‘So you think my grandmother imagined it?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Is sharing a bed what we’re doing?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Nothing more than that?’
‘No. We’re just ships passing in the night.’
‘Oh, right. Well, that proves it, then.’
It is very dark in the bed, in the room, in the world. I can’t see her properly. I prop myself up on one elbow.
‘Proves what?’
‘Impossible things happen. And something else.’
‘What?’
‘I think people who grow very old find a different tuning for the world. They’re like small children. Messages come in that the folk in between don’t hear.’
‘But from a toad?’
‘Do you think your father would be able to converse with a toad?’
I don’t answer that. I try to imagine it. After a while Poppy yawns and says, ‘Are you asleep?’
‘No, I’m wide awake. Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘He probably could.’
‘And it would make sense to him, whatever they talked about?’
‘I don’t know. You’d need to ask him.’ And this time it is I who yawn.
‘You must be tired,’ Poppy says. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then don’t go to sleep.’
In spite of myself, I go to sleep.
CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #9
Mungo Forth Mungo sat about six inches in from the edge of the huge table that took up much of the space in the kitchen of Glentaragar House, closely observing the other individual in the room. This person wore a predominantly green suit of Harris tweed, a once-white shirt and a knitted tie the colour of dead bracken. Despite being indoors and there being no precipitation, he had a deerstalker crammed down upon his ears, which prevented Mungo from being able to ascertain the extent or texture of hair on his head. His cheeks and jaw were newly shaven and gave the impression of having been buffed with a cloth. Mungo remembered that his name was Corryvreckan. Apart from the absence of beard, however, he bore a startling resemblance to not one but two other men encountered by Mungo in the course of his recent travels.
It was so early in the morning that the night was not really over. Mungo had been pottering about at the rear of the house, working his way through a full Highland breakfast of beetle and earthworm, when he had heard an engine on the glen road, then seen headlights flashing through the trees. By the time the yellow car rolled into the courtyard, Mungo was by the back door. He had followed Corryvreckan into the kitchen and scaled a leg of the table in order to introduce himself.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, as Corryvreckan moved between cupboards and stove and sink.
‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ Corryvreckan said, hardly glancing at him. ‘I am making some breakfast. Would you care for something?’
‘No, thanks, I’ve already eaten,’ Mungo replied. ‘What are you having?’
‘Porridge. I’m just making some for myself, as I doubt anybody else will be stirring for a while. From their beds, I mean, not the porridge.’
Mungo licked and then raised a digit to indicate his appreciation of this wordplay.
‘Are you sure I cannot tempt you?’ Corryvreckan said.
The toad gave a sharp belch to indicate that he was full. ‘Thanks again, but I’ll just watch. I learned recently that porridge is made from oats and water and that oats were a staple of the human population’s diet in these parts.’
‘They still are,’ Corryvreckan said. ‘I eat porridge every day and so do the Munlochys. I cannot speak for their visitor. He is from the south.’
‘Douglas Findhorn Elder,’ Mungo said.
‘Yes, him.’
‘If he does eat it he probably puts sugar on it,’ Mungo said, ‘which I gather is an abomination. Porridge should be eaten with a horn spoon from a wooden bowl whilst standing, and it should be liberally seasoned with salt. Or so I gather.’
‘Well, maybe,’ Corryvreckan said, ‘but I’ll tell you something, I don’t like it that way. I prefer it in a china bowl with a splash of milk and a drizzle of honey, and I sit down with a notebook and plan my day while I am eating it.’
‘I like my food salty,’ Mungo said.
‘Ach well, as the Scotswoman said to the Frenchman, “Some like parritch, some like puddocks.” ’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What does it consist of, your day?’
‘Keeping Glentaragar House functioning. There is never a shortage of jobs to be done. Outside, although the walled garden is not my domain, there are fallen trees to be sawed, logs to be chopped, weeds to be controlled, dykes and fences to be maintained. The house too needs constant attention: fireplaces to be redd out and reset, leaks to be stopped, slates to be replaced, rones and drains to be unblocked. And this is to say nothing of the sweeping and dusting and vacuuming. Do you want tea?’
