by Alan Clark
‘Mr d’Orsay tells me you’re opening an old folks’ home,’ said Elspeth. ‘Not a business I’d have imagined you in Rory Blaine, you being so trendy.’
‘The house has to become a business so that I can keep it, Miss Wishart. And I’m not planning on making the beds myself.’
‘Well if I win the Lottery one day, maybe I’ll book a room,’ said Elspeth.
I took a very dusty, thirty-year-old bullet from my pocket, raised it to my lips and bit firmly.
‘I’m afraid you’d not be eligible, Miss Wishart.’ I said. ‘All the residents of Mount Royal will be male.’
‘No women at all?’ asked Elspeth, her eyes panning my face in search of clues. ‘Is it some sort of Masonic thing?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
As the realization dawned, her eyebrows rose so high that her forehead looked like a concertina with liver spots.
‘Good Gordon Highlanders,’ she said. ‘Will the police not close you down?’
‘It’s not a brothel, Miss Wishart. It’s perfectly legal.’
‘I’m from the Isle of Bute, you’ll have to make allowances. Are there many such places these days?’
‘We believe it’ll be the first in the UK. We’re rather proud of that.’
Elspeth Wishart pulled her cardigan round her. She rose from the bench and sniffed at the daffodils sprouting out of an urn.
‘So Morag Proudie was right then,’ she said. ‘She told me it hadn’t worked.’
‘What the hell do you mean, Miss Wishart?’ I felt my face flush and my heart begin to thump. After all these years. How crazy was that.
‘It was me who sent her to you,’ she said, her cheeks reddening also. ‘To see if it wasn’t too late to …’
‘To save me from myself?’
‘Aye, something like that,’ said Elspeth.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘An unorthodox action I admit,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t sure about you, you see, as you got older I mean. Sometimes you’d be quiet and withdrawn, other times you were like a coiled spring. I knew something was going on with you, though I wasn’t sure what. You weren’t like the other wee jessies; the ones who were no good at rugby and couldn’t wait to put on their kilts for kirk on the Sabbath. You seemed like, well, a real boy. And at that age, these things are sometimes a phase, are they not?’
‘So you got Morag Proudie to find out? What about sex outside marriage then? Your strict religious code Miss Wishart?’
‘We both saw it as God’s work, the lesser of two evils. Morag was extremely devout, did you not ken that? She was always happy to do it.’
‘You mean she did it a lot?’ I asked.
‘Jings no,’ said Elspeth sharply. ‘Maybe just once or twice a year. And she was on the pill thing, so there was no risk of an unwanted bairn.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘And what exactly did Morag report back in my case?’
‘That you were on a one-way trip to the cities of the plain.’
Elspeth was now examining a bed of tulips. She appeared to be having trouble looking at me directly which wasn’t like her one bit. I felt the bile rise up.
‘I didn’t have much choice in my destination, Miss Wishart. That’s the ticket I was handed. That’s the way these things work.’
The trauma of the scene came charging back at me. Morag Proudie had been rough as guts and thick as two short planks, but warm and pulsing with life. There had been a big shed at the back of the boarding-house, where luggage was stored. Morag had taken me to a dark corner where someone’s huge leather trunk could be used as a sort of couch. I’d instinctively sensed she’d been there before. She’d kissed me, let me fondle her big tits then parted her chubby thighs and led my hand towards her minge. I’d rummaged round aimlessly for a bit, as if it had been my sock drawer. Then Morag, with a casual expertise that wouldn’t have disgraced a courtesan in Second Empire Paris, had managed to coax a semi-erection which she’d promptly taken in her mouth. My visible lack of excitement was increased by Morag releasing a burp which smelt strongly of the haggis we’d just had for tea. I’d attempted penetration but my cock had shrivelled in terror.
‘Dinnae worry yersel,’ she’d said cheerfully, re-doing her lipstick. ‘We’ll ha’e anither wee go next term if ye’s want. Think of it like yer drivin’ test. One failure disnae mean ye’ll nae pass at the next go.’
