To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  ‘The strings are sensitive to temperature change, you see,’ he says, speaking as if to an ignorant child. ‘They have to adjust to the atmosphere before they can be played. The instrument has to breathe.’

  I do not like him or his attitude. He is a haggard, nasty old man (I revise my estimate of his age back up to seventy, and decide I must have been mistaken in seeing a resemblance to anyone I know), imperious and self-satisfied, yet with no apparent reason for being either. I am conscious of an overwhelming desire to burst his balloon. It grows and grows, this desire, until I can contain it no longer and like cartoon ectoplasm it issues from me and forms itself briefly and enormously into a likeness of Ollie Buckthorn before dispersing into the air.

  ‘When do you start?’

  ‘Later,’ he says. ‘About six. Or seven.’

  ‘That’s a lot of breathing for one guitar. What will you do in the meantime? I mean, apart from pace yourself?’

  He glares at me. ‘Are you so ignorant of the old ways?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘The old ways are not learned in a day,’ he says, ‘nor in a year, no, nor in ten years. They are learned in a lifetime, and carried from one life to another in the carrying stream of life. In the intervening period between now and my playing I will think on these matters, that is what I will do.’

  ‘Feel free, why don’t you?’ I say, adopting the tone of Malcolm the barman. I can be everyone and anyone today, and no one will know I am not.

  ‘You might learn something if you did the same,’ MacCrimmon says. ‘Before the song was the word, and before the word was the thought. Song is story, and story is song, and thought precedes all. I am a bard. This is my craft, and this my occupation.’

  ‘Terrific,’ I say, placing the pint on a cardboard mat in front of him and consulting a price list that lies beside the locked till. ‘That’ll be three pounds and forty pence.’

  There is also a notebook and pen which may come in handy. When I open the notebook I see that the first few pages are full of handwritten details of drinks purchased on previous dates. Most of these entries have been scored off but a few have not.

  ‘Malcolm has the key to the till so I’ve no change. If you don’t have the exact money I’ll just write it down in this wee book and you can settle up with him later.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ says Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon. ‘Here, they understand the old ways. I am paid in kind for my music, my songs and my stories. In the old tradition, food, drink and hospitality are proper tributes to the bard.’

  ‘Well, Malcolm didn’t say anything about that. He just said I was to keep a tab if anybody came in. So I’ll write it down anyway.’

  MacCrimmon pulls at a strand of his beard, which has the effect of making him jut his jaw at me. For a second I think the beard will detach. ‘You know not of what you speak. Am I not descended from the great MacCrimmons, hereditary pipers for untold generations to the chiefs of Clan MacLeod?’

  ‘I have no idea, but if you are, isn’t playing a guitar a bit of a comedown?’

  ‘When you insult me you insult my fathers, and my father’s fathers before them.’

  ‘Fuck off the lot of you, then,’ I say, for he is beginning to annoy me.

  I think the feeling is mutual.

  ‘Make your mark in your wee book, and see what good it does you,’ he says.

  After this exchange we don’t have anything left to say to each other. He takes his pint over to a seat next to the guitar case, and sits glowering into the mists of departed time.

  I write the date in the notebook, and then the following:

  Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon, ‘bard’: 1 pint IPA, £3.40

  Then I add another measure of Glen Gloming to my glass and return to my seat by the fire.

  A few minutes later I hear voices outside, and the sound of boots being scraped and thumped, presumably to relieve them of mud and similar debris. The door opens and two men and two women in brightly coloured jackets enter, in a kind of clump. They have rucksacks and poles, which they pile up beside one of the larger tables before removing their jackets to reveal brightly coloured fleeces. They are all about the same age, although it is difficult to say what that age is – somewhere between forty and sixty, I reckon. About my age, in other words. I take an instant dislike to them and their hearty outdoor energy. The two women sit at the table while the men, a red-bearded one and a black-bearded one, approach the bar. Their beards are neatly trimmed, and make the beard of the bard MacCrimmon look even more bedraggled than it is.

  I take up my position and ask what I can get them.