‘Not for me,’ Mungo said, as his companion poured himself a strong cup.
‘And although much of what we eat is produced by ourselves, it is necessary for me to go to Fort William or Oban periodically, to restock essential provisions. I wish I did not have to – these noisy, overcrowded places are abhorrent to me – but nobody will deliver to us here without making a charge that is prohibitive.’
‘Are there not companies that specialise in that kind of thing?’
‘They take one look at our postcode and refuse to enter into negotiations. We are not even an island but you would think we were somewhere to the west of St Kilda the way they treat us.’
‘Who is St Kilda?’
‘St Kilda is an island group far out to sea. Very difficult to get to. Once inhabited, now only visited.’
‘I see. When you go to the towns, what are the main items you buy?’
‘Tinned food, wine and light bulbs mainly. We get through a lot of light bulbs due to the uncertainties of the electricity supply. And I like to keep a good supply of candles.’
‘Whisky?’
‘We have enough of that,’ Corryvreckan said coolly, lifting the porridge pot.
‘You are a busy man,’ Mungo observed, observing also the glutinous grey matter that Corryvreckan transferred to a bowl and proceeded to embellish in the manner previously described.
‘It is too much, really, for one man alone – or for one man and the very able Miss Munlochy. If she could drive that would help a little. You will not mind me going on with my breakfast?’
‘Not in the least. You yourself drive up and down the glen often, to the hotel at Glen Araich. You have just returned from there. Do you assist the manager of that place at all? MacLagan, is that his name?’
Corryvreckan paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘Yes, indeed it is. He is in the same boat as myself,’ he said. ‘I never see Ruaridh these days, we are both run off our feet. Of course if I am going to town I pick up his messages. He leaves a list at the hotel, and cash as well. But to be honest the hotel is on its last legs, so he does not require much.’
‘You don’t help him in his other enterprise?’
‘What enterprise would that be?’
‘His supply of spirits to the licensed trade.’
Corryvreckan lowered his spoon darkly into his porridge. ‘Ah, is he at that game still? You are better informed than I, my friend. I do not think I know your name.’
‘Mungo. Mungo Forth Mungo.’
‘That’s an honest true name, a Celtic name. One could go far with a name like that. Well, I wish Ruaridh MacLagan would stay away from that business. It is a bad business altogether, and it will only end in tears. I have told him that many a time, and if he were here now I would tell him again to his face, indeed I would.’
‘I’ve told him too,’ Mungo said. ‘I think he may have listened to me but who can be sure? I only raised it with you so that, if you were involved, you could
uninvolve yourself. As you say, it will end in tears.’
‘Tears, shame and imprisonment, most likely,’ Corryvreckan said.
‘While we’re on the subject,’ Mungo said, ‘I don’t suppose you have anything to do with MacLagan’s associate, the bard MacCrimmon, have you?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Corryvreckan said emphatically. ‘If I have ever met the creature I have wiped the memory from my mind. I have heard nothing but bad reports about him. He is addicted to drink, untrustworthy, idle and furthermore an execrable singer and musician. Or so I gather.’
‘From whom?’
‘From MacLagan – and from Miss Poppy too, who has had the misfortune to hear him perform. No, my dear Mungo, you can rest assured that I do not and shall not have any dealings with that character.’
‘That’s good,’ Mungo said. ‘I have other questions. Do you ever remove your hat?’
‘Only to wash my head.’
‘Have you ever had a beard?’
‘Not since I was a young man. I was then what was called a hippy.’
‘Are you a habitual smoker of cannabis or a consumer of hallucinogenic fungi?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Do you speak Gaelic?’
‘I am trying to reconstruct the particular dialect of this part of Argyll, from a variety of sources.’
‘But do you speak it?’
‘Only to myself in private.’
‘You are a native speaker? Or a learner?’
