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After a good lunch Walter retrieved the diaries from the locked cupboard, burped, and sat back in the chair. Pierre’s quiche was the most expensive bacon and egg pie in the universe, but it was lovely, even if it did encourage indigestion. Blood making pie, was how he described it to Cresta, and that brought a grimace to her purple decorated face. She’d chosen the cold smoked trout with a sprinkling of green leaves, which said everything.
‘I need all the blood I can manufacture,’ he continued, before she suggested they talk of something else, and most particularly of the murder diaries.
She wasn’t bad company as it turned out, and hadn’t Karen once intimated they would make a handsome couple? He wouldn’t have gone that far, but away from the confines of the office and the competitiveness of that environment, she relaxed a little, and was bearable company. Perhaps she was being agreeable because she knew he had something she desperately wanted, and it certainly wasn’t his ravaged body. Walter sighed and shook those recent memories from his mind and began reading again.
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The first time I remember feeling uncomfortable about myself was the day I discovered I possessed initials that spelt a mildly rude word. It could have been worse, I suppose. I could have been christened Steven Harold Ian Truman, or Freddy Umberto Chapman King, or even, God forbid, Colin Uriah Norman Trethowan.
My name, by comparison to those horrors, and no doubt there are poor unfortunates padding around out there with initials such as those, could even be considered comical, a joke. I didn’t see it that way, it wasn’t a joke to me, not back then, and I suspect most boys wouldn’t have thought so either. It was strange that I hadn’t noticed it before the day Billy Freeman yelled at me in the playground: ‘ASS by name ASS by nature, you’re a complete ASS!’
We were eight at the time, and even then I had to ask him to explain what he meant. It was a small and silly incident that shouldn’t have brought me discomfort, yet it did, and even now, looking back on it from years later, it makes me uncomfortable to think of it. You’re an ASS! Maybe I am, who knows, who cares? I dumped the problem as soon as I could by ditching my first name. Who wouldn’t have?
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Walter flipped randomly through the pages. It was an easy thing to do, to dip in and out, because though they were written on dated pages, crazily they didn’t seem to come out in chronological order. It was all a little haphazard. The writer was either extremely gifted, or totally disorganised, and it was mighty difficult to decide which.
Karen knocked on the door and came in.
‘I’m going down to Iona to oversee the removal of the contents. Anything you want me to look out for?’
‘Yes, the solicitor’s name and address.’
‘Besides that?’
‘Nope, not that I can think of.’
‘How’s the reading going?’
‘Confusing.’
‘In what way?’
‘Jumps about all over the place.’
‘You’ve really got Cresta jumping up and down.’
‘Good. Well, she’s going to have to wait, and for quite some time too.’
Karen grinned. For some reason he enjoyed winding Cresta up. Fact was, Karen was surprised he’d told her about the diaries at all.
‘OK, I’ll see you later.’
‘Yep, see you, oh; some more of those fairies would be nice.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He turned over the page.
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My life took a turn for the better the day I fell totally and utterly in love. It had been a slow burner. I’d known the girl for several years before I began to think of her in any way other than as the quiet but cute vicar’s daughter. Unlike my friend Dennis who the very first day I mentioned her, said Yeah, yeah. But would you fuck her?
At the time that notion had not permeated my confused head, though a few years later that idea was fixed in my mind from first thought in the morning till the last at night. The second or third time I saw her I caught a glimpse of her knickers, as she’d curled her legs beneath her at the vicarage tea party. I’d looked away and Dennis told me off about that too. It was an image framed in time that returned to me time and again. It still occasionally does. I know it shouldn’t, but it does, locked in my head, as if to tease me, as if to remind me of something I never had, something I could never attain, as if to say: You’ve wasted an opportunity there! You ass! You’re an ASS!
The ironic thing was that at one time she had a real crush on me. She’d bought me a rabbit’s foot especially for my big concert on the radio. I was too stupid or too embarrassed to notice her feelings, and it was a couple of years later when she returned from college during the summer holidays, that I finally asked her to the pictures. It wasn’t easy persuading her either. I had to ask her four times before she finally agreed. Later, I was to discover that she only consented because her father, the vicar, had encouraged her to do so. Imagine how I felt. The girl at my side was there because her father asked her to be, not because she wanted to be.
That night I made a complete and utter fool of myself.
I wasn’t the first young man to do so on their first meaningful date, and I surely won’t be the last, but that didn’t and doesn’t erase the hurt one feels when looking back on it some years later.
On the way home I pushed her up against the back of the bus shelter and kissed her. She didn’t resist, she didn’t cry out, she didn’t do a thing. Her response was spelt out through her icy lips. I imagine now that she must have grimaced through the whole experience, though I was far too smitten to realise that, and far too innocent to understand that it was any different to how it should have been. Maybe I had an inkling. If I did, I buried it in the outer reaches of my expanding mind. I didn’t want to know a thing, other than what I saw and felt and smelt in front of me.
Flushed with success, for I had dreamt of kissing those pink cherry lips for weeks, no months, no years, I pressed onward, determined to achieve my goal, as any hot blooded male might, strike while the iron is hot, show her you love her, as the agony aunt pages always say, tell her you love her, they always recommend, after all, how is she ever to know how you feel if you don’t tell her? So I did.
‘I love you Machara,’ I said.
She didn’t say a word. She was probably squirming with embarrassment.
I loved everything about her, even her name that I found incredibly alluring, I had never met a Machara before, still haven’t, I loved her to bits, and what does a passionate man do when he loves someone? Asks them to marry him, that’s what, so I did.
‘Will you marry me, Machara McGowan?’
She giggled derisorily.
