Fergus Lamont Read online

  She blushed. I didn’t know her. She had been at a different primary school.

  ‘Yes, sir. They ca’ him Kilty Lamont, sir.’

  ‘Do they indeed. Well, that’s interesting. Where do you live, Lamont?’

  ‘Lomond Street.’

  I was too proud to mention that it was at the better-off end, opposite the bowling-green, in a two-room-and-kitchen, with an inside toilet. We had moved there three years ago.

  ‘Lomond Street? I wasn’t aware there were any shooting-lodges or baronial castles in Lomond Street. You know, Lamont, I once visited a cattle show in the Hebrides. The only persons there wearing kilts were the laird and his son. They lived in the big house and talked like upper-class Englishmen. All the crofters wore shaggy trousers.’

  Before I could speak there came from behind me a voice, a girl’s voice, shaky a little, but clear and resolute. ‘It’s no’ fair to try and get us to laugh at him. He’s got as guid a right to wear a kilt as ony laird, if he wants to.’

  Limpy was as astonished as I. Moments later he seemed delighted too, which I certainly wasn’t. I needed no girl to stand up for me.

  Especially one so undersized and pale and shabbily dressed. If it had been the girl beside her, with red cheeks and long silky black locks, who was defending me I might have felt pleased and flattered.

  ‘Who are you?’ cried Limpy, laughing.

  ‘My name’s Mary Holmscroft, sir.’

  ‘Is he your sweetheart?’

  ‘I’ve never spoken to him.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s simply fair play and justice you’re interested in?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Well, well. Do you come from Lomond Street too?’

  ‘I come from the Vennel.’

  She said it just a little too promptly, too coolly, and too proudly.

  When I turned round the red-cheeked beauty pointed at her swelling breast and shook her head vigorously. This was to let me know she didn’t come from the Vennel.

  Limpy stood up. He held on to his desk. He seemed excited.

  ‘Well done, Mary from the Vennel,’ he said.

  Then he addressed the class.

  ‘You’ve just had your first lesson in this room. You’ll never get a better. Be grateful to this girl. Be proud of her. Feel honoured she is your classmate.’

  Most of them looked puzzled and anxious. He had spoken fervently, as if he had meant it. Yet surely it was nonsense? How could they be grateful to a girl from the Vennel, and proud of her? Their parents had warned them to keep clear of Vennel scruff.

  When we were going out at the end of the period Limpy asked her to wait behind. Some showed resentment at this show of favouritism on the very first day, but I felt curious and envious. I wanted to know what those two were saying to each other, and to be a part of it.

  Meanwhile, the other boys were envious of me. This was because the red-cheeked girl attached herself to me as we walked along the corridor and introduced herself as Meg Jeffries. She was the best-looking girl I had ever seen, but it was really small, plain, flat-chested Mary Holmscroft I was thinking about.

  After four, when the school was skailing, I waited in a closemouth not far from the girls’ gate. The rain had gone off, but it was still cool and windy. Meg Jeffries came out, wearing a warm red coat and a hat to match. I withdrew into the close so that she would not see me. It was Mary Holmscroft I wanted to escort home.

  I could not have said, with complete honesty, that part of my reason wasn’t a desire to see in what slummy part of the Vennel she lived. All day my jealousy, and my admiration, had increased. She had shown herself brilliant at every subject. She could do parsing and analysis with ease.

  She wasn’t alone as she came out of the gate. Judging from the shabbiness of their dress, her two companions were from the Vennel too. When I stepped out of the close, they gave me a startled look and then raced on ahead, chanting: ‘Mary’s got a beau, Mary’s got a beau.’

  She was quite unembarrassed. ‘Did you miss Meg?’ she said.

  I walked beside her. I thought I caught a whiff of underclothes too long unchanged. In her house in the Vennel it wouldn’t be easy to keep clean.

  ‘What did you think of Limpy?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Calderwood, you mean.’

  ‘All right, Mr Calderwood. What did he say to you when he kept you behind?’

  ‘That’s our business, no’ yours.’

  ‘Have you lived in the Vennel all your life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of you.’

  ‘Why should you? Are you often in the Vennel?’