‘The latter. I am teaching myself. It is a slow process.’
‘Do you enjoy the bagpipes, Gaelic psalm-singing, mouth music or other manifestations of Highland tunefulness?’
‘No.’
‘The pibroch does not enthral you?’
‘I prefer Country and Western.’
‘You do not admire the musical genius of Kenneth McKellar or Calum Kennedy?’
‘Not above that of Hank Williams.’
‘Do you have sexual intercourse with Rosalind or Poppy Munlochy, and if so is it with or without contraception?’
Corryvreckan’s spoon, with which he was scraping up the last of his porridge, clattered into the bowl.
‘What kind of question is that, and me not even finished my breakfast? For heaven’s sake, do you have no sense of propriety?’
‘No,’ Mungo said.
‘Your question is offensive.’
‘Yes, but will you answer it?’
Corryvreckan gulped down his outrage. ‘I will. No such relations exist between me and either of those two ladies.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because Douglas had sex with Poppy earlier in the week and they have been at it again all night. You are correct in your supposition that they will not be leaving their bed any time soon, and I doubt they will want an early-morning cup of tea taken to them. I only mention this because if he behaves remotely like a toad during the mating season he will kick out at any rival who intercedes. I would not advise that you attempt to join in.’
‘What they do is their own affair. I do not wish to know about it, far less “join in”, as you put it. The concept is an affront to me.’
‘Well, now that that’s clear, let’s talk about something else.’
‘Such as?’
‘You, for example. Tell me about yourself.’
‘There is nothing much to be said. I must be getting on.’
‘Och, give yourself ten more minutes, Corryvreckan. The whole day lies before us. It is not even light.’
‘You know my name, yet we have not met before. Have we?’
‘No,’ Mungo said. ‘I’m not from these parts.’
Corryvreckan reached for the teapot and poured himself a fresh cup.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘since you mention it, neither, originally, am I.’
[To be continued]
FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN DOUGLAS FINDHORN ELDER AND ROSALIND MUNLOCHY, CONDUCTED ON 29TH AND 30TH OCTOBER 2014 AT GLENTARAGAR HOUSE, GLENTARAGAR, ARGYLL
ELDER: We were talking about survival yesterday. You said that so long as you are here in the glen, or somebody is, the world is here too. And then you said that even if you weren’t, something would survive. Don’t those statements contradict each other?
MUNLOCHY: Yes.
ELDER: You don’t see a problem in that?
MUNLOCHY: No. Something will survive, even if it’s a deer sniffing about in the ruins of this house.
ELDER: A ruin is not survival, surely? The deer won’t even know it’s a ruin. And if nobody is there to see the deer, what does it matter?
MUNLOCHY: I am painting a picture. It is a picture that moves me. It’s the same as what I said about going to Canada and feeling a connection with my ancestor. We’ve been here a long time – not just Strivens, not even especially Strivens, but people. Traces are left. Imprints are not erased. I can’t explain it better than that.
ELDER: You also said that if we don’t believe there’s a future, what good is the past? But what good is the future you describe? It’s desolation.
MUNLOCHY: Yes, but it’s only one future. I hope for another. What I’m saying is, even if that is the future, something of us will still be here. Our ghosts, if you like.
ELDER: Do you believe in ghosts?
MUNLOCHY: I have no evidence against them.
ELDER: Have you ever seen one?
MUNLOCHY: I’m not sure.
ELDER: I think we are moving into the esoteric. I probably won’t keep this in the article. Would that be a lie by omission?
MUNLOCHY (laughing): Yes, but I can also see that the readers of the Spear will be too far removed to understand what I am trying to say.
ELDER: They would have to be here in person?
MUNLOCHY: They would have to be closer.
ELDER: Not physically, you mean, but in the way they see the world?
MUNLOCHY: Something like that.
…
ELDER: Can we move on to something very personal. If you are still willing to talk about it?
MUNLOCHY: About what?
ELDER: Your daughter Georgina.
MUNLOCHY: Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter.
