After the Dance

by Alan Warner

  One morning when she saw that the thread was about to snap she said to him, breaking the silence, ‘I think that button needs to be sewn again or you’ll lose it.’

  He looked at her in surprise and then, like her, returned from the world of silence with regret and sorrow as if he had come home from a holiday in the unknown. After that they talked to each other as before. The button was sewn close to his woollen jacket. She no longer even noticed it, it had become part of the world of things. But they never again went back to their world of silence. They had come home again.

  Murdo’s Application for a Bursary

  Dear Sir,

  I wish to apply for a bursary from you in order that I may complete my book Down the Mean Streets of Portree. This is a detective story in which the private eye is a member of the Free Church. His name is Sam Spaid, and he is a convinced Presbyterian. I do not see why the Catholics should have Father Brown and we Protestants nobody. I have written a few pages, which I enclose. These are only a first draft and I hope to complicate the cases further by introducing the idea of Predestination and the Elect, etc. This first case is called ‘The Mess of Pottage’.

  I notice from your letter that you require a referee to substantiate my application. As you will understand, I live here in a very isolated situation, and referees who are competent to judge my work are thin on the ground. I thought at first of the headmaster and the minister, but the headmaster for various complicated reasons does not speak to me, and the minister would not approve of my novel. I have, however, a neighbour who is a simple crofter and whose name is Malcolm Campbell. He is an honest man, owner of a few acres of land, and he is quite willing to be my referee. Please excuse his writing as he is not one of these people who will put his signature to anything. He has a view of life which is unsophisticated and true. Thus though he does not understand the finer minutiae of my work, he knows me well enough to appreciate that I would not put in false claims. He is a regular reader of the Bible and Robert Burns and some selected parts of Spurgeon, and what better literary background could one have? Also he wishes me to get the grant as I owe him a trifling sum for certain repairs he made to my draughty house some time ago. I have tidied up this application a little as he left school at 15 years of age. It is good, as you will appreciate, to have such staunch friends in adversity.

  I see also that you require a note of income. Last year I made £200 altogether. Most of this was the income from a Short Story Competition which I ran, in order to encourage Scottish Writing. The rest was in the form of a workshop on “In Memoriams” which was not as lucrative as I expected.

  I have other projects as well. One of my stories requires that Sam Spaid go to Peru in order to capture a criminal who has been trying to undercut the Bible market. I hope to apply for a Travel Grant for that, as of course I would need to study the laws, the social mores, etc, for authentic detail. There is a scene where Sam Spaid confronts a Peruvian god which will require considerable research. I am at the moment trying to find out how much bed and breakfast costs in Lima. Another project of mine involves a visit by Sam Spaid to Israel. This has to do with a secret weapon a crazed member of the Free Church congregation is importing in stages from a fanatical Jewish sect. I will, however, keep in touch with you about this.

  There is one other project I am working on as well. In past years some of the islanders when working with The Hudson Bay Company, married and brought home Cree women. Now, the psychology of these women when confronted by our island ways has not been sufficiently investigated. Was the Cree woman frightened, puzzled, enthralled? Did her thoughts return to tepees, pipes of peace, tomahawks, memories of buffalo, etc? There is much research to be done on this; indeed none at all has been done.

  It is not enough to say that perhaps only two such women appeared on the island. Two is quite enough for my financial purposes, and if numbers were to be the final arbiter what would we say of the victory of the heavily outnumbered Athenians at Marathon. And furthermore on such a premise our ideas of democracy would be in dire jeopardy, as a moment’s thought is enough to show. How indeed are the thoughts, griefs, joys, etc, of one Cree woman any less important than our own? She too had her ambitions, melancholy, and elations. She too had her fears and her hopes. As she saw the sun rise in the morning over the Muirneag, memories of her home on the plain must have returned to her, of her aged chieftain father, various mothers, and so on. And she must also have thought of the young brave from whom her religious husband tore her, to take her to a strange and barbarous island where a minority language was spoken. As you can see, therefore, I have many projects on hand.

  I also note that you require a track record of publication. The reason why I have published nothing is very clear. First of all, I am a perfectionist and secondly I am not greatly impressed by the magazines I see on bookstalls. Their stories and poems seem to me to lack a central plan such as I myself have, though I have not put it on paper yet. This vision glimmers before me day and night, and I try in vain to grasp it. It seems to me that these inferior writers have grasped their ideas and put them on paper too soon. Decades, generations, centuries, are not enough for me to grasp this vision. And indeed only my need for financial security – for bread, payment of council tax, payment of new carpet – forces me to frame it in a narrow compass now. It is for visions such as these that you should be paying, intangible, magnificent visions which indeed may come to nothing, but which on the other hand may result in unexpected masterpieces. I often feel that you are lacking in faith, if I may venture a criticism, and that you snatch at the inferior manuscript when you should be supporting the visionary and as yet unwritten text.

