The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  “Will ye no stay for a mug of tea?”

  “I need to get to see Tam MacIsaac.”

  “Go on. I’m awfully lonely.”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Jew Moses sits with me for a while.”

  “I can’t,” he said, closing the door hard on her pleading.

  “Aye, she’s been going quite mad up there. Since Alistair passed on.” Tam MacIsaac stroked his long beard which when unravelled from the tip could be teased out beyond his waistline. It was a beard as woolly as any of the man’s unshorn sheep and just as thick and oily. Avram had heard Kenny Kennedy suggest it would do Tam no harm to have his whiskers dipped at shearing time, for Lord knows what was hidden in there among his hairy foliage. Spare change, pencils and bicycle clips, Avram imagined. “Can’t take the loneliness,” the bachelor shepherd said. “Not like me.”

  Old Tam stayed silent after that, nursing his glass of Oban malt in front of the fire. Avram was happy for the quiet with only the wind against the shutters, the spitting of the peat to accompany his thoughts about poor Mad Aggie. He loved Old Tam’s place, crammed full of artifacts sculpted out of the odd pieces of wood found on the hillsides. Hat pegs, a footstool, spoons, strange ornaments, a pipe rack and the pipes themselves had all been crafted by Tam’s patient knife. There was not much else to do up there in the hills with only his collie, his flock and Mad Aggie as his nearest neighbour. So when Tam spoke, his words were as deliberately whittled and fashioned as any of his wooden creations.

  “Claes ’gin the rain,” the shepherd said.

  “What was that?”

  Tam sipped at his malt, then went on: “Dinnae think I’m no grateful. All these work-shirts and jumpers and socks ye and Jew Moses bring are all grand. But it’s claes ’gin the rain I need.”

  “You mean clothes that keep out the water?”

  “Aye, that’s whit I’m meaning.”

  “Waterproof clothing?”

  “If that’s the word.” Tam smiled at this new learning. “Waterproof.”

  “You’d need a special fabric for that. Made up right.”

  “I didnae need a Sunday suit, son. A smock or a jerkin is what I need. Not just me. All of us hill folk round here with the rain to batter us wet and cold like Noah in the Great Flood.”

  “What about leggings?”

  “Leggings would be grand.”

  “And maybe a hat?”

  “Aye, a hat ’gin the rain. That’d be guid too. Think about it, son.”

  He did think about it. And it was with such a day-dreaming of waterproof clothing that later that same afternoon he got lost in the pine forests around Loch Etive on his way to the Kennedys. He pushed his bike in and out of the trees, looking for a proper logging path or a deer trail to guide him out, when he stumbled across a granite quarry. There at the entrance gate he was accosted by a dark, bearded man with a heavy length of pipe in one hand, the strained chain on a snarling dog in the other.

  “What’s yer business here?” the man shouted, holding a broad stance to keep his hound at bay. The man’s cap was fixed so low and his beard grown so high on his cheeks, that there were only two dark eyes to show there was a face at all.

  “I haven’t got any business here,” Avram replied, keeping his distance. “I’m lost.”

  “What’s that ye’ve got in the basket? In the parcels.”

  “Stock samples.”

  “Are ye a tinker then?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I will say that. Off with you then. This quarry’s got its own stores. We dinnae want yer kind here.”

  “What kind do you mean?”

  “Jews. With all yer fancy transactions. Ma sister’s still paying off that Jew Moses for stuff she disnae need. Fuck off. Or I’ll set this dug on ye.” And the man loosened the chain so the dog had a few extra inches to leap and be pulled back. Avram steered round his bike as quick as he could and rode off along a wagon-road out of the forest.

  Thirty-two

  WITH ONLY THE SWATCHES to take over to the Munros, Avram decided to go by foot from the Kennedys on a crow-flies shortcut over the hills, which according to the gamekeeper would be twice as lenient on his shoe leather as sticking to the roads. He passed the village kirk, and where the church wall had crumbled he clambered through the rubble and out into the open countryside westwards towards the sea. Halfway through his journey, he saw the storm clouds roll in from the islands and cursed Kenny Kennedy for persuading him not to take his bike and to keep off the road.

