Read Strip the Willow Online

Authors: John Aberdein

Strip the Willow (8 page)

 

In the moment the year started, Jim slipped through the warped door and started

 

Icarus, thought Lucy. Always keen to get out of the old house.

 

In the moment the year started, Jim slipped through the warped door and started running through fresh, powdery snow, unfree, yet with the momentum of freedom. He wore a zipped top, blue cotton shorts, and lightweight Japanese road shoes, Tiger Cubs. They made a
shima-shima
noise through snow as he drew to his pace. A voice sounded at his back, for indeed the warped door still stood open. A voice came. Back and nae be sae damned selfish! But Jim kept running.
Shima-shima
,
his shoes repeated. Then that voice again. Back and tak in the New Year properly!

 

Properly
? thought Lucy. A while since she’d heard that one. Why they had to have the Sixties.
Properly indeed
!

 

Jim turned around. There stood his councillor father, framed in the brick council house with the cold iron windows. He did look trapped, he looked tired and, though Jim didn’t like to acknowledge this, there were elements of despairing. There was something between them that was invisible. Slanting between them lay the ghost of snow, his mother’s ash, falling on the mountain top, released from the glider window. It was time to get away from all that.

 

Time indeed, thought Lucy. The world is full of dead mothers.

 

But something in him made him go back. Something in him made him go back and try to contend with the whole procession. He was no sooner back in the hall, getting a row for melting, than the bell went and it was Ludwig. Come in, come in, said his father. Ye’re ma first foot, Ludwig man, Happy New Year! Happy New Year, Andy, said Ludwig, who was attempting to stamp crimps of hardpacked snow out of his black oxhide motorbike boots. But these prints also, said Ludwig, pointing down with his hook, there is someone before me? Oh, just the loon, said Andy. He was awa oot runnin but I grabbed him back. Eh, loon? Shak hauns wi Ludwig.

 

Jim seethed. He wished the earth would open and swallow his father up. Common feelings in a lost young man. He shook left hands with Ludwig, awkwardly, and watched him struggle out of his leathers. Good tae see ye, Ludwig, said Andy. How’ve ye been? Still doon at the bloomin Fertile? Yes, big promotion now, said Ludwig. I clean out the boss’s office, not just the canteen. I am suitable for paper clips, look. His father inspected Ludwig’s hook. That’s a fair fancy rig ye’ve gotten, said Andy. Battery magnetic, switch on, switch off, replied Ludwig. They want me soon for the Scottish play. Fit,
Macbeth
? said Andy. No,
Peter Pan,
said Ludwig.
Doon the Pan,
mairlike, said Andy. That Royston and his bloody stopwatch. Yes, said Ludwig. I never forget the Time-
and-Motion
men, Andy, you know that. But I try to, even the War, forgive. The importance is to analyse, prevent recurring. So, still in the CP?
said Andy, as he ushered Ludwig through. He motioned Ludwig over to the cut moquette Cintique armchair, with the Dunlopillo cushions and light teak arms.

 

Fuck me, moquette! The real moquette. Now it was all coming back.

 

Yes, still in the Communist Party, twelve years, said Ludwig. The Cintique had the best view of the TV, which had its volume turned down and exhibited the formal bows and silent leaps of the White Heather Dancers. There was a pause in the conversation while the room’s occupants caught up with this. And how is being a councillor? said Ludwig eventually. Just trying tae warsle awa, dae what I can, that’s aa a Labour councillor can dae, said Andy. You always do your best, Andy, said Ludwig. That is the metal they make you from. But being Labour is always struggling through heavy sludge, no? Aye, weel, said Andy.

 

The doorbell went again, this time a double tinkle. Jim was on hand to open the door. It was Amande. She moved forward to give him a hug, but again he felt awkward. She had once rescued him from being trapped in a butcher’s freezer, and she had used her body chastely to warm him up. Now she managed no more than to press cold cheeks together. He lifted the camel coat from her shoulders, and then, as she turned around, hoping to look in his eyes no doubt, he nodded towards the living-room.

