To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  ‘What have you got against fiction? You’ve a whole library on your phone, you said. Don’t tell me there’s no fiction in it.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of fiction. The virtual shelves are bulging with fiction. Classic fiction, Douglas. Fiction from before Rosalind Munlochy was born, and then a few bits and pieces up until she takes her seat in the House of Commons – if she ever did. That stuff is worth reading, there’s a mountain of it, and – a fact not to be sneered at – if it’s out of copyright it’s downloadable for free. Jane Austen and Anthony Trollope and George Orwell. Those people knew how to fashion a paragraph! What we don’t need is you or anyone else from the fucked-up, smug, postmodern apology for a society that we have the misfortune to inhabit adding their hard little pebbles of constipated shit to the pile. And note that I say “shit”, by the way. “Shite” is too good a word for it.’

  It is not unusual for Ollie to shift into rant mode. This one is moderate to rough, as the shipping forecast might put it. I should let it go but I don’t.

  ‘For a man so modern that you make the rest of us look like sludge-eating dinosaurs, you seem a wee bit embittered, Ollie Buckthorn, and, if I may say so, a wee bit behind the times.’

  ‘Up yours.’

  ‘And I wasn’t going to ask you to read what I’ve written, anyway.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t. What were you going to say?’

  ‘Just that I am finding the whole process quite cathartic. Liberating, even.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  Another thing about Ollie is that he often winds himself up more than the person he means to wind up. And then it’s over. This is such an occasion. He stands looking incredibly disappointed by life in general and me in particular, shoulders heaving and jowls juddering, and for a few seconds I think I may be about to witness a medical episode. Then a big, cheesy grin spreads across his face and he reaches out and wallops me in the chest with his big, meaty right paw.

  ‘You’re an arse, Elder.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, but I say opinion is a fickle beast.’

  ‘It is that. You’re still an arse. Right then, that’s settled. I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘So had I.’

  ‘Ha! Cheerio, then.’

  ‘Cheerio. I loves ya, Ollie,’ I say, doing my Popeye impersonation.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he says, doing his Ollie impersonation.

  CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #2

  Douglas Findhorn Elder opened the back door of what was half his and half his father’s house – the house in which he had grown up, which he had never really left and which, one day perhaps not too far off, would be wholly his – and looked out into the night. Rain with the consistency of a fine, soft mesh was falling. No stars could be discerned and the light of numerous street lamps in the neighbourhood struggled to do more than add a yellowish-grey, dirty tone to the October darkness. Douglas did not step out onto the patio or – as it had always been known in the family – the sitootery; or – as his father used to observe with dry wit on wet days and nights such as this – the naechancery. He had no intention of sitting at the watery cast-iron table on either of the watery cast-iron chairs. Furthermore, mindful of the entertainment of the evening before last, he did not wish to trigger the security light and thus distress, should he be out and about, his recent acquaintance the toad, Mungo Forth Mungo.

  Douglas had come to the door in the hope that Mungo might be there and that they could renew their conversation. He had done the same the night before – had even wandered the garden with a torch, but not a sign of any toad had he found. He had gone to bed that night, sober and disappointed, and almost persuaded that he must have dreamed the whole thing.

  Then, tonight – just a few minutes earlier, in fact – he had been sitting at the kitchen table, typing, when he heard a faint but persistent scratching at the door. He had ignored it at first, then decided that a cat on the prowl must be responsible. It was surely not possible that the sound could be connected with a common toad going about its normal nocturnal business. Or even an uncommon toad. He had continued to type, and to read back what he had written on the screen of his computer.

  Suddenly a dreadful fear had struck him: if it was a cat, going about its normal nocturnal business, it might be a cause of some annoyance or even danger to Mungo. And so, telling himself that he was merely playing games with himself, he had opened the door and called out, like the medium at a seance to which nobody else has turned up, ‘Is anybody there?’

  Somebody was: Mungo was there! Enough light from the back lobby spilt onto the nearest stone slabs to reveal the toad in the middle of some strenuous exercises. He rose on all fours, puffing out his chest, then stood briefly on his back legs and performed an even more impressive pectoral expansion before returning to his standard squatting position. He repeated this performance several times, breathing heavily.

