One Last Dram Before Midnight

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘From here? Oh, if we were going full tilt and given a decent wind we could be there in four hours,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Four hours tae New York?’ spluttered Hoynes. ‘It takes six hoors on the bus tae get tae Glesca!’

  ‘They’ll never fly it that fast with passengers, mind you,’ Bertie continued. ‘But our job is to test it to the limit.’

  ‘There’ll come a day when folk will be stayin’ here in Kinloch an’ working in America, or even Australia. It’s all mapped oot, if you care tae think aboot it,’ said Hamish.

  ‘You boys must be remarkable pilots, right enough.’ Hoynes tapped his pipe out in a glass ashtray. ‘I’m thinking there won’t be very many of you about?’

  ‘With supersonic experience? I should say not,’ replied Ralph. ‘A dozen, maybe fifteen.’

  ‘Are they all oot at the base at Machrie?’

  ‘No, not at all. I meant in the whole world. We’re a rare breed, aren’t we, Bertie?’

  ‘That we are.’

  Hamish looked at Hoynes and winked. Rare breeds like these would be sadly missed – even if it was only for a short while. Time enough to attract the world’s attention to the plight of Kinloch’s herring fishermen.

  VIII

  The three women sat in the Hoynes’ living room, nursing cups of tea. The fuller figures of Marjorie and Maggie bookended a birdlike woman, with a tiny face and hair scraped back in a scraggy bun.

  ‘He canna hauld his drink. The least wee tipple an’ he’s singing like a bird,’ griped Geordie McCallum’s wife Beth. ‘You jeest have tae be careful how you go aboot getting any sense oot o’ him.’

  ‘If they think they’re going to spirit my Duncan off they can think again. That’s not going to happen.’ Maggie lifted her chin and stared from one woman to the other. ‘He’s finishing early today, and we’re going to get him a suit for the honeymoon.’

  ‘You better hope he’s no’ finished already and doon the Douglas Arms wae that faither o’ yours.’ Beth shook her head to emphasise the seriousness of their predicament. ‘They’re taking someone tae oor wee bothy – who else could it be, Maggie? Aye, an’ whoot’s goin’ tae happen afterwards?’

  ‘And how can we stop them?’ pondered Marjorie. ‘I know my husband – he’s like a dog wae a bone. He never gies up. If he sets his mind on something, he’ll go hell for leather tae make it happen. As soon as I got him interested in fridges, there was no stoppin’ him.’

  ‘That was a good piece of logic, Marjorie. How on earth did you manage that?’ asked Beth.

  ‘Dead easy. I jeest telt him a’ the money we’d lose whoot wae food going off in the pantry. Did he no’ go oot and do something that very day. Ordered the contraption and everything.’

  ‘He doesn’t like it, though,’ said Maggie. ‘Swears blind it makes the cheese lose its flavour.’

  ‘It doesna improve it any, right enough,’ said Marjorie. ‘I always put a wee dollop o’ mustard in wae a cheese sauce. Try it, Beth, gies it a great flavour.’

  ‘Mother, we’re losing the thread here. Beth’s not interested in making a cheese sauce, when her man’s about to be caught up in the machinations of my father and his trusty assistant.’

  ‘Well, whootever it is, they canna dae it waeoot a Land Rover. That’s where oor Geordie comes in.’

  ‘Is that no’ it sittin’ at the front gate, Beth?’

  ‘No, that’s the auld yin. I cut aboot in it maist o’ the time. It’s a wee bit temperamental, but I nurse her through. The only way tae get oot the road. Geordie bought yin for himsel’. It was only second-hand, but he wishes he’d no’ bothered noo, whoot wae the fishing goin’ tae the dogs. Mark you, it’s always stinking o’ fish.’

  ‘So they think they’re going to imprison my Duncan then send him goodness knows where. It’s time to get down to the Douglas Arms and put a stop to it all.’

  ‘Aye, but we’ll have tae ca’ canny, Maggie,’ said her mother. ‘Think, once we’ve caught them, we’ll have them that guilty, they’ll no’ stray for weeks, right through the wedding and beyond. We can put all this nonsense o’ my Duncan’s stag night behind us. Jeest gie them enough rope.’

  ‘We need to keep a watching brief, Sergeant,’ said Marshall the Customs Officer. ‘I don’t want us going off half-cocked and them getting off on some technicality.’

  ‘I have Hoynes banged to rights with that octopus. But I agree, we need to bide our time. Just give them enough rope,’ whispered Watson.

