Boswell's Bus Pass
Page 26
I climbed back up to the road and startled a man who had been staring up at the trees while juggling a calibrated wheel and a clipboard. He had no idea where the road led and proved to be worse than useless. It was strange to think that someone was paying him good money to count trees.
A man with a dog directed me to a distant bungalow which he thought was built above the cave. I succeeded in setting off various alarms sensitive to unauthorized footfalls before climbing the fence. The owners had thought of this too and had carefully disguised a mud-filled elephant trap with foliage.
Eventually I saw a gaggle of people with several prams in the distance. I caught up with them and asked for directions. One of the parents stepped away from the multi-layered pram and pointed towards the horizon. The moment he turned away the pram toppled over hurling a small infant onto the road in a mess of snot, tears and howling. Feeling a kinship with Herod I thanked him and tried for one last time. The woman on whose door I knocked reacted as if Beelzebub was trying to sell her clothes pegs before pointing me down her garden path towards the cave.
It was a nondescript hole in a rock, a manmade construct, utterly pointless.
Having suffered sufficient disappointments and aware of the infrequency of buses from Roslin I decided to forego the dubious pleasure of trespassing into the grounds of Hawthornden. At least I was sparing myself any unwanted encounter with Ian Rankin foraging for bodies and clichés. It would have been good, though, to meet Alasdair Gray wandering in his pyjamas squeaking in delight at a new thought.
Rory in the pub garden
Now
Nearly frozen to death.
As we waited at the stop for a bus back into Dalkeith a long convoy of double deckers swept past en route to IKEA. Dreams of Trondheim bedside tables, Figgjo mirrors, Kajsa Trad quilt covers and two pillowcases, not to mention the Malmo black and brown bed frame were about to be consummated, and all those lives would be made better and all those marriages saved.
Possibly because his brain had been addled by Roslyn Chapel nonsense Rory had an epiphany in the bus shelter. He fell to his knees, or would have done had they not caused him such pain, and beyond speech pointed with a sense of wonder in his eyes at a pattern on the stone wall adjacent to the shelter. No wonder his gob was smacked. A face, eyes, nose and mouth with a hint of a sardonic smile were clearly visible. It was a message, a sign that we were the chosen ones.
Boswell and Johnson were due to stay that evening with Sir John Dalrymple at Cranston. They arrived late and their host was extremely grumpy especially as he had allegedly slaughtered a seven year old sheep for their evening meal, and now it was ruined. This sheep was the cause of much private mockery from the guests. Perhaps Johnson’s spirits were lifting now that the end of the journey was in sight. Boswell suggested that the sheep, irrespective of how many years it had lived, was a figment of Dalrymple’s imagination. An imaginary friend is one thing, an imaginary sheep something else altogether. The sheep fantasist wreaked his revenge on his smirking guests by ensuring that their bedrooms were utterly frozen. Boswell reflects on their less than pleasant evening, ‘Our conversation was not brilliant. We supped, and went to bed in ancient rooms which would have better suited the climate of Italy in summer than that of Scotland in the month of November.’
Things were little better in the morning as the sheep was again the main topic of discussion over the breakfast table. Presumably in an effort to stop Johnson from thumping Dalrymple Boswell suggested they visit Borthwick Castle.
This then was our next port of call. The posters on the 141 reminded us that ACCIDENTS HAPPEN WHEN GETTING ON AND OFF THE BUS. Locals of a nervous disposition no longer travel on First Buses, their resolve long since eroded by endless fear laden warnings. Each journey becomes a risk-taking gambit, a lottery ticket to disaster or at least minor injury. The bus company has established clinics for passengers traumatised by recurrent thoughts of what might happen to them if they ever again travel by bus.
A shy young girl tried to protect her space by placing her bag on the seat next to her. It didn’t work. An elderly man, his face pocked and picked by cigarettes and an unrelentingly hard life, coughed his way into the seat. She hastily retrieved her bag before it was crushed by a weight too horrible for her to contemplate, and stared out of the window.
In an unguarded moment a small woman positions herself between two poles without touching either and, balancing carefully, enjoys the sensation of rocking from one to the other.
As Borthwick Castle is a fair walk from Middleton Rory continued on the x95 into Stow where he was confident of finding a warm pub while I set off along the track. My breath hung in the air of the cold dusk. Black cattle looked up and then returned to the cud; the birds and bats darted while they could.
Although the castle was officially closed I was welcomed into the main hall and plied with coffee in front of a marrow-warming log fire. The décor was gothic chic. For my entertainment the embers spat sparks and tiny insects of flame onto the hearth. The table was strewn with copies of Scottish Weddings many of which were staged at Borthwick. I read a sample bridesmaid’s speech, ‘Well she’s done it. Nicola has finally found a man who deserves her …’ and an obscure poem about bridal favours.
Boswell, increasingly losing momentum and motivation to finish his journal goes through the motions, ‘We went and saw the old castle of Borthwick. I recollect no conversation worth preserving, except one saying of Dr Johnson, which will be a valuable text for many decent old dowagers, and other good company in various circles to descant upon. He said, ‘I am sorry I have not learnt to play at cards. It is very useful in life; it generates kindness and consolidates society.’ In which of the three drawing rooms did Johnson hover over the simpering biddies, sneaking a glance at the aces up their sleeves?
David Sinclair, a young retainer, provided me with the most enthusiastic tour yet. While he spoke a red hot canon ball lodged itself into the masonry and the siege bound cattle nudged each other closer to the warmth of the fire in the dungeon hearth. With a wave of his hand a whole tree trunk forced its way into the main hall and split the stones, as sack-clad peasants looted every splinter of original wood to house their families.
