Strip the Willow

by John Aberdein

  Young Gibby wasn’t in. The house was dark. He found him round at Jock’s. Come in, come in, said Jock, a good New Year. Here’s Spermy, boys, here’s Jed. I’ll wait on the step, said Spermy. Wait on the step? Ye canna dae that, said Jock. That’s bad luck. Weel that’s jist ma bad luck, isn’t it, said Spermy. Ye mak your ain luck at this game, Jock. Fa else is in there wi you? Gib, that’s young Gibby like, Nat, an a hale lot mair. I mean men, said Spermy. Just young Gibby, me an Nat, said Jock. Fishermen, said Spermy. Me, Nat, an young Gibby, I tellt ye, said Jock. Five minutes, said Spermy. Stuff yir bags an let’s get mobile. I want to be through in the Minch the nicht afore the turn o the tide. Whit, said Jock, nae the Pentland Firth? It’s only wattir, said Spermy. I’m aff tae rouse Baxter. Be ready for me, right?

  Baxter was the mate. He lived further out. Out amongst the fence-posts of wind-swept Buchan. I was knocking on your door three times there, said Spermy. Oh, hi, Jed. We had the radio up full blast. I heard, I knocked three times. Whit’s up like? said Baxter. We’re for oot, said Spermy. For oot? said Baxter. When ye phoned last, ye said we wouldna be oot till the 2nd or 3rd. Dinna believe aathing ye hear on the phone, said Spermy, have ye seen the forecast? It’s northerly 8-9 imminent, nor-west 10, storm 11, possibly later. Better leave it then, is that what ye’re sayin? said Baxter, should fair up later in the week? Weel, in ye come. There’s a sprawl o folk, but maist o them’s decent. Spermy took one step inside the outer hall, as a concession, to drive his point home. Baxter, I dinna think ye’re gettin ma point, I dinna think ye’re really listenin. I am sut, said Baxter. Ye are not, said Spermy. Look, Baxter. I’ve only had the boat six weeks, an she’s been on the slip for ower muckle o that. There’s herrin oot there wi Spare Me’s name written aa ower them, but they’re fed up waitin. I dinna blame them, I’m fed up waitin masel. We’ve a chance tae get through the Firth afore the warst o’t. Once we’re oot Wast, in some o thae Gaelic holes, it’ll be like a mill dam. Ye’re the boss, ye ken best, I’m nae arguin wi ye. I’ll wait in the van, said Spermy. Come in, said Baxter. At least say hello. Hello cheerio? Fit’s the point? Na, I’ll come intae yir hoose an gladly, Baxter, when baith o us hae a few bricht scales aboot us, a few scales. Please yersel, said the mate. I’ll get ma thingies.

  Half an hour later, a bunch of guys, sheer dregs, the best available, were trying to prop up on or spew beneath the bare benches that lined the back of the van. Slow doon, Jed, I’m pukin ower somebody sleepin I think, I canna see in the dark. Eat mair carrots then, Gib. Cunt.

  – Cutting edge, said Lucy.

  Never say can’t tae me, Gibby ma loon, nae even in a whisper. The word can’t is nae in my vocabulary. Pull in for us, Jed, said Alec. I’m desperate for a pish. Ye’d be a target on the open road, said Spermy. Ye micht get run ower, an me already twa men short. Wait till I hash on tae Ellon. Canna wait till nae Ellon, said Alec.

  By the time he came into Aberdeen, still two hours before sun-up, and across the Bridge of Don, most of the human stuff in the back had, in its own sharp stinks, subsided. Is that you still drivin? said the mate, blearing an eye against the sodium lights of King Street. Na, this is me eatin candy floss, said Spermy McClung.

  a red bandana

  When Jim got down the harbour to the red-roofed Shack Café, it was probably nigh-on six. He was still feeling light in the head from his adventures and encounters, and tingled by her challenge.

  – Still? said Lucy.

  He nodded.

  He’d tried sex, air, ice, fire, Cretan philosophy and Chinese poetry. But fear of the powers-that-be closed his horizon in. With a last check round for Provost or Senator, and a hoist of his baggy breeks, he made to open the black door.

