The Pure Land (2 page)

T
he grey permeated everything. Even on a summer day, like this, the cold haar off the North Sea closed in, damped everything down. Glover stood, braced, on the sea wall, stared hard into the mist – no sea no sky just gradations of grey. He minded the old minister’s voice, ranting in the dark kirk.
And the earth was without form and void
. That was the way of it right enough. The haar soaked into him like fine rain, made the nap of his jacket damp to the touch. Drops of moisture gathered on his hair, on his eyelashes. He blinked, his sight momentarily blurred. He rubbed his face with his hands, licked his lips, tasted salt. A ship’s horn moaned low, close. Invisible sea gulls called and called. There were worlds out there. The church bell started to clang the four quarters before striking the hour.

‘Christ!’

He jumped down off the wall, skidded on the wet cobbles.

‘Shite!’

But he kept his balance and righted himself, ran as hard as he could past the docks and up the road, wheeled at the corner of Marischal Street on the second stroke, almost crashed into two young women, on their way to work gutting fish down at Footdee. Fittie. Their faces and arms were red. Warm flush of blood. They smelled of the fish, of their work. But he felt himself respond as
they flashed quick smiles at him, flirted. They laughed as he made to raise his hat to them though he wasn’t wearing one.

On the fourth stroke his path was blocked by two scrawny wee boys, schoolbooks dropped at their feet, hacking at each other with sticks for swords, a fight to the death.

‘Ha!’

They put up their swords, startled, as he cut between them, mimed stabbing the pair of them with hardly a break in his stride.

On the seventh stroke of the bell he bounded up the worn stone steps to the door of the office.
James George. Shipbroker
. He got to his desk on the stroke of eight, bringing the outside in with him, a rush. The office clock, half a beat behind, finished chiming the hour as he sat down at his desk.

Robertson, the other junior clerk, looked up from his papers.

‘Cutting it fine, Tom.’

‘Timed it to the second!’ said Glover.

He caught his breath, stretched, clasped his hands behind his head.

‘Call this a summer?’ he said, peering out the high window into the grey.

Robertson followed his gaze.

‘Call it Aberdeen!’

Glover cracked his knuckles, dipped the nib of his pen in the inkwell, settled to work through the pile of papers on his desk.

By mid-morning the sun had started to burn off the haar. He stood up from his work and crossed to the window, looked out. Great granite buildings took shape, crenellated bulk rising out of the mist.

This city. Its solidity.

In the other direction, down the street, he could see the masts of the ships at anchor, gulls circling overhead.

‘Have you dealt with those bills of lading, Mister Glover?’

He hadn’t heard old George come in to the room. The voice was quiet, dry. Rustle of parchment.

Glover turned.

‘Aye, sir. They’re on my desk.’

‘Well, Mister Glover. I would appreciate it if they were on
my
desk.’

George swished out the door again. Glover picked up the documents, caught Robertson’s eye and mimicked the old man’s soor prune face to perfection.

The air of the pub was a yellowing haze, a sepia fug, nicotine tinted, thick with the reek of tobacco.

Glover shouldered his way from the bar, through the hard drinkers crowded into the smoky den, made it back to his table holding steady the two mugs of beer.

Robertson shouted to him above the noise.

‘I’d appreciate it if that pint was on
my
table, Mister Glover!’

‘It’ll be over your fucking head in a minute,
Mister
Robertson!’

He set down the mugs, licked the spillage from his fingers, shoved his way along the bench.

‘Your health!’ Robertson took a sip.

‘Aye.’ Glover swigged, wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Dour old bugger,’ said Robertson. ‘Old George, I mean.’

‘Tornfaced,’ said Glover. ‘And prim. Mouth on him like a cat’s arse.’

Robertson spluttered and sprayed, almost choked on his pint. When he’d recovered, he said, ‘Makes you wonder how he could have fathered a divine creature like young Annie.’

‘I would imagine,’ said Glover, ‘in the usual way. Mind you, there are some things I would rather
not
imagine!’

He swilled down more of his beer, for the first time all week began to relax, unclench.

‘Thank God for Saturday night, man.’

‘You think it’s God’s work?’