  ‘No fear.’

  ‘I’d heard of you.’

  ‘Because of my kilt?’

  ‘And because of your mither.’

  I was taken aback. This was a subject I would not talk to any stranger about.

  My mother’s disgrace and death were still mysteries to me. My father refused to talk about them, and I had vowed never to ask my grandfather. Since taking to drink Aunt Bella had become milder but not any more communicative. Uncle Tam always said he knew nothing. Bessie, my best hope, kept saying I must wait till I was older: I had been a bit childish for seven, I was still a bit childish for twelve, perhaps I would be mature enough at fourteen, or twenty-one, or forty.

  People outside my family, like Smout’s mother and Mrs Grier, probably knew, but I took great care never to give them a chance to tell me. My mother would not have wished me to discuss her with them.

  ‘I’d raither not talk about my mither,’ I said.

  ‘Please yoursel’.’

  We were now entering the Vennel. Really a street, the name had been given to the whole district of narrow lanes and ruinous tenements. It was the oldest and slummiest part of Gantock. The women of Lomond Street knew, and were always warning their children, that, perched as they were on the outermost edge of civilisation, very little was needed to make them topple off. The Vennel was where those went who toppled off.

  Scruffy women at closemouths gave my companion fairly friendly nods, and me astounded glowers. Their raucous hilarity followed us.

  ‘Weel, you’ve seen whaur I live,’ said Mary, stopping at her close.

  ‘That’s no’ why I came.’

  The protestation, half-hearted because it was only half-true, wasn’t heard by her. She had gone into the close and up the stairs.

  In any case, I had to look to myself. I had been sighted by a pack of Vennel wolves, or rather my kilt had. They came yelping down the street towards me. I could have stood my ground and fought them off, for though there were six of them they were all under ten, but in the affray my legs might have got bitten and my kilt torn. So I raced away. They pursued. One, the swiftest and boldest, got close enough to grab the tail of my kilt. I had to turn and cuff his ear to make him let go. Swearing vilely, he tried to break my leg with a swing of his boot; but he missed and fell. His mates gathered round him, howling with glee. It was their way of eating the wounded.

  TEN

  One wet dreary winter afternoon, with the lights on at two o’clock, and the air so stuffy and foul that when Alec Munro farted the smell was hardly noticed, we had a history lesson from Limpy that was to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Though the curriculum stated that we should study the kings of England Limpy insisted on teaching us instead the history of our own country. His method was to take some ordinary Scotsman or Scotswoman of the past and imagine what his or her life must have been like. We were encouraged to ask questions and offer suggestions.

  That afternoon, though, I had a headache and wanted to get out into the fresh air. Even Meg Jeffries looked ill in the gaslight.

  Limpy sat at his table. There were some books on it.

  ‘Today I’d like to tell you about a Scotsman who lived less than a hundred years ago. Some of you may have grandparents who were born while Donald was still alive.’

  Alec Munro, the simpleton of the class, put up his han
d. ‘Please, sir, my great-grannie’s eighty-two.’

  ‘When she was born, Alec, our friend Donald would be about twenty-six.’

  ‘Whit was his ither name, sir?’ asked Meg.

  She asked questions not to please the teacher but to impress me.

  ‘It could have been Munro or Lamont or McTavish or McDonald or McLellan or Gillies or Jeffries.’

  We noticed he had used our own names.

  ‘Donald was a soldier in the Sutherland Highlanders. He was born in Farr, a village in Sutherland. One day his chieftain, the Countess of Sutherland, was asked by the government in London to form a regiment of soldiers. Donald was selected to be one, because he was big and strong and young. He didn’t grumble because he thought it was his duty to obey his chieftain, and the Countess had promised all the soldiers that their parents would be well looked after while they were away.’

  Our eyes glittered with pride. This system of loyalty on the part of the clansmen and paternal care on the part of the chieftain seemed to us noble. It made patriotism the finest thing on earth.

  Only Mary Holmscroft was scowling.

  ‘Before he left, Donald was presented with a Bible by his parish minister.’

