I honestly thought we could make a fresh start, but Georgina was beyond that. She had the drinking disease good and proper. She would stop for a month or two, and then something would trigger her and she would start again. This went on over many years. It didn’t matter if I emptied the house of booze, she would take off somewhere else and not come back for days. I lost count of the times I waited for the phone call from the police. When she was sober she went into a black depression. Once she tried to hang herself – or seemed to try. She put a rope round a branch but the branch broke. I think she chose the branch quite carefully. I couldn’t influence her – if I said one thing she would do the opposite out of spite or vengeance – so I concentrated on Poppy instead. My reasoning was that if I had failed in my responsibilities to my daughter I wouldn’t fail my granddaughter. Sooner or later I would be the only one Poppy could depend on, and vice versa. She kept me going. She still does. She has some of her mother in her, I know she has, and sometimes she takes herself away and lets it out of her system. That’s how she deals with it. It’s a shame she’s stuck here with me, but she won’t leave. She’s a good girl.
ELDER: Yes, she is.
MUNLOCHY: I am pleased you think so but please don’t interrupt or I will lose my thread. Georgina would drive when she shouldn’t and I didn’t do enough to stop her. I don’t know if you have ever had to deal with an alcoholic but it wears you down and you let some things happen because it’s easier than trying to prevent them. I let Georgina go off in her car because when she went it was a relief – for me and for Poppy. I used to pray that she wouldn’t hurt herself or anybody else and for a long time we were lucky. This was nearly thirty years ago. There wasn’t much traffic even then and not a policeman for miles around. It is no excuse but I made it one.
The man who had the Glen Araich Lodge before Corryvreckan took it over was one of Georgina’s cronies. She would go down the glen when there was no alcohol here, and he and she would drink together and sometimes she came home and sometimes she didn’t but either way it was better than her driving further afield. I didn’t like him and the way he encouraged her but if she wasn’t at the Glen Araich where else would she go? It’s strange to tell you all this now. I thought it was over but I don’t suppose it ever is.
ELDER: Do you want to stop?
MUNLOCHY: No. Well, when Corryvreckan bought the hotel – he paid very little for it and thought he was getting a bargain – I had a word with him and he said he would try to get her to moderate her drinking, which just shows you what an innocent he was. One evening, it was this time of year, he telephoned me. ‘You had better come down, Mrs Munlochy.’ There was something in his voice. I drove down the glen in my own car. Georgina was in the bar. She was very drunk, and very angry because Corryvreckan’s manager – he had another manager then – wouldn’t serve her. There were two or three local men there who knew us. I said I would take her home. She refused to come until I bought a bottle of whisky and told her we would have a dram when we got back. But when we were outside she wouldn’t get in my car. She insisted on taking her own. We had a fight in the car park over the keys, and I nearly left her but I couldn’t. I thought if we can just get home she’ll be safe, she won’t do any more harm tonight. That was all I was thinking. So I sat in the passenger seat and let her get behind the wheel. I let her drive.
All she had to do was drive out of the car park onto the road and turn off up the glen. After that the worst that would happen was she’d put us into a ditch. She pulled out and there was a ghastly thud, a horrible smacking sound against her side of the car. I can still hear it. We got out. There was a bicycle lying under the car and a man on the tarmac about five yards away. He must have bounced straight back off the car. He was all twisted up and very still. I knew right away he was dead.
He hadn’t any lights on his bicycle. Otherwise I would have seen him, even if Georgina hadn’t. I realised this at once. Georgina realised it too. She started to cry. I can still hear the noise she made too. ‘Oh God, oh God,’ she wailed, ‘he didn’t have any lights.’ And it was true but that wasn’t going to save Georgina, who was well over the limit. She would go to jail and if she went to jail she really would try to kill herself or someone would kill her. All of this flashed through my mind in seconds while we crouched over the dead cyclist. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, of course – cyclists didn’t then. There was no pulse, no heartbeat, no breathing. Nothing was going to make him alive again.
I did a terrible thing. I got hold of my daughter and I swear she had gone from drunk to sober in the minutes that had passed since that awful thud. I told her that I was driving the car. I was driving the car and she was the passenger because she was too drunk to drive. I shook her while I said it, I was so angry and so frightened. I said it was her last chance, my last chance to save her. We couldn’t save the man because he was dead but we could save her. And then I told her to run back to the hotel and get help.
That’s what I meant, Douglas, when I said yesterday that people like us could get away with things in the old days. And those days, the ones I’m telling you about now, weren’t so long ago. I was seventy-five, the lady of the big house. Corryvreckan and the others came out of the hotel and they tried to revive the cyclist but I was right, he had been killed outright. He was a young forester from Aberdeen, we learned later, going back to his digs at Glen Orach. I told the men what had happened, and they believed me. Why would they not believe me, Rosalind Munlochy, one of the Strivens of Glentaragar? I was taking my daughter home from the pub as I had told them I would do, and the young man came along and he had no lights on his bicycle. We carried him into the hotel and waited. An ambulance arrived, and the police, and they questioned us all, and I was breathalysed and tested negative, and our stories all agreed. And later there was a court appearance, and the sheriff said that it was most unfortunate but that I could not be held responsible because the cyclist had been cycling along an unlit road with no lights, and although there was a moon that evening, so that it was not pitch black, nevertheless how could I have been expected to see him? And I was of sound mind and good character, and my eyesight was fine and I had had a driving licence for fifty years without ever being involved in an accident until then. It was in all the papers, the Times – the Oban Times, I mean – the Glasgow Herald, the Spear. I left the court without a blemish on my name. I did not even have points put on my licence, and to prove how competent a driver I was I went on until I was eighty-five.
