Chapter 3: A Case of Do or Die

Andrew had already loaded his lambs for market, so he only stayed for a few minutes. He laughingly advised us to make a day of our shopping excursion. “Looking after a hundred sheep is a lot like having a new baby in the house - interesting but hard work. Having nothing to change into, I wandered around the pen, idly searching for strange blooms, while Dave went inside to find more appropriate clothing. He stopped the car and went in to ask Mary if she wanted us to bring anything back from the shops.

“I was going to give you a list, but then I thought you could take me instead,” she laughed, holding her finger to her bottom lip like a three-year-old asking for a treat. “Himself, is like Tam O’Shanter. Once he gets drinkin’ at the nappy with his cronies, it’s anyone’s guess when he’ll decide to come home.” I hopped into the back of Dave’s car, leaving the front seat for Mary. “The old grey mare, Meg, would be a better bet than that lorry for getting him home safe.”

“His ‘boys’ will look after him. It wouldn’t be the first time a police driver brought the lorry back while His Lordship ‘rested’ in the back of a police car – passed out drunk, more like!” Mary laughed as she said this, but I sensed some unease. Perhaps it’s nothing more than my extra-sensitive reaction to talk of alcohol. “You seem to know your Burns, Fred,” she continued. “I should do since I’ve lived my whole life within sight of Dumfries.” Mary turned in her seat to begin the inquisition, when Dave told her that I had promised to tell my life story later.

I felt betrayed, so I tuned them out until we pulled into a car park without a shop in sight. They had decided that we would take the train from Balloch to Glasgow where, Mary insisted, the shopping experience could match London or New York. Since all I had to spend was twenty pounds tightly rolled to fit in my key fob, I would have been satisfied with the local co-op. Pat had given the fobs to me as a novelty Christmas present one year.

The compartment was empty until we reached Dalmuir, where I helped an old couple to get their shopping trolley on board. Mary dominated the conversation from Balloch until we alighted in Glasgow. She told stories of her childhood and some uncomplimentary tales about policing in Central Scotland. She had shared a classroom in Coudh Primary school with Andrew, although they went to different secondary schools. I began to get some notion of the immensity of the moorland above Loch Fuilteach.

Their childhood homes were ten miles apart by road, putting them into different school catchment areas; Mary went to the Vale of Leven, while Andrew was educated in Helensburgh. Despite that, their family farms shared a common boundary for more than a kilometre somewhere amongst the wasteland of heather. The social life of the region revolved around the life cycle of sheep, so the youngsters met at clipping and dipping. As teenagers, they often found time for dalliance when they were supposed to be gathering sheep to bring down to the pens for processing.

Judging by Mary’s stories, Police Scotland could provide stand-up comic and circus clowns to every entertainment venue in the country. Inept, rather than evil, their most conspicuous quality was an ability to be somewhere else when they were needed. Every pub in Scotland, it appears, harbours a policeman drinking with the landlord after licensing hours. The old couple who had got on in Dalmuir, rued the loss of the local bobby, replaced by flashing lights and officers that looked like villains out of Dr. Who. They got into a friendly argument with Dave about which actor had been best in the role of the time traveller, that ended on the platform at Queen Street station.

This was Mary’s day, so Dave and I followed her meekly to Princes Square for coffee. When I reminded him that I had very little money, he surprised me by declaring me an employee of Auchnasheen Ltd entitled to an advance of salary. Mary came back from the ladies’ room before I could ask any questions. It was Dave’s debit card that covered the cost of underwear, toiletries and several sets of work clothes. I had only intended to stay with him for a week, but it would take months to work off the debt.

The day was pleasantly relaxed, with only one minor dispute. Dave wanted to buy a card for Pat to thank her for her hospitality the day before. I wanted something funny, even a little vulgar, knowing Pat’s sense of fun. Dave wanted the message to be unmistakably serious, without, however, making her uncomfortable. He finally admitted that he had been ‘very taken’ with Pat, the first time he had even looked at a woman since his wife deserted him. Predictably, it was Mary who found the perfect card, and she knew where we could buy a stamp and find a postbox.

Andrew was home when we arrived back, looking a bit flushed but otherwise none the worse for his day. He wanted to pour whiskies for everyone since he had sold the lambs for a good price. Mary excused herself and I declined the offer, joining her in the kitchen to help prepare the evening meal. “Andrew’s brother is an alcoholic,” Mary confided in me. “That’s not my problem,” I assured her. “My dad drank himself to death when I was twelve and most of my relatives have a drink problem.” She kissed my cheek: “Andrew’s a good man but I worry about him,” she whispered.

After his return from Stirling, Andrew had gone up to look at our sheep, assuring Dave that they had settled well. We were able to enjoy dinner and a chat – about sheep farming, what else – before Mary visibly wilted after Dave and I had washed the dishes. “It’s tiring dragging two useless men around the shops,” she claimed. “I should have called your sister Agnes to join us.” Andrew laughed: “What has Fred ever done to you that you’d inflict Agnes on him.”

Dave threw the car keys at me, and I drove back to the farmhouse. As soon as the wheels began to turn, he apologised for telling Mary that I was going to relate my life story. “I know that it wasn’t my secret to tell, but I know that Mary would be a sympathetic listener. You said that you wanted my opinion, and it scared me since I’ve made a mess of my own life. I release you from your promise.” I was saved from replying by our arrival at the cottage and the bustle of carrying in our purchases.

After we placed the bags on the kitchen table, we turned, with tacit agreement, and walked towards the pen where we stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking across the wasteland. There was no moon, but the sky was bright with stars. There is a strange thing about starlight, it gives practically no illumination of the ground. All I could discern were slight variations of darkness. I would focus on a grey spot, but I had no idea if it was a sheep, a rock, or a figment of my imagination. “Wherever they are, we can do nothing until the morning,” Dave muttered, turning back to the house.

