And the Land Lay Still (85 page)

Of all those election nights, 1992 was by far the most depressing. On Jean’s big table that night bottles of wine and beer, and sandwiches and crisps, were all laid out, in preparation for celebrating the long-looked-for rout of the Scottish Conservatives. After Thatcherism, the poll tax, the Constitutional Convention, the closure of Ravenscraig, whatever happened south of the Border the Tories could surely only suffer further electoral disaster in Scotland. But two hours after the polls closed most of the bottles remained unopened, the sandwiches were curling up on their trays, a song had not issued from Walter Fleming’s lips and even those who weren’t smokers had ash in their mouths, because not only was John Major heading for victory, but the Tories had also made a small recovery in Scotland and gained a seat.

Why the surprise? There’d been a kind of silliness in the air throughout the campaign. Major had stood on his soapbox and been taken seriously; the SNP had unfurled a ludicrous slogan, FREE BY ’93, as if independence were just a step away; and, on April Fools’ Day, Adam and Mike had watched, in horror, the TV coverage of a huge Labour rally in Sheffield, with Neil Kinnock, helicoptered in, running on to the stage and punching the air, arms flailing as he leaped about shouting, ‘We’re aaall riight!’ like a bad imitation of Mick Jagger. Mike had imagined votes for Labour shelving off in their thousands, like ice crashing into the sea in Antarctica, as someone announced, with unintended irony, ‘Here is your next Prime Minister.’ So even then, before the vote itself, the signs that it could all go wrong were visible. Even after thirteen bloody
years of misery there could still be some horrible convulsion, some idiocy from Labour, some puerility from the SNP, some last venomous gasp of life in the Tories, enough to give them another five years. Five years! Was it conceivable? What further damage would they do? What would be left in another five years? By midnight on that election night, those were the questions Mike and Adam and all their friends were facing. The hangover arrived before they’d even taken a second drink.

Predictable morning-after-the-night-before things ensued. Labour and the SNP continued to tear lumps out of each other. Jim Sillars, who had lost his Govan seat back to Labour, turned his scorn on the Scottish people and accused them of being chest-puffing, ninety-minute patriots. John Major said he would ‘take stock’ of the Scottish situation but basically made no concessions on the question of devolution. New cross-party, non-party, pro-devolution, anti-Tory groups, with names like Scotland United, Common Cause and Democracy for Scotland, sprang into existence, full of good intentions. Rallies and marches were organised, but nobody broke open the Home Rule vintage champagne that had been lying in the cellar for a century. Nobody broke open the case of Kalashnikovs in the attic either. Nothing much, in other words, changed.

§

Ellen came into Rose Street Cameras one day and hung around till Mike had finished serving a customer. It was a while since they’d seen each other.

‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch,’ she said. ‘Do you want some work?’

‘I have work,’ Mike said.

‘No, real work.’ As if working in a shop wasn’t real. ‘I’ve got a commission and they’ve asked me if I have a photographer in mind and I have you in mind. Interested?’

‘What’s the job?’

‘A mining town, twelve years on,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m going back to my roots. I’m going to write about Borlanslogie, what it was like when I was wee, what it’s like now, since the strike, since the pit closed. And I thought you could take the pictures.’

‘Sounds good. Who are you writing it for?’

‘The
Observer
.’

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right Pendreich?’

‘Why, is that forbidden territory?’

‘No, but it is occupied territory. Or at least it was.’ But Angus was seventy-two now. He wasn’t doing much work any more, and hadn’t had anything in the
Observer
for a while.

‘I like your father’s stuff,’ she said, ‘but it’s not him I’m asking.’

‘I’d love to do it,’ Mike said. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘You’ve never been to Borlanslogie, have you?’

‘Aye, once, during the strike. With Adam. What does he think about this?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t mentioned it.’

‘Aren’t you going to interview him? Ask him about then and now?’

‘Why do I need to ask him about anything?’

‘I just thought, with him having been a councillor …’

‘He’s not a councillor any longer,’ she said. (Adam had stood down in the run-up to council reform, which would abolish the two-tiered regional and district system of local government, and was back full-time as a clerical officer in the Health Service.) ‘Let’s leave Adam out of this. It isn’t about him, it’s about
my
home town.’

For a moment Mike’s old loyalty to Adam asserted itself. Then he remembered the way Adam had excluded him from Borlanslogie during the strike. He didn’t need his approval or engagement any more than Ellen did.

‘Aye, let’s leave him out,’ he said, and it sounded too quick, almost eager.

Ellen looked at him sharply. ‘Are you two all right?’

‘Aye, sure.’

‘The last time I spoke to him he wasn’t very forthcoming about you.’

‘He’s tired, Ellen. He’s up to his eyes in stuff at the hospital. They’re reorganising everything again.’

‘I’ve not seen you together for ages.’

‘Well, we are. Together. Just not as much as we were. I’m in here three Saturdays out of four on top of everything else.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ll mind my own business. Are you working this coming Saturday?’

‘No, as a matter of fact it’s my weekend off.’

‘Doing anything with Adam?’

‘Nothing planned.’

‘Then I’m booking you, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Saturday came. Ellen picked him up and they drove to Borlanslogie. For an hour or so they scouted for possible images. They went up to the pithead and walked round the perimeter fence, peering through the wire at the rusting winding-gear, the red-brick and concrete buildings with their moss-thick corrugated roofs and smashed windows, a litter of bottles and cans where kids had got in over the years. It was all supposed to be landscaped eventually, Ellen said, but the only landscaping that had taken place so far was the invasion of grass and weeds. Mike took some photographs but of course there were no people. Ellen seemed to read his thoughts. ‘We need some
human
dereliction,’ she said. They headed back into the town.

