by Laura Marney
‘Not to worry friends,’ said Spider through the mic, ‘in true Highland fashion we’ll make our own entertainment.’
He pulled out a bodhrán, the only musical instrument in the whole place, and banged away at it while he sang a song in Gaelic.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I whispered to the girls, ‘there’s not a man under sixty here and now the band aren’t coming. There’s literally no talent.’
We were giggling and whispering between ourselves that we should go back to Inverfaughie, there at least we wouldn’t have to politely sit quiet. The song ended and Spider sang another, the whole time with his bright eyes boring into us, disapproving our whispering. He finished and, as we were trying to sneak our fleeces off the backs of our chairs, Spider came over to our table and grabbed Eileen.
‘Now ladies and gentlemen, we may not have a band but it won’t stop us dancing!’
He took her by the arm and pulled her to the stage.
‘With the help of this lovely young lady we’re going to demonstrate for you the Gay Gordons.’
Eileen was embarrassed and unsure of the steps but she let him walk her through it slowly. When Spider stopped to explain the moves he held her, his arm around her waist. Of the three of them, Eileen looked most like a Highlander. She was a curvy freckled girl with lovely red hair. Sarah and Julie had tans and bleached hair but Eileen’s skin was classic Scottish peely wally, except for her face, which was beetroot red with the attention she was getting. With Spider hanging round her like a tramp round a bowl of soup, Eileen was mortified. We thought it was hilarious. Spider was now asking couples onto the floor and, I’ll say this for him, just by humming Mairi’s Wedding through the microphone, he had a hundred and fifty pensioners birling across the dance floor. Sarah and I got up too, it was too good a laugh to miss. Only when we’d all danced twice would Spider let Eileen go back to her seat.
The oldsters, the coffin dodgers from the coach tours, they knew how to party. They were on the floor for every dance and each time Spider picked a different old lady as a demonstration partner. He was an unbelievable flirt and he soon had them giggling like teenagers. You would have thought he was Elvis. My first impression of Spider had not been good. Anyone who called strangers ‘friends’ was, in my book, an automatic creep. But I had to admit he was doing a tremendous job keeping the party going. He was on the go the whole time, demonstrating, calling the dance, humming the tune and bashing the bodhrán. After about an hour of everyone birling themselves silly, Spider announced a short break, he looked knackered.
He came and joined us at our table. We hadn’t asked him to, but we were pleased to have him. With his celebrity status well established, we basked in Spider’s reflected glory. He brought a woman with him and introduced her as Kathy, his wife. Poor Kathy, what a sight she was. Although she was a good ten years younger than Spider, beside him, she looked a frump. Kathy had on a suit she must have had since the Eighties, either that or from a charity shop. It looked like something out of Dallas. When she found out I was living in Inverfaughie she homed in on me.
It turned out Kathy was a Glaswegian too, originally from Govan. I got the whole story. She’d married Spider and moved to the Highlands sixteen years ago. Sixteen years she’d lived here and still she was treated as an incomer. Up until now I had been enjoying myself, I didn’t really want to hear this. She would never be accepted. Even the kids, Jill and Kay, every year they entered the Mod and every year they came away with nothing. The vodka had obviously kicked in because I giggled, picturing Anne Robinson in a kilt, sneering at two wee girls: Jill and Kay you leave WITH NOTHING!
‘Whereabouts in the city are you from?’ Kathy asked us.
The Nurseteers were Southsiders like Kathy, but from the wealthier suburbs of Giffnock and Pollockshields. I was from the West End I told her.
‘Partick, is that?’
‘Near Partick,’ I said.
Did I know Jimmy McLean from Partick? No, sorry I didn’t. Or Anne and Shona McLeod? No, sorry. They lived above the fruit shop in Dumbarton Road, very involved with the Scouts they’d been, everyone knew them, big tall women, I’d know them if I saw them, twins they were, with long dark hair down to their bums, ring any bells? No. Well what about George Bell?