‘Isn’t it all?’ said Glover. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, and on the Saturday night thou shalt be half seas over.’

‘Amen to that!’

By the fourth pint, Glover could feel the surge of it through him, euphoric. It was glorious, bathed everything in a warm benign glow. Yes. Aye. Life was good. He threw back his head and laughed a great roar of a laugh.

‘What?’ said Robertson.

‘Nothing,’ said Glover. ‘Everything!’

When Robertson had taken a drink or two, he liked to quote Burns. Tonight it was Tam o’ Shanter.

‘
We sit boozing at the nappy, getting fou and unco happy
.’

The place sweated and stank, dripped condensation from the low ceiling. It swayed and heaved, ship in a heavy swell. At closing time it pitched them out into the street. They surfaced, gulped in air. The cool was a sudden rush, delicious shock of exhilaration.

‘Yes!’

The sky was cobalt, the nearest it would get to full dark. Simmerdim. The light nights.

They fell in with a few others they knew, young clerks like themselves. Now they made a company, and they roistered and swaggered, their boots clattering on the cobblestones down a dark lane by the docks.

Glover stopped. He had an important announcement to make. He articulated his words with great care.

‘I need,’ he said. ‘To pish.’

He heard himself and laughed at the pompous sonority of it. The others moved ahead and he unbuttoned himself, released a steaming stream against a dank wall. The relief was exquisite. Yes.

He turned, shaking off the drips, and caught his breath as he realised someone was watching him.

She had stepped out of the shadows, stood half-lit in the faint
erratic flicker of the gaslight, its mantle damaged, the light an eerie sputtering flare. Her red hair was piled up on top of her head, but tousled, coming undone, and her blouse was part unfastened, pulled back, her throat and shoulders bare. She leered at him, the only word for it, part mockery part invitation. He felt exposed and vulnerable, open to her gaze, a wee boy pale and naked. But she kept looking at him, that way, and her look made him hard, a man. It was all right to feel like this, it was fine, no shame in it at all.

The woman stood with her hands on her hips, tossed back her head.

‘Looking for business, big fella?’

But before he could reply, another figure came out of the dark behind her, a gaunt, hardfaced man who put his thin arms round the woman’s waist, pulled her to him, nuzzled her neck and whispered something in her ear.

She let out a harsh screech of a laugh. The man glared at Glover, the look pure spite, dismissal. He spat.

The woman threw Glover a look of regret that said Maybe another time. They faded back into the darkness, left him yearning and foolish and limp.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ a voice shouted. ‘Put that away! You’ll catch your death!’

Robertson had come back to see what was keeping him.

‘Consorting with the ladies of the night, Tom?’

‘Not quite consorting,’ said Glover. ‘A mere flirtation. A dalliance.’ He buttoned himself up again. ‘She did give me the eye, though.’

‘Dog!’ said Robertson.

They hurried to catch up with the others. The night was full of possibilities and demons.

Robertson chanted. ‘
The night drave on wi sangs and clatter!
’

Now they were scuffing along King Street, bawling out music-hall songs. Now they were stumbling along the beach, laughing
as they sank in the sand, feet splayed at every step. Now they were passing St Machar’s Cathedral, its twin squat steeples like granite minarets, silhouetted against the deeper dark of the sky. And in spite of themselves they shooshed and hushed each other, affected sobriety, walked upright and respectful past the graveyard, the dead in their long sleep. Now they had reached Brig o’ Balgownie, the old stone bridge over the Don, and Glover was climbing up on the parapet for no good reason other than the sheer doing of it, because he could. And he made his way, step by slow step, on and up to the crest, arms out for balance, the river slithering fifteen feet below. He’d done this as a boy, heedless, padded quick and barefoot along the wall, dived off head-first to splash down into the chill waters. He felt some of that fearless ness now, but had to move steady, tightrope walker in a circus, feet in his muckle boots feeling for purchase. Robertson was full of himself, shouted out, ‘
And win the key-stane of the brig!
’

One more step and Glover was there, stretched his arms out wide. ‘Yes!’

One of the others threw him up a bottle of ale and he caught it, slugged it down. Then he jumped back down onto the cobbled pathway of the bridge, bowed as they cheered and clapped. Robertson joined in, then drew himself up, rolled his shoulders.