  The sky darkened but the rain refused to come. The wind blew in strong, blustering stiffly off the sea on to the exposed hillside. There was a heaviness in the air and he dropped to lower ground for shelter among the trees. The leaves shook and hissed on a rush of air through the woodland sending the branches creaking all around him. A crack of lightning split over Ben Mor and the subsequent thunder blasted through the thick, warm atmosphere like a cannon shot.

  The sky’s mood was dirty black and the day felt like night but still the rain didn’t come. He skirted a distance away from the woodlands, fearful of any lightning that might strike. He was running now, clutching his book of swatches under his jacket, looking for the abandoned castle Kenny Kennedy had cited as a landmark for his journey. And then he saw it through the trees – a four-turretted granite fortress – a smaller and humbler edifice than he expected from a castle. There were few windows, and those that had been built into the walls were narrow and mean to both light and view. But as the rain began to spit, the gloomy construction presented shelter nevertheless.

  He found the front entrance, a large boarded-up double door with a nailed-up sign too faded to show its message to the public. The windows, though some were broken, were set too high in the unscaleable walls to afford any chance of intrusion. Instead, he found shelter in the half-collapsed stable, just before the rain dropped heavily in a hot rush flooding the ground immediately with its gasp. He waited for the sheer pelt of water to ease off, listening as it soaked into the bracken above him. Then, as the exhausted rain faded to a drizzle, gently strafing the puddles already formed, he heard a sound from the castle. The noise was faint and at first he thought it was just the low moan of a door-hinge being swung open and shut on the wind. But, as the sound grew louder, he realised he was listening to an instrument being played. Whether it was a sustained breath through brass or a drawn-out chord on strings he could not make out, but it was most definitely music he was hearing. Not some classical piece or even a lilting Scottish melody. But a plaintive eerie lament that shivered and slithered hauntingly along his spine. He raced out of the stables and crashed back into the woodlands.

  The music seemed to follow him as he ran, teasing its way through the trunks and branches to leap and dance at his ears. He raised his arms up around his head, for protection both against the melody and the boughs that scraped him. The leaves shook their watery drops over his clothes and skin as he slipped and slid and scampered through the trees. The more he put distance between himself and the abandoned castle, the more the music drove towards a crescendo. He dipped through an arch of branches and suddenly the forest cleared. The music miraculously ceased. He found himself on a narrow, gravel road that cut through the trees on either side. And there was Jean Munro, cloaked and on horseback, with another horse tethered to her own, cantering in a search along the forest wall.

  He didn’t have the strength to call her or to lift a hand in recognition. He just stood at the roadside bent over, gasping to find a rhythm for his breath. He heard the clop and crunch of hooves as she trotted over. Leaning off the neck of her horse, she brushed a hand against his hair so he was forced to look up at her.

  “Music,” he panted. “I heard music from the castle.”

  She seemed unconcerned by his words. In a slow sweep, her green eyes scrutinised his face as if his nose and mouth, forehead, chin and cheekbones could give her better clues to his condition than his eyes could. Then she motioned w
ith her head for him to mount the other horse.

  “I can’t ride,” he confessed. Jean Munro dismounted in a swift, neat movement. She was smaller than he expected, her hooded head only just rising above his shoulder. Her face was pretty, but set in dourness, with lines of frowning already scratched across her forehead. Life had settled hard on this young woman, leaving her with a bitterness and impatience reflected in her gaze.

  He felt her hands, small but firm, on his waist as she helped him clamber up into the stirrup, then swing over onto the saddle. She showed him how to place his grip on the pommel, then remounted her own horse. She swooped to grab the reins of his mare and set off in a canter. As he bounced along behind her, the salty drizzle stung his eyes and dried his lips but he did not once raise his arm from the pommel to wipe the rain from his face.