To get away I asked if she wanted a drink, it was my round anyway. Thankfully when I came back Kathy had gone to the loo. Just as well because Spider only had eyes for Eileen, he kept directing his chat and his charm towards her. Eileen did her best to deflect it. The old ladies were starting to approach the table. Spider spun out the break for as long as he could but eventually he had to go back to his fans.
I think he had run out of puff for the dancing and, starting with a self-penned ditty, enthusiastically initiated some community singing. Was there no end to the man’s talent? He went round the tables singing and we sang the last line.
Spider sang:
‘Spider don’t you make those eyes at me,
Spider don’t you make those eyes at me,
Spider don’t you make those eyes at me,’
And we had to sing:
‘Aye but I will says Spider!’
Even the men joined in. As he moved around the room Spider teased the ladies: holding hands, making eyes, pulling legs. They seemed to think this was the raunchiest thing out. He was a pensioner heart-throb. I was waiting for someone to throw their knickers. The verses became increasingly racy:
‘Spider don’t you hold the hand of me,
Spider don’t you put you arms round me,
Spider don’t you tickle the thighs of me,
Aye but I will says Spider!’
On the thigh-tickling verse he arrived at our table but only one of us saw any action: Eileen, predictably enough.
The next thing was, he called for people to come up and do a turn, explaining that the true essence of a ceilidh is to have everyone take part. Such was his charisma, that Spider managed to get two Dutch sisters, who were sixty if they were a day, to do the Can Can while the rest of us sang dah dah dahdahdahdah and clapped out the beat. The old guys wolf-whistled. There were no more volunteers so Spider persuaded each tour party to sing one of their national songs.
The Dutch were really sweet, they sang a sad song and all of them joined in. The Germans were great too and to be fair, the English sang ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ with brio. But Spider was keeping the best to last. With national pride at stake, he insisted that our table sing ‘Flower of Scotland’.
This wasn’t fair, we protested, there were only four of us, but Spider paid us no heed. We endured an excruciating minute and a half of shoegazing and embarrassed giggling. This being our country, the tour parties were expecting great things of us. We tried to reason with him but Spider would have none of it. When we made no moves to start he introduced us, giving us a big showbiz build-up, getting them all to applaud.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from Bonnie Scotland at no expense what so ever, I give you The Scots Blue Belles!’
Spider encouraged loud cheering, raising the level of expectation to fever pitch, whipping them into a ceilidh frenzy. We had to do it. Although we didn’t discuss it, we knew we couldn’t take the piss but the situation was so ridiculous it was difficult not to laugh.
We stood up and I was surprised when Eileen, the shyest of the girls, with her hands behind her back, started to sing. She had a lovely voice and we followed her. I was scared to look at anybody in case I burst out laughing so I stared straight ahead stony-faced. People on telly at New Year singing heuchter-cheuchter songs are always stony-faced, I thought. Maybe they’re trying not to laugh.
Kathy approached and added her voice to our four shaky ones. She had hidden talents too, by the second verse she’d introduced a harmony. This could have been disastrous, I for one was always hopeless at anything fancier than the basic tune but we pulled together, concentrating, trying to sing louder, to not let the harmony throw us.
Our volume increased again when Spider himse
lf joined in. A spontaneous burst of applause broke when the audience heard his bass voice. Spider struck a dramatic pose with one kilted leg cocked on the chair and one hand on his knee. Smoothly, as if he had done this before, he stepped onto the table, a cross between Harry Lauder and Ricky Martin. Out of nowhere Kathy produced the bodhrán and handed it to him.
With the gravitas brought by the lonely elemental drum, suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. We were no longer at a tourist doo in the function suite of a hotel. Suddenly it was 1297 and we were standing shoulder to shoulder with Wallace at Stirling Bridge on a cold September morning, ready to fight and die for Scotland’s freedom.
Spider’s eyes were glassy as, at the final chorus, we gave everything we had to the last few lines:
And sent him homeward
Tae think again.
The tour parties loved it. We had done Scotland proud.
