Edinburgh
He emerged into even greater chaos. It was late afternoon, judging by the long shadows, and the street was crowded with people, all of them pushing and shoving their way towards a line of black cabs parked alongside the kerb, so he detached himself from that queue and headed to his right, following the pavement across a wide bridge that was thronged with busy traffic. He had to push and shove his way through the other people heading in both directions on the crowded pavement. When he got to the far side of the bridge, a weird sound assailed his ears, something that sounded like the caterwauling of a tortured animal. Looking around, he saw a band of musicians on the far side of the road. They were playing some kind of rocked-up Scottish folk tune: a guitarist, a drummer and a man playing bagpipes, who was leaping up and down on the spot like somebody demented. The band was standing beside the open gates of a park and an eager crowd were gathered in front of them, clapping their hands and urging them on.
The park’s entrance seemed to offer some respite from the bustle and noise, so when he got to the top of the road, he waited for the lights to change and crossed over, noticing as he did so how every lamppost along the street was decorated with a colourful poster, advertising a whole series of events, most of them featuring a grinning face. He thought he recognised one or two of the faces, decided he’d seen them before, possibly on TV, but he couldn’t be sure. A name accompanied each face and though some of the names had a familiar ring to them, he couldn’t have said with any certainty who any of these people actually were.
He made it to the far side of the road and paused
for a moment to stare at the band. Close up, they
sounded quite fearsome, the drummer bashing at his miniature kit with manic energy, the sound of his bass drum seeming to thud like a series of punches to
the boy’s chest. As he watched, a couple of people broke from the crowd and moved forward to throw coins into a hat on the pavement, but the boy didn’t feel he could spare any of the money he’d found in his pocket, so instead he went in through the gates and descended a long flight of stone steps to a wide path some ten feet below the level of the street.
It was a bit quieter here, though still busy with
people. The sounds of the traffic receded as the boy walked along. On the horizon, away to his left, perched on a high clump of rock stood what could only be described as a castle. It looked like something from a fairy tale, the boy thought, but he managed to make some kind of a connection with the word Edinburgh. There was an Edinburgh Castle, wasn’t there? He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but it felt right and for the first time since he’d opened his eyes he felt a little cheered. At least there was something he thought he knew. He kept walking. He went past long rows of park benches and a little café serving coffee and ice cream. People sitting at outdoor tables were enjoying the last rays of the afternoon sunshine, but
the peaceful scene was short-lived because, all too soon, he reached the far end of the park and had nowhere else to go but back up onto the busy road. As he came out of the gates he caught sight of a road sign announcing that he was on Princes Street. Buses and trams rumbled past him and a seemingly never-ending stream of black cabs.
Thinking that it might be quieter on the far side
of the road, he crossed over and found himself heading down narrower streets, but the crowds were no thinner here, so he headed up a steep hill that curved slowly around to his left. The railings that flanked the pavement along the route were now an endless procession of garish posters, advertising comedy nights, theatre events, musicals, concerts… Edinburgh clearly was a very busy place.
He reached the top of the hill, a crossroads, and paused for a moment, wondering which way to go. To his right there was a big black and white pub where throngs of people stood outside drinking beer and wine. A prominent sign announced that this was ‘Deacon Brodie’s Tavern.’ The boy turned left away from it and started walking down the cobbled street beyond, but he’d only gone a short distance when he realised that he’d made a mistake. The way ahead was absolutely choked with people, many of whom seemed to be in fancy dress, some of them carrying placards for various shows, and as he walked along some of them started approaching him, offering him sheets of paper advertising the different events.
‘Do you like comedy?’ asked a man who was dressed as some kind of Space Pirate, pushing a leaflet into his hands. ‘Captain Danger and the Super Vixens from Venus,’ he added mysteriously. ‘Starts in ten minutes, just up the street there.’
The boy didn’t know what to say. He took the leaflet and started to walk on, only to be accosted by a young woman dressed as some kind of medieval wench. ‘The Crucible!’ she barked in his face, displaying rows of teeth that had been artificially blackened – at least, the boy hoped that was the case. ‘Arthur Miller’s brilliant play about the Salem Witch trials, Pleasance Courtyard, seven o’clock tonight. Special discount with this flyer.’
‘Er… thanks,’ said the boy, taking the sheet from her, though he really didn’t have much idea what she was on about. As if at some signal, others in the crowd appeared to sense that he was an easy target. There was a sudden rush and he found himself wading though a sea of humanity, every one of whom was intent on shoving a sheet of brightly-coloured paper at him. He’d accepted a dozen of them before he began to gaze frantically around, looking for some avenue of escape. He saw an opportunity and ducked behind a large metal litterbin, then ran around it, only to find himself standing beside a makeshift wooden stage, where a group of what he thought might be Spanish dancers in colourful costumes were whirling and spinning to amplified guitar music. One of the women saw him standing by the stage and blew him a theatrical kiss. He felt his cheeks reddening.
Then he saw a couple of policemen walking through the crowd towards him and decided there was nothing for it but to level with them. He couldn’t take much more of this. He approached them and said, ‘I don’t know who I am!’
The policemen looked at him, registered the collection of flyers he was holding and laughed
out loud.