But I’d been devastated. I’d asked her not to tell anyone else, given her money to buy something nice, then raced off up the glen and hidden myself in the heather. I’d never had any trouble getting a stiffy when MacPherson in Form 3 sucked me off. By a merciful paradox, such encounters were quite allowable in the culture of Glenlyon; not considered indicative of sexual orientation, just the scarcity of the real thing. Like Elspeth, I’d been confident of the phase theory; it had permitted and excused me the nervous pleasures of the past couple of years; not just the safe ones at school but the dangerous ones when I’d still been living under Granny’s roof. The wanderings in Hyde Park, the loo off Oxford Circus, the nice man in the folly. This would all pass, then I’d be able to live the life I was expected to. When I got a chance at the real thing, I’d be fine. When I’d been sent away from Mount Royal, I’d been determined to find it and, right on cue, Morag Proudie had miraculously materialized, sunbeams around her, like St Bernadette. But no apparition was Morag; she had been the sweating, pulsing real thing and I’d failed miserably. Maybe she’d been right though, maybe it was just first-night nerves. And I’d clung to that possibility through years of repeated attempts, till I’d admitted to myself that the ability to achieve penetration while thinking of Donny Osmond’s legs around my back probably wasn’t the way most men did it. Alas, poor Morag. Hers were the first tits I’d ever touched. Now they were gone no doubt and soon she would be too. I hoped she’d had a good life among the Jacuzzis.
Elspeth turned back from the tulips. She looked me squarely in the eye again which was a relief. Seeing Miss Wishart on shaky moral ground had been oddly unsettling, apocalyptic even, like the fall of the Roman Empire or something.
‘Mr d’Orsay said you share your flat here with a foreign doctor fellow. Is he your …?’
She reached for the appropriate noun from those displaying themselves in her mind like chocolates in a box. I offered her ‘partner’ and she was able to swallow that. She’d not met Faisal; he’d gone off to work early in a bad mood. She asked if we were happy.
‘I’m hoping it’ll work out,’ I said.
‘Well at least he’s someone with a qualification,’ she replied.
A cacophony met us round at the front of the house. Big Frankie Beckles was roaring round the carriage circle with Vic riding pillion, his arms clamped round Frankie’s huge waist but failing to meet in the middle. Workmen cheered from the Portakabins. Dolores Potts sat smoking on the steps. When the lilac scooter stopped in front of us, Vic slithered off, breathless with pleasure.
‘Hey toots, we’ve found ourselves one terrific chef,’ he gasped, sweeping back the avalanche of snowy hair. ‘An excellent CV; he knows Marlow and Bray like the back of his hand. And a charming horticulturalist in Ms Dolores Potts here. Wouldn’t she be the loveliest rose in our garden?’
Big Frankie dimpled till he was on the cusp of a simper. Dolores tried to hide a mocking smile behind a puff of smoke. I felt the prick of my increasingly familiar irritation with Vic’s presumption; he’d fixed these interviews without my knowledge and had now made the decisions. I knew he meant no harm, it was just his reflex to put himself centre-stage. But was the position of master of Mount Royal to be a job-share? In the financial sense I guess it already was, but I’d not put up with it in any other. I was the Ashridge, I was the Blaine.
‘Mr d’Orsay and I will discuss both your appointments later and we’ll let you know shortly,’ I said.
‘I’ll be sittin’ on top of the phone,’ gushed Big Frankie in his basso profundo. ‘Poor old phone I’m hearin’ you think.’<
br />
I picked up a small book that had fallen to the gravel when the scooter had braked. The Poems of W. H. Auden.
‘Thanks boss, I’d have died to be losin’ that,’ said Big Frankie. ‘Just look at his face. Isn’t it amazin’?’
‘Like a dodgy prune from Asda,’ I said.
Big Frankie looked hurt. ‘Well I’m thinkin’ it’s the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen,’ he said, squirreling it away inside his red leathers and revving up again. Dolores Potts climbed onto the pillion. Then he smiled sweetly at Vic.
‘One of them anyway.’
As the scooter banked round towards the front gates, the girl stared back at me. I was sure I’d never met her before, but I somehow felt that I had.
‘It’s your decision of course,’ Elspeth murmured. ‘But I’d not be happy about a man of that size over a hot stove. Can you not see the sweat dripping in the batter?’
The taxi was due at any time. Elspeth’s tired old suitcase was waiting just inside the Gilded Hall. But it had become quite nippy again in that indecisive spring way, so Vic took her by the arm and led her inside to a pair of George II armchairs parked at the foot of the staircase. I was left to stand.
‘Now listen honey, I’ve been lying in wait for you,’ he said. ‘I so enjoyed our chat last night, hearing about your fascinating life and career in Scotland. And it set me thinking. Miss Wishart, I’d like to offer you a job.’
