‘I’ve no idea. You’re the guard or something, is that it?’
‘The guard!’ he says. ‘Oh, if I was the guard! Where have you been all this time, sir? I’m no more a guard than you’re a passenger. You’re a customer, and as for me, I’m a Customer Experience Operative. A CEO – that’s somebody’s idea of a joke, eh?’ He stretches over, puts a hand on my arm, then withdraws it as if recognising the impropriety. ‘I’m sorry. I get very upset thinking about my job title. It’s shaming, really it is.’
‘It isn’t your fault.’
‘I know that,’ he says. ‘That makes it worse, in a way. It’s never anybody’s fault. Not mine, not yours, not the bastards running the show. Oh no, it’s never their fault. But that’s not what gets to me. Will I tell you what gets to me?’
‘I expect you will.’
‘It’s the effort, the blood, sweat and tears – all for nothing. Sometimes I could weep. I do weep. And other times I could laugh. I don’t, though. I just keep a straight face and carry on.’ He pulls himself upright, then onto his feet. ‘I’ll probably resign one of these days, but that’s my business, and I shouldn’t be troubling you with it. Now, sir, if you just slip off the train now, and walk down that path – do you see that place over there?’
‘The building?’
‘Aye. That’s not just any building. That’s a pub, a braw wee howff called the Shira Inn. There’ll be an open fire there, and hot food, and a bar with draught ales and a gantry full of whiskies. There’ll be a welcome in the glen, even if it’s not really a glen. You’ll like it there.’
‘The Shira Inn?’
‘Aye. If I could, I’d slip off the train and come with you, but I can’t. Why? Because I’m the Customer Experience Operative. I can’t leave my post. But what I am offering you, one of my Customers, is an Experience. That’s my job. Go, make yourself at home, and the other party will meet you there this afternoon and take you on to wherever it is you’re going.’
I am far from convinced that this is the best course of action. The man has my name and the message he has conveyed seems clear enough, but I paid for a ticket to Fort William and have a plan all worked out, requiring strict adherence to a timetable of connecting minibuses and so on. To make this unexpected change goes against the grain of how I conduct my life.
Correction: that is how I used to conduct my life. I recall what I told myself before leaving Edinburgh: I am going on an adventure. Am I, like a cowering, timorous horse, to refuse at the first hurdle?
‘You’re sure it’s genuine, this request?’
‘Looks like it, sir. It’s in your name, after all. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting there and I wouldn’t have found you.’
I swither, then make up my mind. Actually, what happens is that I hear a voice from the not so distant past: ‘Ye cannae just breenge in.’ Oh? And who says that the new Douglas Findhorn Elder can’t breenge, or at least slip, out?
‘You’ll let me off, then?’
‘You’ll let yourself off,’ the CEO says. ‘I don’t want to alarm the other passengers. If they see you go they’ll all want to follow.’ This strikes me as very faulty logic. ‘That door through there, behind you – I’ve released the master lock, so it’ll open if you just push the button. Wait until the door into the carriage is shut and nobody will see or hear a thing. It’ll be like The Thirty-Nine Steps.’
‘It will?’
‘Aye, when the fellow gets out on the Forth Bridge and then takes off, with the police after him – it’ll be like that!’ He grins conspiratorially. ‘You’re an innocent man – wanted for murder, but I believe you!’
I feel a growing disquiet. Is the man deranged? And yet the message must surely be correct: somebody has worked out that it will save a lot of time and trouble to get me off the train here and take me to Glentaragar from the Shira Inn.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll do what you say.’
‘Very good, sir. Glad to have been of assistance. Just give me a minute to get up to the other end of the carriage.’
He goes off with a final theatrical wink, and I wait as instructed. Then I reach up for my raincoat and suitcase – it is only a small case, with wheels and an extendable handle – and, as discreetly as I can, I exit the carriage. Once the sliding door has closed behind me I open the door onto the outside world. It feels odd, and, yes, somehow adventurous, that there is no platform and that I have to lower the suitcase and then step down onto the ballast. I hurry away from the train. The path is too uneven and stony for the wheels of the case, so I carry it.
A minute later I am in front of the Shira Inn. The car park is empty. There are black cartwheels propped against the whitewashed wall, and a set of antlers mounted over the entrance. I glance back at the train, motionless as a dead caterpillar in the vast green-brown landscape, and then I push through the door.
The bar is small but pleasant enough. A few round tables and stools are set out across the floor, and upholstered benches line the walls around larger rectangular tables. Everything is as my friend the CEO described it. There is indeed an open fireplace, and a peat fire is burning in the grate. There appears to be beer on tap. There is a well-stocked gantry. A sign marked TOILETS on a door at the rear of the bar reminds me that I have not emptied my bladder since Glasgow.
There are no customers. In fact the place seems completely deserted.
‘Hello?’
No reply.
I take my chance and head through to the toilets.
When I return a man is leaning on the frame of the front door with a tea towel over his shoulder and his arms folded.
‘Feel free, why don’t you?’ he says.
‘What’s that?’
‘The toilets are only for the use of customers,’ he says.
‘For the use of customers only.’
‘That’s what I said.’
