by John Burke
The fidgety silence gave way to a babble of outrage. ‘There’s no way the provost would stand for that.’
Nor, thought Adam, would the ghosts of all those grave legislators staring down in judgment on these present unworthy successors.
‘And anyway, there’d still be no’ enough room.’
‘In any case,’ said Adam decisively, ‘the acoustics here are dreadful.’
Cynthia Scott-Fraser’s teeth jutted in a domineering smile. ‘I’m sure I could use my influence with the governors of Rowanbie school. The new gymnasium there would be ideal. It’s only a few miles away, and could easily be incorporated into the concept of The Gathering.’
‘And we all ken fine why it’s got a new gymnasium,’ growled Buchanan. ‘Fine for Rowanbie weans, while our own haven’t had anything since —’
‘Kilstane pupils can use the gymnasium and other facilities on the same level as Rowanbie children.’
‘Except that the school bus leaves before they can take part in any activities like that.’
‘Mr Buchanan, we went through all this years ago when it was decided for sound economic reasons that the junior school here had to be closed and the children bussed to —’
‘Sound economic reasons, aye. So that there was more money for councillors to increase their own salaries and expenses, and flit off to London and foreign places for consultations — isn’t that what ye call your sinful jaunts?’
The current jargon, thought Adam, is freebies. But in any case it was widely known that Buchanan’s main objection was that the headmistress at Rowanbie was an Episcopalian and encouraged singing at morning assembly. He hurried on: ‘The whole concept, actually, of Kilstane as a Music Town means that all functions should be integrated within the town jurisdiction. This festival is only the beginning. We have to establish the name as a regular annual event. Performers and the public must come to think of The Kilstane Gathering as something not to be missed — an essential date in the musical calendar from now on. I don’t think our brief is to consider extra-mural activities at this stage.’
A few voices had the courage to mutter vague agreement. Kilstane considered that Rowanbie already received too many handouts from the regional council, including a grossly inflated grant for that very gym, because the Scott-Frasers lived there and made their presence felt on every committee.
‘Very well.’ The teeth receded. ‘At least you’ll bear in mind that I made the offer. Perhaps you’ll incorporate that in the minutes, Mr Lowther.’
Adam knew he would pay for his ruling. The next time he went to tune Captain Scott-Fraser’s piano, the condescension would be even chillier than usual, and the niggling criticisms more pungent. Scott-Fraser insisted on being addressed as ‘Captain’ even though his military service long after World War Two had lasted only a couple of years before he shot himself in the leg and was invalided out. He also insisted on having his grand piano tuned every month, claiming to have painfully critical hearing. Whenever Adam arrived to carry out the task there would be a volume of Beethoven sonatas open on the piano, though in fact the Captain could play only by ear, and then only some sentimental songs all in the key of C major.
Kerr was on his feet. ‘Does the Convener have any idea what reaction Sir Nicholas is getting from Daniel Erskine? It would be a bit embarrassing to bring him all the way down here if there’s no scope for proper performance of his work.’
‘I tried twice to contact him before this meeting. Either his mobile is switched off or he’s in a dead spot. And we know there’s no way of phoning the house. The composer has made a point of shutting himself away from normal life.’
Buchanan wasn’t going to miss such a chance. ‘And we ken fine why, don’t we? Scuttling away from Kilstane nursing his wounds. Well-deserved wounds.’
‘He had finished his employment at the Academy,’ said Adam, ‘and he had work of his own to do. Great creative work.’
‘Creative? And hadn’t he done plenty o’ that hereabouts? Just be looking at the faces o’ some o’ those weans down the vennels, and ye’ll soon see what he was good at creating. Look at that slut who pretends her second lad’s an Irvine like the rest of them. Ye’ve only to look at his face to see who planted that one.’
‘Mr Buchanan, we’re here to discuss —’
‘Huh! Him and that Communist friend of his, at the dirrydans with every girl they could get their hands on.’
‘Communist?’
‘That Polish brat.’