  However, that is by the bye, and I hope I have not offended you in any way. Beggars such as I cannot be choosers, and great, though as yet unidentified success, leaves a salt taste on the tongue. A pair of trousers, a slice of bread, may be lost by true and sincere criticism. Furthermore, there are many talents born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness on the desert air. It might be that had your organisation existed in the eighteenth century, Robert Burns might have applied for a bursary and lived to a hale old age, where he would have written companions to such deathless poems as “To a Mouse”. And John Keats might have done the same as well. And Shelley, if he had not been drowned.

  If you will bear with me for a moment I will share with you my vision of what an Arts Council should be. Instead of asking for samples and incomes, it should be a source of largesse. It should be the DHSS of the aspiring writer till such time as he can get into print. For he may – and this is where the act of faith comes in – write a masterpiece. Could an early Arts Council have foreseen Paradise Lost or The Divine Comedy? Did even Homer see the Iliad in advance? The logic is irrefutable. The Arts Council should give a bursary to all applicants in case a potential Catullus is neglected.

  I return to democracy again. Even one Lucretius or Sir Thomas Wyatt would be a justification of such a policy. Therefore, I appeal to you in the name of such a vision, open your purses: give, give, give, even to those who cannot provide samples, but who have exciting visions of the future. For it may be that by asking for samples you are toadying to the opportunist and the materialist. Is it not in fact in his interests to provide such samples? Are there not inducements for him to do so? But what of the awkward unspeaking one, who is possessed by a vision that he cannot put on paper. What of him? Is he to be ignored in favour of the smooth con-man? Those great inarticulate ones of whom the Statue of Liberty speaks, are they not to be brought to your arms? – I think they are.

  I say, think of these things, and I hope also that this letter is not too long, and that what I have said may be taken on board. I know that inflation eats into your budget and I know also that the going rate for a bursary at the moment is £5,000.

  Yours in anticipation,,

  Murdo Macrae

  The Mess of Pottage

  Sam Spaid was reading the second chapter of Deuteronomy when there was a timid knock at t
he door.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted, closing his Bible reluctantly.

  A small woman, wearing a black hat, black coat, and shoes from Macdonald and Sons, Portree, entered. She stood with her hands folded, her gaze fixed on the floor, away from the great detective. He recognised her at once: she was Annie Macleod who sat three rows behind him in the church every Sunday.

  ‘You look ill,’ he said, ‘would you like a cup of water? I don’t keep coffee.’

  ‘No thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Is there anything wrong?’ he said, drawing out for her the chair he kept for clients, for he knew at once that she was a client.

  How can she afford me, he thought, but put the thought away from him at once.

  Suddenly she said, ‘It’s my husband Donnie. He’s run away.’

  Donnie, he thought, that sinful atheist. Aloud, he said, ‘Run away?’

  ‘I know he has. He left a note saying, “I’ve had enough”.’

  Sam took the note, but not before he had equipped himself with a pair of black woollen gloves, also from Macdonald and Sons, Portree.

  ‘You are sure this is his handwriting?’

  ‘Yes I am sure. You will notice his spelling of “enuff”.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sam. ‘I can tell little from this note except that it is from the edge of a newspaper, and that it is clearly the work of a disturbed man. What is this?’ and he lent forward, scenting a clue. ‘A spot of red.’

  ‘It might be blood,’ said Annie timidly. ‘He might have cut himself shaving.’

  ‘Not while he wrote the note,’ said Sam contemptuously. ‘No, this spot is something more sinister than that. However, you may continue.’

  His eyes took in the woman’s worn coat. No, there would not be much money to be made from this case.

  ‘After all I have done for him.’ said Annie, taking out a small white handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. ‘It was I who introduced him to the blessing of the Gospel. I used to read a chapter of the Bible to him every night. I talked to him about his sinful life. Whenever he was backsliding I prayed for his soul.’

  ‘And?’ said Sam keenly.

  ‘Recently I noticed a change in him. When I read to him he would stare into space or click his teeth. Sometimes he would mutter to himself. He spent a lot of time in his room. I think he had a woman in there.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Perfume, powder, things like that.’

  ‘Who could this woman be? Did he go out much?’

  ‘He didn’t go out at all. I also found a pile of magazines under his bed. Unspeakable. Naked men and women . . . ’ She paused for a moment.

  ‘You did not bring them with you?’ said Sam.

  ‘No, I did not think you . . . ’

  ‘They would have been evidence,’ said Sam curtly. Why did he have to tell these people everything? Why, since the Clearances, could they not think for themselves? He felt his toothache beginning again. He wanted to hit this woman. Why don’t you fight? he wanted to shout at her.

  ‘Did you bring a photograph?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I thought you knew . . . ’

  ‘I do, I do, but a photograph would have been useful. People change, you know.’

  ‘But you only saw him last week.’

  ‘Did I? Maybe I did. But I wasn’t observing. Observation is everything.’ Again he felt a twinge of hatred for this woman who was sitting so docilely in front of him.

  ‘How long have you been married?’ he asked irrelevantly.