The ceilidh seemed to end abruptly after that. With bus engines turning outside, the function suite emptied in minutes. We were sad to see our English, Dutch and Germans pals go. The next morning I had a hazy recollection of hugging people. After our triumph we were still high as kites as bar staff cleared the tables. We didn’t want to go home. Spider invited us back to his place by way of a nightcap and Kathy didn’t seem to mind. At the time it didn’t bother me that it was a further twenty-seven miles in the opposite direction from Inverfaughie.
Chapter 22
There were two young guys at Spider’s house. Spider and Kathy went in ahead of us and as we followed we could hear frantic tidying up. The lads looked as if they’d been snoozing by the fire. We caught them mid tidy and there was a smell of farts in the air that everybody pretended not to notice.
The two guys were brothers, Spider introduced them as The Bell Boy and Keek. They could have been quite handsome but for the fact that The Bell Boy had several top teeth missing and Keek had a terrible squint.
‘The lads work for me at the double glazing,’ Spider told us.
Keek and The Bell Boy had been babysitting. As soon as we heard this we began speaking in hushed voices but Spider flapped his arm dismissively.
‘Don’t be daft, those kids will sleep through anything.’
The brothers were still in their working clothes by the look of things, they wore muddy denims and holey knitted jumpers.
‘Boys, this is Sarah, Trixie, Julie and Eileen.’
‘Also know as The Scots Blue Belles!’ said Sarah.
The lads hung back and Spider tried to bring them out of their shell, ‘The girls are from Glasgow,’ he told them although they must have been able to tell from our accents. Kathy offered us tea from mugs that were stained brown on the inside while Spider poured us large whiskies from a two-litre plastic Coke bottle. I expected it to be rough but it was lovely whisky.
‘That’s a lovely Speyside Spider, it’s not Glenfarclas is it?’ I asked him.
He looked impressed and then a wee bit alarmed but he just laughed, ‘Och, now, ask no questions…’
Kathy collared me again, moaning about how isolated she was up here, miles from anywhere and Spider out all day double-glazing and all night hosting ceilidhs. I was rescued by Spider giving us a guided tour of the house. It was a big old farmhouse which looked as if it could do with a good clean. The furniture was quality even if it was old but the place needed freshening up and a lick of paint wouldn’t have went wrong. He took us in to the conservatory which he’d built himself. I expected something like you see advertised on the back page of the Sunday papers, but this was very much a home-made job, with windows of different shapes and sizes. The views were fantastic though, a river ran straight past the house and away in the distance you could still make out the tops of the mountains against the sky.
‘Och it’s a shame you’ve missed the sunset girls, I sit out here in the evening and a lovelier view you’ll not see,’ Spider said. ‘And do you see the river down there? It has all the salmon you could ever want, and the biggest. You’ll have to see the size of the salmon I have out in the freezer!’
Without knowing where we were going, we trooped outside and followed Spider into a big byre.
‘Now, there’s no lighting out here ladies so just be careful.’
It was pitch black inside. The byre was more like a warehouse with rows and rows of shelves set out in aisles. Spider led us up one aisle and down another, all of us tripping and giggling in the dark. He stopped and our faces were suddenly lit from underneath by the light from a big chest freezer. He hadn’t been kidding about the size of the salmon, it was about a yard long.
We started sniggering, the salmon was comical, its mouth open as if it was surprised to find itself in this situation. As Spider was showing us it, accidentally on purpose I was convinced, the salmon’s bottom lip caught the hem of Eileen’s skirt. She ran away down an aisle screaming in the darkness as we stood holding on to each other, howling with laughter.
‘Spider don’t you poke that fish at me!’ Eileen shouted, but she was laughing too.
‘Aye but I will says Spider!’ he sang back, and then ran down the aisle after her.
We were killing ourselves. Eileen dodged him and then Spider was running back towards us. We raced away but he caught up and was thrusting his salmon at us as we ran and screamed and laughed. At the top of the aisle we split up and ran down different aisles. For a few minutes he couldn’t find anyone but that was no fun so Julie gave him a clue ‘Oh, Spi….der!’ she called.
