by Spence, Alan
Over dinner, warmed by a dram of malt his father saved for a special occasion, Glover regaled them with edited tales of his years away. He sang Mackenzie’s praises, said Ken had taught him all he knew.
‘I refuse to accept the blame!’ said Mackenzie.
He told them of his business dealings, the fortune he’d managed to make, the rogue Walsh, the indomitable Ito. He made light of the dangers, the attack on the Legation, said it was a time of upheaval and change and he was glad to be a part of it. He completely excised all reference to the floating world, the pleasure quarter, once or twice caught Mackenzie’s eye and saw there a knowing twinkle at the gaps he was leaving in his version of events.
When their talk started to veer towards work, the dealings with the Hall Russell yard, the progress being made, Martha interrupted, said they could discuss business tomorrow and there was something much more important, far more demanding of her brother’s attention.
Chuckling, he let her lead him out to the garden. She had already chosen a spot, dug a little hole to plant the seedling, brought it out in readiness.
‘I thought it was important that you plant it,’ she said, and he kneeled, eased the root into place, replaced the earth round about it, trowelled it flat.
‘There!’ he said, standing up.
She clapped her hands and he was once more amazed at her, this beautiful, poised young woman, his wee sister.
‘This lad of yours is a lucky fellow,’ he said.
‘John,’ she said. ‘You’ll like him.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
She looked at him, seemed to hesitate a moment, then came out with it.
‘Was she bonny, Tom? Your wife, Sono?’
‘Aye,’ he said, simply.
‘And the wee lad, your son?’
‘He barely lived.’
‘It must have been an awful hard time for you.’
‘Aye.’
‘You never said much in the letters.’
‘No.’
‘I had to read between the lines.’
‘Aye.’
‘But you’re fine now?’
‘It’s been two years.’
‘Is that all?’ she asked. ‘It feels longer.’
‘It does.’
She took his arm and they walked to the end of the garden, looked down over Brig o’ Balgownie.
‘How’s young Annie?’ he asked, remembering a summer night, a heron skimming the river.
‘Not quite so young,’ said Martha. ‘A bit like yourself!’
She laughed but seemed momentarily uncomfortable. ‘She’s fine.’
‘I wrote when I first went out there,’ he said. ‘But she never replied.’
‘Och well,’ she said. ‘What’s done is done. Sometimes it’s best just to let things go.’
‘Aye,’ he said.
*
It was as if nothing had changed in all his years away. The same congregation, older, the same minister, greyer, more thrawn, the same grim oppressiveness and hard ardour, the same soberly resonant hymns, remembering the green hill far away, exhorting all people that on earth do dwell to sing to the Lord with cheerful voice. He felt again the mounting panic, the fear that life had caught up with him, returned him here to this dour place, his escape from it mere illusion.
He minded his younger self, casting about him in des peration, resting his eyes on young Annie, a vision of grace. Without thinking, he looked round now, and there she was, he was sure of it, the fair hair longer and a little darker, the bonnet covering part of her face. He couldn’t see her clearly, but he knew her, remembered exactly the way she stood, the shape of her head. He willed her to turn round, look at him as she once had, but she didn’t, stared straight ahead, singing the hymns of sober praise.
He left ahead of Martha, shook hands with the minister at the door.
‘Aye, Mister Glover,’ the minister said. ‘We’d heard you were back.’ And he made it sound like a life sentence. You shall be taken from this place.
He waited in the kirkyard, saw Annie come out, stepped forward and doffed his cap to her. Older, her face thinner, but even more beautiful than he remembered, the beauty tempered by experience, a half-sad knowingness in the eyes.
‘Annie.’
‘Tom.’
She registered no surprise; word would have spread that he was back; she would be expecting to see him. But the recognition, the remembrance of him, came from deep. She knew him, as he knew her. He took her hand, held it. For a moment she seemed to respond with the tiniest pressure of her own, then she tensed, withdrew and turned away.