‘I could do that. Easy.’ The drink talking.

The others howled, started a rhythmic handclap.

‘
Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!
…’

He heaved himself onto the wall, arms shaky, not as easy as it looked, stood carefully up and swayed there till he found some centre of balance. For a moment he didn’t dare move, for fear of falling.

Then he lurched forward …

‘
Yes!
’

one step, then stood there rigid, hunched over, wanting to crouch down and kneel, inch forward like that, but no, he would swing the other foot, take one more step …

‘
Yes!
’

Arms flung back he almost toppled …

‘
Yes!
’

edged inch by inch, rigid and sweating, then rushed it three-steps-in-a-row and made it to the top, stood unsteady but triumphant.

‘
Yes!
’

Glover handed him the bottle and he raised it to his lips, suddenly flailed his arms, gaped one frozen startled moment, keeled over backwards and was gone.

‘
YES!
’

Then the reality of it hit them and they lurched to the parapet, peered down at the river. Only Glover was alert, quickwitted, scrambled down the bank and under the bridge to where Robertson had bobbed downstream, thrashing. Glover waded in, grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him to the side where he lay coughing, grabbing breath. He managed to stand up, soaked through and shivering, water squelching in his boots.

Glover laughed. ‘Better get you home, Mister Robertson, or
you’ll
catch your death!’

Sunday morning in the grim grey kirk, Glover sat upright on the hard wooden pew. His neck felt clamped, but he knew if he moved too abruptly he would set the blood thudding in his head. He turned slowly and carefully, squinted along the row. His sister Martha darted a wee glance at him, half smiled. His mother shifted her bulk in the unforgiving seat, nudged his father whose head kept nodding forward, jerking back.

Christ!

He remembered rolling home at God-knows-what time, wet clothes dripping, telling Martha he’d been swimming, and could swim like a fish, and she’d said Aye, and drink like one. She’d
brought him a dry towel and a mug of hot tea. He realised now she had probably stayed up waiting for him, and the thought moved him unexpectedly, the goodness of it, the simple loving kindness. His mother and father had been tightlipped at breakfast.

The minister, old Naysmith, was a long thin streak of misery, his voice a grinding whine, insistent and numbing.

The very air felt oppressive, felt stale, cold with the dankness of old stone. He looked round the congregation, saw them as a gallery of grotesques: hard gargoyle faces carved from granite, features exaggerated like caricatures – gaunt thrawn men, hewn and weathered, women grown too quickly old, their pale skin scoured, hands and arms red-raw, gormless loons, gawky and glaikit, expressions that registered nothing.

Glover felt something akin to panic. He saw their sheer physicality in minute unsettling detail: white sidewhiskers growing on florid cheeks, a great wet mouth, skewed broken teeth, tufts of hair sprouting from ears, from the mole on the end of a hook nose, wee ferret eyes, a slaver of spittle dribbled down a chin.

The minister’s voice droned on.
Now let us pray
. Glover closed his eyes. Dear God, please let there be more to life than this. As a child he’d been scared to open his eyes during prayers, feared God would be watching, would strike him down dead. Now he eased them open, looked round. Across the aisle he saw Robertson, face grey, eyes clenched shut. He was shivering, barked out a cough. Glover wanted to laugh but stifled it. In the row behind Robertson sat young Annie George with her father. He willed her to open her eyes and look at him, sweet seventeen, Dear God, tight blonde curls under her bonnet, framing her face, just open her eyes and look, that was all, and she did. She did. She looked right at him, and her mouth opened in a little O of perfect astonishment, matching his own amazement at the moment. The Lord be praised. A quick shy smile then she turned away, closed her eyes again, a slight flush rising to her face.

Glover turned and found himself grinning at the minister, brows gathered in righteous implacable wrath.
Lead us not into
temptation, but deliver us from evil
. Glover bent his head, but his heart was light. He had been vouchsafed a vision of saving grace.

Outside, Annie lagged a little way behind her father, left a gap. Glover caught up.

‘Tonight at seven?’ he said, quiet. ‘Brig o’ Balgownie?’