To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  ‘Well, it’s true. No wonder I’ve not made any progress.’

  ‘Aha! Now we approach the crux of the matter. You consigned him to that home place for your own selfish ends – so that you would have peace and quiet to fulfil your literary ambitions. What a despicable way to treat your own flesh and blood! What vanity!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me of vanity! You’re the one who wants to be immortalised in a novel!’

  ‘I put it to you,’ the toad continued, suddenly adopting the look of a corpulent QC, ‘that your father is not the only casualty of your scheming. Is it not the case that you also engineered the break-up of your relationship with Sonya so that you could reoccupy your parents’ house, oust your father from it and thus create the ideal space for gratifying your desire to write fiction?’

  ‘That is absolute nonsense. You don’t know a thing about it, you, you – toad!’

  During much of this exchange, as Douglas’s voice had begun to rise in volume, the toad had remained pressed up against the kickboard, but towards the end he had moved into the centre of the floor, and had raised himself on all fours in a provocative manner. Now, he relaxed again and wiped something indefinable, and possibly non-existent, from his right eye.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said. ‘That was splendid, Douglas. Much better than that Secret Service rubbish you were spouting a few minutes ago. This is the stuff of real literature – the ordinary life made extraordinary. It’s shaping up beautifully. Now, when are we leaving?’

  Douglas stared at him. ‘You were winding me up?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Never intended that your poor old father should come along on our trip. Quite impractical.’

  ‘You made me lose my temper.’

  ‘Well, you can see the dramatic potential, can’t you? But never mind about that now. When do we go? Tomorrow? The next day?’

  ‘You want to come with me?’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love to. “Haud me back,” as I have heard it said hereabouts. We’ll not get away tonight, I assume, as you will need to research our transportation options and make the necessary arrangements. All I will require is a large pocket, so make sure you wear a decent-sized jacket or coat. I’m very flexible when it comes to sleeping accommodation – can kip down almost anywhere – and although my bladder does sometimes get very full I will do my best to relieve myself in places and at times that don’t cause you embarrassment. I know how fussy you humans can be when it comes to waste disposal. Well, I shall leave you to it, Douglas, and return to my humble abode perhaps for the last time for who knows how long. How exciting! Good night.’

  Mungo almost broke into a run as he left the kitchen. Douglas stood up and pursued him. ‘Wait!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, you’ll need to open the door for me,’ Mungo called over his shoulder, without easing his pace.

  ‘I will,’ Douglas said, ‘but it’s not that.’

  ‘What’s not what?’

  ‘I can’t take you.’

  Mungo halted at the door. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t. I can’t be responsible for you. What if something happens? You might get lost, or squashed –’

  ‘Or murdered with a graip, or picked off by a passing crow, or I might catch my death of cold. Douglas, these things could happen here, at any time. I’m old enough to make my own decisions. I won’t be any trouble, and I won’t blame you for any trouble there is. Not unless it’s your fault. Take me with you.’

  There was no arguing with him. He was smaller than the size of one of Douglas’s fists, but in the end the man could not refuse the toad. The door was opened, Mungo slipped out into the moonlight, and Douglas returned to his computer to investigate the various ways of getting from the city of Edinburgh to Glentaragar House, Glentaragar, Argyllshire.

  [To be continued]

  VARIOUS WAYS OF GETTING FROM EDINBURGH TO GLENTARAGAR, AS GLEANED FROM NUMEROUS WEBSITES, MAPS, BUS AND TRAIN TIMETABLES AND ONE LONG SATURDAY-MORNING TELEPHONE CONVERSATION WITH A HELPFUL WOMAN IN THE TOURIST INFORMATION OFFICE, OBAN

  1. Drive. If you are unable to drive, do not own a car, own a car but do not have access to it, or are not able to hire a car owing to the penalty points on your driving licence, then this method will not be available to you.

  2. Walk or cycle. These methods are unrealistic given the time and distance involved.

  3. Hitchhike. It is a very long way, the weather conditions may not be conducive to standing at the roadside for long periods, and in the closing stages of your journey the limited availability of passing vehicles may prove a particularly challenging barrier to success. This method is also not advised if your time is restricted.