  Douglas felt a corresponding swelling of his thorax, which he attributed to the pleasure of seeing his batrachian amigo again.

  ‘Good evening, Mungo,’ Douglas said, when the toad had finished.

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ Mungo said. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  But Douglas was convinced that the toad’s amber eye had spotted him and that Mungo was pleased to have had his exertions witnessed.

  ‘I was just limbering up,’ Mungo explained. ‘One has to, to obviate stiffness and stimulate agility, both physical and mental.’

  Two, Douglas thought, could play at this game. ‘I thought perhaps you were adopting an intimidating posture for the purpose of self-defence,’ he replied. Only that afternoon he had read, on the internet, that this was what toads did.

  ‘Why would I be doing that?’

  ‘A cat might have been bothering you.’

  ‘A cat? Bother me? I don’t think so. Much more likely that I would bother a cat. They don’t like my … perfume. Humff. They wouldn’t need to like it if they kept their distance.’

  ‘I once saw a dog upset by a toad,’ Douglas said. ‘The dog wanted to make trouble, or perhaps just to play, but it couldn’t do either. It started frothing at the mouth – a reaction to the toad’s … perfume, presumably.’

  ‘Dogs are cleverer than cats,’ Mungo said.

  ‘The received wisdom among humans, generally speaking, is that cats are cleverer than dogs.’

  ‘Well, that’s human wisdom for you,’ Mungo said rudely. ‘Cats think they are clever, but they never learn. That dog you saw, I bet it learned. Dogs have been learning for untold generations. They even learned not to be wolves – but of course there was a price to pay for that. Collaboration,’ he added, with a meaningful stare.

  The toad sounded to Douglas like some Scotch comedian of bygone days, a Willie McCulloch or a Rikki Fulton or perhaps a Chic Murray. He had not picked up on this peculiarity on Tuesday, but it was unmistakable now: the broad vowels with a hint of narrow irritability; the see-through bravado. It brought to Douglas’s mind a schoolmaster with a gambling addiction; a grocer with a grudge against his customers; or, in this case, a gymnast with a prejudice against cats.

  ‘Collaboration,’ Douglas said. ‘That’s a word with connotations. Mostly negative, historically speaking.’

  ‘Which is why I used it. But that’s your problem, not ours. You have history. We have aeons.’

  Douglas, somewhat irritated by Mungo’s insistent assertions of superiority, changed the subject.

  ‘Not such a nice night,’ he said.

  ‘On the contrary, it’s a wonderful night. Delightful temperature, a good steady drizzle, and plenty of food about. What more could one ask for? You’re not coming out?’

  ‘No, it’s too wet for me. I just wanted to see if you were around.’

  ‘Well, I am. Very much so.’ He took a few, almost jaunty steps to demonstrate that he was. Just like Chic Murray, Douglas thought.
/>   ‘May I suggest,’ Mungo said, ‘that if you’re not coming out, I could come in for a while?’

  ‘You’d be very welcome.’

  ‘Just to see how the other half lives. I don’t suppose I’ll like it much,’ the toad said, as he clambered over the lintel. The back-lobby floor was laid with large, earthy-red tiles. ‘Oh, but this is very pleasant after all. Which way?’

  ‘Turn right. That’s the kitchen,’ Douglas said, following him in.

  The kitchen floor was covered with black-and-white-lino squares like a chessboard. Mungo, a lugubrious bishop, moved diagonally across it. He came up against the kickboard under the sink unit and stopped.

  ‘Much better than I expected,’ he said. ‘Any wine tonight?’

  ‘There’s a bottle open. I was letting it breathe while I was working. Do you want some?’

  ‘A splash.’

  ‘Do you mind if I put it in a dish? Otherwise it’ll stain the lino.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’d rather it didn’t.’

  Douglas found a small, shallow-lipped dish, such as might be used for butter or the extinguishing of cigarettes, and poured red wine into it. He placed it on the floor and Mungo made his way towards it.

  ‘This is rather demeaning,’ he said, shuffling into position over the dish but not lowering himself onto it.

  ‘Think of it as like taking a bath,’ Douglas said. He poured himself a glass and sat down at the kitchen table. The computer purred its gentle and continuous electronic purr; the cursor flashed its insistent flash.