  – Are those the same clothes you gave me this time?

  – Don’t be a twit, said Lucy. You took them away. I never saw them again. The things that people will do for a free set of clothes.

  – No doubt, he said.

  The door tinged as he went in. He made his way to the counter. There was nobody attending. Fat hanging in the air betrayed the menu. A woman with iron-grey curls detached herself from a seated customer. Hi, he said, morning. Could I get. Hailstones bulleted across the corrugated tin of the roof. Sorry, dear, speak up. He mimed lifting a mug of tea in one fist. Mimed clawing a bacon roll to his face in the other. She turned away to attend to his whims.

  – Whims, said Lucy.

  – Yes, thanks, Tam, he said. Whims, I’m famous for them. Terrible man.

  There were three frying pans, plus a deep pot, on four gas rings. Pan one had its bacon, sausage, wheels of black pudding. Pan two displayed sunny-side up egg, and clouded egg. Pan three boasted half-toms, collapsed, red, seedy, watery. Deep pot for beans.

  He turned to look at the other occupants. Three old farts, nodding and smoking, inclined to each other, without speaking, over a chipped, formica table. For all he knew, not speaking because of the hail, the bullets. Not speaking because they were fatigued beyond tiredness, with faces like scorched ravines. He wasn’t that tired himself. Not speaking because they were all out of yarns, stories, whys, becauses.

  Young woman in a red bandana, fawn duffle coat, green woven midi, and black knee-boots at another table. She was sideways on to him. He knew her, couldn’t place her. That happened all the time in the city. She stirred round. He made his mouth open cautiously towards her, half-a-hello without commitment, then turned to see how breakfast was getting on.

  – Who’s this then? said Lucy. Another conquest? Wait, I know, there’s one missing. This’ll be Iris.

  – You’ll be peeping at the ending next.

  Iron Curls was using a fish-slice in pan one to deal with hopeless casualties, and drag them across to one side out of triage. Burst sausage, scab of bacon, cauterized blood pudding. In a clearing she carefully laid a fatty rasher, as though stretching out a pale victim after an air-raid. She turned her surgical attentions to a white softie, a species of bap. She half-slit it and tore its pith. She spread it with a fluted metal-handled knife from a half-pound block of Stork, with its wrapper open like a greasy nappy. She wiped her fingers on each other, the better to mingle the dust of raw flour from the top of the softie with the oleo of pig, ox, possibly whale, and vegetable fats.

  – I’m not sure I like the tone here, she said. Lord Snooty springs to mind.

  At last the hail stopped drumming. Was it a bacon roll? It was. Was it a cup of tea? It also. A mug, if you’ve got one. We only do mugs. That seemed to him sufficient philosophy.

  – Or very early Beckett, that bit, he said. We all have our influences. Surf’n’ Turf, Tam’n’ Sam.

  – Do you still read?

  – I did in exile, if that’s what it was. Only two problems. Couldn’t remember characters’ names from one page to the next, couldn’t follow plots.

  – What else is there?

  – Style, sudden incident. Lucy, you know that.

  – Ye gods, she said. Here he goes again.

  The bacon, searing away like Joan of Arc, was denied a moment’s peace. It sizzled, arched, frazzled, on both sides and along edges. That’s fine, he said. Just say, she said. Spot on, he said. I can’t stand cinders, replied the woman. Murder, he said. Fit? she said. They’re murder, cinders, he retorted. Charcoal’s supposed to be good for you, she said. I’m bothered wi ma stomach. Your stomach? Aye, it’s no right. My auntie’s the same, he said. She posed the frizzle on the spread softie, and shut the pliant lid, pressing it down with the flat of her fingers. A docked tail stuck out one side. Did you want ketchup? No, he said. It’s not too late, there is ketchup. No, it’s okay. My doctor says I’ve to keep off condiments, she said. She handed him the bacon softie, seated on a side-plate. Is there tea ready? he said. Did you want fresh? No, it’s okay. It’s been stewing a whilie, she said, fine and strong. What time do you open? he said. I work wi the pubs, she said. Open when they shut, shut again as soon as they open. Must be some long night, he said. Nights are long wherever you are, she said,
a body has tae get on. Wait till the revolution, he said. Eh? she said. Just wait till the revolution, he said. That’ll be ninepence, dear, she said. Oh god, he thought, these are not, wait. Thruppence, a button, a daud of gum, sixpence, that do? he said. That’s us square, said the woman, keep a hold of your button and stuff. Thought I was away to scrub pans there, he said. Mind, dinna forget, there is ketchup, she said. Dandy, he said, ravenous.