I didn’t look into her eyes; I couldn’t, because my head was set to one side of hers. I was staring at her neat left ear that was poking through her bonnet of black hair, that ear, a perfectly white protuberance that resembled those ultra precious mushrooms one finds in the forest early on a Sunday morning, a variety you never see in the shops. That night in the bus shelter there was something particularly sensual about her ear, I still remember that, it’s difficult to explain, I could have bitten it off, though I didn’t understand it at the time.
When she finally spoke she said, ‘I couldn’t possibly marry you, you’re no-ooo a Scot.’
She didn’t reject me because I was too young, too inexperienced, too short, too nervous, too lacking in prospects, too ugly, too dull, too horrendous, she rejected me because I didn’t belong to the Scottish race. Stupid girl! How peculiar was that? I suspect it was a condition that would one day come back to haunt her, and only two years after that she did indeed find her ideal man.
Robertson was six feet four inches tall, broadly built, sandy beard and hair, with a glint in his eye. His highland accent alone was enough to win Machara’s heart, or so she imagined, and the fact that he occasionally wore a kilt, and his birth had been registered in Fort William, would have clinched the deal.
When I heard the news I was mortified. Heartbroken.
I didn’t understand how the love of my life could possibly want to marry this huge ginger pig, this hairy legged oaf who delighted in prancing around in a green and yellow tartan skirt, but marry him she did, in her father’s church, where I had once led the choir. I didn’t attend, I couldn’t bring myself to do so, for when the Reverend Blair McGowan stood up and uttered the immortal words: Is there any lawful impediment as to why these people should not be joined in holy matrimony, I knew that I would have jumped to my feet and yelled: ‘He’s no-ooo a Scot!’
’Cept he was, and she did.
It didn’t turn out well.
Robertson Brothy had a weakness.
Many men do.
His fatal weakness was not women, or girls, or even boys, or gambling, or money, or calories, or whisky, or drink, or lack of ambition, or laziness, or of being a bully, or of being violent, no, his weakness was one of egotism.
Robertson Brothy loved himself above all others.
He was used to getting his own way in all things. He possessed a booming voice and he adored the sound of it. He would dominate conversations, he would talk others down, he would talk over people, he would talk endlessly about himself and his life and his successes, he would cut others short, often incredibly rudely, without ever seeming to notice, he would belittle people, especially anyone Machara liked, and he’d insist that people listened to him and his brilliant ideas, and especially his new wife, who at first tolerated it, but gradually retreated into her shell until she never spoke at all, unless he spoke first.
‘I’d like some sirloin steak for dinner.’
‘Yes Robertson, I’ll see what I can find.’
‘And we’ll go golfing again at the weekend. Carnoustie, I think.’
‘Yes Robbie, whatever you say.’
‘And don’t call me Robbie!’
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Machara detested golf, but would never mention it, and would duly hack her way around Scotland’s championship links, embarrassing her husband, infuriating committee members who would reluctantly ban her, though it made little difference, for there are thousands of golf courses in Scotland, and they would simply move up the coast to the next untouched collection of fresh holes.
‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ insisted Robertson.
‘Yes dear,’ she would say, but she knew she wouldn’t, and she never did. She didn’t want to. She hated golf, and everything that went with it, and she grew to hate Robertson Brothy.
Machara’s father was totally against divorce.
Prior to the marriage he had taken his only daughter to one side and had lectured her on the sanctity of marriage, imploring his beautiful girl to be absolutely certain that Robertson was indeed the man for her, before she finally agreed to anything. Blair was not blind to Robertson’s overbearing nature, (the Reverend liked Robertson to come calling at the vicarage for a day or so, but was mighty pleased to see him leave.) but his daughter was blind to that. Sometimes love really is blind.
She had made her decision and would stick with it, whatever it took, for better or worse, however hard the rock strewn road became, however unhappy it made her, for she had chosen him freely and fairly, and anyway, she couldn’t possibly divorce Robertson Brothy, because he was a Scot.
I confess I imagined the last part of the previous sentence, and I laughed at it too, maybe a little unkindly, when I did. I have made many dreadful decisions in my life and I take little comfort from knowing that I am not alone.
Would Machara do the same thing if she had her life all over again?
Of course she would, because she was a passionate human being, and passionate human beings do not know their own minds. They make mistakes. They are guided by exterior forces, we all are. Our actions are often not what they should be, not truly our own, they are dictated by events, and passion.
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Walter set the diary down and paused for thought. Read that line again.
Our actions are often not what they should be, not truly our own, they are dictated by events, and passion.
Your actions, young man, were your own, and no one else’s, and no amount of window dressing, or fiddling with history, could ever alter that.
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I remember my eighteenth birthday well. Previously, Dennis’s girlfriend Jillian had fixed me up with one weird girlfriend after another. I don’t know why but they all reminded me of animals, giraffes, meerkats, chickens, walruses, you name it, they were all there as if they’d just vacated the ark. I wasn’t a success with her zoo, and soon stopped taking the dates, or perhaps she stopped providing them, I can’t remember which.
They left me that night to go to the cinema and I picked up my brown paper parcel, and the present they had given me, a pack of string vests, the only gift I was to receive that year, and later I walked around the city walls three times, alone with my thoughts, before I retreated to my flat where I opened my parcel, took out the first of my maroon diaries, and began making notes, recalling a haphazard history of my life. If you are reading this now you will know what I mean.
Soon afterwards I embarked on a series of brief affairs, more by luck than judgement, primarily brought about through alcohol. Thinking back on it now, I can’t remember whether I was more or less drunk than the girls in question. Truth is, we were probably both stoned.
As you can perhaps gather from my coldness toward the business, they were not great successes. I’d discovered women, but I hadn’t found my woman, and that wouldn’t change for a good few years.