  Grant, Marshall and Watson were in the back of a police van, staring across the road at the Douglas Arms through a gap between the front seats. Though it was July, lowering cloud and a downpour of rain darkened the scene.

  ‘Could you not go and issue some parking tickets, Sergeant. I can see at least three candidates from here. It’ll distract attention from the van,’ muttered Marshall.

  Grant ignored him. ‘So, the plan is, when they move – if they move – we decamp into the Customs vehicle and follow them at a discreet distance. Is that agreed?’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ replied Watson, a gleam back in his eye.

  ‘All we have to do is wait,’ said Marshall. ‘This will be a feather in all of our caps, gentlemen.’

  Grant stared gloomily at the Douglas Arms. Arresting his father-in-law might improve his prospects for promotion, but it certainly wouldn’t make for a good start to married life.

  Stay in there and get drunk and prove this pair wrong, the police sergeant prayed to himself, just as the pub’s front door swung open and the distinctive blue cloud of pipe tobacco wafted out onto the street and was carried away on the wind. ‘There! Father’s there!’ exclaimed Maggie. She was at the mouth of the close opposite the Douglas Arms. ‘Who’s that with him? That’s not Hamish.’ Sure enough, a tall man with a neat haircut was shrugging on a grey raincoat in the pub doorway. He and Hoynes were laughing at something, both looking somewhat unsteady on their feet.

  ‘Did you ever,’ said Beth, peering over Maggie’s shoulder. ‘The pair o’ them are three sheets tae the wind.’

  As the three women, remaining hidden, looked on, more figures appeared in the doorway.

  ‘There’s Hamish. No show withoot Punch, right enough,’ said Marjorie. The first mate was with another man in a gabardine raincoat, slightly stockier, but just as smart as the other stranger. ‘Whoever their freens are, I don’t like the look o’ them. Is there no sign o’ Duncan, Maggie?’

  ‘No. I’ve not seen him yet.’

  ‘Och, he’s likely incapacitated in oor new Land Rover,’ said Beth. ‘Likely tied up, or drugged, so they can spirit him off, the poor soul.’

  ‘Steady on, Beth. My man’s no’ a monster. I can see him fillin’ big Duncan full o’ whisky, but I don’t think they’ll get tae the druggin’-and-tyin’-up stage jeest tae make him compliant.’

  ‘You’ve great faith, Mother,’ said Maggie, clearly not convinced that her father wouldn’t resort to such means.

  A small man in a cap was last to leave the Douglas Arms. He was searching in the pockets of his shabby overcoat.

  ‘And there’s my Geordie. I don’t know how many times I’ve telt him tae bin that bloody coat. No’ fit tae grace a tattie-bogle.’ Beth looked on as her husband produced something from his pocket. ‘Aye, that’s him found the keys noo.’

  ‘I can’t see any sign of your Land Rover, Beth,’ said Maggie.

  ‘They’re fly buggers. They’ll have it parked in the backyard o’ the County, oot the way. My Geordie won’t take too much drink if he’s tae drive, but he widna pass wan o’ they new breathalyser tests the polis is using noo. They’ll have parked up oot o’ sight.’

  ‘In that case, we better get going. If they’re parked at the County, they’ll need to pass here. If we sit in the motor, up the Well Close, we can follow when we see them.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘If they’ve done anything to my Duncan . . .’

  ‘Received, Constable,’ said Grant into his radio. ‘They’re getting into a
Land Rover in the car park of the County Hotel, five of them. We can identify Hoynes, Hamish and Geordie, but no idea who the other two are.’

  ‘That’ll be their contacts,’ said Watson. ‘Smooth-looking operators, if ever I saw them. Not from around here, at any rate. And certainly not fishermen.’

  ‘We have to be careful not to be spotted,’ said Marshall. ‘Will you take the wheel, Sergeant? You know the area better than me.’

  As Grant started the engine, a battered old Land Rover puttered past, turned right and headed up the Glebe Brae. ‘That’s our men,’ said Grant. He waited for a few moments then followed.

  IX

  ‘Great idea, gentlemen,’ said Bertie from the back of Geordie’s Land Rover. ‘We don’t get to see much of the countryside.’

  ‘I daresay it jeest flies past in a flash – and a bang,’ said Hamish who was sitting in the back with the pilot.