  After the ordering ritual was over, he turned to face the rest of society. The girl in the green midi beckoned him over. Christ, he said, It is you, Iris. What you doing here? Really, she said, I could ask you the same.

  He pulled out a tubular chair with a plastic-covered pink-cushioned portion. Psychedelic, eh, in here? he said. He sat down opposite her. She laid aside her book, The Iron Heel by Jack London. You do acid? said Iris. Do you? he said. Asked you first, said Iris. Naw, athlete, he said, well, runner. And I’m in trouble enough at school without getting busted, she said. What kinda? With the heidie, the flaming hierarchy. But you were always Goodie-Two-Shoes. There’s such a thing as biding your time, replied Iris. Iris, sorry, here’s me with tea, do you want? It’s okay, I’m floating in tea. This bacon roll’s the business, he said. Roon ma hert like a hairy worm. One of his father’s phrases.

  – Alison’s like that, my assistant, my colleague, said Lucy. Always coming out with these strong expressions. Doric.

  – For a laugh?

  – Partly. Never heard her do that one. Roon ma hert like a hairy worm. Must ask her if she knows it. Roon ma hert like a hairy worm.

  – It’s possibly rude, he said.

  – Alison won’t mind. Wonder how she’s getting on.

  – Going to phone?

  – Don’t want to break this.

  – You’ve been leaning on my thigh for the last I don’t know how long. A break won’t hurt.

  – Diddums, said Lucy. Don’t you like me tampering with your blood supply?

  they only believe in change

  When she got back upstairs, he was sleeping. She didn’t wake him and went back and made another call from the house phone downstairs. She hadn’t had a clue what time it was. Then she made brunch, and sat and ate it, ravenous herself, glad of the peace, strangely.

  She cleared away her plate and put clingfilm on his. She thought Alison might have phoned her back. It was the first time she had stepped off for ages, into pure life, that limbo. Probably the world went on, but how could you know. It was like stepping off pavementette and going down the Back Wynd Steps during a Spectacle.

  She took out some sheets of paper from the printer in the downstairs study and took them back to the kitchen where it was warm. She wrote down some alphabet and wrote as many names, neat per column, as she could, for each initial, Andrew, Arthur, Anthony, Bob, Bill, Bert, Colin, Ciaran, Chris, and so on. She soon ran out of paper, then realised there were three lots sitting blank in the worn folders on the worktop, beside the kettle.

  That seemed a very long time ago, the time of her subterfuge.

  Whereas January 1st ’68 was fresher than yesterday.

  He didn’t get up for brunch. They ate dinner in the kitchen.

  – Did you get through to Alison?

  – Eventually.

  – How was she?

  – Distant.

  – Is she the moody sort?

  Lucy was absent a second.

  – Is she?

  – Not usually. Maybe Finlay and her split up.

  – Didn’t you ask her?

  – We didn’t get off the subject of work. The meeting I missed today was pretty important. She needed me, she’s under pressure. We’ve lost significant ground.

  – Explain.

  – Do you want the last tattie?

  – No. Let it be.

  – It’s only like this massive leisure multinational versus a city, said Lucy. The city has half-resisted, then quarter-resisted, but now we’re set to lose, big-time. Ready for pud? It’s my own blackcurrants.

  – At this time of year?

  – From the freezer. I’ve blatted them with ice-cream and yoghurt. Alison told me one thing. You won’t believe this. In the middle of all this, they want to change the city’s name. Again. Aberdeen for centuries, Uberdeen the last two years. They used to be so traditionalist. Now they only believe in change.