  ‘A pint of IPA, a pint of Guinness, a gin and tonic and a dry white wine,’ says the red-bearded man. ‘And can we see your food menu?’

  ‘No, because there isn’t one,’ I say, as I begin to assemble the drinks. I start with the Guinness, remembering from years of observation from the other side of bars that it takes longer and that the done thing is to pour about two-thirds of it, leaving that to settle before topping it off.

  ‘You don’t have any food?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘No filled rolls or pies or anything?’

  ‘Not a sausage.’ What a joy it is to be a miserable bastard.

  ‘He’s new,’ Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon calls out. ‘He’s just off the train, so he says, though I doubt it, because there isn’t a station here.’

  ‘It’s a request stop,’ I say.

  ‘He is an upstart with no knowledge of the old ways or indeed of anything.’

  ‘You be quiet,’ I say, ‘or I’ll put you out.’

  ‘He can’t even pull a pint.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ I tell the red-bearded man. ‘I’m standing in for the usual barman. The food situation, I concede, is not ideal, but that’s how it is and I can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘No sausages, you say?’

  ‘None. There’s crisps, that’s all.’

  ‘What flavour?’

  ‘Just the usual flavours. Plain, salt and vinegar, cheese and onion. And haggis, neeps and tatties. That’s all one flavour by the way, not three.’

  ‘There’s only crisps!’ the red-bearded man shouts to the women.

  ‘For God’s sake. Well, just get a selection.’

  ‘Eight packets of assorted crisps,’ the man says.

  ‘Coming up,’ I say. ‘There is only this white wine, a Chardonnay. It’s cold but I doubt it’s dry. That all right?’

  ‘It’ll have to be, won’t it?’

  ‘I’ve no access to the till, by the way, so I’ll just write down what you owe and you can pay when the real barman comes back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Soon, I hope.’ I pass the drinks and crisps over and consult the price list before entering the details in the notebook.

  ‘Some place, this,’ I hear the other man say to his companion as they carry the drinks to their table.

  I resent his comment. I go to the fire and put some more peats on it.

  ‘At least it’s warm,’ I say.

  ‘Too hot, if you ask me,’ one of the women says, divesting herself of her offensively bright fleece. ‘Could you not put anything more on the fire, please?’

  I am not happy with Malcolm. I said I wouldn’t be held responsible and here I am being held responsible for all kinds of things. I add another Glen Gloming to the quantity remaining in my glass. I am generous with the measure. In fact, I don’t bother to measure it.

  I hear a vehicle pulling up outside and its engine being switched off. Quickly I go to the door to see if it is my car – the one that is going to take me away from all this. It is not. It is a car, from which five young people are emerging, full of laughter and chatter. They will double the number of people enjoying the hospitality of the Shira Inn. I hate them.

  Enough of this, I think to myself. I will take my whisky, my coat and my suitcase and get back on the train.

  No I won’t. Because the train is no
longer there. The train has gone.

  The car party is approaching. Where do all these people come from?

  ‘You open, mate?’ one of them says, hardly checking his pace. His accent reveals him to be a Friend from the South. His companions – two females and two males, I note without interest – continue on into the Shira Inn.

  ‘Mate?’ He has stopped at the door and is waiting for my response.

  ‘Yes, we’re open,’ I say. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  And in a moment, because there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do, I am.

  A WOMAN IN DARK CLOTHING

  It’s a Monday afternoon but the Shira Inn does the kind of business that might please a city-centre publican – Barry, of the Lounger, for example – on a weekend night. By three o’clock I have been behind the bar more or less constantly for three hours, only stepping out to retrieve empty glasses and – when I remember – to pitch another peat from the basket into the grate, in defiance of the general view that the place is melting. As far as I am concerned if the conditions inside drive them all outside, so much the better. Earlier, as the inn filled up, I retrieved my belongings, hung up my coat and stashed the suitcase behind the bar, where it frequently obstructs my movements. I have little opportunity to wonder if the Customer Experience Officer has deceived me, and why on earth he would do such a thing. One thing is certain: there is no chance of my catching the next train, as I am miles from an official stop. And one thing is uncertain: whether the lift that I was told is on its way will materialise. I appear to be stuck where I am – unless I can escape by some other means.