  ‘We can take the top off one of these.’ Bertie fished around the inside pocket of his raincoat and produced a lemonade bottle.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘“The clearrr schtuff”, as you call it,’ replied Bertie, adopting a Scottish accent. ‘I’ve grown quite fond of it. Blows your cares away, eh, Ralph?’

  ‘It does, indeed,’ replied his fellow pilot. He was squeezed in between Hoynes and Geordie, who was gripping the large steering wheel and squinting through the windscreen at the heavy rain. ‘Reminds me a bit of that scrumpy we used to get in Somerset. You know, with the bits floating at the bottom. A couple of those and you were set for the evening, and no mistake.’

  ‘Och, but it’s fine you like a drink or two. The price of whisky in that Douglas Arms – damn near daylight robbery,’ said Hoynes. ‘Once we’ve got tae the bothy we’ll make a right good night o’ it. We’ve a few bottles of our own.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Bertie. ‘Time for a bit of a song, I reckon.’ He cleared his throat then launched into ‘One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow’. Everyone joined in, apart from Geordie, who shook his head and concentrated on the wet road.

  ‘That’s not oor Geordie’s Land Rover,’ said Beth. ‘He’s got a crack in his rear light, and there’s no sign o’ anything like that. Anyway, it’s too new.’

  ‘Maybe he got it fixed,’ suggested Maggie.

  ‘No, nor fixed. We’re following the wrong folk!’

  ‘But they’re going the right way, Beth,’ said Marjorie. ‘Surely that’s a good sign.’

  ‘They’ll be accomplices, Mother. You better stay back a bit, Beth. You’ll just make them suspicious. I tell you, this is getting murkier and murkier by the minute.’

  As the rain got heavier, and the wind gusted to gale force, the three-vehicle convoy travelled on. About seven miles outside Kinloch, Geordie turned his vehicle onto a single track road marked ‘Glen Brackie’. The engine strained as it took the steep hill.

  ‘Heading well into the hinterland, are we not?’ said Ralph, taking the bottle from his lips.

  ‘It’ll be well worth the wait, you’ll see,’ said Hoynes, a broad grin spread across his flushed face. ‘Och, I’m fair enjoying oor wee jaunt, right enough.’ He took a swig of whisky from the bottle in his hand. ‘Whoot song will we murder noo?’

  ‘Wid you mind no’ murdering anything,’ replied Geordie. ‘I’ve tae keep my wits aboot me. This road’s mair like a burn.’

  Steep hills rose on either side of them, shimmering in the sheets of rain pushed along by the wailing wind. The sky was a dark grey, and seemed to hang over the landscape in heavy curtains.

  ‘You wouldna think it wiz July,’ said Hamish. ‘It reminds me o’ a story my faither used tae tell me when I was a boy.’

  ‘Is it the one aboot the Raglin shepherd and his horse?’ asked Hoynes, his voice slurring. ‘If so, I know it off by heart.’

  ‘We don’t, though,’ piped up Bertie. ‘Come on, Hamish. It’ll break up the journey. The speed we’re going we’ll be lucky to get where we’re going by Christmas.’

  ‘I’m goin’ as fast as these conditions will allow. If you’ll note, there’s great drops either side o’ us. We’re heading onto the Piper’s Pass.’

  ‘And that’s jeest where my story begins,’ said Hamish. ‘The Raglan shepherd – och, a way back in the last century – was comin’ back fae an evening in Kinloch. It was a summer night – no’ like this one – warm, great big sky, a beautiful day.’

  ‘Aye, it’s certainly no’ like this one,’ muttered Geordie, his windscreen wipers at full tilt.

  ‘Anyhow,’ said Hamish, frowning at his story being interrupted. ‘The Raglan fella wisna worried in the slightest. He had a wee cottage jeest past the Piper’s Pass, an’ his horse – Jessie wiz her name – knew the road that well that the only reason he’d tae hauld the reins was so he’d stay on board, so tae speak.

  ‘Everything was going jeest dandy, but then they came upon the Piper’s Pass. Jessie fair whinnied, though she’d been there a hunner times afore.’ Hamish’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘The Raglan shepherd didna take any notice. He wisna a very sensitive man when he was sober, an’ wae the drink he could be wile an’ ignorant.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve never telt me that bit before, Hamish,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘Being here’s fair making the story come tae mind mair vividly, skipper. Noo, if you don’t mind . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘He was near nodding off – the whisky bottle near copin’ oot o’ his grip – when he heard it. Distantly at first, then quite clear . . .’