  Mungo was now sitting on the dish and Douglas had a sudden, disturbing vision of his father, trousers round ankles, in similar circumstances. He looked away quickly, and with a single keystroke inserted the two dots of a colon into the sentence he had been composing before he went to the door: thus.

  ‘I seem to have interrupted you,’ Mungo said.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Douglas said, ‘I was just finishing. That’s it, done. The truth is, I wanted to see you. I needed to see you. I couldn’t quite believe, when I woke up yesterday morning, that Tuesday night – well, that Tuesday night had really happened.’

  ‘Do nights – or days – sometimes not happen for you?’

  ‘You know what I mean. That we met and talked.’

  ‘Let’s assume that we did, and take things from there. It will make things simpler. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m writing. Do you know about writing and reading?’

  ‘I know about them. We don’t do them. No need.’ His tongue lashed out and reeled in a small spider that had been making its way along the kickboard. ‘Ours is an oral culture. What are you writing?’

  ‘A book. You know about books, too, I suppose?’

  ‘You can suppose that I have a wide knowledge of many things. What kind of book?’

  ‘Well, I’m only at the start of it. It’s the story of a man who goes on a journey to the back of beyond. He is sent there on a mission which looks straightforward enough but unexpected things happen to him along the way. He has all kinds of adventures but to be honest I’m not sure yet what form these will take. If you were to ask me how the story ends the answer would be I don’t know. In a way that is my reason for writing it: to find out.’

  ‘You mean, it is a work of fiction?’

  ‘It is, but loosely based on real events and characters, although of course there will be a disclaimer denying that, should the book ever be published.’

  ‘That would be a lie then, the disclaimer?’

  ‘Well, yes, but then a novel is one big lie from start to end, if you think about it.’

  ‘I see. And is this your first big lie, or have you always told them?’

  ‘I have always been a writer, but this is my first book. I have spent much of my life working in the sphere of journalism, editing other people’s writing, and penning occasional articles of my own. I enjoy literature, travel and fine wines. I live in Edinburgh with my partner, Sonya, and her two children. I’m sorry, Mungo, I got carried away there. I was composing a blurb about myself.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A blurb. A kind of mini-biography, to go on the dust jacket of the book. I was projecting into the future. It’ll probably never happen.’

  ‘Like Tuesday night. I understand. I will disregard the part about Sonya and her children, which from our previous conversation I deduce is also a lie. Or should I say a wish, projected into the future?’

  ‘I’m not sure about “wish”. It’s a possibility. A possible fresh start.’

  ‘But you don’t wish it.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I wish. I’m seeing Sonya tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have a better idea then.’

  ‘Your home or hers?’

  ‘Neither. I sent her a message earlier and we’ve arranged to meet for lunch near her place of work.’

  ‘Do you have one of those?’

  ‘No, I used to have, but I stopped going there six months ago.’

  ‘That would be the sphere of journalism you mentioned?’

  ‘It’s not actually a sphere. It’s an ordinary building with corners. The newspaper I worked for is called the Spear.’

  ‘The Spear of Journalism?’

  ‘Just the Spear. In its early years it had a reputation for poking the Victorian establishment in painful places. Inevitably it became part of the establishment but it still gave a sharp jag to folk who needed it from time to time. Unfortunately, its glory days are past. It’s been losing sales and staff for years. They offered me a redundancy package and I took it. I was surplus to requirements, but now the editor wants me to write for the paper again.’

  ‘He’s going to serialise your novel?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t know about the novel. Nobody does, except Ollie.’

  ‘Who’s Ollie?’

  ‘A friend. He still works at the Spear.’

  ‘Then Ollie could serialise it?’

  ‘Not his decision, but even if he had the authority to run it, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t think I should be wasting my time writing fiction. How do you know about serialisation?’

  Mungo’s upper body shifted in a particular way. Douglas was beginning to read correctly what these gestures meant. Many toad movements resemble a shrug, but this one really was a shrug.