  The Munro residence was not far. A lone, squat, two-storey mansion stuck out on a peninsula lashed by a murky sea’s relentless battering of stubborn grey rocks. When the sky was clear and the sun shone on quiet waters, it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful spot on earth. But in this dirty weather it was a cold, wind-swept, foreboding place.

  On reaching the gateway to the house, Jean Munro dismounted, her face pale but calm now. She led the two snorting horses to the stables at the rear of the building, then helped him climb down. She showed him into her home.

  He was guided into a well-furnished parlour, rendered even more grand by the presence of a gramophone with its large silver trumpet pointing directly at him. There were fine carpets on the floor, a low table set with a china tea-set, two china spaniels guarding the fireside, and an elaborate wall-clock hung opposite a sampler of Queen Victoria. Embroidery must have been one of the ways Jean Munro amused herself, for there were at least four unfinished works of indeterminate personages spread about the room on armchairs and foot-stools. Two cane chairs were set side-by-side by a large bay window which looked out on to the Firth, and he could easily imagine the young bride seated there with her stitching, Donald Munro by her side with a glass of whisky in his hand.

  It was only when Jean Munro approached him and tugged at his jacket did he realise that his clothes were soaked. She tugged again, harder this time, dragging the cloth off his shoulder. When he resisted, she stepped back, mimed for him to take off his clothes, then leaned forward to rub at the damp material and to point out the mud on his trousers. He fixed his jacket more tightly around him. She stamped her foot and disappeared out of the room. He heard her clumping around upstairs before she returned with a blanket. She left the room again, but not before giving him such a stern look he knew he would have to strip and let her take care of his outer garments. He slipped the book of swatches, still dry, out from underneath his waistband and undressed to his underwear. He pulled the blanket over himself, sat down in an armchair in front of the fire.

  Jean Munro returned with a tray set with a pot of tea, a jar of honey and a decanter of whisky. She placed these items by the chinaware on the low table and proceeded to pour out one cup of tea. With deft movements, she added the whisky, stirred in the honey, gave him the cup.

  “When will your husband be home?” Avram asked.

  Fishing into the pocket at the front of her skirt, she pulled out a silver fob chain with a large gentleman’s watch attached. She showed him the masculine face with the thick Roman numerals. Almost three o’clock. Her finger moved from the three to the six.

  “Half-past three?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Six o’clock?”

  She nodded.

  “But you told me to come at three. I thought Mr Munro would be here by then. It being half-day closing in Oban.”

  Before he had time for further protest, she scooped up his clothes and flounced out of the room.

  He snatched up his cup, strode across to the bay window where the wind rattled the panes, flopped down on one of the cane chairs. The storm had come up wild now, chopping up the sea, thrashing the rain against the glass like thrown buckets of water. There was nothing out there but a greyness. He wrapped the blanket tight around him, sipped at the hot toddy. The wall-clock chimed three. He thought of the music from the castle. An intruder perhaps. A tramp or a tinker taking shelter, finding an instrument among the stored furniture. A violin, a child’s trumpet. Nothing more. He felt soothed by the thought, comforted by the drink. He put the cup down, bundled his bare feet up under the blanket. Three hours to wait with a mute for company.

  Suddenly, there was darkness. A pair of hands over his eyes. Soft palms, rough fingertips, but female hands nevertheless. He brought up his own to drag them away but the grip was strong. Nails dug into his skin. He moved his hands up to thin wrists. Then there was a breath close to his ear.

  “Who do ye think it is?”

  She let him pull her hands away as she walked round to the front of the chair.

  “Megan.”

  “Aye, Megan.”

  She stood before him, hands fixed on hips, a sly smile on her face. She was dressed, not in her maid’s uniform, but in the white blouse and dark tartan skirt she had worn for her first interview at the castle. Her head lowered, she looked up at him from beneath bowed eyes, waiting for him to say something.

  “What are you doing here?” was all he could manage.

  “I came to see ye.”

  “How did you know …?”

  “I arranged with Jean. It’s my day off.”

  “You mean Mr Munro doesn’t want …”

  “Oh aye, Donald Munro wants his new suit. But we’ve got three hours before that old drunk of a chemist gets here.”

