Boswell's Bus Pass

by Campbell, Stuart

  Outside the daylight was very welcome. Boswell, while feigning otherwise would have loved every artifact, every ghoulish, pinned specimen. Johnson would have demanded his money back within seconds of crossing the threshold, and would have exorcised his newly provoked demons by turning round three times in the street and reciting The Lord’s Prayer.

  More than anything he wanted to leave Scotland. On Thursday November 18th he wrote to Mrs Thrale, ‘I long to be at home, and have taken a place in the coach for Monday; I hope, therefore, to be in London on Friday, the 26th, in the evening. Please to let Mrs Williams know.’

  There were still long days to be got through and endless fawning visitors to tolerate, or not. The exception was the elderly bookseller, Old Mr Drummond whom he had met in the past. Drummond’s name features often in the list of Johnson’s Edinburgh visitors. His own father had been a seller and binder of books in Lichfield. It was an occupation that was never far from Johnson’s thoughts although his own brief apprenticeship in the book trade was a notable failure. Apart from anything he owed his father a debt and in some small way the attention he bestowed on to Drummond allowed him to pay a first instalment.

  I too enjoyed the friendship of an Edinburgh bookseller and binder and so arranged to meet Dougie Telfer in a pub that evening. A single parent of two adolescent boys, Dougie combines his day job at Letts with running his own book business in the evenings and at weekends. Books are his life and his love; he makes them, binds them, repairs them, sells them and gives them away in the box outside his shop. His basement is a chaotic, inspired place where piles of leather tumble into bales of cloth; where gold dust forms a patina on spineless cowardly tomes and fat books are tortured flat in clamps and vices even Boswell could not have thought of.

  We talked of dyes and tints and tanning. Dougie reminded me that Adam Smith fell into a tanning pit when earnestly discussing The Wealth of Nations with Charles Templeton; a dangerous profession this bookbinding.

  Dougie’s essential goodness extended to a benevolent view of all the customers he had known over the years – with one notable exception which would have made Johnson snort with recognition. Some years back Dougie had rebound a fading copy of Ossian for a prominent civil servant who returned in a profoundly drunken state to collect his book. Declaring himself dissatisfied with the quality of the repair he hurled the book in Dougie’s face and ran out of the shop. Dougie gave chase and felled the man by skimming the disputed book through the air with the accuracy of a martial arts trained assassin.

  Boswell, feeling compelled to make one last effort to entertain the ever gloomier Johnson, took a day off work and travelled with him to New Hailes, six or seven miles from Edinburgh town centre, to meet his first substitute father figure, Sir David Dalrymple. Although they had never met Johnson had admired Dalrymple from a distance and on one occasion drank a toast to him in The Turk’s Head coffee house in the Strand, ‘A man of worth, a scholar and a wit.’

  Musselburgh – Aberlady – Ballencrieff

  I boarded the 44 to meet up with David who had again mastered the contradictory, serendipitous vagaries of the Lothian Bus timetable. On the front of the upper deck the CCTV camera mounted in a tasteful tartan-clad box took a suspicious interest in all of the passengers. With an admirable sense of fairness it showed sequential shots of every seat and corner that might otherwise have hidden crimes against humanity, minor acts of vandalism and many moral transgressions in between. With very careful planning it would just be possible to happy-slap a pensioner at the back a nanosecond before being caught on camera and return to your seat undetected. This is how The Great Escape was conceived, difficult though to get a wartime motorbike upstairs. For most people the four seconds of fame on a bus CCTV screen is the best they can hope for.

  Through the window of the number 30 Craigmillar Castle floated above the regenerated scheme of the same name as if it had broken free from a more romantic planet and couldn’t decide where to land. The journey past the line of reinforced shop fronts should be obligatory for any recession deniers. An Evening News billboard informed us that PORTABLE URINALS were being deployed TO BRING RELIEF TO DRINKERS.

  Although New Hailes was closed for the season the National Trust for Scotland had obligingly agreed to arrange access for David and me. The dilapidated exterior hinted at mysteries not enjoyed since early black and white children’s television. The balustrade had been repaired with inexpertly applied Polyfilla.