ELDER: Yes. I’m sorry.
MUNLOCHY: Don’t be. It’s what you are here for, after all.
ELDER: Is it?
MUNLOCHY: This is what your editor sent you to ask about, surely?
ELDER: Georgina? No.
MUNLOCHY (becoming irritated): What burning question did he have, then?
ELDER: He wanted … I was to ask you about – the referendum.
MUNLOCHY: What referendum?
ELDER: The one we’ve just had, on Scottish independence.
MUNLOCHY: What does he need to know about that? He has the result.
ELDER: How you voted.
MUNLOCHY: What business is it of his how I voted?
ELDER: None.
MUNLOCHY: Precisely.
ELDER: That was my position too. He thought the readers would be interested.
MUNLOCHY: In that, but not in my views on ghosts?
ELDER: Well, he didn’t really –
MUNLOCHY: It must be obvious to anyone who knows me how I voted. And anyone who doesn’t can whistle.
ELDER: When you spoke yesterday of not dwelling on the past, I thought that was what you were referring to, the referendum. That it was over and done with.
MUNLOCHY: Then we were at cross-purposes. The referendum may be over, but the question it addressed is neither over nor done with. How could it be? So long as Scotland exists and England exists, that question will never be over. No, I was thinking of Georgina. And what I said was that there was no point in dwelling on the past if you had a clear conscience.
ELDER: I assumed you had.
MUNLOCHY: Then I wouldn’t be dwelling on it, would I?
ELDER: I don’t understand. Perhaps you could tell me …
MUNLOCHY: The whole st
ory? Very well. It was in the papers at the time. I thought you had done some research on me.
ELDER: Not that much.
MUNLOCHY: This will use up much of your allotted space. Is that recorder on?
ELDER: Yes. Do you want it off?
MUNLOCHY: Absolutely not. There are two reasons why you are here, Douglas, even if you didn’t know it before you came, and this is one of them. So listen.
ELDER: What’s the other reason?
MUNLOCHY: You know perfectly well. Now be quiet.
ELDER: I won’t say another word.
MUNLOCHY: My daughter – Georgina – was never what you would call settled. Perhaps that was our fault, mine and Ralph’s. I went away to be an MP when she was barely three, but Ralph stayed. He was a good father to her and Gregory – and to Gabriella too, even though she wasn’t his. Life wasn’t always easy but this was still a blissful place to be young. It was a permanent adventure when I was a child, and it was still like that for them. But then Ralph had my invalid mother to cope with, so perhaps the children were left too much to their own devices. Schooling wasn’t easy either, with them all being at different stages and no secondary school closer than Oban. We made a mistake: we sent them off to private schools and I wish we hadn’t. God knows boarding school didn’t do me much good. This is why I was so determined to educate Poppy at home and then in the state sector. She had to stay away through the week but I made sure she came home every weekend. Poor Georgina was only eight when she first went off to school – I had been back from Westminster less than six months and she must have felt I was pushing her out of the nest. I couldn’t see what else to do at the time but it was cruel, I saw that later and she felt it at the time. So it’s not surprising that things became strained between us, and of course as soon as she left school she did exactly what I had done, she went to London, and who was I to say that she shouldn’t?
That was in 1959 or 1960. I would have loved London in the Sixties, and I would have thrived there because I always had plans and aims, but Georgina wasn’t me. She wandered in like a lost soul and then got more thoroughly lost. There was plenty of fun, endless parties, and lots of drink and drugs and sex and – well, some people come through that and others don’t. We didn’t realise how badly damaged Georgina was by the experience. It can’t have helped when Ralph and I separated. She came here once or twice and fled again, then stayed with him in France for a while but couldn’t settle there either. I went to London occasionally and we met, but they were not happy occasions. She ended up in Glasgow – was dropped by one man and took up with another – and then one day she appeared here in an old car with all her worldly possessions and a two-year-old infant, and that was that. The prodigal daughter had come home.
To Be Continued Page 31