  As more and more customers arrive, order drinks and are disappointed by the limited choice of food (after a while, only haggis, neeps and tattie crisps remain), I repeatedly ask if anybody can give me a lift, north or south, when they depart. But either they are hikers without transport, or their vehicles are fully occupied, or they think I am joking, since surely, being the only person on bar duty, I cannot desert my post? And in any case nobody is ever ready to leave when I am, or they go when I am distracted by the demands of somebody else, and so the minutes and hours creep on. It occurs to me that I may have fallen for a trick such as the one Heracles played on Atlas, when he persuaded him to hold up the sky for a moment and then buggered off with the golden apples. I don’t know what Atlas did to assuage the bitter memory, but I take refuge in the solace of Glen Gloming whenever I can.

  The early entries I made in the notebook look like this:

  Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon, ‘bard’: 1 2 3 pints IPA, £3.40 ea.

  4 walkers: 1 pt IPA, 1 Guinn, 1 w. wine, 1 G&T: £12.20 × 2 = £24.40 + 8 crisps £6.40 = £30.80✔

  5 folk out of car: 1 ginger beer, 1 lager, 1 IPA, ½ lager, 1 r. wine, 5 crisps, £17.00✔

  But when a number of cyclists, a carload of thirsty Norwegians, a plumber and his apprentice and a team of birdwatchers arrive in quick succession, I give up the recording process, begin to round the bills down to the nearest five pounds and take whatever money people are prepared to hand over. Some challenge my arithmetic, demanding to see the price list and suggesting lower totals for what they have bought. A few refuse to make payment unless I can supply them with a receipt, which I can’t. Most gladly accept my bargain deals. I stuff the proffered notes into a back pocket. The twitchers, becoming wise to the fact that the plumber is holding out against paying anything, try to haggle retrospectively for a rebate. The cyclists sneak out without settling up while I am disputing with a woman and her daughter, both dressed in black, their assertion that the fact that they have been at a funeral entitles them to a discount on their rum and Cokes. Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon, of course, steadfastly refuses to part with any money, but I continue to pour him pints even after I have stopped keeping a tab for him. Malcolm can sort it all out, and if he can’t then that is his problem, not mine.

  Around four o’clock, by which time I am feeling more and more like Atlas and less and less like Douglas Findhorn Elder, let alone Heracles, there is a renewed surge of business. The twitchers – who are present in such flocks that I find it hard to count them, especially as, to my untrained eye, they all look remarkably similar – decide to have one last round. This requires me to pour a seemingly endless number of pints, some of lager, some of heavy. As fast as I place these on the counter, they are taken away for consumption. I suspect that a scam is in operation, but I no longer care. I run out of pint glasses and move on to half-pint ones. Then the demand eases a little, and I become aware of the reason: somebody has come to assist me. A woman in dark clothing, slight of build and adept at avoiding collisions – these are the only observations about her I am able to make – is passing out the full glasses and going on excursions to the outskirts to bring back empty ones. She does not speak to me, but she begins to impose some order on the throng of drinkers, repelling their loud demands and shooing them away with a firm but not unfriendly resolve. In the same way that MacCrimmon’s face stirred a hazy memory, I keep thinking that her voice reminds me of somebody else, but can’t think who it might be.

  Outside the light is fading. People are drinking up and going. I am delighted, and take an almost proprietorial pleasure in seeing the Shira Inn return to quietness. At last the only people remaining are the Norwegian party – who, I have learned, are attempting to retrace the footsteps of their Viking ancestors and who, ironically, have been the most patient and well-behaved of all my clientele – the bard MacCrimmon, my blessed helper and myself. I sit down on a bench recently vacated by several birdwatchers, put my back against the wall and close my eyes, while the woman quietly works her way round the tables collecting dead glasses and empty crisp packets. On one of her journeys, gently and without a word, she sets something down on the table at which I am sitting. I sense the movement and open my eyes. In front of me is a small tumbler of whisky and a packet of haggis, neeps and tatties crisps. I gratefully raise the whisky to my lips – it is Glen Gloming – and speak to her for the first time.