‘He wasnae Polish,’ said MacKenzie. ‘He was a Czech. His dad got killed in the RAF, fighting the Nazis.’
‘All the same, all of them.’
Vainly Adam said: ‘Mr Buchanan, I don’t think you fully appreciate —’
‘The wages of sin is death.’
‘Stupid puddock,’ muttered a voice from the back.
Cynthia Scott-Fraser’s face had gone dead, as it always did whenever a conversation did not involve her and was not dominated by her. She began pushing herself up out of her chair. ‘Frightfully sorry, but I do have to dash. The Open Spaces committee. Do let me know’ — from the door she directed a polite snarl at Adam — ‘if you feel you do need premises in Rowanbie after all.’
There were a few shared sighs after the door had closed behind her.
Adam had a sudden incongruous vision of Captain Scott-Fraser making love to his Cynthia. That must have taken some courage, especially if she was continually leaping up and saying they must cut the session short because she had to dash off to an urgent meeting of the Police Committee on Sexual Abuse.
‘Well. Let’s sum up exactly where we are.’
Apart from the problem of the Academy hall, everything else seemed to be in order. Kerr confirmed that the tents, portaloos and band platforms were already assembled and ready for erection in a matter of hours. Adam himself would be installing the amplification for those not bringing their own equipment. A specific ruling had at last been obtained from the police and the Civic Amenities watchdog that no more than four strolling players at a time would be allowed to serenade passers-by in the streets between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. A brass quartet would also be allowed to perform for an hour each evening on the balcony of the Tolbooth, above the main square.
The haugh along the Leister Water was still waterlogged after the recent rains, but ought to have dried out in time for the pop concerts there.
‘Which still leaves us with the question of our concert hall.’
Duncan Maxwell said: ‘Is the main body of the Academy actually affected by the collapse of the tower?’
‘There might be an intrinsic weakness that we couldn’t risk —’
‘It wouldnae take me long to find out where that weakness came from,’ grunted Buchanan.
‘You of all people have good reason to know where it is,’ said Kerr.
Wearily Adam supposed this was all in the good Scots tradition of family blood feud, carried on through the generations. He said: ‘It’s not the business of this meeting to apportion blame. We simply need to discuss an alternative venue. If any.’
Kerr said: ‘I still maintain that the main fabric is in perfectly good condition. It’s simply a matter of closing off the short passage into the tower, which anyway hasn’t been used since the place was converted into a furniture store.’
‘Except that the lavatories are along there, and half the audience will be wanting a piss in the interval,’ said Duncan Maxwell chirpily.
‘The toilets are in the hall end of the passage. They’re still intact, and the tower end is blocked off. No problem.’
Buchanan said: ‘If you ask me . . .’
Which nobody had. Adam was beginning to feel himself drifting away, looking at them all from a distance, looking at them mouthing things and clenching and unclenching their fists, seeing them not here but in their everyday lives. In their present incarnation they were swollen with a self-importance they could never quite achieve outside the council chamber. Shaking himself back into th
e present, he looked at the clock above the double doors of the chamber. ‘Very well. In the absence of alternative suggestions, may I have your approval for an approach to the Borough Surveyor for a safety assessment? And in the meantime, if anybody does have a bright idea for other possibilities, you know where to find me.’
‘And Sir Nicholas should be back soon?’ said MacKenzie slyly.
‘I’ll make another attempt to contact him first thing in the morning. His housekeeper must have a hotel address, or some notion of when he’ll be contacting her.’
They began making their way down the carpeted but creaking staircase to the ground floor. Halfway down, Duncan Maxwell caught up with Adam.
‘Fancy a pint in the Buccleuch?’
Adam didn’t really fancy any such thing. Duncan was never very good company in a pub. Coming back to Scotland after years away, Adam had sadly learned that most Scots did not go into a pub for a chat with friends, but simply to get owlishly drunk and boast next day of how much they had put back. But the contemptuous glare which Buchanan shot at Duncan provoked Adam into agreeing. He wasn’t going to give silent assent to the pettiness of that particular clique.
