I thank him for being such a stout fellow, and he tells me not to be so fucking sizeist, and by the time I have convoyed him to his parked bicycle we are brothers once more. He pulls something from a pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and hands it to me: a little pack of cards, about three inches by two in size.
‘Almost forgot,’ he says. ‘I ran these off on the office printer for you. Don’t tell Liffield, but I thought they’d come in handy. The paper’s name might still carry a bit of weight and influence until yours rises to the giddy heights of fame. Good luck, old wanker!’
He wheels the machine down the garden path and mounts it, and I fancy I hear the tyres groaning in pain. I read the topmost card. DOUGLAS F. ELDER, FREELANCE WRITER, it says, and in the lower-right-hand corner is the logo of the Spear. No email address, no website, but there is a mobile phone number which isn’t mine.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ Ollie says, ‘the number is mine. I couldn’t risk putting the office number on it in case one of the interns answered and denied all knowledge of you. But I thought if anyone did call, wanting to check if you were bona fide, I’d be able to vouch for you. Smart, eh?’
The card wouldn’t pass muster with the Trades Descriptions Act, but it may open a door or two if the doorperson doesn’t inspect it too closely, and it is good to have Ollie as backup. Probably. He’s printed about a dozen of them.
‘Thanks, Ollie!’
‘Remember to take the ball of wool!’ he shouts as he wobbles off down the street.
‘I will!’ I shout back. But I am lying. Somewhere in the course of our discussion I have reached a decision: I am going to be the hero of my own story. I am going to be bold, or at least bolder than I have been for most of my life. Fifty is the new twenty! No checking the terms of the mission with John Liffield! To hell with that – I will decide which questions to ask the Munlochy woman! And no ball of wool, actual or metaphorical, to guide me home! What could be less adventurous than to be certain, even before setting off, of finding my way back again? For that is what I am doing – going on an adventure, to the back of beyond! Do I know where I’m going? No! Do I care? Not much! The only certainty is that the back of beyond is further than Douglas Findhorn Elder has ever been before!
2
* * *
CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #4
Douglas Findhorn Elder felt movement in the left-hand pocket of his tweed jacket. He had been expecting it for some time, and was only surprised that he had had to wait so long for the sensation. It told him that Mungo Forth Mungo, who had been as inanimate as a stone since leaving Glasgow more than two hours earlier, was awake and likely to want to talk.
The train was making steady progress between hills still wearing their rich autumnal robes. Above the rising moorland, grey clouds and patches of blue sky jostled for predominance. Flecks of rain struck the window occasionally but the weather did not seem too unpleasant. So far, Douglas thought, so good.
The carriage was almost empty. Several people dressed for outdoor exercise, equipped with rucksacks and walking poles, had left the train at Crianlarich, a few more at Tyndrum, and now only five human passengers remained: two Chinese women wielding guidebooks and cameras, presumably on holiday; a girl of about sixteen wearing headphones and reading a book; an elderly, ruddy-faced man who, Douglas mused, could have been a farmer or retired policeman, or perhaps a clergyman returning from a weekend of sin in the big city; and Douglas himself. The others were all seated towards the far end of the carriage. Douglas had chosen a seat that was protected from observation unless you happened to be walking past it, and nobody was. The refreshments trolley was long gone; the ticket inspector had done his duty between Glasgow and Dumbarton and not been seen since; all was peaceful. Douglas’s raincoat and small suitcase with wheels and extendable handle were stowed above his head in the luggage rack, and a copy of the Spear was folded on the seat next to him, comprehensively read. He had a book in his suitcase but for the time being had had enough of reading. If Mungo was up for conversation, so was he. They could talk quietly without anyone noticing, and anyone who did overhear them would most likely conclude that Douglas was either on his phone or talking to himself, a harmless eccentric.
Mungo emerged, crawling up Douglas’s jacket until he was at chest height. Douglas lowered the foldaway table attached to the seat in front, and the toad reached out with one hand and swung himself onto it. He settled himself in the circle designed for the placement of a cup, glass or bottle.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Rannoch Moor,’ Douglas said. ‘At least I think we are. I’ve never been quite sure where it starts and where it ends.’
‘Where what ends?’
‘The moor. It’s a very large expanse of … well, moor. Miles and miles of heather, grass and bog.’
Mungo peered out through the glass. ‘Looks fine to me.’
‘Aye, well, it’s right up your street. Wet, and full of insects. How is your new coat?’
‘Wearing in nicely, thank you. Remind me of our plan again?’
‘My plan, Mungo. We should be arriving in Fort William in about an hour and a half. I’ll find a guesthouse or hotel for the night, check where we catch the minibus to Glen Araich in the morning, and then we can take a walk round the town. I haven’t been in Fort William for years. There used to be a good Indian restaurant. I quite fancy a curry this evening.’
‘Do I have a say in where we go?’
‘No. It’s probably not a good idea taking you into a restaurant. Perhaps you could forage about outside while I’m eating.’
‘Thanks a lot. Do you remember that discussion we had about waste disposal?’
‘I remember you saying something about it.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to put me down on the floor. I’ll be as discreet as I can, but my bladder is full.’