I decide not to pursue this one.
‘There was nobody to ask. Anyway, I am a customer.’
His mood brightens at once. ‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’ He walks briskly over and steps behind the bar. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Are you serving food?’
‘Food?’ His face falls again. ‘What kind of food?’
‘Hot food?’
‘Soup and a roll, pie and chips, that kind of thing?’
‘Exactly.’
‘No. We’ve nothing like that.’
‘So if folk come in from a long hike through the mountains, cold and wet and weary, you can’t provide them with a warming, restorative bowl of Scotch broth?’
‘No. Not today.’
‘Do you have any food at all?’
He looks around, and finally his gaze settles on a space under the bar. ‘We’ve got crisps.’
‘What flavour?’
‘Just the usual flavours.’
After a pause, during which I raise my eyebrows to suggest that a little more detail wouldn’t go amiss, he elaborates – becomes almost garrulous, in fact.
‘Plain, salt and vinegar, cheese and onion. Oh and haggis, neeps and tatties. That’s all one flavour by the way, not three. You couldn’t have just tattie-flavoured crisps, could you? That would be like apple-flavoured apple juice. And neep crisps! Imagine them, eh? Jesus!’
‘Give me a couple of packets of the haggis, neeps and tatties. I’m starving.’
‘Coming up,’ he says, dipping down. ‘And something to drink?’
‘A whisky, I think. It’s a bit chilly out there.’
He gestures with an open hand towards the gantry. ‘Take your pick.’
I begin to run my eye along the rows of bottles, recognising familiar shapes and labels. One image in particular catches my attention – a roaring stag proud against the skyline.
‘Is that Glen Gloming you have there?’
‘Where?’
‘The one with the stag on it.’
He fetches it down. It is nearly full – jus
t one or two nips out of it.
‘Glen Gloming 12-Year-Old,’ he says. He turns the bottle this way and that. ‘Aye, you’re right enough. Good spot.’
‘I had it for the first time the other day. Very nice it was too. I’d never heard of it before.’
‘You learn something every day,’ he says. I don’t know if he is referring to me or to himself.
‘I’ll have one of those, then. No, make it a double.’
‘Coming up,’ he repeats, reaching for a stainless-steel measure.
‘Where does it come from?’
He stops after pouring the contents of the measure into a glass. ‘I never ask,’ he says, tapping his nose. ‘I just work here. Some things come in at the front door, some come in at the back, know what I mean?’
‘I do.’
He tips in the second measure and fills a little brown jug with water. ‘There you go.’
‘What do I owe you?’
He appears to do a sum in his head. ‘Well now.’
I incline my head in such a way as to indicate that he has my attention.
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Would you do me a favour?’
‘A favour?’
‘Aye. I need to slip out for a wee while. Would you mind the shop for me?’
‘What, me?’
‘No, him over there.’
‘You want me to look after the bar? Where are you going?’
‘Just out. Down the road a bit.’ He pauses, looks at the clock behind the bar. ‘Got to put a bet on.’
‘A bet? But there’s not a bookie’s anywhere near here, surely?’
‘That’s true. But there’s a man I know. He’ll place the bet for me. A dead cert, so he says. I just need to get the money to him.’
‘Why can’t you just phone your bet in?’
‘It’s not that kind of bet. Unofficial, know what I mean? Anyway, there’s no landline here and the mobile reception is non-existent.’
‘So you’ve no contact with the outside world, even though you’re right next to the railway?’
‘We can commune with nature and wave at the trains, but that’s about it. So, will you mind the shop while I’m away?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll not charge you for the drink?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, come on, pal. Gie’s a break, will you? You can have the crisps for free too.’
‘But how long would you be? I’m only here till somebody comes to collect me.’
‘Oh, you’re expected, are you?’
‘Yes. I’m just off the train and I’m waiting for a car.’
‘Off the train? Is there a train broken down or something?’
‘No. It just stopped to let me off.’
‘Did it really? That hardly ever happens, you know, except at the start of the grouse season. Are you the only passenger that got off?’
‘I am, and I’ll be away from here as soon as my lift arrives.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I’m not sure. This afternoon, I believe.’
‘Oh, well, that’ll be fine, then. The roads are very slow around here. I’ll only be twenty minutes. Half an hour at most. I just need to make this bet. It’s very important.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘You’ve an honest face. And, anyway, I’m locking the till.’
‘Not that honest, then. What if I want another drink?’
‘Help yourself. I’ll not notice. Have all the crisps you can eat.’
‘Suppose someone else comes in?’
He looks at the clock again. ‘At this time of day? Nobody will come in.’
‘So this place never gets any customers? How does it manage to stay open?’
He shrugs. ‘You wonder, don’t you? I just work here.’
‘So, what if any customers turn up?’
‘They won’t, but if they do, serve them. Keep a tab. They can settle up when I’m back. Or not, if they’re away before that.’
‘You said twenty minutes.’
‘Half an hour.’
‘So they’ll still be here.’
‘Right enough. But they won’t come anyway. I’m surprised you’re here.’
‘I wouldn’t be if I hadn’t got off the train.’
‘Well, you did, so how about it?’
