Vee: Lost and Found Page 12

  “Is it your round?”

  “I want it to be my round. I don’t care if it is or not. It’s a thank-you.”

  “A thank-you for what?”

  “For this holiday. For putting up with me moaning about Eleanor for a start.”

  “Don’t be daft. You pay for half the petrol. And think about it this way- at least you’ve got something to moan about. Me, I’m plain bored a lot of the time, especially at work. Oh, and you’re good company. And you pay half the petrol. Did I mention that?”

  Tom nodded and they entered the archway of The Arch Inn.

  “Five o’clock,” he said. “We can empty the car later. A quick pint, that’s what I need now.”

  They turned right, and in through the pub door. It was very quiet: one couple sitting opposite the bar on a long wooden seat, a sort of deluxe pew with tables in front; and two men on barstools at the far end. They sounded like locals.

  Tom carried the glasses across from the bar and sat next to Alastair. Long cushions made the ‘pews’ surprisingly comfortable. A couple of bags of crisps were tucked under his arm and he flopped them on to the table.

  “I was peckish,” he said. “They’ll keep us going till we eat.”

  “I love this place,” said Alastair, looking into the bag for the next crisp. For a mechanic, Tom thought, his movements could be surprisingly delicate. The chosen one came out, chopsticked by two long fingers.

  “Do you always stop off here when you’re in Ullapool?”

  “I try to, but I actually found the place by accident. There’s a great B and B a couple of streets away. I used that three, maybe four times- then one time it was full. That can be a problem, especially at the height of the season. B and Bs don’t tend to have many rooms. That’s why I tried this place- and it’s brilliant. It’s got a bar, unlike your B and B. And you can see the ferry going in and out, though I suppose some people might not want that. It’s also got good off-road parking. Ideal really, especially for bikers.”

  Tom looked a bit confused.

  “Why especially for bikers? How are they different from the rest of us; you know, car drivers or walkers?” His mind scrolled down through the possibilities: good beer, comfortable rooms, a nice view. What had he missed? God- it wasn’t the whole homo-erotic thing, was it: the leathers and all that, the sitting astride. That throbbing....

  “Well,” said Alastair, “bikers are different…”

  “That’s it then,” Tom thought to himself, “it is the homo-erotic thing.” And to think he had once had a bike himself!

  “Are you feeling OK Tom? You look a bit peeky.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. It must be the crisps.”

  Alastair continued. “…Bikers are different because they like to be able to see their bikes wherever they happen to be. You must have seen them glancing in the shop windows, to see the reflection.”

  “Sounds a bit homo-er…narcissistic, yes narcissistic to me, Al,” he said, nodding seriously.

  Alastair looked at him a little oddly before continuing. “That’s what most people assume, but I don’t think they are looking at themselves because, for them, for bikers, the most important thing is the bike.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. A pal of mine used to work in one of those high street shops developing holiday snaps, that sort of thing. He told me that the reels of film from bikers were different from everbody else’s, because the bike was in every picture. Always. A car driver’s photos would be of Ben Nevis, Edinburgh Castle, The Scott Monument, Loch Ken or whatever. The biker’s would be a picture of their bike in front of Ben Nevis, a photo of their bike at Edinburgh Castle and so on. Car drivers don’t do that, apparently, though I wouldn’t be surprised if Capri owners did it too.

  “He said some of the photos were really funny, especially the ones where the girlfriend was in the picture as well.”

  “You mean blonde hair, tight leather trousers- that kind of thing? I know the type.” Sadly, all Tom knew was the type, never having experienced a single living, breathing example. Or a married breathing example, come to that.

  “That’s her. Well, the really funny thing is that in nearly all the photos the girl is standing behind the bike and not in front of it.”

  “Because it would get in the way of a good photo?”

  “Exactly. If it was a big bike with a fairing, all you’d really see of her was her head and shoulders. Now what does that tell you?” said Alastair, taking another glug of Kronenbourg, lifting his eyebrows to underline the significance of the question.

  “Could she not just have stood at the side of it?” Tom asked stupidly.

  Alastair looked at him. “But then the bike wouldn’t have been central in the frame. It would have looked wrong.”

  Tom nodded and finished off his drink.

  “Why is this place so popular with bikers then?” he asked. “I’ve kind of lost the thread, probably when you mentioned the blonde biker chick.”

  “Oh, sorry, that’ll be my fault. I prattled on a bit there. When bikers are staying somewhere they like to be able to look at their bikes from the room they’re in. The rooms facing the loch mean you can do that here. If you are on the ground floor you could almost lie in bed looking at it, before nodding off. No, don’t laugh. For some of them it really is that bad.

  “Also,” he continued, “if the weather is really bad- wind, rain etc- you can wheel your bike into the wee courtyard we walked through just outside that door.”

  “So you can sleep peacefully, knowing it is safe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aww, diddums…”

  Alastair finished off his pint. In other countries this is not obligatory.

  “Ten past six. What do you want to do for tea?”

  “You’re the one who knows Ullapool- what do you think?”

  “Well, there’s a great chipshop just along the road. Two actually, one of them with a sort of half-inside, half-outside restauranty bit. Or we could have an Indian. It’s only three minutes walk away. Or we could eat here, in the Inn.