‘Mustn’t stay long,’ he said as they crossed the street. ‘I want to tell Nora how things are going.’
He found there was no need to go home to do that. Nora and Deirdre were sitting close together on stools at the bar. Deirdre looked at home, with her usual glass of gin in her hand. Nora looked awkward, sipping some concoction with a greenish tinge.
‘Hello, hello,’ said Duncan with a jocularity several degrees over the top. In his wife’s company he always seemed at a disadvantage.
Adam looked at Nora. ‘Ought you to be out? I mean, so soon . . .’
‘I lured her out,’ said Deirdre breezily. ‘Do her good. I’m looking after her.’
She reached out to drag another stool closer, and waved to Adam to sit beside her. Her shirt was deliberately unbuttoned almost to her navel, and her skirt was hitched up as if by accident when she writhed into position on her bar stool, to show legs that she knew were well worth showing. It would take a man’s hand only a few inches to slide under the hem of that skirt. She knew it, of course, but wanted the pretence of being taken unawares.
Certainly she had made it clear with suggestive shrugs and pouts that Adam Lowther was one she particularly wanted to explore her and find how exciting she could be. It was blatant, yet her husband never reacted with anything more than dispirited grouchiness.
How on earth had she and heavy-going Duncan got together in the first place?
But then, how had he and Nora got together in the first place?
He tried to lean forward and smile at Nora. She managed a wan smile in return before being obscured by Duncan’s podgy shoulders. ‘Well enough to get round to that rehearsal?’ Duncan was saying. ‘We really ought to get that Hebridean song off pat as an encore.’
‘Encore?’ squealed Deirdre, pinching Adam’s wrist. ‘If any.’
Adam didn’t care to tell them that the version they intended to use was a reduction of an old ballad in an eccentric rhythm which had been tidied up into a parlour-posh version with run-of-the-mill harmonies in the accompaniment.
Duncan was saying: ‘Wasn’t there some talk of the BBC cameras coming along for a Songs of Praise programme? That could make a nice feature in it.’
Perhaps trying to draw Deirdre’s attention away from her husband, Nora leaned towards her. ‘Music’s all they really think of all the time, isn’t it?’
‘Time we changed all that.’ Deirdre was still looking directly at Adam.
The landlord plonked his elbows on the counter. Sid Carleton was a Carlisle man who had settled long enough in the Borders for his two daughters to have a good local accent, while he himself had never lost the characteristic half-Cumbrian, half-Lancashire whine of the city. ‘Been meaning to make you an offer, Mr Lowther. All got to play our part in the festivities, right? And we hear things are a bit sticky about accommodating some of the players after that business round at the Academy.’
‘We’ve been discussing that, yes.’
‘If you want a room for a jazz group or anything of that kind’ — Carleton jerked a meaty thumb over his shoulder — ‘we’ve got that function room out back there. You’d be welcome to use it.’
And the beer and the drams would flow very profitably, thought Adam. But it was still a useful idea. And live music, no matter how strident, would be better for the whole concept than the insistent thud of pop music pounding out of the speakers at the moment.
‘I think we’ll be taking you up on that.’
‘Drop in any time and we’ll talk it over. And you could back my application for an extension.’ Carleton reached for a cloth and mopped up drips of beer. ‘Any idea why that tower did come to collapse like that?’
‘Rain, of course,’ contributed a voice from further along the bar. ‘What else would ye expect, after all that rain swilling down off the brae in March? Undermined the whole playground, I’d say.’
‘Aye, well . . .’
‘And that corpse, now.’
It must have been the main topic of conversation in this bar since the news broke.
‘A nauchtie pupil, maybe? The tawse not good enough — they had to wall him up to keep him oot o’ the Rector’s hair.’
Nora wriggled on her stool, a sign that she wanted to go home. Adam slid from his own stool, brushing against Deirdre as she leaned at a perilous angle towards him.
‘See you, then.’
