are just the best, are they no? Must have had a dozen! Right, I better go. You look after yourself, Stewart, say hi to your mum and dad.’
‘Yeah, be seeing you,’ I manage, with a sort of strangled heartiness, as she retreats, waving.
Mrs Linton. Mother of Drew, of Drew-and-Lauren fame, the couple at whose wedding reception Jel and I slightly anticipated the happy couple’s traditional wedding-night activities, five years ago, in – why! – this very hotel.
Shame she didn’t think to have a natter with me or Jel on that occasion; we’d never have found the time to get up to our extracurricular misbehaviour.
‘He had this story about him and his pals coming back from the pub in Inioch each Sunday night. This was back when you had to be what they called a bona fide traveller to get a drink anywhere on a Sunday, like? And—’
‘Eh?’
‘No, seriously, you couldnae get a drink where you lived; you had to go to the next village or town or whatever, if it was a Sunday. It was the law. Anyways—’
‘Jeez.’
‘Ah know.’
I’ve drifted towards a crowd of people standing near the bar. The Murston brothers are reminiscing about old Joe, and Murdo has decided to tell a story.
‘Anyways,’ he says, supping quickly from his pint, ‘Joe and all his mates would hoof it over Whitebit Hill from – where was it, Fraze?’
‘Logie of Hurnhill.’
‘Aye, Logie—’
‘Probably The Ancraime Arms,’ Fraser adds. ‘That’s where they’d go to, probably.’
Murdo nods. ‘Right. Aye. Anyways, so they’d go past the old Whitebit Hill cemetery, which was fu even then and no really used, an it’s got this big wa all roon it and this pair a big iron gates right on the road – an there’s nothin else there, like, no back then, like, no buildins or nuthin, just the cemetery an some trees. And one o old Joe’s mates had this sorta tradition thing he’d always do when they all went past the cemetery; he’d stick his hand through the cemetery gates and he’d offer to shake hands with any ghosts or zombies or undead wandering aboot the place or whatever, right? Just for a laugh, right? An like he’d shoot oot, “Come on, ghoulies, ghosties, shake ma haun,” aye? And they’d all have a laugh at this, every week, cos of course they’re all pished, aye? Anyway, this one night, old Joe leaves the pub before the rest, saying he’s no feelin too good, like maybe he’s had one too many or eaten a bad crisp or somethin an needs the fresh air, so he’s like oot the door ten minutes early an awa doon the road. Only what he’s done is, he’s been an louped over the cemetery wa earlier in the day with this bucket o watter and he’s left—’
‘Naw, I think he tolt me he just foon the bucket there, Murd.’
‘Norrie, d’you mind? Anyway, he’s got this bucket of watter at the side of the gates, on the inside like, so he’s ower the wa, hunkered down there, inside the cemetery, waitin for his pals, and what he does is, he sticks his haun in the bucket o watter? Like, rolls up his sleeve an sticks his mitt in there up to like the elbow or whatever, like? An he’s like this for five minutes or ten or somehin.’
Norrie whistles. ‘That’d be fucken cold.’
Fraser nods. ‘Aye, ah think this was like the winter, too, he told me.’
Murdo gulps more beer. ‘Anyways; winter, summer, whatever, he’s like this for five or ten minutes with his haun gettin colder and colder an then he hears his pals comin doon the road, and does his pal no do whit he always does, an stick his hand through the cemetery gates, offerin to shake hauns with the deid? So Joe takes his haun – which is, like, totally freezin noo – and he grabs the hand o his pal, and gets it really tight and gives it a good fuckin hard shake. An of course there’s nae lights on the road then or anyhin, an he cannae be seen cos he’s in the shadows anyway an still behind the wa? Well, of course his pal screams like a fucken lassie and lamps aff doon the road, screamin blue murder and pishin his breeks, an Joe’s laughin so hard he’s nearly doin the same thing.’
‘An his mates,’ Norrie butts in, ’cos did he no tell them, like? Murd? Did he no tell them he was goin to do this fore he left the pub, aye?’