‘For God’s sake, Mungo. Let me go and get a paper cup or something.’
‘Can’t wait. It looks like somebody’s spilt something under the next table. I’ll go there and no one will notice.’
Douglas put out his palm and Mungo climbed in. He felt very heavy and very full.
‘You must be about to burst!’
‘That’s why I thought I should get out of your pocket. Thanks.’
‘Thank you.’
A minute later Douglas noticed a long thin stream tracking down the aisle in a steady and quite powerful flow. He felt guiltily responsible, as if he had allowed a child or pet to urinate on the floor. No doubt he was responsible: there was probably some regulation against carrying wild animals on board trains. Yet nobody who knew Mungo Forth Mungo, Douglas thought, could describe him as ‘wild’. He was one of the most urbane, sophisticated toads one could hope to meet, and he was an adult, well able to take responsibility for his own actions. And was toad urine any more offensive than spilt coffee or juice?
Douglas felt a tug at the hem of his left trouser leg. He reached down and brought Mungo back to the foldaway table.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Much.’
‘I should think you would be.’
‘Now I’m hungry.’
‘You’ll have to wait.’
‘Could we not go and find that woman with the sandwiches?’
‘And what filling would you fancy? Coronation beetle? Ant salad?’
‘Very amusing. I’d eat anything right now. I’m ravenous.’
‘If she comes back I’ll buy something and we can share it. Look at the view. That might take your mind off food.’
The clouds were winning their contest with the sky. Far to the west big mountains rose from the moor, but their tops were lost in a grey blanket. This landscape was alien to Douglas, who had never had much desire to venture far from the city, let alone go camping or hike up steep hills.
He became conscious that Mungo was not admiring the view but staring intently at him.
‘What is it now?’
‘Tell me more
about Sonya,’ Mungo said. ‘Why don’t you like her?’
‘I do like her. What makes you think I don’t like her?’
‘When you speak of her it is not with any warmth. And you’re not in a “relationship” with her any more, that’s what you said. So I assume you don’t like her.’
‘Well, a relationship’s a two-way thing, isn’t it? It doesn’t follow that you live with someone just because you like them. As it happens, I do like her. I find her very attractive, and she can be charming, but she’s not easy to live with. Neither am I, though, or so Sonya would tell you – not that you and she are ever likely to have a conversation. That’s really why the bidie-in relationship ended – mutual domestic incompatibility. It was her decision.’
‘She requested you to leave?’
‘She kind of persuaded me, with looks and glances and a running commentary on my shortcomings. When I suggested that she might prefer me to go she agreed like a shot. So: my suggestion, her decision. Does that make sense?’
‘Not really. Why are you difficult to live with?’
Douglas sighed. ‘Sonya used to get frustrated because I wasn’t ambitious enough, assertive enough or passionate enough for her liking. She finds me altogether quite irritating.’
‘Passionate enough for what?’
‘To satisfy her idea of what an ideal relationship should be like.’
‘It sounds so complicated. Can’t you just have sex with one another and forget the other stuff? That’s what we do, every spring.’ Mungo sighed. It was a very different sigh from Douglas’s.
‘We’re not toads, Mungo, that’s the thing. We’re human. We aspire to certain dreams and lifestyles, and the problem is, the reality never matches the dream. Or the lifestyle.’
‘Never?’
‘Some people say it does, but I think they’re deluding themselves.’
‘You would think that, I suppose,’ Mungo said. And then he added quickly, ‘I’m not judging you. As a matter of fact, I find you very easy to live with – so far!’
‘Thanks.’
‘Nae bother,’ Mungo said, in a joco tone and with a little Chic-like swagger. At that exact moment the train shuddered and lurched sideways, nearly dislodging him from his perch. One of the toad’s hands went to his head and he gave it a couple of taps, a hot and a cold.
‘Almost lost my bunnet,’ he said wryly. ‘What happened there?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Douglas said. ‘A dip in the track or something. We seem to be still moving, though.’
‘It’s made me feel rather queasy. If it happens again, I’m going back in your pocket. What were we saying?’
‘You were asking about Sonya.’
‘Ah, yes. How did you two get together in the first place?’