For the first time he noticed a man standing behind her, a little way off; Glover’s own age or a year or two older, already corpulent, hair starting to thin.
Annie held out her hand, drew the man in, introduced him.
‘You know my husband, Andrew.’
Glover looked, saw the much younger man behind the flabbiness, the premature settling into middle age.
Andy Robertson, his fellow clerk from that old life, drinking companion from all those years ago, quoter of Burns, feared of adventure, wanting the quiet life.
‘Andy!’
They shook hands, Robertson’s grip limp, unwilling.
‘Good to see you, Tom.’ The mouth smiled but the eyes flickered, said the opposite of the words.
Glover laughed at the memory of something. ‘D’ye still go diving off the Brig o’ Balgownie?’
Robertson’s smile was weak, the lips tight.
‘Thon was a night!’ said Glover. ‘Gettin fou an unco happy!’
‘Aye,’ said Robertson, uncomfortable, not wanting reminded.
Out the corner of his eye, Glover caught a movement, a wee boy darting from behind a gravestone, rushing over, hiding himself among Annie’s skirts.
She laughed, brought him forward. ‘This is our son, Jamie.’
Fair hair, blue eyes. The boy darted a shy glance up at him, hid his face, peeked out.
Glover crouched down. ‘Pleased to meet you, Jamie.’
‘This is Mister Thomas Glover,’ said Annie.
‘Tom,’ he said, and he hid his own face, keeked out between his fingers, made Jamie laugh.
‘Come on,’ said Robertson, taking the boy’s hand. ‘It’s time we were going.’
He looked at Annie, saw something in her eyes, unspoken, fleeting, a momentary yearning, regret.
‘It really is good to see you, Tom,’ she said, then the door was closed, her face set.
‘It was indeed,’ said Robertson. ‘I hope your visit home is a pleasant one.’
Then they were heading out the gate, only the boy looking back, waving at him; Martha came out of the church, came up behind him, took him by the arm, said nothing.
*
He walked to the end of the garden, late afternoon, still a faint trace of warmth in the air, but tempered by that chill that was always there at the back of it, a sharpness in the breeze, turning to downright cold in the shadows. He smiled at the seedling Martha had planted; it was good to think of generations to come sitting under its branches, in its shade, Martha’s children, maybe even grandchildren.
He looked down at Brig o’ Balgownie. On a whim, a fancy, he decided to go down and take a look.
Like everything else it was smaller than he remembered. It sat there, quite the thing, in a wee stone dream of itself. But the drop to the river was still high enough, the parapet narrow and uneven. He thought of Robertson keeling over, laughed at the daft foolhardiness of it. How easily they might have cracked their skulls, drowned. But they hadn’t. They had lived their lives, gone down different roads.
Annie.
He no sooner thought of her than he turned and she was there. They were here and this was happening, again; recurrence, a scene in a play, a dream in a dream. She too was amazed, but not completely surprised, had half expected it; he could see it in the way she looked, one hand reaching up to her throat.
Without thinking,
he stepped forward, held her, kissed her hard on the mouth, felt her give, respond; then she disengaged, stepped back, coming to her senses as the boy ran towards her from the other side of the bridge.
‘Jamie!’ she cried out, too loud, flustered and fussing over him. ‘You remember Mister Glover.’
‘Tom!’ the boy shouted, bold, then he hid behind her, shy again, peeked out.
‘Hello again, Jamie!’ said Glover.
‘He’s quite taken with you, Tom.’
‘As I am with him.’
He took a gold coin from his pocket, flipped it spinning in the air, caught it, slapped it face down on the back of his hand. Keeping it covered, he bent down to Jamie. ‘Heads or tails?’
The boy looked at his mother, who shrugged. He had to choose.
‘Heads!’ he said. ‘No, tails!’
‘Sure?’ said Glover.
The boy nodded, changed his mind again. ‘Heads!’