It was all a lie but I got away with it because of who I was. They might have pressed somebody else harder. They might have found out the truth, but they didn’t and I have kept it hidden until now and that is why I thought you had been sent, to prise it out of me, but I had already made up my mind that I would tell you anyway, because it is time to clear my conscience.
So this mother-of-the-nation nonsense, well, that’s what it is, nonsense. If Dr Johnson was right about patriotism, then that really would be the last refuge of a scoundrel in this case. Tell your editor that. I wasn’t such a good mother and my daughter wasn’t such a good daughter.
There’s a saying, ‘blood is thicker than water’. I used to believe that. The Strivens believed it, they lived by it, but it is an excuse. It’s like that other idiocy, ‘my country, right or wrong’. Blood is an excuse. It’s a reason not to face up to things and it is never a good enough reason.
I kept Georgina out of prison and for a few months I thought that the change had come, I really did. Perhaps I wouldn’t have kept up the lie if it hadn’t been for that, but that was why I had told it in the first place and it seemed to have worked. She never touched a drop of drink until after the court appearance, she was very quiet about the house and helped in ways that she had never done before. For the first time she did whatever I asked of her. And shall I tell you something? I did not like it. She became somebody I did not know, did not recognise. I did not trust her drunk but I did not trust this new person either. And I was right not to. After
it was all over – after it should all have been over – she went to Oban for the night, to do some shopping, she said, and to pick Poppy up from school the next afternoon, she said. And I let her go. Again, I let her drive. She didn’t kill anybody else this time. She booked into the Royal Hotel where she had a few drinks at the bar and a few more in her room, and then some time early in the morning she drove along the coast a few miles to where my father drowned when he was swimming, and she took off her clothes and left them in the car and went swimming herself. And that was the end of my daughter Georgina.
(Prolonged silence.)
ELDER: Are you all right?
MUNLOCHY: It’s kind of you to ask. Yes, I’m all right, thank you. It is good, finally, to tell someone all this and know that it cannot be retracted.
You might say, why didn’t I go to the authorities then, and admit what had happened, tell them who had really been responsible for the death of the cyclist. But it wouldn’t have changed anything. And of course I really was responsible. They might – I don’t know – they might have sent me to prison, but I suspect they would have found a way to keep someone like me out. And there was Poppy to consider too. I couldn’t abandon her.
ELDER: Does she know?
MUNLOCHY: She suspects. She is not a fool. After we have finished I will go and tell her. I don’t want to carry this secret any more.
ELDER: Is that why she doesn’t drive?
MUNLOCHY: Yes, it must be. Despite the inconvenience she has always refused to learn, and I have never pushed her to do so.
ELDER: What about Corryvreckan? Does he know?
MUNLOCHY: Corryvreckan is very loyal. It was after all this that he began to work for us. It has been mutually beneficial, especially after I stopped driving. Again, he probably suspects what really happened.
ELDER: It keeps people together, a thing like that.
MUNLOCHY: That’s one way of looking at it. Is there anything else, Douglas, that you want me to tell you? I am feeling rather exhausted. And I must go and speak to Poppy.
ELDER: I think we’ve covered enough for today.
(Interview ends)
CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #10
Douglas Findhorn Elder entered the bedroom and took the twelve paces necessary to get from door to bed. The intimidatingly high bed had not been slept in. This did not come as a surprise to Douglas since, although it was the bedroom that had been assigned to him, he had slept elsewhere. He pulled back the coverlet, took off his shoes and launched himself onto the mattress. He was tired, physically and emotionally. It was mid-afternoon and he needed to sleep. He lay back against the mighty pillows.
‘The wanderer returns,’ said a voice close to his right ear.
Douglas sat up. Beside the bed was a table with a lamp on it. Mungo Forth Mungo was leaning against the stoneware base of the lamp.
‘Mungo.’
‘Douglas. I had almost forgotten you existed.’ The note of sarcasm was unmistakable.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to neglect you. I’ve been …’
‘Distracted. I know. Don’t worry about me. I’ve been having a rare old time. Have you completed your interview?’
‘Aye. I don’t think I’ll get any more from Rosalind. The second session turned into a confession. It was quite moving. Disturbing too. She wants me to publish it, even though it will show her in an unfavourable light. It won’t be what John Liffield’s expecting.’
‘Have I met this person?’
‘He’s the editor of the Spear. He wanted something celebratory to mark her hundredth birthday. She’s given me an admission of guilt.’
‘Perhaps that’s what he does want. A flawed character. A political butterfly, a bad mother, a liar and deceiver, a relic of privilege and misplaced Highland pride, and an old revolutionary stuck in the past.’