‘If I wasn’t here, would you go anyway?’
‘And lose my job? No chance. Somebody needs to watch the fire. Oh, would you watch the fire as well? Chuck a peat on it every so often?’
‘All right, but only till the car comes for me. When that happens, I’m leaving. You need to know that.’
‘I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone. Forty minutes max.’
I am thinking that I have nothing to lose. I can just walk out, whether he has returned or not. It will be as if I were never here.
‘I won’t be held responsible if anything goes wrong.’
‘Nothing will go wrong. What could go wrong?’
‘Well, you just said yourself, there could be a fire.’
‘No, I said somebody needs to watch the fire. That’s different. Thanks a lot, pal. I really appreciate this.’
Something occurs to me. ‘Hold on a minute. How are you going to get to wherever you’re going? There are no cars out there.’
‘Aha!’ He comes out from the bar and disappears through the back. A minute later he is wheeling a bicycle – an old-fashioned model with a saddlebag and three-speed gears – through to the front door. A helmet dangles from the handlebars by its strap, and he pauses to put it on.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ he says. ‘Like I said, help yourself to anything. I’ll be back by one, at the latest.’ And with that reassuring last comment, he departs.
The clock says 11.51.
I sit and munch crisps, sip my Glen Gloming – which is as good as I remember it from the previous tasting – and watch the fire glowing in the grate. A basket full of peats is nearby. Everything is quiet. I could be alone on the planet. I will certainly hear a car’s engine should a car arrive. And a car will arrive. It has been arranged. So I can relax.
At one minute after midday the first of the customers who weren’t going to turn up, turns up.
THE OLD WAYS
He seems at first glance to be an ancient, tottering kind of fellow, a retired shepherd or gillie perhaps. He has a long, tangled beard, mainly grey though with darker patches on the cheeks, and a long, weather-beaten face topped by a scarcity of fine grey hair swept back from the forehead. He wears a predominantly green suit of Harris tweed, a once-white shirt and a knitted tie the colour of dead bracken. As I heard no engine I cannot imagine where he has come from unless he escaped from another carriage of the train on the recommendation of the CEO. He heads straight to the bar, leans on it for a few seconds, raps it with his knuckles, then turns and fixes me with an expectant eye.
‘Where’s Malcolm?’
‘You mean the barman?’
‘Of course I mean the barman. Who else would I mean? Where the devil is he?’
‘He had to go out for a while.’
‘Out? But I want a drink. Who’s going to get me a drink?’
I walk briskly over, much as Malcolm might do if he were not off on his bicycle to see a man about a dog, or a horse, or whatever it is he wishes to wager his money on.
‘I am.’
‘You?’
‘Aye. He left me in charge. What’ll it be?’
‘A pint of IPA. Where’s he gone?’
I decide to be discreet. ‘I don’t know. He said he wouldn’t be long.’
‘Hmm.’
He sounds discontented even when saying ‘Hmm’. I pick up a glass and start pouring. The beer splutters reluctantly from the tap, and I fill a couple of glasses with froth before the flow improves and I manage to produce most of a pint for him.
‘Better let that settle,’ I say. ‘I’ll top it up in a minute.’
He assesses me with a jaded eye. When I retur
n his stare I see that he is not as old as I presumed, perhaps no more than about sixty.
‘Ever worked behind a bar before?’
‘No.’
‘Thought as much. How come you’re standing in for Malcolm?’
‘I happened to be passing.’
‘Passing?’
‘On a train, which stopped to let me off. How about you?’
‘How about me what?’
‘How did you get here?’
‘In the usual manner.’
‘Which is?’
‘By car.’
‘I didn’t hear a car.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Not yet.’
‘As a matter of fact, I cut the engine early and freewheeled in, so as not to disturb the peace.’
I swallow an unfriendly riposte to this. ‘And what brings you here? Other than the car, I mean.’
‘I play here. Every Monday night.’
‘Play what?’ I look around in case I have somehow failed to notice a darts board or a pool table. When I look back at him I revise my estimate of his age downwards, to fifty or less. The face is just well lived in. It reminds me, vaguely, of someone else’s.
‘Guitar,’ he says. ‘Did Malcolm not tell you about me?’
‘He didn’t, but then it’s a long time before tonight. He probably thought it wasn’t necessary.’
‘So the name Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon means nothing to you?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’
He shakes his head. ‘Dear, dear. Is that pint not ready yet? I’ll bring in the gear while I’m waiting.’
He exits. Curiosity leads me to the door to watch. Some distance away, a rusty, yellow, box-shaped, lopsided car has been abandoned against a rusty, lopsided fence, and to this vehicle the man MacCrimmon walks. ‘The gear’, which he removes from the back seat, consists solely of a battered guitar case. I glance in the other direction. To my surprise I see that the train is still where I left it. Half an hour must have passed – I assumed it was long gone. I wonder if perhaps I should forget about the new arrangement, and stick to my original plan.
Curiosity and I nip back inside before the bearded fellow sees us. When he enters he places the battered guitar case in a corner of the room furthest from the fire, opening the lid to reveal a battered guitar. He comes for his drink.
To Be Continued Page 18