  ‘Was it Geordie’s windscreen wipers?’ joked Hoynes. ‘They’re screechin’ fit tae burst here.’ The driver scowled at Hoynes.

  Hamish soldiered on. ‘The pipes make the hair on the neck o’ any Scotsman worthy o’ the name stand up at the best o’ times, but this pibroch . . . man, it was fair ethereal. The tune echoed off the hills, in and oot. And then . . . he saw it!’

  Ralph jumped in surprise.

  ‘Whoot did he see?’ asked Geordie, despite himself.

  ‘A figure swathed in tartan – in a philibeg no less – walking calmly doon the steepest part o’ the pass, pipes slung o’er the shoulder, the tune fair deafening him.’

  ‘And what happened then?’ gulped Bertie he took a glug of the clear stuff from the lemonade bottle.

  ‘Well, Jessie had seen enough. She reared up, and, of course, her normally being a cuddy o’ sublime temperament, the Raglan shepherd wisna ready for such an event,’ said Hamish. ‘He coped off the back o’ her and landed wae a crack on the groond.’

  ‘I’m guessin’ he didna spill his whisky, though,’ remarked Hoynes dryly.

  ‘Ne’er a drop. Aye, an’ he was fair glad o’ it, tae. Jessie jeest bolted – ran back doon the pass, her mane fleein’ oot behind her like the hair o’ a wraith, leaving the Raglan shepherd pinned tae the groond; the fall having fair incapacitated him. He could see the figure blawing at the pipes advancing on him in a steady, relentless march . . .’

  ‘Bloody awkward position to be in,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Och, there was naethin’ else for it,’ Hamish continued. ‘He took a right good charge o’ his whisky and shouted tae the piper: “You, you’ve frightened my guid cuddy and left me here no’ able tae move. Dae your worst, for you can hardly better the damage you’ve done tae me already.”’

  ‘Aye, he was brave, right enough,’ said Hoynes, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘The pipes stopped. Jeest stopped deid. The piper, though, kept on coming.’ Hamish drew in a deep breath. ‘It was only then that the Raglan shepherd got really feart . . .’

  ‘He wisna too canny, then, if it took him a’ that while tae realise things wisna goin’ very well,’ said Geordie, his face a mask of concentration as he drove up and into the pass proper.

  Hamish ignored the driver. ‘The piper wiz standing above him. The Raglan fella jeest screwed up his eyes, no’ at all anxious tae see whoot wiz in front o’ him. It was then he heard it – a voice, a familiar voice.’

  �
��Was it Jessie the horse?’ asked Hoynes.

  ‘No, nor Jessie. It was the voice o’ his mother . . .’

  ‘No’ much o’ a story that, Hamish,’ said Geordie. ‘My mother could get a passable tune oot the pipes. She didna go for the full philibeg costume, right enough, but when it came tae her interpretation o’ “Major MacLeod Leavin’ Harris”, there were few better.’ He started to hum the tune.

  ‘Aye, but there was one difference. The Raglan shepherd was a man in his sixties. He’d lost his mother many years before – tae consumption, no less.’

  ‘Och, this jeest gets better and better,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘What did she say to him?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘She stood there, a’ white an’ ghostly under the tartan, an’ looked him right in the eye. “You’ll mind taking they few coins off the mantelshelf,” she said, a’ matter-o’-fact, like. The shepherd jeest nodded his heid – sheepishly, whoot wae the profession he wiz in, an a’. “Aye, weel,” said she, “that wiz the rent money for the factor, as you well knew. It’s time tae make amends. If you’re to be spared, every year, on this day, you’ll pay the rents o’ some poor soul in need. The day you don’t is the day you’ll die.” And wae that she jeest vanished, pipes an’ all.’

  ‘And did he dae whoot he wiz telt, Hamish?’ asked Geordie.

  ‘Aye, he did that. Every year for ten years until he was a bent old man and could work no more, he saved his coin an’ paid the dues o’ some poor unfortunate soul. He forswore the whisky an’ the baccy in order tae be able tae manage it.’ Hamish looked at the floor of the vehicle and shook his head.

  ‘And whoot aboot Jessie the horse?’ asked Hoynes.

  ‘I’m no’ right sure o’ whoot happened tae her. But the story’s no’ finished.’

  ‘Carry on, Hamish,’ insisted Ralph.

  ‘This was the days afore the dole an’ that kind o’ thing. The Raglan shepherd had had tae gie up his toil. He wiz in fine fettle, though. Sitting one night wae one o’ his freens enjoying his hospitality.’