“I would offer you a nightcap, Fred, but I notice you always turn down the offer of ardent spirits,” Dave remarked, when we had removed our outdoor clothing and settled in the living room. “That might be as good a place as any to begin my life story,” I smiled. My father died a week before my twelfth birthday, his body finally destroyed by years of alcohol abuse. Even after all those years I still do not mourn his passing and I had difficulty hiding my glee when it happened. Even mum admitted that her tears were for the man he was when they married and not for the monster he became.

“The one benefit for me was that he sparked my interest in botany. When he was at home fighting with mum, I went to the meadow beyond our back garden and looked at the wildflowers.” When you are young things seem to last forever, so I now remember those times as eternal. I ran home from school to complete my homework while mum prepared dinner. Then she and I would eat together; I don’t remember if we spoke much, but the atmosphere was friendly. Things would get tense when she put dad’s plate in the oven because we both knew that trouble was fast approaching. Enter dad, shouting at mum and, more often than not, slapping her to emphasise his displeasure. I slipped out the door to spend the remaining hours of daylight in the meadow.

I was almost at the end of my first year in secondary school when dad died, and it marked the beginning of the happiest time of my life. I enjoyed school and was always at or near the top of my class. I now had a notebook containing pressed flowers and my notes on where and when I found them. I had permission to use the library at lunchtime to do research on my discoveries. I still ran home to complete my homework but what a change there was in the atmosphere in the house.

Mum would sing as she prepared the evening meal; after we had shared the cleaning up, we both settled with our books. There was a good deal of friendly teasing in our choice of literature, mum favouring romance stories, while I was racing through the classics. In one of my books, I found the perfect description of that period: they were halcyon days. Mum had been given a job in the factory after dad’s death, which brought her into contact with other people of her own age. I suppose she went out with them or had them over to the house, but, in my memory, she and I were alone together.

I know that I didn’t have friends. My cousin Philip, who was born three months before me, lived next door and there were older children in the other houses. Primary and Secondary schools were on the same site, so we were escorted to and from school. Philip was always outgoing, and he was much more popular with the other kids than I was. The teenagers used the meadow as a secret location to smoke or experiment with sex and they found it difficult to understand my interest in the flowers. I learned to say nothing of my hobby, except to mum.

“Were you bullied?” Dave asked, as he rose to pour himself another whisky. I really had to think about that for a moment. I suppose that some of the teasing became physical but there was certainly no pattern of bullying. For the most part, my classmates and teachers left me alone. I was no trouble to anyone, and I would help with homework if asked. Children are more tolerant of differences than adults, in my limited experience.

I continued to do well at school, but the storm clouds were gathering, even before I sat the national examination at age sixteen. Philip’s mum was dad’s sister and she looked up to her big brother. She not only excused his drinking but often blamed my mum for letting it happen. After his death she became increasingly peculiar. She transferred her hatred for mum to me and set out to prove that her Philip was the better child and would be a much greater man. She gave up comparing our intellectual capacities; Philip was firmly settled in the middle of the class, while I was always in the top three.

Once she realised this, Aunt Maud spread the word that brains do not matter, compared to charm and charisma. Philip was outgoing, with friends throughout the school. He took part in every sporting and social event. I, on the other hand, took no part and had no friends. I was unconcerned. In the next two years, schoolwork would intensify as we prepared for the transition to university. Philip had already made up his mind to study travel and tourism where his charisma would be a winning factor. I was still undecided amongst the sciences; I was good at both physics and chemistry. Then the gale hit, and I was blown completely off course.

It began as part of our teasing over our choice of reading material. Mum would sometimes forget a word and I would remark that it was the result of reading books that banned words of more than three syllables. By the time of my sixteenth birthday, she was forgetting items when she shopped or leaving salt out of the dishes she prepared; that was better than the times she salted it twice. It crept up on both of us. I should have realised that her condition could not remain a secret.

When dad died, mum took a job in the factory. She was a filing clerk and more than qualified, so it took almost four years for her lapses to be noticed. The first thing I knew of the discovery was a summons from great Uncle Albert to his mansion out in the country. Great, great grandfather founded the company in 1934 to produce intricate pieces of metal, using millers, grinders, turners and casters. The Second World War brought unlooked for prosperity. At one time they had an order for five hundred fairings for a rear-view mirror on Spitfires. Orders slumped when the war ended although the Spanish air force was still using Spitfires into the sixties.

It was difficult to recruit suitable managers during the conflict, so the company built eight houses for managers in 1939. I was brought up in one of these houses next door to Philip, another great, great grandchild of the founder. All six of his sons joined the firm, including Albert, the youngest. They were probably the height of luxury during the war but the two-bedroom, one-bathroom homes were pretty basic. Recently they have been popular as starter homes and are undergoing some tasteless refurbishment. I have gone no further than a new bathroom suite and a modern kitchen.

Albert is the patriarch. He is ninety-six, if I haven’t forgotten a birthday, and I have not seen him since he moved to a care Home in Maidens, not that I saw him much before that. There is probably less fuss visiting the Queen than Great Uncle Albert. He cut me off when I told him that the business was being ruined by his new management team. In any event, at sixteen I was summoned to the mansion to be told my fortune. I was to leave school, join the company and learn engineering at night school in the local college.

Albert did not believe in university education. ‘It teaches people to do nothing and think they rule the world. You’ll be better off, young Albert, learning a good trade and taking over the factory.’ My middle name is Albert, but he always used that rather than Fred. I was to learn the ropes starting with maintenance. This was a challenging task since we had not updated the machinery in almost fifty years. Other companies had invested in computer-controlled machines, but Robinson’s still relied on the skill of our craftsmen.