Glover made a great show of raising his hand, squinting underneath at the coin, not letting the boy see.
‘Heads it is!’ he said, and gave the coin to the boy, who laughed, pocketed it.
And suddenly there was something in the boy’s eyes that made him think the unthinkable.
‘He’s a fine boy,’ he said.
‘He’s a rascal,’ she said.
‘Not like his father then?’
‘Or too like him.’
She realised what she had said, bit her lip.
‘How old would he be then?’
‘Old enough.’
‘I’m guessing he’d be about six.’
‘You know he is.’ She looked at him, her eyes fiercely calm. ‘Don’t do this, Tom.’
The silence hung between them, the river flowing beneath the bridge, the cry of an oystercatcher, piercing.
‘Andy always did carry a torch for you,’ he said, breaking it at last.
‘You’ve made a life for yourself, Tom. Now, leave us to get on with ours.’
She took Jamie by the hand, led him over the bridge. The boy looked back once, startled, called out a shrill goodbye.
He walked into town after that, two miles, not noticing, not aware of his surroundings. The certainty burned in him. He had a son. All these years he hadn’t known. Now there was nothing he could do, without causing damage, destruction.
He walked on, found himself before he knew it down by the docks, in the dark backstreets, searching for comfort, oblivion.
*
The carriageway of the slipdock was over 200 yards long. Constructing it was a major feat of engineering; transporting it to Japan would be a feat verging on the miraculous. Glover had explained to Russell, the yard owner, that the site for the dock, at Kosuge, was already being excavated. The Satsuma clan which owned the land had already invested $10,000. They were building more than a dock, they were constructing a new, industrial Japan. They had to succeed.
Russell’s solution was both simple and complex. They would build the dock in the yard, then dismantle it, transport it in sections to be reassembled on site, in Nagasaki.
‘It’s mad!’ said Glover. ‘It’s magnificent!’
Russell was showing him round the yard, at Footdee. The building of the dock was well under way, and work had begun on a ship to transport the separate sections out to Nagasaki. The ship was a five-masted clipper to be named the Helen Black, its hold specially reinforced to take the sections of dock and its accompanying machinery, transport it halfway round the world. The whole project was a massive undertaking, provided work for squads of skilled tradesmen, gangs of navvies and stevedores. The air rang with the constant noise of construction, from first light till dusk.
Russell himself had pioneered the yard’s production of boilers and steam engines. Now it was paying off. And Glover was holding out the prospect of even more work. The Choshu wanted a warship, this was the place to build it.
‘They’re serious,’ said Glover. ‘They have the money and they’ve already paid me a commission to get the job done. Until now they’ve made do with worn-out hulks they’ve bought from the Americans and the Dutch, sometimes reconditioned merchant ships with a few light cannon. They’ve had a few disasters, trying to use cannon that were too big and wrecked the ships with their recoil!’
Russell laughed. His eyes twinkled at the implications, but his enthusiasm was tempered by genuine concern.
‘These friends of yours, Tom – the Choshu is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Are they not the rebels you were talking about?’
‘They are that. They’re changing the face of Japan, for good.’
‘Be that as it may, I have no wish to incur the wrath of the Admiralty for breaking British neutrality, effectively arming one side in another country’s civil war.’
‘But you’d be arming the right side!’ said Glover. ‘Mark my words, the so-called rebels will be running the country before long. Then they’ll be building a navy, commissioning an entire fleet.’
Russell took in the enormity of the idea. ‘I’m inclined to trust your judgement,’ he said.
‘I have the specifications,’ said Glover. ‘They’ve even named the ship, in anticipation. Ho Sho Maru. And they’re quite clear about what they want. An iron-plated corvette, three-masted, operable by sail or steam; four guns on deck – two 110-pounders and two 60-pounders.’
Russell’s excitement showed in his eyes. ‘It’s the way we’ve been going with the yard,’ he said, ‘from wood and canvas to iron and steam.’