  4. Take a train or a bus to Fort William (via Glasgow in both cases) or a train or a bus to Oban (via Stirling by bus, via Glasgow by train). On arrival at one or other of these destinations transfer to a local minibus service (see 5 & 6) for the next stage of your journey. It is possible to alight at a number of stops along either of these routes and await a local service bus connecting to the aforesaid minibus service (see 5 & 6) for the next stage of your journey. However, this is not advised as these connections are infrequent and unreliable, and indeed non-existent at weekends and on Wednesdays.

  5. From Fort William, catch the local minibus service (see 4), which runs on Tuesday and Friday mornings via Loch Glass and Glen Araich to Glen Orach, returning on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. If using this service, alight at the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel (see 7, for the next stage of your journey).

  6. From Oban, catch the local minibus service (see 4), which runs on Monday and Thursday mornings via Glen Orach and Glen Araich to Loch Glass, returning on Monday and Thursday afternoons. If using this service, alight at the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel (see 7, for the next stage of your journey).

  7. It may be possible (this information acquired informally, and with no guarantee as to its accuracy, from the helpful woman in the Tourist Information Office, Oban, who had it from a colleague to whom she referred for advice) to arrange a lift from the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel (see 5 & 6) to Glentaragar, should you make known to the hotel reception desk your desire to reach that destination, and should any vehicle be travelling in that direction. Alternatively it may be possible to borrow or hire a bicycle from the hotel.

  7.1. N.B. The Glen Araich Lodge Hotel is not open all year round. Its seasonal opening hours are not readily identifiable and (again, this information acquired off the record) are said to be irregular, and to vary according to the whim of the management.

  8. If wheeled transport is unavailable, follow the unclassified road on foot westward from the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel (see 5, 6, 7 & 7.1) for approximately two miles, to the junction at Fairy Bridge. Take the left fork and follow the road for a further two miles, where an unadopted road is reached. This leads after half a mile to Glentaragar House.

  8.1. N.B. This road is not suitable for caravans and some other types of vehicle.

  8.2. There are no suitable landing facilities for helicopters or aeroplanes at or in the near vicinity of Glentaragar House.

  A BAG OF SNAKES

  The phone rings out for an age when I call on Saturday morning, and I am on the point of giving up when somebody answers – somebody, I am relieved to hear, who is not the Corryvreckan character with whom I previously spoke. Again, there is that slight time lag before the voice – female, and of indeterminate age and class – reaches me.

  ‘Glentaragar House.’ Clearly she feels no obligation to identify herself.

  So we begin again. ‘Good morning. My name is Douglas Elder. Am I speaking to Miss Coppélia Munlochy?’

  ‘You are. It was you, wasn’t it, who telephoned last night about an interview with my grandmother?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I’m delighted the message got through. To be honest I am quite surprised that it did.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Well, when I spoke to somebody who called himself – I think it was a he – Corryvreckan, I wasn’t sure that he was �
�� that he had …’

  ‘That he had what?’

  ‘Taken down all the details.’

  ‘Corryvreckan is an absolute stickler for details,’ Miss Munlochy says a little frostily, and I imagine her in a certain way. ‘I conveyed your request to my grandmother and she said, I quote, “If Mr Elder can be bothered to come all that way to see me then I can be bothered to speak to Mr Elder.” So that’s all right. We are expecting you on Tuesday on the bus from Fort William. Are you telephoning now because you have changed your plans?’

  ‘No, not at all. I have just spent the last hour or so trying to work out the simplest way of reaching you.’

  ‘You can spend a lot longer than an hour doing that, Mr Elder. The fact is, we aren’t very simply reached.’

  ‘So I’ve discovered.’

  ‘How were you thinking of travelling?’

  ‘By train.’

  ‘To Fort William? That would be your best option. You will need to take the first train from Glasgow on Monday, the half-past eight, stay in Fort William that night and come on to Glentaragar on Tuesday.’