He leaned forward and patted her bony knee, which was instantly pulled out of his grasp.
‘Och you’re havering, Mr d’Orsay. Have you taken a dram this early? And what job might that be?’
‘Call it what you like, but essentially the job of matron at Mount Royal. The boys a bit older than you’re used to, the surroundings more opulent, but basically the same work. I’ve been scouring London for somebody to run the domestic side of things. To supervise the cleaning staff, make sure the interior of the house is perfection and the whims of our residents catered for. Somebody with experience and authority. Honey, you could do it standing on your head. It came to me this morning while I was on the john.’
‘But Victor, Miss Wishart is retired now, enjoying a life of leisure,’ I said in as light-hearted a tone as I could muster. Elspeth’s eyes were locked on Vic, so she couldn’t see that mine were imploring him to shut the fuck up.
‘Well she could come out again. Mr Sinatra did it several times.’
‘I’m sure Miss Wishart would never consider leaving her lovely island, would you Miss Wishart?’ I said.
‘Aye, I’m a bit set in my ways now Mr d’Orsay,’ she replied.
‘Nonsense. The work wouldn’t be physically demanding, you’d be living rent-free in this great house and the salary would be substantial. Honey, you’re perfect.’
I decided I’d kill him later. Vic had no idea of the role Elspeth Wishart had played in my life. The woman about whose breasts, if she’d had any to speak of, Ms Prada had asked if I ever thought. Elspeth and I would always be bonded, but she belonged to another time and place. The boy she’d waved off from Glenlyon was lost in the mists. When I’d visited Granny on her deathbed, I’d been eager for her to see who Rory Blaine had become, though that had been for all the wrong reasons. But from Elspeth Wishart, I somehow felt the necessity of hiding him. I sensed instinctively that she might not take to him. He would fall short, be a disappointment and I didn’t want to see that. I certainly didn’t fancy her critical gaze every day, damp and drear as a Lowland November. I already had Ms Prada’s helium tones advising me on my inadequacies, I didn’t need it in stereo. Luckily however, Elspeth Wishart was shaking her head.
‘Mr d’Orsay, I’m not insensible to the compliment you’re paying me,’ she said. ‘But I’m a woman who teaches bairns in Sunday school. I rip the headphones off their wee ears, make them hear the words of the Old Testament and sing the hymns of William Blake. I know the world has sailed on, but Elspeth Wishart has not. I am left clinging to the flotsam of my faith. So with absolutely no offence to you or anyone else of your persuasion, I’m the least likely candidate for a job looking after rich old jessies in Hampstead. Dearie me, no.’
Relief flooded through me like a nip of brandy on a winter’s day in the stand at Twickenham. When the taxi arrived, I put the old suitcase inside. I’d wanted to go with her to Euston, but she’d pooh-poohed that.
‘Cheery-bye, Rory Blaine,’ she said. ‘Nice to see you again.’
I kissed her on both cheeks, something I’d never done before. She looked surprised but kept hold of my hand for a second or two longer than she needed.
‘You’re more than welcome to visit us any time,’ I said.
‘Yes and if you ever change your mind …’ called Vic from behind me.
Thankfully though, her taxi was now creeping round the carriage circle towards the front gates. Bruce Willis was standing by his caravan, preparing the salute he gave to everyone who passed through.
‘Shame,’ grumbled Vic. ‘That woman has balls of steel.’
‘Yeah and if she’d lived here she’d have cut ours off inside a month,’ I said. ‘What on earth possessed you, Victor?’
But instead of turning out of the gates, the taxi continued on round the the circle and back towards the front door. The passenger window buzzed down.
‘A substantial salary, Mr d’Orsay?’
‘£35K a year. Free accommodation, meals and private health care,’ called Vic. ‘And there’s a Presbyterian church just down the road. The minister is a cousin of Ewan McGregor.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
She peered from one of us to the other, then at the house like she was weighing it up. But then the window buzzed up and the taxi moved off again. Elspeth glanced back through the rear window. I waved cheerfully as it slipped through the gates, which began to swing shut behind it. The booze from last night was probably still washing around my liver, but I thought a glass of champagne might be in order.
But as we headed back inside, I heard the mechanical whirring of the gates again. Bruce Willis replayed his salute. The taxi was rolling back round the carriage circle. It seemed to come towards me in slow motion. The window buzzed down.