Thought of sleep deserted Douglas. He frowned at the toad, who was positively lounging against the lamp.
‘Well, haven’t you been doing some deep thinking! You don’t trust his motives?’
‘I don’t know anything about them. But I had a good listen when you were interviewing her yesterday and I began to wonder why your editor was so keen to do a – feature, is it? – on her. Have you found out how she voted in the independence referendum? That’s what he specifically asked for from you, isn’t it?’
‘It was discussed briefly but she didn’t or wouldn’t say. She implied how she voted – in fact she said it was obvious how she voted – but after everything else she’s told me I don’t think it matters.’
‘Mr Liffield might disagree. He might think it would round off the picture nicely.’
Again Douglas was disturbed by the bufonid’s acuity. ‘Are you comfortable there?’ he asked.
‘Very.’
‘Feel free to hop across if you wish. That’s very impressive, Mungo, what you just said. I will have to give it some thought. I’m sorry we’ve not had the opportunity to catch up. When did I last see you?’
‘Here, just before Corryvreckan took you along to meet the old woman. I was in your pocket, remember? I stayed put until you and she had a nap, then I went exploring. You both went outside for a while, and she came back to her room alone. That was when I introduced myself.’
‘You what?’
‘To Rosalind. And to that cat. Completely irrational. Confirmed what I’ve always thought about cats. Once Rosalind had put it out we had some peace and that’s when I interviewed her.’
‘You interviewed her?’
‘Call it a wee chat if you prefer. Would you like to compare notes? Of course I didn’t make any, I just memorised everything. Unlike you, I didn’t find it particularly moving or disturbing, but then I’m not having sex with her granddaughter.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Quite a lot. Would I be wrong in surmising that there’s a nagging doubt in your mind? You suspect that you’re out of your depth. You’ve fallen for Poppy and you’re wondering how much of Georgina there is in her. No?’
‘No. Well, maybe. Rosalind told you about Georgina?’
‘The bare bones, my boy. A kind of rehearsal before the full performance with you. Not that I’m saying it was an act – no, no, I’m sure you were told the truth, the whole truth and very little held in reserve. But she needed to talk it through first with a disinterested but sympathetic listener, and I was that listener. “Get it off your chest,” I told her. And it seems she has. As I said, if you think you’re missing any salient details, I may be able to fill in the blank spaces. No fee required. Think of it as a thank-you for bringing me along.’
‘Well, thank you. But she won’t have told you anything she didn’t tell me.’
The toad made that shrug-like movement that was, in fact, a shrug. ‘Perhaps not. On the other hand, you haven’t interviewed Corryvreckan.’
‘Don’t tell me you have?’
‘This morning, over breakfast.’
‘You are amazing. What did you get?’
‘I’d already eaten. He had porridge and toast.’
‘Hold the Chic Murray impersonation. What information did you get?’
‘Do you want the full version or the abridged one?’
‘The abridged one. We may not have long. Rosalind’s away to tell Poppy the true story of her mother’s last days. I’ll have to go and comfort her.’
‘Rosalind?’
‘Poppy, you idiot. Tell me about Corryvreckan.’
‘First, his original name is not Corryvreckan.’
‘I’d worked that out. What was it?’
‘Ryck Von Carre.’
‘What?’
‘That’s an anagram. Don’t ever call me an idiot.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. He was born Edward Something – I didn’t catch the second part – and he grew up in Surrey. Where’s that?’
‘In the South of England.’
‘Right. He’s sixty-two. He first came to S
cotland when he was a bearded hippy. Isn’t that a breed of dog? Never mind. He fell in love with the Highlands. They were very outré, he said.’
‘Outré?’
‘I only report the words, I’m not responsible for them. He felt such a profound affinity with the Highlands that he believed he wasn’t really Edward Something at all but a changeling insinuated into the Something child’s cradle by the fairies.’
‘He holds the fairies in high esteem,’ Douglas said.
‘It was his destiny, he thought, to return to his place of origin. He kept coming back every summer until he found Glentaragar and decided that this was it. One of the things that persuaded him was a book of local folklore which included a fairy legend very like the one he believed about himself. When he discovered that the author, Rosalind Munlochy, lived in the big house at the top of the glen he made up his mind to settle here permanently, but he didn’t have the means and his parents wouldn’t help him out because, not unreasonably, they disputed the idea that he was a changeling. Then guess what happened?’
‘I can’t.’
‘He won a huge sum of money through having second sight.’
‘He could see the future?’
‘Specifically he saw the football results one Saturday.’
‘You mean he won the pools?’
‘That’s what he said. It was an expression that didn’t make any sense to me until he explained about his gift. He wasn’t interested in football but one day he saw all the next Saturday’s scores as if on a newspaper page so he filled out a form and posted it to somebody called Vernon who gave him all this money. Corryvreckan was quite modest about his success – I understand a lot of people with second sight are, and don’t like to talk about it. Sometimes they find it a great inconvenience. Do you remember me telling you about that ancestor of mine who lived with a witch? Well, she had second sight. Apparently she was always having to get out of the way of phantom funeral processions and so forth. There was one occasion –’
To Be Continued Page 32
