by Iain Banks
It was one of those brilliantly simple ideas people always wish they had had themselves, and believe that somehow they could have had; no need to incur any extra expense or make any more sizes than anybody else, or necessarily to distinguish one's product in other way, yet just by the idea one has a potential market of half the jeans-buying public, or at least that proportion of it which has always felt that they are somehow perpetually between the usual sizes.
I vaguely remember dreaming about Verity's jeans that night; how graphically, geographically tight they were and how wonderful it must be to take them off her. Then I imagined Lewis, boots tied round his neck, for some reason suddenly resembling Shane MacGowan, skinning her jeans off, not me, and he turned into Rodney Ritchie, at home with his parents, unpicking the individual stitches of her jeans with a tiny knife, and the Ritchies all wore badly-fitting jeans and had denim curtains and denim carpets and denim light shades and denim wallpaper with the little rivets left on like poppers so you could just press paintings and photos onto the wall… except that Mr Ritchie looked like Claude Lévi-Strauss, which is when I think I started to get confused.
* * *
Either I had been put to bed, I thought, as I woke up next morning, in the wee cold room at the top of the house, or my standard drunk-person's on-board auto-pilot facility was improving with experience. I bathed, dressed, and broke my fast with some left-overs from the fridge, a pint of water and a couple of brace of Paracetamol, all without encountering anybody else in the house. It was only eight o'clock; obviously I'd conked out some time before everybody else, and they were still asleep (I had heard appropriate log-sawing-like noises coming from Hamish and Tone's room on my way back from the bathroom). The day looked bright but cold; I laced up the Docs and went for a walk in the hills behind Gallanach.
I felt like shit and I was trying so hard not to think of Lewis and Verity that I couldn't think about anything else, but the day was fabulous; clear and cold, the sky crystal blue and reflecting in the waters of hill-cupped lochans and the glinting length of Loch Add. On such days the hills hold a mixture of azure and gold never seen at any other time of year; the cobalt sky is more intense than it ever is in summer, and the straw-coloured hills shine strong in the light from the low winter sun. Against the shifting mirror that is the surface of a loch, the colours shimmer and dance; they take your breath away, and — for a brief, relieving while — they can even take your thoughts away.
Up in the hills, at the place of marching water, I found Ashley Watt and one of her more exotic cousins.
The concrete spillway below the Loch Add reservoir comes down to a stepped slope above the confluence of several small burns draining nearby slopes. A short bridge carries the track over the spillway, and that was where Ashley and Aline were sitting, legs dangling over the stream in the concrete gully, arms resting on the lower bar of the bridge rails.
They were sitting side by side, watching the marching water. What happened was that the water first backed up behind the lipped edge of the top step, then over-flowed, and spilled with increasing force, in a sort of hydro-chain-reaction, down each subsequent step to the bottom of the channel. There followed a period of comparative quiet, while the water built up again behind the top step and those beneath. You might guess it was my dad who first pointed out this odd (and classically Chaotic) phenomenon and brought it to the attention of us kids. None of us had ever been able to discover whether it was a deliberate effect, or the result of pure chance. Whatever, it was wonderfully restful, unpredictable and therapeutic.
"Hey, Prentice," Ash said. She looked a little worn and bleary-eyed, though her long, lion-coloured hair shone like health itself in the brassy sunlight of mid-day.
"Hi." I nodded to her and to Aline, who was Franco-Vietnamese and engaged to Hugh Watt, one of Ashley's multitudinous cousins from the branch of the family that seemed to favour consorts of an exotic provenance (Hugh's brother Craig was going out with a stunning, lanky Nigerian called Noor). Aline looked even smaller and blacker-haired than usual, beside Ashley. "Aline; ça va?"
"Magic, Prentice," Aline replied in fluent Glaswegian.
"Have some skoosh," Ash said as I sat down next to her. She reached between her and Aline and handed me a half-finished bottle of Irn-Bru. I had, over the course of the morning, already gulped down about a gallon of teeth-achingly cold stream-water at various points up in the hills, but the traditional Scottish hangover treatment was probably just what I needed. I took a couple of mouthfuls, handed the bottle back, wiping my lips.