‘Right then, you’re on,’ said Elspeth.
One of my hands took on a life of its own, floating up to cover my mouth.
‘Welcome aboard honey.’ Vic, the smile at full blast, helped her from the taxi as if she were the Queen Mother. Elspeth fixed him in her gaze.
‘Aye, well I run a tight ship, Mr d’Orsay. Make no mistake about that,’ she said. ‘And you can stop calling me honey. I’m an Elder of the Church of Scotland, not some Las Vegas floozie.’
She eyed me sharply.
‘You’re looking peely-wally Rory Blaine. The excesses of last night no doubt. Bring my case inside. I’ve got something that might settle you.’
Vic offered his arm and the two of them climbed the steps to the front doors. The deed was done. There was no way now that I could, or would, protest. She seemed to be living just the remnants of a life. If she wanted to be here, I’d have to take her in. She’d always done the same for me.
Miss Elspeth Wishart turned round on the threshold of Mount Royal.
‘The suitcase, Rory Blaine.’
SEVEN
I stood, a daft grin glued to my face, as a procession of wee Oriental people filed past for my inspection. They all shook my hand, some even bowed. I felt like Deborah Kerr in the March of The Siamese Children. Faisal made formal introductions, providing superfluous career details.
‘And this is Key-Yong from Shanghai. He is a gastroenterologist, specializing in alcohol-related hepatitis.’
‘Hi Key-Yong,’ I said. ‘I’m working on catching that, so it’s great to meet you.’
Today was Faisal’s thirtieth birthday and these were, apparently, his friends. Everyone seemed to come either from the Whittington Hospital or the soup kitchen where he still spent two evenings a week. At least three quarters were East Asian, South Asi
an or Afro-Caribbean. Few looked old enough to be out without their mummies.
On a cool May evening, we stood in a slightly awkward knot outside the old County Hall; Faisal’s mates, Faisal and me. And, by special invitation, Vic d’Orsay the King Of Croon, Miss Elspeth Wishart, Big Frankie Beckles and Ms Dolores Potts. The last three were now employees of Mount Royal Limited and had each moved into the studio flats around the East Court. There were also two old Ozzie mates of mine, here on holiday, whom I’d asked to make up the numbers as we’d been slightly short.
‘Mr Blaine’s party?’ said a voice. A short dapper middle-aged man thrust himself into our midst. ‘My name is Stephen and I am your host for tonight’s magic trip on the world-famous London Eye. Will you please follow me?
We morphed ourselves into a line and shuffled towards the huge white stilts that held up the wheel. Faisal suddenly squeezed my arm and kissed my cheek. I felt myself flush as usual. Despite my years on the demos, I’d never lost my discomfort about public displays of male-on-male affection, still half-expecting to be spat at, stoned or bundled into a police van. I knew such a thought would never have crossed Faisal’s mind and envied him for it.
‘Thanks a million for fixing this,’ he said.
‘Anything for you,’ I replied.
I almost meant it too, can you believe that? Apart from the blip of a month ago when I’d come home pissed from that bar, we were doing okay. I felt we’d both been making an extra effort to connect. We’d ferreted around in each other and come across a few more things in common. Running was the big one of course. Now we went out on the Heath every other morning or whenever his shifts permitted. Naturally he could out-run me, my compensation being the pleasure of watching that arse a few metres ahead and knowing it belonged to me. But it was quite Mills & Boon too; all soft-focus, wind-blown hair and the early sun sparkling on the ponds. All that shite. Nice though, really nice.
And the sex had been getting better and better. Faisal wasn’t the least embarrassed about his wee fetish. He never even referred to it, but just dragged out an old doctor’s bag with the harnesses, ropes and other paraphernalia and expected me to get on with trussing him up in the way he liked. I’d had a discreet word with Ms Prada who’d suggested it was about the relief of abandoning responsibility, often found among the caring professions. And right, he was a doctor after all; if he wasn’t bothered, why should I be? Though I could’ve done without the weekend in Gibraltar when he’d decided to stay in the hotel room while I went to see the apes. He’d asked to be left tied up. But I’d forgotten to put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, the chambermaid had screamed, security had come running. When they’d pulled the gag off, he’d had trouble convincing them it was just a bit of fun. Such things didn’t happen at the Rock Hotel, the manager had said; the late Sir John Mills had been a regular guest. They’d moved us to a table in a far corner of the dining-room.