  ‘That’s my intention.’

  ‘Be sure to get on that train. There are later ones but that is the best one to take. In case of cancellations.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. The reason I’m phoning again is because I wondered if you could advise me about accommodation. It does look as if I will have to stay for a night or two if I am to interview Mrs Munlochy in depth.’

  ‘Or if she is to interview you in depth.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘An interview is a two-way process, is it not?’ Again, I imagine Miss Munlochy in a certain, not very positive, way. ‘Yes, you will certainly have to stay.’

  ‘I’m assuming that the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel is the closest place where I could get a room.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t make that assumption at all. Have you tried contacting the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, but there is no answer.’

  ‘That’s perfectly normal – for the Glen Araich. I think a better idea is for you to stay here.’

  ‘That’s very kind. I don’t want to impose on you.’

  ‘It’s more of a necessity than a kindness. Don’t worry, you won’t be an imposition. You must take us as you find us. If you arrive here on Tuesday, you’ll be able to leave on Thursday. That means you must take the bus from Fort William when coming, and the bus to Oban when departing. Will that be an inconvenience?’

  ‘It may be complicated, but it won’t be inconvenient.’

  ‘Good. There isn’t really an alternative. Do you know this part of the world at all?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, I would come prepared for all eventualities – including the weather. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Well, there was one thing. Does Mrs Munlochy keep in good health – given her age, I mean? Is there anything I should know beforehand? Is she hard of hearing, for example?’

  ‘Hard of hearing? Not at all. My grandmother keeps very well. Of course, she tires a little sometimes, but who doesn’t? The bus should let you off at Glen Araich about midday. I shall see if Corryvreckan is available to bring you on to the house. It’s a bit of a walk otherwise.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Again, Mr Elder, it is really more of a necessity.’

  Once more I imagine Miss Munlochy. It is most unfair of my imagination but I can’t stop it conjuring up a cliché – a tight-lipped, dowdy, tweed-and-twinset-clad woman, old before her indeterminate time, dutiful, embittered, lonely – but that’s as developed as the cliché gets because at this point in the conversation I become aware of furious rattlings of the letter-box flap in my front door, interspersed with energetic stress-testing of the door’s wood and long bursts of pressure applied to the bell.

  ‘Miss Munlochy, you will have to excuse me. Somebody appears to be trying to break down my door. I’d better go and find out what’s happening.’

  ‘Yes, you had,’ she says. ‘Now, don’t forget, will you, to be on that eight-thirty train from Glasgow on Monday?’

  ‘I won’t. I must go.’

  ‘Until we meet, then,’ she says, ‘goodbye,’ and she hangs up before I can say goodbye back – which for some unaccountable reason leaves me momentarily bereft. The din outside continues. Imagining that fire or flood must be engulfing the house or that some emergency is unfolding in the street, I hurry to the door and open it.

  ‘Oh, you’re in?’ says Ollie Buckthorn. ‘I thought you were out. Any chance of a coffee?’

  ‘Jesus, Ollie, I couldn’t have got here any faster. Stop ringing that bell or you’ll break it. And do you have to bring that inside?’

  He is wheeling a bicycle past me which he proceeds to prop up against one wall, beneath a painting of snow-capped mountains, purple heather and hairy cattle, an example of the Scotch Realist School much admired by my mother.

  ‘I do,’ he says. ‘No padlock, and I hear this part of town is awash with disreputable characters who can’t resist the opportunity of an unsecured bike loan. But don’t worry, it’s dry outside. The tyres will have hardly any muck on them. What about that coffee?’

  ‘Aye, all right, all right. I’ll make some fresh.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want it stale,’ he says, and bowls ahead of me straight through to the kitchen, as if he has done the route countless times. No doubt the residual smell of breakfast toast is a clue. In fact he has never been here before, as our friendship has been maintained purely in the workplace and sundry social venues such as pubs and cafés. I put the kettle on to boil.

  ‘I got your address from Grant,’ he says, draping his rump over a wooden chair. ‘And as it was such a lovely morning, and my day off, I thought I would seek out my former workmate Douglas and see what he gets up to at the weekend now he’s an idle layabout.’