‘Over here Spider!’ Sarah joined in.
Spider rushed up and down the aisles towards the voices, a couple of times nearly catching us. I heard the door open and wondered who had come in or gone out. My eyes were getting used to the dark by now and I saw Spider run past me. He saw me too, but he wasn’t interested in me. This made me realise how silly I felt, running around a barn in the dark. I made my way to the door and slipped out.
It was a gorgeous starry night and I decided I’d wait here until the girls had finished their game and go into the house with them. I didn’t want Kathy cornering me again and telling me all her troubles. After about fifteen minutes or so, it could have been more, I was cold and I decided I’d have to take my chances with Kathy. I went into the living room but the lights were turned out. As soon as I came in they all froze. There was enough light from the fire to see that Julie was on the couch with The Bell Boy and Sarah was sharing a chair with Keek. There was no sign of anyone else. In my embarrassment I walked out of the room but I quickly recovered and went back to rescue the whisky. All activity once again ceased while I rummaged around on the floor to find it. I went out to the conservatory. I wondered what had happened, Kathy must have gone to bed and Eileen must still be out in the byre with Spider. Everyone had copped off, except me.
Oh well, I thought, always the bridesmaid. I’d just have to make the best of it. The girls would come and get me when they were ready. Fifty miles from Inverfaughie, how else was I going to get home? I sat in a big leather armchair that had a patchwork quilt thrown over it. I pulled the quilt round me and snuggled down with my lumber for the evening, the plastic bottle of whisky, and watched the moon and the stars move across the sky.
I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew Spider had his arm round me and was fondling me. But that was just sleep confusion. He was actually trying to get the Coke bottle away from me. I’d wedged it down the side of the chair before I’d fallen asleep.
‘God Spider, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I’d drank so much.’
‘Och not to worry, there’s plenty left.’
The darkness had faded to a thin grey light. I watched him pour substantial measures for us both. My head was thumping. Curled up in the chair my legs were stiff and I was cold to my bones.
‘Not for me thanks.’
‘C’mon now Trixie, keep me company, everyone else is asleep.’
I was dying to know where Eileen was but I was scared to ask. Spider seemed to have a whisky-drinking ritual. He threw it into his m
outh, swished it around, chucked it down his neck, showed his teeth and then sighed a long slow sigh. My sipping technique was tame by comparison but then, I thought, mine wasn’t a satisfying after-sex slug, unfortunately. I lifted my drink and knocked it back. It did warm me up. Spider took the other armchair and we sat in silence looking down at the river. At this time of the morning Spider had lost all vestiges of his stage persona. I tried to think of something to say, something to cheer him up, to make him think I was good company.
‘D’you ever do any ceilidhs out Inverfaughie way, Spider?’
‘Aye, the odd time. I’m booked to do the gala day ceilidh at the Calley in a couple of weeks. Is that where you’re staying, Inverfaughie?’
‘Aye. Harrosie, d’you know it?’
‘Och aye, of course I do. I grew up in Inverfaughie. It’s a grand place for a holiday, are you girls having a nice time?’
‘I’m not on holiday. I live there. The girls have hired the house next door and they invited me out. I’ve only just met them.’
‘You live at Harrosie did you say?’
‘Yes. I inherited it.’
For some reason Spider seemed to find this hilariously funny.
‘Oh ho, the rightful heir! That’ll put Jock’s nose out of joint, so it will.’
‘Jock?’
‘Aye Jock Robertson, it’s his house, or at least it was his father’s. Harry swore Jock would never see a penny but I never thought he’d do that! The old fella held a terrible grudge.’
‘Did he? Why?’
‘Och him and Jock never got, not even when he was a boy, but when Rosie died Harry said it was his fault.’
‘Whose?’
‘Jock’s.’
‘Does Jock still live in the village?’
‘Oh aye.’
‘Oh Christ, that’s all I need, another claimant. I’ve got enough trouble with my auntie Nettie wanting in on it.’