Douglas could hardly remember. It seemed to him, sitting in that railway carriage, that he had known Sonya for ever and that their relationship had never been relaxed or simple. Of course that wasn’t the case. Years before, in the glory days of print media, or at least when the sunset still looked glorious, there had been a staffer at the Spear – Chloe or Claire or Claudia, he couldn’t even remember her name – whose sole job had been to review exhibitions and write stories about art and artists, and this Clarice or Clemmy or Clodagh had persuaded Douglas to accompany her to some opening at a gallery, and a friend of hers was there, and that friend was Sonya, and Douglas found her, as he had told Mungo, very attractive, and they began to talk, and Sonya responded positively to his friendly attention – his singular and unthreatening attention – and perhaps (he thought later) this was because it was only a year or so since her partner Ben, the father of her children, Magnus and Paula, then aged twelve and seven, had walked out of the relationship and gone to Australia where he took up with another woman who had no children. And perhaps another reason why Sonya responded positively to Douglas was that Ben was a bully and Douglas wasn’t a bully, she could see that, and furthermore he didn’t baulk when she mentioned her children, he didn’t shy away as if a relationship – if there was going to be one – with a woman with two children would be too complicated. On the contrary, he seemed very open to the idea that she came with two other small human beings, as it were, attached (although on that particular evening, a rare occasion out for Sonya because she did not have much money, they were being looked after by a babysitter), and this was because Douglas, in his late thirties, was open to being in a relationship with a woman in her mid-thirties with two children, since he quite liked the idea of parenthood but had never wanted to go through all the hassle of being in a relationship that changed from being sexual but non-procreative to one in which the procreation of other human beings became the prime purpose of the sexual element. He had had a few sexual but non-procreative relationships before and had enjoyed them, but they were usually brief and often ended because the other (always female) person involved wanted to change the purpose of the sexual element of the relationship from mere pleasure to procreation and he didn’t, whereas now – or rather then, all those years ago – if he and Sonya became an item (as seemed likely because after two hours in each other’s company they agreed to meet again, and they did, and then again, and then again with Magnus and Paula in tow, so that they did become an item) he could have a sexual relationship without the worry or risk of it becoming a procreative one because the procreation had already been done and Sonya was adamant that whatever else she might want out of a relationship the one thing she did not want was any more children. Which suited, or seemed to suit, Douglas Findhorn Elder perfectly. Although, as was now evident, it hadn’t.
‘All these relationships!’ Mungo said, when Douglas had explained everything. ‘I couldn’t bear it. And so hedged around with ifs and buts and whereases. I’m amazed you humans ever get anything done at all.’
‘We’re not typical,’ Douglas said. ‘At least I’m not. But the achievers are often not very nice people. Not considerate people.’
‘It seems to me you are both well out of the whole thing.’
‘I’m not sure that I am out of it.’
‘Oh yes you are,’ Mungo said.
And that was strange, because only after Mungo had spoken did Douglas wonder if he really had explained everything. He had no recollection of having spoken aloud and yet he must have done, or how could Mungo have said what he said, and he have replied as he had? Unless Mungo were a figment of his imagination (could a figment be of anything else?), which his presence right there on the foldaway table belied, to say nothing of the dark stain of his excretion on the floor of the carriage. Mungo was as real as he was – or Douglas himself was not real! Could he be the figment of a toad’s imagination? And be conscious of it? Surely not! Then he thought again of what had happened the other night, when Mungo’s eyes had glazed over and Douglas had seemed to waken from an involuntary sleep. Did Mungo have some power over him? There was something legendary and mysterious about toads. If a toad came to your door, did this portend good or evil? If he entered your house, what came in with him? And then you put him in your pocket, carried him like a talisman. And then … and then …
It was happening again! He shook his head in an effort to waken himself fully. He realised that the train was at a standstill. For how long had it been stationary? Mungo was watching him with his black-and-orange eyes. You could see how a credulous person might detect something malicious in that look. Through the window Douglas saw a path beside the railway line, and not far away – a couple of hundred yards or so – a single white two-storey building with a sign over the door which he could not read. A narrow road ran past this building, which had space for parking in front of it, and then turned west towards the distant hills.
At the far end of the carriage the door slid open and the man who had earlier checked the tickets entered. He spoke in turn to the Chinese tourists, the girl and the red-faced farmer-cleric. He began to move down the aisle, towards Douglas.
‘Time to retire, Mungo,’ Douglas said, and gently he lifted him
and slid him back into the jacket pocket.
[To be continued]
A WELCOME IN THE GLEN
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Nothing at all, sir.’
‘The train gave a wee lurch back there, and now I can’t help noticing that we have stopped.’
‘Aye. Don’t worry about the wee lurch. Wee lurches are normal on this stretch. Would you by any chance be Mr Douglas Elder, sir?’
‘I would. That is, I am.’
‘Och, that’s a relief. I’ve been right through this train and here you are, the last person I ask. This is your stop, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is your stop. You’ve to leave the train here.’
‘But there isn’t a station.’
‘It’s a request stop, sir. Not much used these days except in August for the shooting, but we’ve had a request in your name, so here we are. You’re to alight here.’
‘But I didn’t request anything. I’m going to Fort William.’
‘You are Mr Douglas Elder, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘Your name reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it. Doesn’t matter. The request was made on your behalf. Somebody’s to meet you and take you on to your destination.’
‘Who is to meet me?’
‘That I couldn’t say, sir. The request came over the radio and it was indistinct. Your name was distinct, but not the name of the party who is to meet you.’
‘Would it be Corryvreckan?’
‘Aye, that could have been it. It sounds about the right length. Now, sir, we don’t have much time as we need to keep to our schedule. This is quite a favour we’re doing you, but our job is to provide customer satisfaction. My job,’ he adds. ‘I’m a CEO. Do you have any idea what that stands for?’
He is a very mournful-looking man, with a drooping moustache and matching eyes, like a walrus thinking about global warming. In fact, as he poses his question he slumps down in the seat across the aisle from me and pushes his cap back from his brow.
To Be Continued Page 17