  “What happens if there’s no room at the Inn?” asked Tom.

  Alastair looked at him. Yes, he was looking more settled now, less peeky. Maybe it had been the crisps.

  “That’s just at Christmas,” he said. “It’s fine in October. The menu is very good actually. There will be a board up somewhere. Or we could have chips on the pier, and fight off the seagulls.”

  “Horrible things,” said Tom

  They wandered over to the blackboard at the end of the restaurant, where the menu was written up. It was ideal too. No seagull. They booked a table for seven, giving them forty-five minutes to move their stuff in from the car and take a wee wander along the street. Perfect. Or ideal.

  20 Paperwork

  Gairloch 1940

  “There are times when you don’t hold back,” thought Mhairi, “but there are other times when you have to.”

  The part of her that was a teacher knew that getting the right answer was really just the final part of a constructed event. It didn’t depend so much on what the pupil knew, or thought, or even felt: it was about where they were mentally when the question was asked. You took them to the answer and then you asked.

  There was to be none of that here- no stage management. “This is a time you have to hold back,” she told herself. “You have to forget the things you’ve learned to do and just trust.” Faith is always difficult when you know you can succeed without it, but faith was what she would rely on.

  It was a week before everything had settled down into its post-birthday routine. The Spitfire was on top of the bookcase in Jamie’s room, with some farm animals and a tractor and trailer, hitched, appropriately. Some other things were on the floor: a small green racing car; occasional socks; a tennis ball and racket (which had belonged to her). Really, he was a tidy boy- clean, open; someone to have faith in.

  Jamie liked being in Mr Clare’s class. Mhairi knew why. He could appear to be complet
ely straightforward and utterly conventional. Classes would cover the right work, at the right sort of place, but there was always a subversive twist to it, a thing which most people missed. For her, watching him could be a delight.

  She remembered one occasion. It was an afternoon lesson about drawing. This was, of course, the right topic at the right time. It was the manner of it which some would have considered ‘not right’. Graham had walked up and down the rows, putting a blank piece of paper on each desk, in front of the pupil. Here and there, on his way up and down the rows, in a low ‘confidential’ tone he would say things like, “ You did really well at the football last week,” or “Is your mum better now?...Oh good,” or “Your lace is undone,” or “I think today’s drawing will be even better than last week’s”. Nearly everyone could make out nearly every one of these, even though the remarks appeared to be private.[1]

  After that he would stand at the front of the class and ask them to check the papers were straight. Some, at that point, would be seen adjusting the alignment of the paper slightly. Then, with everyone ready, he would give the formal instruction very clearly, making sure to maintain good eye contact.

  “Now I would like you to write your name,” he would tell them, “on the back of the sheet.”

  Without fail, every single pupil would turn over the blank sheet. Sometimes it really could be that simple.

  “Sometimes,” Mhairi thought, “the simpler things are the better they are. I must remember to see Graham, but Jamie has to come first.”

  It had been a typical Thursday. After school, Jamie had been outside playing football, as usual. He was red-faced and breathless when he came in for tea- tatties and neeps with trace elements of sausage. It was the last of the sausage and the bacon would be for the weekend.

  The meal was eaten.

  The dishes were cleared and washed.

  Jamie dried them.

  She put them away.

  She had run out of obstacles.

  They were sitting in front of the fire. He was looking at a book from school. She was just sitting.

  “Jamie.”

  “Yes Auntie Vee?”

  “I need to tell you about something.” She corrected herself. “I need to ask you about something, about how you feel….”

  There was a pause.

  “Is it to do with school?”

  “No, no. Mr Clare says you are doing really well. It’s not to do with that.”

  Mhairi watched him as she spoke, to help gauge his reaction. Keep it simple.

  “It’s about Doctor John and me. How would you feel if we were to get married?”

  There, she had done it. Now she just had to wait. But she couldn’t just wait- she had to add things on: things like ‘you don’t have to tell me right away’ and ‘nothing’s been decided yet’ and probably all sorts of other things such as ‘he really likes you’: all of these and more, in any order, just blurted out. “Oh God,” she thought, “this is awful.”

  “I like him a lot,” said Jamie. “He’s a nice man. You are always happy when he is here.”

  “Is it really that obvious?” she asked herself. “I wonder how many other people know if it is that obvious…”

  “I think it would be good if you get married because you love him.”

  “Thank you, my lovely boy,” she said, giving him a hug.

  “I was a snivelling, red-eyed wreck by that point,” she told John later. “Everything had simply burst out. It made me realise just how worried I had been. When I asked about us getting married and he paused- well, it was awful. My mind was running riot and even though it probably only lasted about five seconds I seemed to have time to consider every possible response, from ‘has he always had a moustache’ to ‘is he much older than you are?”

  “It was awful, John. That’s the only word for it. I’m never going to get married again. That’s definite.”

  “In that case,” said John, “I suppose I’m going to have to make an extra special effort with this one. Of course, you’ll have to make it worth my while.”