  She stepped forward, dropped herself on to his lap. Just like that. Without asking his permission. As though she had licence for such intimacy. But it felt good and he was glad she behaved so comfortable with him. For he was nervous and excited and a whole bundle of other emotions he couldn’t begin to describe. She wrapped an arm around his neck and he felt her fingers play lightly with his hair.

  “Yer all dark from the sun,” she said, moving her hand to his forehead, sweeping back his curls. She scrutinised his hair-line close, her chin almost touching his nose, her fair hair sweeping soft against his cheek as she examined the paleness behind each of his follicles, almost angry to see such a change in his skin in her absence. Her hair was freshly washed, smelled of lavender. He snaked an arm out of the blanket, held her around her waist, fingering the hint of plumpness that rested there. She eased herself into his embrace.

  “I like that,” she said.

  He moved his hand further up her back, feeling each nodule of her spine through the thin material of her blouse, ready for any resistance. But none came. He eased his head back, pressed her closer. She let out a soft moan, brushed her lips against his. He was just about to pull her more firmly into his body when she backed off, stood up abruptly.

  “What …?”

  “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand to him.

  “Come on where?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “Aye, upstairs. And wipe that glaikit expression off yer face, Avram whatever-yer-name-is. Ye don’t think we can sit here winching in the Munro’s front parlour, do ye?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Well, come on then.”

  Megan led him out to the hallway, up an impressive stairway bordered by portraits to a narrow landing. There were four identical doors off and without any hesitation she took him through one of them into a small bedroom. The counterpane on the double bed had been turned down, there were fresh flowers in a vase by the window, a peat fire struggled to defeat the chill. He imagined Jean and Megan preparing the room for his arrival, laying out sheets and blankets.

  Megan went over to warm herself with her back to the grate. They both stared at the bed as if it were a sacrificial altar confronting them. Suddenly, Avram felt a tension between them that hadn’t existed downstairs in the parlour. He knew he had to act like a man – but in a way h
is bar mitzvah had never taught him. He tried to imagine what Solly would do. Moving across to her, he nervously placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Let’s get into bed,” he said. “It’s freezing.”

  “That’s because Jean’s already got ye half-naked afore I arrived.”

  “My clothes were soaked,” he protested.

  “Aye, I believe ye. Tho’ thousands wouldnae. Get in yerself. And turn yer heid.”

  He slipped under the counterpane, turned on to his back, eyes closed, stiff as a corpse, listening to the rustle of Megan’s clothes. Then the creak and sag of the mattress as she moved in beside him, but still keeping a distance of icy sheet between them that seemed as wide as the Clyde in winter.

  “Just one thing,” she said. “Ye can kiss me. And ye can get in close. But I don’t want ye … I don’t want ye putting … anything inside me.”

  He heard her words with a sense of relief, the boundaries being set no further than he had it in his imagination to go. “I’ll come in close then,” he said. He slid over the few inches of linen, lay face to face, mouth to mouth, breath to breath with her across the pillow. He felt her skin hot and clammy where their arms touched, where their thighs touched. But her feet were cold.

  “Let me warm them on yours,” she said.

  He flinched slightly to her touch, then caressed her feet with his own. They felt so smooth and tiny.

  “You’re very pretty,” he said.

  Her eyes smiled at his. Pale blue eyes. Eyes that were a map of the Christian world. Church-going eyes. Eyes that sat under Sunday bonnets and read from hymn books. Eyes the colour of an Easter sky. And he kissed her. On her broad mouth that could name all the hundreds of islands of the Inner and Outer Hebrides. Lips closed then slightly apart. Her arms came round him as she cleaved to him. He felt her breasts, pressed against his vest. He ran his hands over her slip and down her back. She smelt of lavender. And silver polish. And furniture wax. She tasted of spearmint. And of a Scotland that wasn’t the soot and stink of Glasgow, but mountain streams and thick gorse, dark loam and deep forests, wild stags and black-faced sheep, cottages and castles, bannocks and bacon.