  My eyes became moist. I imagined Donald, in a kilt, outside a small thatched church, being handed a Bible with gilt edges by a white-haired minister.

  Suddenly Sammy Jackson, who sat nearest the door, put up his hand. His job, to which he had appointed himself, was to let us all know whenever Mr May bole, the headmaster, was spying outside.

  ‘He’s there, sir,’ he called, hoarsely.

  Limpy never bothered to lower his voice.

  ‘In 1805 Donald went with his regiment to Cape Town.’

  I wished old Maybole would go away. He was spoiling the story. Most of my classmates, though, were hoping he would come in, still crouching, for he sometimes forgot to straighten up.

  ‘Mary, would you come and point to Cape Town for us,’ said Limpy.

  Out she went and without hesitation pointed to it on the map of the world on the wall.

  It was a wonder to us all how she knew so much. It was rumoured Limpy had lent her an encyclopaedia.

  ‘At that time,’ went on Limpy, ‘the Dutch possessed the Cape of Good Hope. The Sutherland Highlanders were ordered to attack them and seize it. Some of them were drowned before they reached the shore, but Donald fought bravely in the battle. He was commended by his commanding officer.’

  ‘It’s a’ richt, sir,’ hissed Sammy. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘He remained with his regiment at the Cape for the next eight years. His pay was very low, but he still sent money home regularly. He also contributed a penny or two to Missionary Societies.’

  ‘Did he write letters hame, sir?’ asked Smout.

  ‘He couldn’t write, Willie, and his parents couldn’t read.’

  ‘Couldn’t the minister that gave him the Bible have written letters to him?’ asked Mary. ‘Somebody could have read them oot to him.’

  ‘That’s just what happened, Mary. The ministers wrote letters to all the soldiers. They told them everything was fine at home.’

  ‘So the Countess was keeping her promise?’ asked Mary, sceptically.

  ‘The Countess herself lived in London, but her factor, a gentleman called Mr Sellars, was looking after them on her behalf.’

  We were all pleased, except Mary.

  ‘He’s back again, sir,’ called Sammy.

  ‘After serving abroad for thirteen years, Donald returned to Britain and took his discharge. He was eager to go home. It was a long difficult journey in those days. He had to walk most of the way. He didn’t mind. He was alive and well, and he was going home, to see his parents again and his brothers and sisters, and the house where he was born.’

  ‘Good,’ said Meg.

  We all agreed. If ever a man deserved a joyful homecoming it was our Donald.

  ‘When he entered Strathnaver, his native glen, he got a shock. The villages were empty. The houses were all roofless. Their walls were blackened with soot. It was the same at his own village. There was no one there, except one man, a stranger, who seemed to be looking after the big flock of sheep grazing in what used to be the village’s corn field. He wasn’t a Highlander. He explained that all the people were gone either to Canada, across the Atlantic, or to the seashore twenty miles away. It had nothing to do with him: he was paid to look after sheep, that was all.’

  He paused.

  We asked questions.

  ‘What had happened?’

  ‘Had there been a war or something?’

  ‘Was it an earthquake?’

  ‘Or a fire?’

  ‘No. What had happened was that somebody had discovered there would be a lot more money for the landowner, the Countess, if the people were cleared out and sheep brought in in their place. Those that weren’t willing to go were dragged out by force and their houses set on fire, sometimes with people still in them.’

  ‘Didnae the polis stop it?’ asked Archie Paterson, whom the police had once stopped playing football in a farmer’s field.

  ‘The police were there, but not to stop it: their job was to see that the people gave no trouble. Not only the police. Soldiers were sent to Strathnaver, Irish soldiers, glad to get revenge for what Scottish soldiers had done to the Irish people in the past.’

  ‘Did Parliament ken?’ asked Mary Holmscroft.

  ‘Parliament knew. Parliament had made the laws which said a landowner could do what he liked with his land.’

  ‘Why didn’t they fight?’ asked Frankie McLellan.

  ‘Peasants can’t fight police and soldiers.’

  ‘He’s coming in,’ shouted Sammy Jackson.

  He was too late. The door opened and in bounced Mr May bole, crouching.