  ‘I just do. I know what a redundancy package is too, and what “surplus to requirements” means. Our methods of acquiring, storing, retrieving and passing on information are much more sophisticated than your books and computers. Clever though such tools appear to be, they have a deleterious effect on the user. We don’t have them and so we rely on our own brains. Consequently we use a vastly greater percentage of them than you do of yours. And, as I said, we live to a good age. Which is a long way of saying, I know about these things because I know about them. Where were we? Ah yes, the editor of the Spear wants you to write something that is not your novel. What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. That’s why I’ve arranged to meet Sonya. I need to tell her about it too because I’ll be going away for a couple of days.’

  ‘Why does she need to know that? I thought your relationship was over.’

  ‘I’d prefer to think of it as between phases. I hope it isn’t completely over because I have a favour to ask her.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘I need to borrow her car.’

  Douglas gave Mungo an inquiring glance. It was all that was required.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know what a car is. Monstrous things. You used the word “disaster” in a flippant manner the other night. If you want to talk about true disasters, put “cars” and “migrating toads” in the same sentence. Absolute carnage. Why do you need a car?’

  ‘Because it’s a long journey I’m going on, and a car will make it a lot simpler. There’s a woman I have to meet.’

  ‘Another woman? Are you in a relationship with her as well?’

  ‘No. I’ve never met her before. She’s called Rosalind Munlochy.’


  Mungo chewed the name over two or three times, sounding it from alternate sides of his mouth. His verdict, when it came, was positive.

  ‘Impressive. She could go far with a name like that.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s going anywhere. I’m going to her, to interview her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To ask her opinion about things. To see what she’s done in the course of a long and varied life. To find out who she is.’

  ‘So, pretty much the same process as writing a novel? Is there any point?’

  ‘That is the point, Mungo.’

  ‘I see. Any more wine?’ The toad raised himself while Douglas refilled the dish, and then Mungo said, ‘So what do you know about her already?’

  [To be continued]

  EXTRACT FROM NOTES FOR AN AS YET UNWRITTEN BIOGRAPHY OF MRS ROSALIND MUNLOCHY, NéE STRIVEN, BY MR DOUGLAS FINDHORN ELDER, AUTHOR; COMPOSED PARTLY FROM SUNDRY PAPERS PROVIDED BY MR JOHN LIFFIELD, EDITOR OF THE SPEAR, FOR THE PURPOSE OF ENABLING MR ELDER TO PREPARE FOR AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS MUNLOCHY; PARTLY FROM HER AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL WORK SOME LIFE; AND PARTLY FROM INFORMATION GATHERED IN CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND THE SCOPE OF THE PRESENT WORK, TO WHICH THE READER IS CONSEQUENTLY DENIED ACCESS

  On the first day of November 1914, when the Battle of Ypres was raging and the true, ghastly nature of modern warfare revealing itself to the world, Rosalind Isabella Striven was born into an ancient family which had long held lands in Argyll and Perthshire, though by the time of her birth these were reduced to a few hundred acres around an old family house in Glentaragar.

  The Strivens, who are of aristocratic stock, have borne their name with serious, literal intent for at least the last three centuries, and there is no reason to suspect, though the historical record is faded, that they have not always done so. Not for them the irresponsible existence of absentee landlords, living off rents and inherited wealth in the fat South for nine months of the year, and descending on their Scottish domains only for the fishing of spring and the shooting of late summer and autumn. A Striven who does not strive is not a Striven in the eyes of other Strivens, whose family motto is Strive Ane, Strive A’. Even when the work in hand may simply hasten disaster, Strivens do not cease: they would rather be industrious than indolent. Whole septs of them came out with the Earl of Mar in 1715, and dashed energetically back and forth at Sheriffmuir, achieving little forbye the forfeiture of their estates. In 1745, having re-established themselves, half of them came out again with Prince Charles Edward Stewart, while the other half stayed at home, managing their farms with great diligence and guarded loyalty to the House of Hanover; and it was afterwards said that this division was the outcome of a rapidly convened family conference during which the menfolk agreed to disagree, at least in public, for the duration of hostilities, with a view to preserving the future for as many Strivens as possible, whatever the outcome. But as on this occasion fortune did not favour the brave, who were either killed in battle, executed, exiled or transported, it came to pass that the farming Strivens found themselves, several months after Culloden, conveniently sundered from titles associated with the Jacobite Cause yet in possession of a great deal more property than they could ever have reasonably hoped to own.