‘Yeah, very good,’ said one of the cops. ‘But we’re on duty. We haven’t got time to take in a show.’
‘I’m sure it’s genius!’ laughed the other cop.
‘No, wait, you don’t understand. I really…’
But they were already walking away and the moment was lost. The boy looked down at the sheaf of papers he was clutching and realised what had happened. He made a sound of disgust, hurried back to where he’d seen the litterbin and dumped the whole lot inside. The medieval wench saw him do it and gave him an indignant glare, so he turned away and moved back into the cover of the crowd, looking frantically around for somewhere he could sit down and get his thoughts together. He spotted a small clearing around a statue, a life-size figure of a man in old fashioned clothes and a top hat, so he went gratefully over to it and sat down on the statue’s plinth, thinking he would just rest for a moment and get his breath back.
‘Oi!’ snapped a voice above him and he looked up in alarm to see that the ‘statue’ was glaring down at him. ‘Get off me plinth! You’ll damage it.’
The boy jumped up in alarm, realising that this wasn’t a statue at all, just a man, painted grey from head to foot and wearing specially treated clothes. Even his plinth was just a painted wooden box.
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered the boy. ‘I didn’t realise you weren’t… er… what… what are you doing?’
‘Trying to make an honest living,’ snarled the man in a broad Scottish accent. ‘And you’re not helping one wee bit!’
The boy heard laughter and turning, he saw that several passers-by had stopped to watch the proceedings, as though they thought it was all part of a show. One man was even lifting a camera to take a photograph. The boy turned back to the statue-man. ‘I… I’m sorry, I thought you were real,’ he stammered. He waved a hand around at the encircling magic. ‘What… what is all this?’ he asked.
‘What’s what?’ snapped the statue-man.
‘All these people…’
‘It’s the Festival,’ snapped the statue. When the boy just stared up at him blankly, he added, ‘The Edinburgh Festival. What did you think it was? Disneyland?’
‘What’s the… Edinburgh Festival?’ asked the boy.
‘It’s three weeks of total madness,’ said the statue-man. ‘And a chance for me to earn enough money to see me through the winter. Now kindly stick some coins in the hat or sling your hook.’
‘Oh, er…’ The boy shoved a hand into his pocket, then realised he couldn’t afford to give away the tiny bit of cash he had. ‘Sorry, I… I can’t really…’
‘Let’s have a photograph,’ suggested the man with the camera, speaking in an American accent. Before the boy could even think about it, the statue reached down, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him in close. ‘Smile,’ hissed the statue-man in his ear and the boy did his best to comply, but the rictus grin he came up with couldn’t have been very convincing.
The photographer stepped forward and dutifully dropped a coin into the statue-man’s hat. ‘Thanks, buddy,’ he said.
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said the statue-man, doffing his hat and then he pushed the boy away. ‘Scram,’ he said, none too politely.
The boy walked away, bewildered. He’d never heard of the Edinburgh Festival but had already decided
that it was clearly an event intended for the insane.
He scanned the way ahead, looking for somewhere quiet to hide himself but there didn’t seem to be anywhere that fitted that description. He glanced hopefully through the open doors of shops and cafés but all them were rammed to the gills. He wandered down narrow side streets and had to double back when they proved to be impassable. Before very much longer, it dawned on him that it had actually been a bit quieter back where he’d started, so he retraced his steps, running the gamut of the leaflet distributors a second time, but refusing now to take any more flyers from them, keeping his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
He went back down the hill and as the afternoon faded into evening, he eventually found himself once again on Princes Street, walking alongside the park. Finding an empty wooden bench, he slumped down on it and sat, watching the world go by, trying to come up with some kind of plan but he could think of nothing that would be of any use. It occurred to him that perhaps he should try to find a police station, so he got up
from the bench and asked several passers-by where he might find one, but every single person he spoke to had pretty much the same answer. ‘Sorry, kid, I’m not from round here.’ This was said in an American, an Irish, a German and a French accent, before he finally gave up and went back to his bench. He felt completely exhausted by everything that had happened to him since he’d got off the train, so tired that he couldn’t seem to think straight any more.
The hours passed steadily. Darkness descended, the streetlights came on and it didn’t seem to be much quieter on the road than it had been in the day. Now it was dominated by large groups of young people hurrying off to one appointment or another, laughing and shouting to each other, taking no notice of the boy sitting alone on the bench. He started to wonder where he might sleep for the night and, on impulse, got up from the bench and went back through the entrance of the park, wondering if it stayed open all night. He was beginning to feel really tired.
He came to a place where a narrow cobbled path led upwards to a life-sized statue of a soldier on horseback, the horse standing on a tall rock plinth, the soldier gazing steadfastly out towards Princes Street. On the far side of the plinth, on a steep incline, there was a thickly-covered area of trees and shrubs.
The boy paused for a closer look and noticed a narrow opening between the rows of foliage where somebody might be able to stretch himself out without being seen by passers-by. After glancing quickly around to ensure there was nobody observing him, he ducked under the metal rail that fenced the area off and crawled into the opening. The shrubs seemed to shrug around him like a blanket. He pulled up the hood of his jacket and lay on his side, listening to the sounds of the traffic passing by on the main road.
It was a strange lullaby but it worked well enough. Within minutes he was fast asleep.