Borthwick Castle must have been much colder when Johnson visited. Boswell tells us, ‘My friend and I thought we should be warmer and more comfortable at the inn at Blackshiels, two miles farther on. We therefore went thither in the evening, and he was very entertaining.’ It was his last night in Scotland.
*
The following morning Rory and I retraced our steps and eventually found Blackshiels hamlet. The visiting district nurse had no idea where the original coaching inn had been but the postman thought he knew. Had this continued we would have completed a whole hand of Happy Families. It is now a farm but the original courtyard is still visible. The farmer who owns the place had never heard of Boswell or Johnson.
Boswell’s account ends as if he just wants to get the thing finished. ‘We breakfasted together next morning, and then the coach came and took him up. He had as one of his companions in it as far as Newcastle, the worthy and ingenious Dr Hope, botanical professor at Edinburgh.’ One more sentence about how Johnson and Hope enjoyed each other’s company and that was that.
We managed not to be noticed as we merged into the bustle and chaos of the yard. The new horses bucked and shot gouts of breath into the early morning air as they were harnessed to the coach. The ostler patted his favourite, a large piebald creature and surreptitiously fed it something which the horse snorted up from his hand. A small urchin sidled up to Rory and put his hand out for money. Rory gave him half a sovereign and shooed him away. The coachman tugged irritably at the spring above the rear wheel and gestured at the inn keeper who joined him in tugging at the side of the coach which shook a little.
Johnson stared briefly from the window to see what was going on. A woman holding up her skirts to stop them trailing in the mud ran up to the coach. She was late and flustered.
Her maid arrived moments later with a large brown bag which was hoisted onto the luggage rack. Boswell was there, dressed in a large greatcoat which had fallen open to reveal a green flounced shirt. He seemed agitated and took snuff continuously all the while flicking his nose with a large white handkerchief. He shouted at Joseph who was still holding Johnson’s day bag. Joseph muttered something and scowled. Among the crowd of well-wishers and hangers on I saw David, Roy and John; I would speak to them later. The driver, a large man, was the last to arrive. He moved slowly towards the coach as if he couldn’t really be bothered and flicked his whip in the direction of a small dog. Without a glance at the passengers inside he swung himself onto his seat, tugged on the reins and swept out of the yard. I caught a last glance of Johnson’s face and saw the merest hint of anxiety; it could have been loss.
*
Dr Johnson arrived back in London to discover that Lucy, his god child, had died four days previously. He resumed his complex relationship with Hester Thrale, travelled to Wales and France, declined the challenge of a duel with James Macpherson over the Ossian forgery, toyed with owning a brewery, published A Journey to the Western Isles in 1777 to very mixed reviews, felt increasingly haunted by Boswell, increased his intake of opium to offset his growing melancholy, and died on December 13th 1784. The surgeons at Hunter’s school of Anatomy declared on cutting him open that his heart was ‘exceedingly strong and large.’
After Johnson returned to London James Boswell sank into a deep despair and fought frequently with Margaret who was again exasperated by his womanising, drinking and gambling; he threw a lighted candlestick at her on one occasion and a chair on another. When his father died he dabbled with Auchinleck politics before being called to the English bar in 1775. Despite Margaret’s pleas they only ever returned once to Scotland. In London he dogged Johnson’s every step and published the hugely successful The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson LLD in 1785. Six years later he published his masterpiece, The Life of Samuel Johnson. This success could not dissipate his addiction to drink, vice and despair. In The Tyranny of Treatment McEnroe and Simon describe the days leading to his death, aged 54 in 1795. ‘He collapsed at a meeting of the literary club, and had to be carried home. His symptoms included fever, trembling, violent headache, and vomiting. A doctor reported that a swelling in his bladder had ‘mortified’. A month later he died: his kidneys had failed. Ober’s tentative diagnosis is that he died of acute and chronic urinary tract infection, secondary to post-gonorrheal stricture. He had no doubt that Boswell’s premature death resulted from complications arising from his many episodes of gonorrhea, exacerbated by excessive alcohol intake over many years.’
Margaret remained at Boswell’s side despite the huge challenges in the marriage. She sent a ‘marmalade of oranges of her own making’ to Dr Johnson by way of a peace offering. She duly gave birth to Effie, Sandy, David, Jamie and Betsy. She tried to understand what drove her husband to other women and on one occasion accompanied him on one of his nightly trawls through the streets of London to keep him away from temptation but ‘he went on wrapped in darkness’. On March 8th 1775 Boswell wrote of his wife, ‘She was sensible, amiable, and all that I could wish, except being averse to hymeneal rites. I told her I must have a concubine. She said I might go to whom I pleased. She has often said so.’ She became increasingly homesick and her health started to suffer. She died of consumption on January 4th 1789. Boswell was not at her side. ‘My second daughter came running out from our house, and announced to us the dismal event in a burst of tears … I had not been with her to soothe her last moments, I cried bitterly and upbraided myself for leaving her, for she would not have left me.’
Of Joseph Ritter we know nothing more.
About the Author
Stuart Campbell has worked as an English teacher and Advisor in the Lothians, and as a part time manager with Health in Mind, an Edinburgh based mental health charity. He has previously written for the BBC, the Guardian and the Scottish Book Collector, and is the editor of RLS in Love, an anthology of Robert Louis Stevenson’s love poetry. For many years resident in Edinburgh, but now living in Glasgow, he is married to Morag with four grown up children.
Also by Stuart Campbell
RLS in Love
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© Stuart Campbell 2011
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ISBN: 978–1–908737–30–4
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