He took Nora’s arm, and they went out of the buzz and jangle of the bar into the sudden silence of the street. It was a clear, still evening. Street lamps trickled smears of light across the faint dew on the pavement. The only sound was a faint rustle from the newsagent’s on the corner, where a two-day-old poster promising revelations about a council rates scandal had worked loose. Then there was a brief clatter as a crumpled Coke can rolled lazily into the gutter. A shadow which might have been a cat scurried across the road.
He had been so happy to come back, after the years away. He had never understood how his father could bear to leave Kilstane on such an abrupt impulse and look for work down in the depths of England.
He would still be happy if it weren’t for Nora’s frequent wistfulness. Just as, when a boy, he had never wanted to leave, she as a young married woman had never really wanted to come here. He looked down at the pale prettiness of her cheek, level with his shoulder — her narrow but puckish face affectionate yet always tinged with melancholy — and realized that although they were arm in arm, his mind had been far away. It was filled with daydreams, of Mr Erskine teaching him the rudiments of music, and his father so weirdly antagonistic to the whole idea. It had been Mr Erskine then, not the reverent ‘Erskine’ one used later when referring to a great man. Had any pupil ever spoken of Mr Elgar or Mr Bach? And now the daydreams were becoming evening dreams — of concerts soon to be held in the favourite settings of his childhood; a string quartet here, a free-and-easy improvisation there, and an evening of light music when he could encourage Nora to enjoy singing in spite of her deficiencies — deficiencies which a local audience would be unlikely to regard too critically.
They wouldn’t laugh at her. Nobody would laugh. He knew her failings. But he would never let her be humiliated by anybody else.
He squeezed her arm. ‘Feel well enough to set up your practising with Duncan? Have to make up for lost time?’
She managed the faintest of smiles. ‘Music is all that really matters to you, isn’t it, Adam?’
In bed, he put his arm round her, wanting her to feel close to him and the ideas that kept him going.
She was warm and cosy, but he felt her stiffen.
‘Need bringing back to life?’ he murmured into her ear.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Then, grudging but submissive: ‘Oh, all right, then.’
And, having started it, he found her willingness not enough. To finish it, he
had to visualize Deirdre, even though he didn’t really want Deirdre herself, but could summon up the rhythm of what he guessed the movements of that body of hers would be — movements all the boys at the Academy had been obsessed by, mentally stripping her and sweating over her. And in the end it had been lumpish Duncan she had married.
When he had finished, and kissed Nora’s neck, and was lying back with his arm round her shoulders, she said quite amiably: ‘What were you thinking of, Adam? Some concerto with a lot of drumbeats, or something?’
Chapter Four
It was ten o’clock in the morning when Nick approached the isolated stone house below a hummock which must shelter it from the winds across the wilderness. The morning sky had changed from cool grey to pallid mauve, with a drift of cloud like an emaciated dragon sprawled across it. There was a moment when he felt an absurd premonition, an impulse to turn and drive away, and be done with this whole business. Why the hell had he allowed himself to be talked into this visit?
Before he could lift the pitted iron knocker on the door, Mairi McLeod opened it.
‘Nick.’
As she held the door open for him to go in past her, an almost animal heat came off her. Just as he remembered.
‘But of course it’s Sir Nicholas now, isn’t it?’
‘Not to you,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Just call me what you always did.’
‘After all this time? Not sure that’d be wise.’
Her hair was shorter and less wild than he remembered, but the colours were still ravishingly the same — sunshine on ripe barley, with a few strands of chestnut like an inlay of darker marquetry. At the back she had pulled a loosely woven plait through a rough leather toggle, thrusting out clear of her long, pale neck.
The room into which she showed him was surprisingly long for a Highland house, and was obviously the result of two smaller rooms being knocked together. A deep inglenook set into the side wall held a large open grate with a gently crackling fire, and two columns of peat blocks stacked to either side. No attempt had been made to mask the stonework with a wooden cladding to carry paint or wallpaper.