‘It’s the way forward,’ said Glover. ‘Who better to build this ship, and all the rest to follow?’
‘I think we can do business,’ said Russell, and they shook hands on it, the grip Masonic, reassuring.
*
The boy Nagasawa had struggled. The language had made things difficult, not just English but peppered with the local speak, the doric, that had its own strange music, hard for him to pick up. They said fan for when. Fit like? was How are you? He worked at it, listened. Then there was the place itself and its weather, the grey rain, the damp haar, the cutting north-east winds off the sea. He wore warm clothes, clenched against the cold, survived a winter. He was samurai. He was strong. He would thole it. That was the word they used. Thole. Endure.
The hardest thing was being so far, so very far from home, from his family. He dreamed sometimes of Kagoshima, woke thinking himself back there and everything as it was, expected to look out his window at Mount Sakurajima with its plume of white smoke. He could almost smell it, the faint hint of ash in the warm air. There were times too when he dreamed of the bombardment, saw buildings flattened, whole neighbourhoods razed. Then the smell was destruction, cordite and burning and churned earth.
At school they made allowances for his English. The dominie said once, ‘You speak as well as some of these gormless loons.’ He hadn’t understood, till someone explained.
He had always been good at mathematics, and that hadn’t changed. The language of that was universal. He excelled, and some of the gormless loons hated him for it. They were the ones who baited him, yelled insults. He ignored them. He tholed it. Then one day it went further.
Glover saw it from the upstairs window at Braehead, on the side looking over the street. He’d been poring over some plans for the slipdock, heard a commotion, looked out.
Nagasawa was still some way off, heading up the brae on his way home. Behind him four boys were laughing at him, shouting. Then one of them picked up a stone, threw it, and it hit Nagasawa on the back.
Glover was about to rush out, was surprised to see Nagasawa run into the house. He hadn’t taken him for a coward, but perhaps the odds were just too great; with his mathematical bent, he would have worked it out, settled for discretion.
He heard the front door open, bang shut, Nagasawa’s footsteps on the stairs, heard him take something from his room, clatter downstairs again. The boys who had taunted him were at the gate, still laughing, enjoying their triumph. Glover looked
in disbelief as Nagasawa strode towards them, carrying his samurai sword, unsheathed.
The boys must have seen it at the same moment and they froze, all bravado and bluster gone, a gang of scared wee boys. Nagasawa raised the sword above his head, charged at them, roaring out a battle-cry.
‘Kaaaa!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Glover out loud, and he was down the stairs and out the door.
At the gate he called out to the boy. ‘Nagasawa-san!’
He had chased his tormentors fifty yards down the street, terror making them spring-heeled. At Glover’s call he stopped, turned back.
Glover was fierce with him, as he had to be, made him hand over the sword, ordered him inside.
‘This won’t do,’ he said.
The boy stood rigid, chastened. ‘They insulted me. Is a matter of honour.’
‘I know fine. It’s bushido, the samurai code.’
The boy snapped to attention. ‘Hai, so desu.’
‘But we’re not in Nagasaki. We’re in Bridge of Don!’
‘I am sorry if I dishonour you.’
‘No!’ he said. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that we do things differently here. And beheading someone for chucking a wee stone is seen as a mite excessive.’
‘I understand.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m taking this back, in the meantime, just for safekeeping. Now, if you give me the sheath, we’ll put it away.’
The boy fetched the scabbard, handed it over. Glover held the sword out towards him, let him nick the tip of his thumb, just a scratch, on the blade, enough to draw blood, satisfy honour. Then he slid the blade home in its sheath.
The boy turned to go, looked so crestfallen that Glover called him back.
‘I gave you this as a gift,’ he said, ‘and in time I’ll return it to you. But for now I want you to have something else as a sign of respect and friendship.’
He laid down the sword, took from his top drawer a heavy pocket watch on a chain.
The boy took it, bowed in gratitude. His eyes shone.
*