  ‘Really, Mr Calderwood,’ he cried, ‘I must warn you. You are filling these children’s minds with poison. You are undermining their confidence in legally constituted authority. It is a mistake to study the history of one’s own country. It divides instead of uniting us, and we must stand united today if we are to curb the dangerous ambitions of the Prussians. Why bother with stuff so out-of-date?’

  ‘It isn’t out-of-date, Mr Maybole,’ said Mary. ‘People are still put out of their houses.’

  I remembered the Frames, and my grandfather’s judgment on them.

  ‘So they should be, if they do not pay their rents,’ cried the headmaster.

  The bell rang. He hesitated and then fled. When classes were changing he liked to roam the corridors to make sure no one talked or ran or chewed sweets or held hands.

  ‘Please, sir,’ cried Meg, ‘did Donald ever find his people again?’

  ‘He did not. They had gone to Canada.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘He joined the army again.’

  As they streamed out, my classmates—they are in front of me as I write, in this old brown spotted photograph— were on the whole relieved, especially the girls. Back in the army, Donald would have no more worries, he would be too busy killing foreigners. Only one boy besides myself saw the irony of Donald’s serving again those who had persecuted his people; but he saw it as comic, whereas I saw it as tragic. Here he is, Dugald Galbraith, hair cropped like a Devil Islander’s, and grinning cheerfully.

  I paused by Limpy’s desk. Mary was waiting, too. She often did. She was accused of being his pet, or worse. ‘I bet she lets him feel her bum,’ I had once heard Archie Paterson say to Frankie McLellan. Frankie had replied, ‘I’d raither feel Meg Jeffries.’

  ‘You said it happened all over the Highlands, Mr Calderwood,’ I said. ‘Did it happen in Oronsay, in the Hebrides, where my mother’s people came from?’

  ‘It did.’ He turned the pages of a book on his desk. ‘Read that.’

  I read it, with sorrow and anger; and I resolved that one day I would go to that distant island and see for myself the pleasant fertile sea-meadows where my ancestors had lived happily for hun
dreds of years, and the harsh, stony, watery places to which they had been callously driven.

  ELEVEN

  Most Friday afternoons after school Mary Holmscroft and I went to the Tally’s in Morton Street, for penny pea-brees and arguments just as hot. We sat in one of the alcoves, scalded our lips and warmed our stomachs, and argued.

  One Friday she was subdued. I noticed she shivered now and then. Yet she was wearing a warm enough coat, bought for twopence at a church jumble sale.

  ‘I’m going to Ravenscraig the morrow,’ she said.

  Ravenscraig was Limpy’s big house in the West End. I knew she went there and met famous socialists from Glasgow.

  ‘Teacher’s pet,’ I sneered.

  She wasn’t provoked. ‘Will you come wi’ me?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t go where I’m not invited.’

  ‘You are invited. Cathie told me to ask you.’

  I felt pleased. I had heard that Limpy’s sister was lovely and amusing.

  For the bearer of such an interesting invitation, Mary was still too down in the mouth.

  ‘Whit’s up?’ I asked. ‘I thought your sister Isa was better.’

  ‘They want to adopt me. Weel, go and live with them onyway.

  ‘Who.’

  ‘John and Cathie. They think if I don’t get oot o’ the Vennel I’ll be wasted. They think I should leave Kidd Street school and go to the Academy and then maybe to the University.’

  Jealousy was my immediate response.

  ‘Your faither would never allow it.’

  ‘He’d be paid.’

  ‘Paid? How would he be paid?’

  ‘He looks at it this way: if I left school at fourteen I’d maybe get a job at five shillings a week. So if he gets eight shillings a week, as extra compensation for losing my company he says he’ll agree.’

  I had spoken to Mr Holmscroft once. He had struck me as sly. He called himself a socialist. He liked talking better than working. He’d screw out of the Calderwoods as much as he could.

  It occurred to me that Mary herself would be betraying her socialist principles. Living at Ravenscraig she would become one of the favoured people of the West End, whom she’d often accused of cheating the East End poor out of their share. The Calderwoods had a servant, who’d polish her shoes for her. She would be deserting her sisters and brothers, who depended on her.