 

Come awa, come ben, Amande, said his father. He was always a bit too ready with the joyous welcomes, thought Jim. For those
outside
the family. A Good New Year, ma dear, said Andy. Happy New Year, Amande, said Ludwig. Happy New Year, said Amande. Sae, what’s it to be, aabody? said Andy. Ye’ll tak a snifter? I have my bike also, said Ludwig. A bike is not ideal for schniftering. Just the one, said Andy, a wee one surely? Ach, only if others, said Ludwig. Amande doesna drink these days, said Andy, and I’m nae bothered. I am very good, said Amande, these days. Three lemonades it is, then, said Andy, that’s easily poured. Loon? he said to his son. Nothing, said Jim, I’m out again in five minutes. Four lemonades, said Andy. I’ll give Annie a
shout. Annie! She’ll probably handle a small sherry. Annie! Jim felt the pressure begin to build.

 

Andy poured a very small sherry into the bottom of a conical glass, and four lemonades into engraved tumblers. The lemonades fizzed over the top. Fit’s a few draps? said Andy. Here’s a toast, fit’ll be,
qu’estce
que c’est, Amande? Nouvelle année! said the unremarried widow from Britanny. A very frohliche ’68! said the bereaved ex-prisoner-
of-war
. Come on in, Annie, ye’re just in time, Andy said to his arriving daughter. Aabody got their glass? Here’s tae it, then. Here’s tae these days. Here’s tae absent friens. Spermy, far’s Spermy? At his fish, said Amande. Here’s til that loon o yirs, then, said Andy. They tried to sip the fizz as it pringled their nostrils. It would be bad luck not to. Jim didn’t touch it.

 

These days,
thought Lucy,
these days.
Social history, yes, she was into that, but not family blethers. Eager for larger patterns, she preferred to skim-read.

Oh, my sainted Jesus! She had just glanced ahead.

 

Lucy stood at the mirror of night’s window,

 

She slammed the paper face-down on the desk, waited ten seconds, and then flipped it back.

 

brushing up and combing through the gold in her hair. She contrived a hollow hive, live and crackling. But where was the
buzz
?

 

Her guts. They were going tight, turning to water. She gripped the desk and tried to stand up.

 

She should be in Prague, where it was happening. Like magma, the Plastic People of the Universe, their music, molten, desirous, bursting free.

 

Scared to hell of the truth to the point of sickness, she gripped the desk harder. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! The door opened.
Alison stood there. All Lucy saw was her mouth moving. Alison was giving her hell for something.
Otto.
Lack o support. Bust-up.
Say something—

– Sorry, love, said Lucy.


Sorry, love
! said Alison.
Sorry,
love
doesna come near. Come on, fit are ye at?

– Sorry, said Lucy, thought I’d just, you know, work on through. You don’t know how bad things are.

– They’re shite, said Alison.

– Being away. Stuff, you know. Need to catch up, make it noon?

– Mak it midnicht if ye like, said Alison. I’ve just stuck the heid on Otto. What a sickener that bloke is. He’s like that daftie pup on His Maister’s Voice.

– Noon, then? said Lucy. Can it wait till noon? Then we can concentrate—

 

Alison looked at her, saw weakness for the very first time, said nothing, and went out.

my life life

Coiffure piled, Lucy pressed on the window-sill. Below in the blanched garden, that humpy sculpture of his. Theo, her widower dad.

 

Pre
ssed on the windowsill
—! No, no, Tam, too near the bone, too near entirely! She needed to fly to the station, interrogate Tam. She read on, flushed, riveted.

 

Lucy couldn’t abide Theo’s sculpture. Theo didn’t officially belong, yet he belonged, as Stalinists always did in this society. He was Head of Sculpture at the College, well-named Gray’s. She spun and flung the brush on the bed. It bounced to crack the fluted lamp. One shard rocked on the polished table like a psychotic scallop. One moment everybody else seemed mad, the next, you were. A bare bulb glowed on.

 

She scribbled a yellow Post-it for her screen, flew down the stairs past a startled Marilyn, grabbed a taxi outside ReCSoc, and hit the
station concourse at a rare old speed. She slewed to the left, past the soft porn and choc shop, the turnstile toilets, and brought to a halt at Left Luggage.

– Where’s Tam? she said to the man.

– Off the day, missus.