"You look terrible," Ash said.
"Feel worse," I said glumly, watching the water cascade down the concrete stair-case of the spillway.
"Lost track of you at the Urvills" party, Prentice," Ashley said. "You just slope off, or did you get a lumber?"
"Oh God," I moaned, and lowered my head to the cool steel pipe of the bridge rail.
«Hey…» Ash said gently, putting her hand on my head and patting me. "There there, Prentice ma man. What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing much," I sighed, slowly raising my head again and gazing at the water. "I saw the woman I love wrap herself round my older, smarter and wittier brother like clingfilm round a sandwich, and it looks like they're enjoying each other the way… Oh, God, I'm so pissed off I can't even think of a decent comparison. Or even an indecent one, which would probably — certainly — be more to the point."
"Part from that; everything okay, aye?" Ash said, putting her arm round my shoulders.
"Help me, Ashley," I said, closing my eyes and putting my head on her shoulder. "What am I to do?"
"You must think of her on the toilet," Aline said, and giggled.
"Off-white woman speak truth," Ash said, lowering her head to rest it on mine. "The hots rarely survive an intense course of imagining the beloved on the cludgie."
"No," I sighed, opening my eyes as a series of splashes announced another chaotic event on the spillway. "I'd probably only develop a fetish for coprophagy."
"Pardon?"
"That as unpleasant as it sounds?"
"Unpleasanter."
"Merde!"
"Yup."
"You're a hopeless case, Prentice, so you are. Have you contemplated suicide?"
"Yeah; soon as it's finished, I'm going to throw myself off the Channel Tunnel."
Ashley's shoulders moved once under my head. "Plenty of time to set your affairs in order, then."
"It's not my affairs I'm concerned with."
"Ach, she wasn't your sort, anyway, Prentice."
"What; you mean not good enough for me?"
"No, Prentice; I mean too much taste. You never stood a chance with a woman that choosy."
I pulled away and looked dubiously at Ashley, who smiled sweetly. "What is this?" I said. "You auditioning for the Exit chapter of the Samaritans, or what?"
Ashley took my hands in hers. "Ah, Prentice. Dinnae worry; maybe it's just an infatuation; hers, or Lewis's… or yours. Whatever. Maybe she'll come to her senses. Maybe she wants to work her way through all the McHoan brothers in order of age —»
"Or weight."
" — or weight. Maybe she'll get married to Lewis but have a life-long affair with you."
"Oh, great."
"See? You don't know what might happen," Ashley said happily, spreading her hands.
"Anyway, Prentice," Aline said in her sing-song voice. "There are plenty more fishes in the sea, yes?"
I looked over at Aline. "Hey, can I quote you on that?"
Aline winked at me, tapped the side of her nose. "The toilet," said conspiratorially.
I started to get up. "It's no good," I sighed. "You two are cheering me up too much and I can't stand the excitement." I got wearily my feet, muscles aching from the effects of drink and walk.
"See you down the Jac tonight?" Ash said.
"Maybe," I said. "I keep trying to drown my sorrows but they appear to be marginally more buoyant than expanded polystyrene." The water cascaded down t
he face of the spillway again, the noise like a million stamping feet heard from a long way off. I shrugged. "Fuck it, though; worth another try. Gotta start working some time"
"That's my boy."
"See you, gals."
"Bye-bye, Prentice."
"Try not to fall in love with anybody else before tonight."
"Yo."
* * *
An hour or so later I saw my mother's green Metro, just about to turn out of the drive-way of Hamish and Tone's house. She stopped when she saw me, wound the window down. "Here you are," she said.
"Here I am," I agreed.
"I was waiting for ages there." She glanced at her watch. "Oh well. Getting in?"
I got into the car; we started to reverse the fifty yards back up the drive. Actually, my legs were so tired I was quite grateful for the lift. "I brought what I could find of Rory's stuff." Mum nodded. "Your dad thinks there's more, but it's buried in the filing." I looked at the back seat, where a folder lay. "Not that you deserve it," she added.
