The Fort bar out in the posh Broughty Ferry suburbs never seemed to change. Same sports trophies in their glass cases out of reach along the back wall of the public bar. Same groups crouched over the domino table. They played for pennies but the concentration matched anything you’d see at the blackjack tables in Monte Carlo.
Next door, in the discreet lounge, the thirty-somethings were starting to negotiate. The people were the clones of the ones who gathered there before McBride had left town twenty years before – only the faces had changed. The conversations had never altered. They tried to sound relaxed, casual, but the small talk was the usual evening mating call. You could tell the ones who weren’t picking it up. They looked hopefully over at the door every time a newcomer came in just in case a better prospect had arrived.
The Fort had always been the best bar in town, even if some of the women could be a bit choosy. At least no one was ever going to bottle you there. John Black saw to that. He was unlikely to be described with any accuracy as ‘genial’ by those who coupled that word with ‘host’ but the outward gruffness concealed an unexpected generosity and he was a soft target for a good cause. The owner of The Fort had also learned the first lesson of being a successful publican – to make every customer feel like you knew them.
‘Saw your picture in The Courier,’ he told McBride. ‘Best-seller, eh? Never knew Dundee had spawned such a bunch of murdering bastards.’
McBride had no idea if the short figure behind the bar had the slightest inkling about who he was, beyond what he’d read in that morning’s paper. Did he remember their conversations when McBride had been a young reporter on The Courier? Then there was the night John Black had put him into a taxi when, by rights, he should have called the police after the drunken brawl … He’d feel his way.
‘I was going to do a chapter on Dundee United – the day they murdered Dundee 5–0 back in ’64 but there was no real mystery in it. Good side annihilates crap side – what’s new?’
Black took the bait. Football, or more accurately, Dundee FC, obsessed him almost as much as making money. Life lost much of its meaning the day the team was relegated, leaving their hated rivals as the city’s sole representatives in the Premier Division.
‘Lippy asshole,’ he flashed back. His language had all the old finesse. ‘You didn’t learn any manners all that time in London then, you little prick?’
‘So you remember? I was sure the old dementia would have kicked in by now,’ smiled McBride, extending a hand across the counter, which was warmly grasped.
‘Who’s going to forget a celebrity like you? Your name was never out of the papers for long enough. If there was trouble anywhere, you were up to your neck in it – just like years ago ’cept some paper was paying you fancy money to write about it. In the old days, you were the trouble. If it wasn’t the drink, it was putting a leg over the wrong woman. Maybe you still are?’
McBride felt an unexpected flush spread up from his neck. He quickly raised his pint glass and drained the contents, taking longer than necessary in the hope the redness would disappear. When he finally put it back on the counter, he forced a laugh. ‘Straight to the point, eh, John?’ He wondered if it was one of his random jibes or an unusually subtle attempt to ask about his marital status.
‘You find out there’s no future in that carry-on – maybe some of us just take longer to get the message than others. More to the point, when are Dundee going to do the decent thing and sell off Dens Park to United for a training pitch?’ It was an obvious change of subject and he knew the pub owner would pick up on it. That was another talent John Black had acquired in his years behind a bar. He’d learned when topics should be dropped, directions altered – that the customer was always in charge of the conversation.
What was the point in going into it all, anyway? McBride thought to himself. A crowded Saturday-night lounge bar wasn’t exactly the most tranquil of settings for a cerebral exchange about the state of his marriage, even if it still existed in some recognisable form.
Not for the first time since returning to Dundee, McBride became aware of a feeling of melancholy creeping over him. The town had changed – almost beyond recognition in some parts. So had a lot of the people. Now there were bioscientists with English accents rubbing shoulders with the old-time trade unionists. Wine bars were opening up and the council couldn’t pull down some of the empty housing estates fast enough. Out in the suburbs, high-priced villas were springing up on every available plot of ground. There was a whiff of prosperity in the air. But nothing could alter the memories, the distant echoes that could still seep slyly into your head when your back was turned.
He wondered if Caroline had ever returned and tried to imagine where she would have gone if she’d found the strength to come back. Would she have revisited all the obvious places or would the recollections have overwhelmed her the way they were starting to do to him? The only thing left in Dundee for her – for them both – was the precious spot where they’d taken Simon’s ashes all those Decembers ago. That was probably the best reason to stay away.
He asked himself if he would make the journey to that peaceful place where she’d shed so many tears before he departed again for London but he still struggled for an answer. He’d never been there without her.
Caroline, sweet Caroline. He walked on every crack in the road – she read Annie Proulx and put the handbrake on when she stopped at traffic lights. But, magically, for ten years, it had worked. Then he went away and, when he came back, it was over. He still wasn’t sure why.