– When’s he on?

– Believe he’s on holiday.

– When’s he back? When?

The guy had whiskers coming out his ears.

– He’s gettin his leave in, he’s due to retire. Cleared his lockers. He’s off the rota.

– Where can I get hold of him?

– I’m sorry, missus, that’s no for me to say. That’s private.

– Private! The bastard’s pinched the story of my life! Not just my life, my life life—

– That’s between you and Tam, missus, nothin to do with ScotRail.

– Come on, it’s not about Tam, it’s somebody else—

– I telled him, said the man. I telled Tam plenty times, It’s only left luggage, it’s no worth cuttin your throat for, don’t get involved.

 

She took a taxi back up. It was 12.13.

– Where’s Alison? she said to the Admin Secretary.

– Gone for an early lunch.

– Did she say where, Marilyn?

– No. She said you were due to meet up with her at noon.

– Blast, was I? Thanks.

could you fling me

He was still in the maze. The student shouted again, after climbing the tower.

– I’m away to get a sandwich from the café. Do you want me to get you something? I could fire it over?

– That’s good of you, he said. Could you fling me a cheese-
and-pickle
?

 

Alison sat in a snug in The Prince. No sign of Lucy. Pain, ignore. She phoned Gwen. Off, busy. She texted her. She was waiting for Finlay to heat up her bacon, brie and cranberry ciabatta and bring it through.

 

Maciek came out of KostKutter and walked along UberStreet towards the top of Market Street. He had just come out of the manager’s office. He had arranged a bulk discount, big bulk, big discount, with the stuff delivered free to the communal flat in Torry. Being a catering squad foreman himself had helped. Now he would spread the word, picking his people. He had to counter Pawel and Lech. Pawel in particular was always pushing for action. Housing, transport, underpayment, illegal hours. Pawel was right. But there would be bad reaction against Poles if things went wrong.

 

Guy Bord had a date with Lord Provost William Swink, director of Swink Stillwater, owner of Mountain Heart. There were still aspects of the deal to tie up. It was probably best defined as
private-
public-private-private
,
the stage it had got to. They dined at the Elms, at a discreet table near the window. Guy had booked a posse of five tables in a semi-circle, like empty wagons, just to be sure no-one would overhear. He had paid the manager off.

William Swink preferred to be known as William Swink II, Yankee style. But even after forty years of black gold flowing, lots of the locals were still stuck in their ways.

– Guy, he said. Want a wet? I’ll get it.

– Table water, said Guy. I have to keep one eye on UbSpec’s partners, you know, when I get back. Lucy for one, he thought. Alison to an extent. Luna? Both eyes on her.

– On the rocks? said Swink.

– Absolutely.

– Two Mountain Hearts, dear, please, plenty ice, said William Swink. What specials do we have today?

Mountain Heart was the brand name many now used for the thing itself, for bottled water, like saying Coke for cola. It denoted pure spring water from the Cairngorm plateau, rushed cold and full of natural minerals to your table. It was pretty forward-looking
when his father, a previous Lord Provost, had set it up in the late Sixties. Apart from Vichy, and that had unfortunate connotations, there hadn’t been that much of a market for – well, water.

– All the best, said William Swink II. This is the dog’s bollocks, eh, no healthy adjectives or chemical shite.

– Adjectives? said Guy.

– Cheers, said the Lord Provost.

– Oh, said Guy, right. Cheers.

 

The Leopard cursed the pair of them. Their specially planted
buttonhole
cameras kept swinging round, Bord and Swink. He couldn’t check their body language.

But the sound worked, the sound usually did. And at least the waitress in the Elms was tasty.

fuckin loonies

Guy was summonsed immediately, the minute he had paid the bill and said farewell to Swink. He flagged a taxi and promised the driver a fiver if he hit the gas. The driver was cursing UberStreet’s new pavementette, which would keep him off his favoured route permanently.

– Yes, terrible, said Guy.

– Fuckin loonies, said the taxi man.

– No way round? said Guy.

– Jist narra wee roads, Waverley, Thistle Street. The fuckin lights at the Library, they’re aye against you.

– I know what you mean, said Guy. Step on it, please, I’m tight for time.

 

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