  One of the Trust’s learning officers, Mark Mclean, led us into the shuttered hibernating building. The obligatory disposable overshoes suggested that a body had been found in the parlour, but Taggart was on his way. Every item of furniture, every small domestic artifact was protected by a custom-made dust sheet or handkerchief as appropriate. The removal firm had gone into administration some 237 years previously and they had been unable to bring the tea-chests. The wedding’s been cancelled. Get over it, old lady.

  If, at a given signal, the sheets were to have been peeled back the 18th century would have coughed and spluttered into the room. Thousands upon thousands of leather volumes would have rematerialized in the stunning library, the empty shelves of which climbed towards a distant and invisible ceiling. Somewhere a virginal was playing. Lord Hailes raised himself from the armchair, stretched and hastened to welcome his guests. For some unaccountable reason he had liked Boswell ever since the 19 year old begged him to intercede with old Auchinleck and persuade him that his son would make the most of whatever educational opportunities arose in the courts of Utrecht.

  Boswell’s descent into depression was unstoppable, ‘At Lord Hailes’, we spent a most agreeable day, but again I must lament that I was so indolent as to let almost all that passed evaporate into oblivion.’

  Johnson spent two of his remaining nights in Scotland at Lord Elibank’s home in Ballencrief. Elibank, an arch-Jacobite, had been partly instrumental in persuading Johnson to venture North and the two men held each other in high regard. He was a minor writer and patron to several poets of whom he spoke on one occasion with a turn of phrase that could have fallen from the mouth of almost any football manager, ‘I saw these lads had talents and they were much with me.’ He was also a former member of the Coconut Tree Club which may or may not have been the first establishment to introduce lap dancers to East Lothian.

  The 128 from Musselburgh to Aberlady was memorable for letting on board the oldest woman either David or myself had ever seen. Not only was she so bowed as to seem circular but her nose almost met her chin like a child’s drawing of a friendly moon. She could probably still remember the night when Boswell propositioned her as she emptied the ashtrays at Ballencrieff and the look of shock on his face as she tipped their contents into his wig. Despite her translucent frailty and great age she was living independently and had just popped out to get her messages.

  For much of the route the bus ran parallel to the main east coast rail track. When the High Speed train appeared in the driver’s rear mirror his accelerator hit the floor … one of these days, one of these days …

  A much read Metro retrieved from the floor contained a heart wrenching story under the headline BIG ISSUE CONMAN SOLD MY DOG AT TESCOS FOR £20. The woman had tied her lurcher-saluki outside the store; the man, bored with trying to flog unwanted magazines had simply used his initiative. Next time he will try his hand at shopping trolleys, bags of coal and car-parking spaces.

  The cold walk from Aberlady to Ballencrieff felt interminable and was only relieved by David straddling a fence to inspect a field of sprouts for reasons I couldn’t be bothered asking him about.

  We were overtaken by a fire engine with an ice cream van in hot (?) pursuit. The fire engine was approximately 140 years late as Ballencrieff castle suffered a serious fire in 1870 when the house keeper attempted to clear the accumulated soot from the chimney by setting it alight; a primitive method of chimney sweeping not uncommon in that part of the country, which had literally, back fired. She had little alternative
as most of the sweeps had succumbed to testicular cancer. There is something odd about the number of homes visited by Johnson which subsequently caught fire. Perhaps the trustee of Raasay House had a point after all with her theory of posthumous arson, a scorched earth policy from beyond the grave.

  Ballencrieff House is now restored as the centre piece in an upmarket pig farm. As we approached there was no sign of either human or porcine life; just a herd of superior Jacob sheep which nibbled at the manicured field in front of the building. Such a breed can only have evolved after Lucifer stumbled on an ordinary sheep after a night out in Longniddry. I swung on the bellpull which rang down the centuries. A few ghosts stretched but none of them could be bothered to come to the door.