  ‘You are very kind, whoever you are. Give me a minute and I’ll come and help you.’

  ‘You’re fine,’ she says. ‘Stay where you are.’

  Oddly enough, she is right. I am fine. The fire’s soft hiss, the Norwegians’ collective murmuring, the soft clink of glasses being washed and left to drain – these are the relaxing background sounds of the next few minutes. I think vaguely of Malcolm and whether he will ever come back, and what I will do with the money in my back pocket if he doesn’t, but these too are relaxing thoughts. It is as if the world has ceased to spin and all will remain as it is, calm and serene, for eternity.

  And then Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon takes up his guitar and starts to sing.

  CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #5

  Douglas Findhorn Elder felt movement in the left-hand pocket of his tweed jacket. Earlier he had taken the jacket off and hung it on a hook while he was busy serving customers, but now that the Shira Inn was less crowded he had put it back on. The movement startled him: he had completely forgotten about Mungo Forth Mungo, who presently emerged and settled himself discreetly on the bench beside Douglas.

  ‘What is that infernal racket?’ the toad asked.

  ‘It’s a bard,’ Douglas said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you. I’ve been asleep. Have I missed anything? Where are we? Have we arrived yet? What’s a bard?’

  ‘So many questions,’ Douglas said. ‘You have missed plenty but nothing of importance; we’re in a pub called the Shira Inn, we are miles from where we should be so no, we have not arrived yet; and as for what a bard is – well, it would take a long time to explain, but that is not a bard.’

  ‘You just said it was.’

  ‘I was paraphrasing. Not a true bard. Are you still hungry?’

  ‘I am, now that you mention it.’

  ‘Try some of these. The flavour is haggis, neeps and tatties. Don’t even ask. You might find them a bit salty.’

  ‘I like s
alty. Snails are salty, or can be.’

  ‘These are drier than snails.’

  Mungo started sucking in and gulping down the crisps. ‘Very nice, if a little sharp round the edges. Will those other people think you are talking to yourself?’

  ‘Possibly. I have my hand over my mouth just in case, but actually I don’t much care. Can you hear me all right?’

  ‘Not badly, considering the competition. What exactly is he doing?’

  ‘He appears to be singing a ballad. That irregular strumming sound is him accompanying himself on the guitar. Unfortunately the chords are completely at odds with the melody, in terms of both harmony and tempo. I’m not even sure that there is a melody. I keep thinking if I listen long enough I’ll pick it up, but it seems to change with each verse.’

  ‘What’s it about, this ballad?’

  ‘A good question. If I knew, I would happily bring you up to speed on the plot. Ballads often have excellent plots, but I can’t make head or tail of this one.’

  ‘A ballad is fiction then, like a novel?’

  ‘Yes, only in the form of a song. But not all ballads are fiction. Some are based on real historical events. But then, a lot of novels are too.’

  ‘We discussed this before. Thinly disguised autobiography. The ordinary life made extraordinary. The gauzy border between reality and imagination.’

  ‘Did we put it like that?’

  ‘I think so. We weren’t quite agreed. Is that him finished now?’

  ‘Aye, thank God. Ah no, he was just taking a drink. Shame.’

  ‘Those other people seem to be enjoying it. What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘They’re Norwegian. I’m not sure that they are enjoying it. They’re just very polite. Or possibly stunned.’

  Mungo continued to occupy himself with the triple-flavoured crisps, while Douglas took occasional sips of whisky and considered what to do next. Perhaps the Norwegians might be able to squeeze him (and Mungo) into whatever transport they had, whenever they finally left. Perhaps the woman who was still clearing away glasses had a car. Perhaps, if Malcolm the barman should ever reappear, he could summon a taxi. This idea prompted Douglas to retrieve his mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, and check for a signal. Just as Malcolm had told him earlier, there was none.