  – Right.

  – They mooted Rookton at first. Marrdom even. Now they’ve picked up my joke suggestion of Leopardeen.

  – Who cares? It’ll make the football scores more interesting. Wolves 1 Leopardeen 2. More like American football.

  – Unfortunately, said Lucy, I think that’s the general idea.

  – I’ll do the dishes, he said.

  – Dishwasher. Theo made sure I had all that before he died.

  – Why didn’t you marry after? No ties, good salary, nice big house.

  – Don’t. Come upstairs. Have you had enough to eat? We might need our strength for the very last bit.

  – I hope that’s just a single entendre, he said.

  They got on the bed.

  – If Tam’s got this last part properly written, he said, it might propel me through my blanks.

  Anyway, eh, what a ding-dong!

  – Sorry? he said. You’ve lost me already.

  – I’ve just started.

  – Yes, go back, I’ve lost the thread.

  This bacon roll’s the business. Goin roon ma hert like a hairy worm.

  – That, yes, of course.

  She does them good.

  – That’s Iris speaking, said Lucy.

  Anyway, eh, what a ding-dong!

  – That’s—?

  – You, said Lucy.

  What? said Iris. Tonight, the New Year, he said, what a ding-dong. I was going to ask, said Iris. Have you lost weight? Your coat. Yeah, really suddenly. Hey but you look great, the bandana. Don’t, she said. What? I look how I look. Plain Iris, the washed-out rainbow. You used to call me Bapface. Hell, that was other people, he said. Hell is not always other people, she said. Deep, Iris. Not, she said. Anyway, what are you so hepped-up about? Two things, he said. Just been with this amazing person. Name? Dunno, he said. Person, said Iris. Mabel, Jean, Betty, Angela? Angeline?

  – Not even close, said Lucy.

  X, he said. She’s X to me. No surprise, you didn’t even spot me when you came in. And we sat in the same double desk for years. Yeah, that’s bad, he said, but that was a wee while back. Whereas X was what, an hour ago? True, he said, but X really exists. As in exist, you know. Yes, said Iris. She’s my very own X, he said, and that’s all about it. I’d give you my shrink’s number, she said, but in that coat you’d probably vanish. Ha, you’re good for me, Iris, I spend too much time brooding. Does she? If you can brood at a hundred miles an hour, he said, probably yes. He was silent for a moment.

  Iris broke in. Do you want my advice? Sure, he said. Go with it, it may be your chance. But we’re no way due to meet again, he said. That does introduce a note of futility, said Iris. Tough, eh? he said. All I can do is develop my own existence, my existingness or something. She thinks I’m a twig, an interloper, some fleeting Mercury. Want to hear about my troubles? she said.

  – Nice one, Iris, said Lucy.

  Let me get a coupla cuppas, he said. Okay, she said. Lend me a bob, though, could you? he said. These are not my breeks.

  – Wandering about in another man’s breeks? said Lucy. Tut-tut.

  – I’m another man anyway, he said.

  She came with him to the counter. Two teas, Mum, okay? said Iris. That your Mum? he whispered, as Iron Curls disappeared into the back of the premises. She nodded. He glanced at the three old men with faces like scorched ravines. And who are the old farts? he whispered again. These three? she said. Well, Freddie on the right, Freddie Tait, used to let various parties load up free on his tram and out to Woodside to break up Mosley’s rallies, ’36, ’37, that kind of time. He’s a good guy, Freddie, but his mind’s awander. Then Charlie, him
in the middle, his wife’s just died, used to have a milk float, Co-opie Milk, and a Clydesdale to pull it, the length of King Street. Rosie he called his mare, he kept her droppings in a bucket and distributed it to gardens. Hector Smith on the left was pretty much straight, a docks shop steward for the T&G. They had their strikes, they maintained conditions, slowly improved them. The old farts stirred themselves, as though they knew they were being talked about. They made a show of peering through the snow-flecked pane.