  _________________________

  The meeting with Graham Clare was a lot more straightforward and less stressful than this, though not quite as ‘straightforward’ as the one playing out in her head as she made her way to his room after school had finished. She was picturing how badly the meeting could go if she were dealing with some of the people who worked in the council offices in Ullapool. You know, the ones who weren’t fully human.

  It might be something like this:

  “Hello, Miss Mackinnon.” (looks at watch)

  “Headmaster, I’ve come to tell you I’m getting married.”

  “Oh, right... We’ll be very sorry to lose you.”

  Of course, it was never quite that bad, even in the early thirties when it was normal for female teachers to lose their job when they married. As she approached the end of the corridor, Mhairi had fun imagining just how badly a meeting like this could go. If it were the poisonous (and plainly jealous) grey-haired besom from Inverness it would probably have gone something like this:

  “And when are you getting married? The lucky day is when, exactly?”

  (Insert date of your choice.)

  “ Ah. The very day your employment is terminated.

  No, whatever happened in the meeting with Graham Clare, it wouldn’t be this bad. That is what she told herself- and that was why she was imagining the worst. The real meeting would have to be better, and it was.

  “Have a seat, Mhairi. Tea? I’m having some anyway.”

  These formalities were dispensed with quickly and in good humour. To be honest, so was the rest of the meeting.

  “You wanted to have a chat. Is it about Jamie? Something I can help with? It’s not about a Dornier is it?”

  “Well. It’s not really about Jamie. I’m very happy with how he’s doing. It’s about me, or rather, John and me.” She could see no reaction. His face remained calm and even.

  “This will come as a surprise, I know, but John- Doctor Macleod- has asked me to marry him. I’ve said yes.”

  A big smile crossed his face. “Congratulations, Mhairi. This is wonderful news. And as you know, I haven’t been expecting it at all.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice a little. “Is it official now then? Do other people know about it?”

  “Outside the family, only you,” she replied.

  “I’ll keep quiet about it then. My, my. Who would have thought it,” he said, lifting his eyebrows for a moment as he smiled.

  “Have you set a date? Not that you really need to bother with the old formalities: the war has changed all that. You should just do what feels right for you.”

  “We were thinking mid-July, eight weeks or so away, though we don’t have a precise date right now. Something like that anyway. It’ll be during the summer holidays. We thought that would make it easier for the school to…”

  Mhairi stopped suddenly. His expression had changed. He looked puzzled, then nodded and smiled warmly.

  “Forget about the school. The school will be fine. The important thing is you, both of you. All three of you. We will fit in with whatever you want. Mhairi, this really is marvellous news.”

  He reached forward to shake her hand but what they really did was hold hands, just briefly. Yes, there was definitely something else, and he knew exactly what it was.

  “Of course in the old days, even a couple of years ago, that would have meant you were giving up work. I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you,” he said. “If that’s what you were thinking about.”

  Mhairi nodded. “It’s not a policy, then?” she asked.

  “Well I can’t really be sure about that. I’d have to check through huge piles of documents.” He shook his head sadly. “They are probably in there.”

  His eyes moved in the direction of a large filing cabinet.

  “An important document like that, it could be just about anywhere. You know, for safekeeping. It could take weeks and weeks to
find it.” He paused. “How long to the wedding again?”

  “About two months.”

  “Oh it could take much longer than that.”

  They both smiled; another real engagement.

  “To be serious for a moment, if you want to stop work that will be fine and you will have all our best wishes. If you want to continue working here, well that would suit me too…I really mean ‘the school’ when I say ‘me’ of course.

  “If that is what you would like to do- and you don’t have to tell me now- I’m sure we can find a way. After all, there’s a war on and we all have to do our bit. This would be your bit.”

  “Thank you Graham.”

  “And of course I wouldn’t have to go through all the steps needed to fill a vacancy. You know, like Contacting The Local Authority (raised eyebrows here), or Writing An Advert, or Carrying Out Interviews. They can be so…difficult, you know, interviews.” He smiled broadly and laughed.

  “Or finding the right forms,” said Mhairi seriously.

  “One day,” Graham said, “you’ll make an excellent headteacher.”

  “Yes,” he thought, as he watched her walk back down the corridor to collect her bag, “and a good wife too. He’s a lucky man, John Macleod; and having Mhairi working here makes all of us lucky too. And she’s a wonderful mum to Jamie, though I’m not sure she knows.”

  21 A Wedding and a Honeymoon

  Gairloch

  The end of June 1940 wasn’t the obvious time to choose for a celebration. France had fallen. A month prior to that Holland and Belgium had been overrun by the panzers. The RAF bombers had suffered horrendous losses attacking bridges on the Meuse and elsewhere. The fighters that were everywhere in newspapers, the Hurricanes and the Spitfires, had been mauled by the 109s and were withdrawn to their bases in southern England.

  A mere fifteen miles of water; that was all that kept the British Isles safe, and ships using that stretch of water were subject to attack by Stuka dive bombers, fighter bombers, E-boats and even large German warships, it was rumoured. Invasion seemed imminent and Home Guard units were formed and makeshift defences constructed. In the great cities, especially in the south, children had been evacuated, such was the fear of bombers. Gas masks had been issued and shelters were being built everywhere.