  ‘Rich from you, that,’ I say. He is wearing filthy old trainers and a faded blue tracksuit with white stripes. The muddy bottoms of it hardly extend to his plump hairy calves, the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and a T-shirt that has come adrift below the top reveals rather more of Ollie’s girth than I care to view. With his sweaty red face and wild hair, he is a picture of neither sartorial elegance nor sporting physique.

  ‘At least I got on my bike and pedalled, as Jesus exhorted the sick fellow,’ he says. ‘Or was that Norman Tebbit? I’ve been thinking, Dougie – thinking and worrying.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About you. Have you set up this interview with the Munlochy dame yet?’

  ‘I was in the process of doing just that when you started demolishing the front of the building. You interrupted me in the middle of a conversation with her granddaughter. Whose name, by the way, is Coppélia.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘Just unusual. It’s the name of a life-size doll in a French ballet. There’s also a mad old servant called Corryvreckan.’

  ‘In the ballet?’

  ‘No, at Glentaragar House, which is where Rosalind Munlochy lives.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve located her? Corryvreckan: isn’t that a whirlpool up the west coast somewhere?’

  ‘It is. Top end of the Isle of Jura.’

  ‘That’s not where this Glentaragar House is, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s on the mainland, but as far as I can make out it’s about fifty miles from anywhere. Can’t find a picture or anything else about it online, but I’ve been invited to stay for two nights.’

  Ollie looks concerned. ‘You’d better take a big ball of wool with you so you can find your way back. Or leave written instructions here in case you don’t. Life-size dolls and mad old servants named after whirlpools? It sounds as safe as a bag of snakes.’

  ‘It’ll be tedious and staid, and the biggest health hazard will be damp sheets. Potentially good background copy for the article, though.’

  ‘What a pro you are. Got anything to eat? A bacon roll or a cheese omelette, something like that? I ha
ven’t eaten since breakfast.’

  ‘It’s only half-past ten.’

  ‘Ah, but this cycling lark plays havoc with the old calories. Even just a biscuit would help.’

  I fetch out an unopened packet of digestives and Ollie sets about processing them with the efficiency of an assembly-line robot. Between bites, and gulps of coffee, he quizzes me more about my impending excursion to Argyll, but I sense that this isn’t the real reason for his visit, and indeed it is not.

  ‘Now, I said I was going to have a word with you about this novel-writing carry-on, Douglas, and that’s what I’m here to do. You can talk to me, you know. Don’t hold back. Tell Uncle Ollie all about it, from the beginning.’

  ‘I don’t need counselling, Ollie. Everybody has a book in them. I just want to see if I can write mine. It’s that simple.’

  ‘No, no, no. I don’t care about that. Tell me about the novel itself. How does it start?’

  ‘Hang on a minute. On Thursday you point-blank refused to hear anything about it.’

  ‘I was too hasty. We go back a long way, old chum. If you’ve decided to write a novel, I should at least give you some moral support, even if I have to be the one, finally, who says, “Elder, it’s no good. Give it up and go back to the day job. Deal in facts, my boy, not fairy tales.” ’

  ‘You’d say that, would you?’

  ‘Perhaps not in those exact words but, yes, I would. Home truths. That’s what friends are for. So tell me, what’s the basic premise? What’s your pitch? Imagine I’m a literary agent or a publisher.’

  I am touched by his change of tune. ‘Well, if you genuinely want to know …’

  ‘I do, and what’s more I have big money to spend if it’s the right book.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been doing some restructuring. You pick up bits of advice, feedback, and it makes you see things afresh. Everybody’s got a different take.’

  ‘What? You’ve not been sending your book out to other agents, have you? That’s a serious breach of protocol.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘It might have been back in that golden age of the classics you were going on about the other day, but not any longer. Anyway, I’ve not sent it to anyone. I haven’t even written it. And you’re not a literary agent, you’re Ollie Buckthorn, eating my biscuits.’