‘Anyways, his mates have to help Joe oot the cemetery cos his hand’s so cold he can hardly climb an they’re all laughin so much. An this guy – cannae remember his name – never sticks his haun through the cemetery gates again, even after they tell him it was just Joe. But, eh? Eh? Kind a guy he was. What a guy, eh?’ Murdo shakes his head in admiration and sups his pint.
We’re all laughing, forming a ring of hilarity around Murdo, whose big, beaming, ruddy face is grinning widely. Some of the laughter is a little forced, a little by rote, because of who Murdo is and the family he’s part of, but mostly it’s genuine. And I’m laughing, too, though not as much as I might be.
‘Ah’m tellin ye!’ Murdo says, loudly, looking around the faces clustered around him, soaking up the approval and general good humour. His gaze even slides over where I stand, on the periphery of the crowd, without his happy, open expression changing. Probably didn’t recognise me. ‘Ah’m tellin ye!’ he says again.
I sip towards the dregs of my pint. Yes, you are telling us, Murd. Only that’s not the way old Joe told it to me. When he told me this story it wasn’t about him personally at all; it was about one of his uncles who’d played this trick on one of his pals, years before Joe was remotely old enough to go drinking with his mates anywhere. The rest of the story’s similar enough, but it just never was about Joe himself.
I am so tempted to point this out – I really want to point this out – but I don’t. It’s cowardice, partly, maybe, but also just a reluctance to, well, throw a bucket of cold water over this warm wee festival of rosy-tinged remembrance. It irks me that history’s being rewritten like this, but if I say something now I’ll just look like the bad guy. I guess if Mr M was here he might set the record straight, but he’s not; Donald’s standing by the Murston table, talking to a couple of local businessmen. Best to keep quiet. In the end, after all, what does it really matter?
Only it always matters. I’m still not going to say anything, but it always matters, and I feel like a shit for not sticking up for the truth, no matter how much of a spoilsport or a pedant I might appear because of it. I finish my pint, turn away.
‘Aw, Stu? Stewart?’ Murdo calls out. I turn, surprised, to find that Murdo’s looking at me, as is everybody else, and a sort of channel through the crowd has opened between me and Murd. ‘You knew Joe a bit, did you no?’
‘Aye,’ I say. No
nplussed, frankly. ‘Aye, we used to go on the occasional hill-walk together. Aye, nice old guy.’
I’m horribly aware I’m sounding trite and slightly stupid, and I’m sort of lowering my conversational style down to Murdo’s level, almost imitating him. (I almost said ‘thegether’ instead of ‘together’, for example, body-swerving the more colloquial word so late in the brain-to-mouth process I came close to stumbling over it.) And was he a nice old guy? He was pleasant to me and kind enough, but he was still a Murston – the senior Murston – at a time when the family was settling deeper and deeper into its criminal ways, abandoning farming and even land deals, and diversifying into still more lucrative fields.
‘Must have taught you a thing or two, aye?’ Murdo prompts.
‘Cannae get everythin from a university education, eh no?’
‘Nup,’ I agree. ‘Sure can’t. Aye, he let drop the occasional pearl of wisdom.’
‘Aw aye?’ Murdo says, looking round with a smug look.
Fuck, I’m on the spot here. Since I saw his body in the funeral parlour a couple of days ago I’ve been trying to think of something wise or profound Joe said, and there’s really only one thing I can remember. Plus I feel like I’m kind of embellishing and improving the memory as I try to recall it, a process I’m pretty much bound to continue if I try to articulate it now.
Still, it’s all I’ve got, and – assuming that Murdo isn’t trying to fuck me up here, believing I’ve got nothing and so expecting me to embarrass myself – maybe this invitation to take part in the rolling familial obituary for the old guy is sort of like a peace offering. Maybe.
So I clear my throat and say, ‘Yeah, he said something once about …about how one of the main mistakes people make is thinking that everybody else is basically like they are themselves.’
‘That right?’ Murd says.
Joe really did say something like this, and even at the time I thought it might be one of the more useful bits of geezer lore he’d offer up. Not that we really expect to hear any great wisdom from the old these days; things move too fast, and society, reality itself, alters so rapidly that any lesson one generation learns has generally become irrelevant by the time the next one comes along. Some things will stay the same – never call on lower than two tens, men tend to be unfaithful – but a lot don’t.