  ‘Thirty years. I met him when I was coming out of the Claymore Hotel. He was in fact drunk and shouting at the people who were passing. From that moment I decided to save him. I was thirty-five, and all my suitors had left me because I was too religious.’

  ‘So you are in fact older than him.’

  ‘By ten years. But that was not a barrier at first,’ and she smiled.

  Enough of this, you contemptible woman, Sam thought bitterly. He himself had been married once, but his wife had left him when he had become a detective. Her figure with its black costume, and shoes from Macdonald and Sons, Portree, haunted him still. He pushed the thought away from him.

  ‘I charge £20 a day plus expenses,’ he said sharply.

  ‘£20 a day. But how could I . . . Donnie was on the dole and I have my pension.’

  ‘Do you want him back or don’t you?’ said Sam in a frenzy of rage, though his voice was outwardly calm. He felt a twinge of his arthritis starting. Out of the window he could see people making their way to the Coop next door as if nothing was happening. This is my domain, he meditated, this is the mean street down which I must go. This is where I must come to, after my childhood. He pondered the delights of predestination.

  ‘I will find the money somehow,’ said Annie pathetically.

  ‘Good,’ said Sam. ‘Now you may go.’ As she left he had the most intense desire to throw at her the paperweight that was lying on the desk. Highlanders! Would they never learn to give correct efficient evidence? Would they always accept their fate? Why would they not fight for their identity? For their language?

  He adjusted his bowler hat and suit from Macdonald and Sons, as he stared into the sinful mirror in front of him. He threw a last look at the photograph of the Rev. John Macdonald which sat on the wall, and made his way down to the pier, where the ferry was waiting.

  ‘Any news?’ said Norman MacMillan, who had a pile of tickets in his hand.

  ‘Only the good news of the Gospel,’ said Sam curtly. ‘I would like to ask you, when did you see Donnie Macleod last?’

  ‘Donnie Macleod,’ said Norman a few times.

  (You slow thinking spud, thought Sam savagely, are you some kind of inanimate cabbage? He wanted to kick Norman MacMillan in the shin.)

  The wheel of Norman’s mind ground to a halt. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Funnily enough I saw him yesterday. He was on the ferry.’

  ‘Was he carrying a case?’ asked Sam.

  There was another long silence in which Sam visualised a torture machine of the most marvellous complexity.

  ‘He was, and I thought it funny at the time.’

  (Why did you think it funny at the time? He was on a ferry, wasn’t he?)

  ‘Did he look worried?’

  ‘Worried? Worried? Worried? No, he didn’t look worried. He said a strange thing to me though. A very strange thing. You must know that I do not know Donnie well. He hasn’t left the house for years. His father, as you remember, was that Angus Macleod who went suddenly mad and jumped over the side of the ferry . . . ’

  (These oral stories, thought Sam savagely. This tradition they pride themselves on – how can a detective exist in such an environment. His eye rested on a bollard and he wished he could heave it out of the stone and hammer Norman’s bald head with it.)

  ‘ . . . not of course that many people speak about it now. But anyway he was standing just about where you are, or perhaps a little to the left, and he said, “A change is good for a man”, just as I was taking his ticket and he was making his way to the ferry. And he looked odd.’

  ‘Odd. What do you mean by odd?’

  ‘What do I mean by odd? I mean odd. His eyes were flashing. That’s the only way I can describe it. Flashing.’

  (You retarded idiot, thought Sam. That’s the only way you can describe it. Of course it is. You were never well-known for your discriminate style.)

  ‘And then,’ Norman said, leaning forward and speaking in a whisper, ‘his very words were, “A change is good for a man.” ’ Norman withdrew his head so quickly that he nearly butted Sam in the face, while at the same time his left eye winked rapidly at the great detective.

  ‘He looked devilish,’ said Norman, ‘and another thing. He came very close to me.’

  ‘Did he do that before?’

  ‘Not as close as that, not as close as that.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sam, who did not see at all. What had this to do with anything? (You winking parrot, he th
ought fiercely.)

  ‘How much will my ticket be?’ he asked.

  ‘Same as always,’ said Norman, and laughed uproariously. ‘Same as always.’

  Sam threw a gaze of hatred after him as he made his way to the nonsmoking saloon where he sat very upright and watched a child making faces at him.

  Devilish, he thought. Devilish. So Donnie was on the ferry after all. He hadn’t been killed by Annie, of whom Sam was suspicious from the very beginning because her hair was shorter than the church of St. Paul strictly allowed.

  When the ferry docked he strode over to the bus and sat in the back seat. He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly that his blood pressure was rising. He made a mental note that he must take more exercise. His contempt for the easy-going Highland way of life was beginning, he knew, to affect his health.

  When he opened his eyes he was horrified to see straight ahead of him above the driver’s head a screen on which there was a picture of a man and a woman in a naked embrace. For a moment he was worried that this was the content of his sinful mind, but when he looked about him he saw that the passengers were following the film with interest.

  Without thinking, he strode down the aisle and said to the driver, ‘I want you to turn that filth off at once.’