  As the return bus to Musselburgh negotiated the last roundabout we saw that a horse race was underway on the track which runs alongside the road into the town. In an instant the bus morphed into a betting shop, the man at the back who had been shouting the odds for much of the journey now did it for real, the ticket machine dispensed betting slips, the driver steered with his knees as he tic-tacked furiously into his mirror. The smaller passengers threw off their bobble hats and replaced them with jockey caps of many hues. Nostrils flared and throats whinnied. The whole bus roared and the grandstand stood as the last furlong came into sight.

  STAGE TWELVE

  LEAVING SCOTLAND

  Meeting Up with an Old Friend – Helpful Advice for Innocent Travellers – A lecture on Masonic Mysteries – Another Distressing Accident caused by Mud – The Annoyance of an Imaginary Sheep – A Busy Coaching Inn and a Sad Farewell

  Dalkeith – Roslin – Cranston – Blackshiels

  It was Saturday 20th November 1773. It was Friday 26th November 2010. It was time, 100 days after he arrived in Scotland for Johnson to go back to London. Rather than just putting the old boy on the coach with a travelling rug and a few good books Boswell was determined to squeeze the last dregs of vicarious pleasure from his tour and arranged for them both to visit Roslin, Hawthornden, Cranston and Borthwick Castle on the road South before they parted.

  The winter sun shone, my spirits soared. It was partly the prospect of travelling again, partly having Rory as my companion for the first time since the initial foray into Scotland from Berwick. Although limping badly and dependent on his newly-acquired collapsible walking stick he was up for it.

  Edinburgh bus station was suffused with an incongruous serenity. Queues moved with a synchronised calm; a traveller nodded courteously as he was swatted sideways by a backpack containing at least a donkey, and possibly other farmyard beasts. Vegans smiled indulgently at the woman flaunting her Hollywood fur coat made from the sewn-together skins of numerous small and threatened species. As a single whistle blew the bus drivers emerged sheepishly from their trenches, shook the caked mud from their boots, wished each other a merry Christmas and started a game of football in the no man’s land between stands 7 and 8.

  The resumption of hostilities was announced by a girl in her mid-twenties bellowing into her mobile, ‘Why didn’t I get paid? That’s a good question!’

  Nanny had left her mark on the 51 to Dalkeith. HANDS UP IF YOU KNOW HOW TO CATCH A BUS – JUST HOLD OUT YOUR HAND TO LET THE DRIVER KNOW YOU WANT THE BUS TO STOP … DON’T GET LEFT BEHIND! At last, an explanation of why all those buses had, for decades, swept past lengthy queues and returned, ahead of schedule and completely empty to the depot. The Samaritans too had noticed a correlation between this new poster campaign and a marked fall in the number of bus drivers phoning in, just wanting someone to talk to someone, anyone, about their feelings of rejection and loneliness.

  From the unaccustomed vantage point of the sideways disabled seats it was easier to observe the early fruits of genetic cloning in Midlothian. All of the passengers were identical, all were women, seventy plus, all with exactly the same rigid white permed hair. A frozen sea, all waves equidistant from each other, peaks and troughs aligned with the moon. Had any one of these women been strapped to a drilling appliance they would have cut curls off granite. Despite the pleasing symmetry of shape and colour there was a hint of menace about this formidable army of veterans equipped with standard issue beige handbags and bus passes that enabled them to travel the land by stealth and wreak a type of havoc only surpassed by the locust and the mercenary. Four years after his Highland jaunt Dr Johnson wrote, ‘If I had no duties, and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman.’ He never travelled on the Number 2.

  We passed through Bonnyrigg and the Orchard Centre in Lothian Road. I was tempted to break the journey and visit the café staffed by members of the community many of whom were on the long journey back from mental illness. Johnson could have peeled off his stinking clothes and joined the aromatherapy class. Boswell could have exorcised some of his demons by making his own mosaic, each stone representing a betrayal. Both of them would have benefited from the laughter that flowed through the building. A therapy preferable to the self-flagellation that Johnson practised to preserve his sanity, or the head shaving rituals in which Boswell indulged.