"Oh, thanks," I said. I picked the folder up; CRII said the lettering on the spine. It looked similar to the folder I already had, but perhaps a little thicker. I vaguely remembered reminding mum last night that I was looking for the rest of Uncle Rory's papers.
"Well?" she said.
I looked over, yawning. "Well?" I repeated.
We drew to a stop outside the door of the house. "You don't remember last night, do you?" mum said, turning the ignition off. She was dressed in angora'and chunky cords; new perfume. She looked slightly unamused and not a little worried.
"Not… in its entirety, no," I confessed.
She shook her head. "God, you were drunk, Prentice."
"Umm," I said, weighing the folder in my hands."… Yes." I smiled my best "but I'm still your wee laddy" smile.
She raised those delicate brown brows. "My God, you don't remember embarrassing Lewis and Verity last night, do you?"
I looked at her.
"I mean, apart from embarrassing your father and me," she added.
I felt the blood draining from my face like somebody had opened a valve in my ankle. Oh-oh.
I swallowed. "I wasn't doing my impression of the Bradford City supporter, the King's Cross Disaster victim and the guy from Piper Alpha meeting up in Hell, was I?" (Requires three cigarettes; offends everybody.)
"It's not funny, Prentice; poor Verity was nearly in tears. You're lucky Lewis didn't throttle you."
"Oh my God," I said, feeling cold. "What did I say?"
(Duck, and cover.)
"Told her — told everybody — you were madly in love with her!" she said, eyes flashing. "Then, having declared undying worship of the poor girl, you proceeded to slag her off for taking up with Lewis." Mum shook her head angrily, tears in her eyes. "Prentice! What were you thinking of?"
"Oh my God," I moaned. KYAG. I put the folder down in my lap and put my forehead on the folder.
"Then you followed that up with some fairly off-colour remarks about Lapland, and what you referred to, I believe, as 'the old earth-moving equipment'."
"Oh my God."
"And I think we all successfully worked out what 'doing the Delta Foxtrot' was, as well, before you became totally incoherent."
"Oh my God!"
"I don't think saying 'Oh my God' will make it any better, Prentice. I think you should apologise to Verity and Lewis as soon as you can. They're up at the castle." My mother brought her voice under control with an effort. Though you might also think about saying sorry to Hamish and Antonia, too, as you were their guest and it was their party you brought grinding to an embarrassing halt. Just as well you agreed to go quietly when Kenneth suggested it was time you went to bed; though apparently he and Hamish practically had to carry you upstairs, and the whole way up you were muttering something vile about Lewis being thrown naked into a tub of starving Elephant Leeches."
And dad put me to bed! Oh no! Dad and the Tree! The shame of it!
"Mum, I want to die," I mumbled into the folder.
"Just at the moment, Prentice, I don't think there'd be any shortage of volunteers to help you on your way, if you were serious."
"I am."
"Stop being melodramatic, Prentice; it doesn't suit you. Sarcasm's more your forte."
"Oh my God."
"Prentice," mum said, putting her hand on my head and running her fingers through my hair. "Prentice…»
I looked up, straightened. Mum's eyes looked red. She shook her head. "Prentice, why are you so stupid with your cleverness sometimes?"
I took a deep breath. "Wish I knew, mum," I said, and sniffed, eyes smarting. Best not to say anything about it running in the family.
She took me in her arms, hugged me. I was surprised, as I always was at such moments, how slim and small she felt.
After a bit we let go of each other. She glanced in the mirror and declared I had wrecked her eyes for the rest of the day. Then we went in to Hamish and Tone's for tea and apologies, and later drove to the castle for what would have been the most excruciating interval of my life if Verity and Lewis had still been there, but they weren't; they had taken off in the car to visit some friends of Verity's who lived in Ardnamurchan, and wouldn't be back until late tomorrow at the earliest.
Mum took me back chez Hamish and Tone; she agreed to pass on my expressions of contrition to my father. She'd wanted me to come to Lochgair and say sorry to him there, but I had begged for mercy, and — rather to my surprise — been granted it.
I had already decided that tomorrow I would take the train back to what was now your official European City of Culture for the following twelve months. In theory, Verity and Lewis were meant to be giving me a lift in four days time, but that was obviously out, now.
I had to promise mum I'd write to each of them, and apologise in person at the first possible opportunity, and also that I'd stop off at Lochgair before I returned to Glasgow, to see dad.
* * *
Ashley met me in the Jac that night, listened to my woes, bought me drink when I ran out of money (I'm sure I was short-changed at the bar) even though she probably had less dosh than I did, and listened to my woes all over again when we went back to her mum's and sat up till God knows when, talking low so we wouldn't wake Dean in the next room. She made me coffee, gave me hugs, and at one point I fell asleep, and was at peace for a while, and woke up sprawled on the floor, my head on her lap, one gentle hand stroking my head. "Ash," I croaked, "you're a saint."
She just smiled.
A last cup of coffee and I left; back to H and T's in time for a few hours" fitful sleep; then up and away, run to the station by Aunt Antonia. I only just caught the train, and when, a quarter of an hour later, we pulled in to Lochgair, and I should have got my bag and quit the Sprinter and walked to the house and finally have talked — sober, and not in the context of a game of Alternative Charades — to my father, and apologised, and spent the three hours until the next Glasgow train with my mother and father in some longed-for spirit of reconciliation, I did nothing of the sort.
Instead I put my head to one side so that it rested against the cold glass of the window, closed my eyes and let my mouth hang open a little. I stayed like that for the minute or so we waited at the Lochgair station platform, and didn't stir again — yawning convincingly for any other passengers who might be watching — until we were crossing the viaduct at Succothmore.
* * *
Still stuck on the track within sight of Janice Rae's flat, I got up out of my seat, took down my bag and fished out the file mum had brought from the house. I found some much-Tippexed poems typed on foolscap, plus about twenty or so printed A4 pages which looked like they were part of a play or film script. 1 selected a page at random and started reading.
Lord:… And I see them as they will be, dead and torn; shocked, mutilated and alone, on battlefields or by long roads, in ditches or against high walls, in echoing white corridors and misty woods, in fields, by rivers; dumped in holes,
thrown in piles; neglected and absolved. Or, if living on, filled with petty, bitter memories, and a longing for the war they fought to end. Oh captain, I see in this my ending, what I think you didn't start to glimpse with your most cunning intuition; the soldiers are always the real refugees. Their first victim is themselves, their life taken from them well before — as though seeking a replacement from another freed —
But I couldn't take any more. I put the papers in the folder and the folder in my bag, then stuffed that under my seat.
I looked out at the rain instead; it was cheerier.
I'd avoided stopping off to see mum and dad. It made my eyes close, every time I thought about it. What was wrong with me?
Well, I thought; they made me. They produced me; their genes. And they brought me up. School and university still hadn't changed me as much as they had; maybe even the rest of my life could never compensate for their formative effect. If I was too embarrassed, too full of shame to go and see them, it wasn't just my fault; it was theirs too, because of the way they'd brought me up (God, I thought I'd stopped using that excuse when I left Lochgair Primary School). But there was a grain of truth in there.
Wasn't there?
And hell, I thought; I had been tired; I was tired still, and I would phone that evening — definitely — and say I'd fallen asleep, and nobody would be too bothered, and after all a chap could only cope with so much sorrow-saying in one day… of course I'd phone. A bit of soft soap, a bit of flannel, like dad would say.
No sweat; I could charm them. I'd make everything all right.
* * *
Still, it was the hangover of that piece of moral cowardice at Lochgair station, along with everything else, that led to me feeling so profoundly awful with myself that evening (after the train finally did get into Queen Street and I walked back, soaked and somehow no longer hungry, in the rain to the empty flat in Grant Street), that mum had to call me there, because I hadn't been able to bring myself to phone her and dad… and I still managed to feign sleep and a little shame and a smattering of sorrow and reassure her as best I could that really I was all right, yes of course, not to worry, I was fine, thanks for calling… and so of course after that felt even worse.