  The 141 to Roslin carried an open invitation to attend a FIRST BUS USER FORUM which, we were assured, would raise awareness of all the things passengers could do ‘to ensure they stay safe when travelling on our buses and address any other queries.’ Rory who had never really understood bus safety, took note of the time and place. He was still perplexed by the pelvis injury sustained when pole-dancing in the bus doorway; likewise the fire-eating episode on the replacement single decker and the costs incurred, not to mention the man who died during the let’s see-who-can-hold-their-breath-the-longest competition on the night bus. He needed answers.

  We both needed answers to explain why the doubtless good citizens of Loanhead had erected a statue to a dubious-looking character who was clearly trying to entice a small girl from her horse.

  Until Rory lifted the shades from my eyes I had not known that Midlothian is no more than a patchwork of bowling clubs built on clannish adherence to now closed pits. In the same sentence Rory forged a link between the circumstances of Edward Heath’s resignation and an anonymous bowling club manager who was promised a new car in his garage if he patronised a different brewer.

  It was Boswell, ever the overeager tour guide, who suggested that they visit Roslin on the journey South. ‘We surveyed Rosslyn Castle, the romantic scene around it, and the beautiful Gothic chapel, and dined and drank tea at the inn; after which we proceeded to Hawthornden and viewed the caves.’ Johnson makes no mention of the detour, nor does he engage with passing professors on the merits of the Da Vinci Code.

  The overflow car park was full. The pilgrims clutched large blow ups of the last supper and cardboard cutouts of the chalice. They wore Judas Escariot Sucks and Dan’s the Man lapel badges. Film crews battered each other with clappers and empty reel cans. Lines of lawyers and litigants wielded quill pens and precedents by the score. We glanced at the cult followers of the Knights that go Neep, the stalls selling plaster casts of twisted pillars and the relatives of the murdered apprentice boy demanding justice.

  Inside the tiny chapel the guide feigned enthusiasm as she repeated the same phrases and made the same jokes. She intoned the litany of religious artifacts rumoured to be hidden in the vaults; the mummified head of Jesus, the Holy Grail, random rivets rescued from the Ark of the Covenant, splinters from the Cross and at least four of the Dead Sea scrolls. It must be more of an underground car park than a vault with shelf upon shelf of neatly-labelled relics all catalogued in strict adherence of the principles of the Dewey system.

  The ancient archivist in white gloves gently shook the vial containing the blood of St Vitus to ensure it had not vitrified. He seemed to have mislaid Lucifer’s tooth and the desiccated corsets of the Mother Superior from the Convent of Fetid Thoughts were not standing up to the passage of time. Ditto the over contemplated fluff from the navel of the Buddha. He didn’t have his troubles to see
k. Word from head office had filtered down reminding him that the Jedi knights were now a religion recognized for the purposes of the national census. People just decide these things without thinking them through.

  The chapel was pleasant enough.

  Boswell had been eager to see Dr Johnson standing in the same house where his namesake Ben once held forth. They scurried from Roslin via the castle to Hawthornden, now a writer’s retreat. I had previously phoned the centre to see if they would let us visit. After dropping the phone three times the caretaker croaked out the information that new boilers were being fitted and the place was in chaos. I was keen to visit nonetheless and left Rory to rest in the freezing garden attached to the Rosslin Inn. His knees were hurting and he needed to sit.

  In the predictable absence of a bus linking Roslin to Hawthornden I decided to walk the two miles or so along the river. This would let me see Wallace’s Cave that Boswell also mentions. This was a great mistake. As the riverside path was closed I started to fight my way through the wet undergrowth that clung to the steep sides of the glen. Within minutes I had slipped and was travelling at a fairly constant speed towards the drop into the water. Struck by the total absurdity of being the first person to be fatally injured when following in the footsteps I clutched at every passing straw and tendril until the momentum of my decline was halted. ‘Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon’ played in my head except there was no horizon. As a child I watched older boys dropping into the mud off Southsea pier for money.

  FOOLISH PENSIONER RESCUED FROM GLEN.

  ‘The country ranger who found the man said he had been alerted by the sound of sobbing coming from the undergrowth. “I found the old boy curled up like a baby, sucking his thumb. He shouted something like, “Bozzy is to blame for this.’’ The man who cannot be named for legal reasons in currently undergoing psychiatric assessment at St John’s Hospital.’