The sky was grey, threatening rain. Perversely the light was quite good but Mike didn’t know how long it would last. He could sense Ellen’s impatience. ‘Why don’t I wander around on my own for a bit?’ he suggested.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I need to go and see a couple of folk. How long do you need?’

‘An hour or so?’

She looked at her watch. ‘Fine. It’s half past one now. Let’s meet at my mother’s at three. She’s only five minutes’ walk away. Wait for me if you’re there before I am. If you don’t turn up I’ll organise a search party.’ She gave him directions, which seemed straightforward enough. ‘She’s dying to meet you,’ she said. ‘She’ll not let on that she is, but she is.’

She drove off, and Mike started walking. He was disturbed by Ellen’s remark about human dereliction. It seemed to him that that was precisely
not
what they should be seeking out, was not what would be remarkable. Human dignity or survival maybe, but not wreckage.

In a bedraggled park he came across a trio of young lads, fifteen or sixteen at most, slowly spinning the afternoon away on an ancient roundabout. For a while they didn’t notice him. Each of them was sprawled in one of the machine’s six divisions, and every so often as
it slowed one of them would extend a foot to the ground to keep it moving. Their conversation was utterly banal and it seemed likely they could keep it up for hours. They’d been smoking or sniffing something, judging by their disjointed ramblings, but they seemed at the same time secure and united in their companionship. One of them saw Mike at last and for a while they were happy to include him in their chat. Then he asked if they’d mind if he took some photographs of them. This provoked some remarks about pervs and poofs, and half-serious demands for payment for their trouble, but they didn’t sit up, let alone pose, just kept the roundabout turning as he clicked away. It was no trouble to them at all. When he said goodbye they seemed almost sorry to see him go.

He went into the Co-op and talked to the women at the tills and some of the customers, and again was met with polite, easy indifference. ‘Aye, on ye go, son, take your photies.’ It was as if they had nothing to do with the process. They fully understood, however, that having got what he’d come for he would disappear again and that neither good nor ill, fame nor fortune, would come of the encounter.

It was the same in the pub across the street, although here he was questioned more aggressively before he was allowed to take anybody’s picture. The half-dozen men drinking and smoking were less resigned and more desperate than the women in the Co-op. They had all worked underground, and knew they would never work again. There was, Mike thought, nothing left for them but to get out of the house and kill time. They told him that their community had been murdered by the government, the Coal Board and capitalism. But they said it almost triumphantly, because they were still standing, still defiant in the face of what had happened to them. He listened, and wondered about the men of Borlanslogie who were not in the pub on a Saturday afternoon, and what they were doing. Whatever the ‘community’ now was, it was surely more than this.

He made his way to Ellen’s mother’s. He knew he had some good images, and that they reflected, at least in part, the slow death the town was undergoing. But he knew too that whatever it was he had captured in the faces of the men and women, it wasn’t dereliction. Even the careless resilience of the three kids was impressive.

He was ahead of Ellen. Her mother, Mary, was another survivor. She’d worked, first as a tracer, then in a variety of clerical posts, in the coal industry for thirty-seven years, retiring the year before the strike. She had a hard, narrow-eyed gaze but was friendly enough. By the second cup of tea they were discussing Adam. Clearly she had no problem with either his sexuality or his relationship, irregular though it now was, with Mike. Mike found himself trying to highlight Adam’s good qualities, which Mary grudgingly acknowledged only in order to point out faults. But for all that she criticised, it was obvious that she respected and cared deeply about him.

Then she started asking what Mike thought of Ellen. Again, she wanted his opinion only as a cue to giving hers. She disparaged Ellen in order to praise her, praised her in order to disparage. She’d read Ellen’s books and thought they were too clever – but then again, they made you think. Ellen could write well and she’d plenty of ideas but she would have, wouldn’t she, she’d had her nose in books since she was a bairn. Mary wouldn’t have brought Kirsty up the way Ellen had, but times changed and Robin was a fine man, Ellen was lucky to have him, and Kirsty was nineteen now and seemed to be turning into a fine young woman.

‘It’s no as if they had an easy start,’ she said. ‘Ye ken Robin’s no Kirsty’s faither?’

‘I do,’ Mike said. ‘But I’ve never really known what the story is there.’

‘It’s no for me tae tell ye, if Ellen hasna. Mind, she hasna tellt me either, but ye work things oot, don’t ye? Weel, I dae.’ She laughed and watched him through those narrow eyes. ‘She was raped. Kirsty’s the bairn o the man that raped her. Ellen tellt me a few years efter Kirsty was born. That’s aw I ken. She wouldna say who the faither was but I hae my ain ideas aboot that.’

Mike said nothing, waiting for her to say more.

‘Oh aye,’ Mary said. ‘She’s cairried that aroond wi her lang enough. We’re different, Ellen and me, but we’re the same tae. We’re baith tough.’

‘Does Kirsty know?’

‘Aye, Ellen’s no hidden it frae her. I dinna ken hoo much she kens, but she kens the worst. She’ll be aw right. She’s aye had Robin. He’s
been a great faither tae her. Ellen never really kent her ain faither because he was aye away working on the hydro schemes and that. And then Adam and Gavin came tae bide wi us, so that was hard for her. Twa big brothers just appearing like that. It was hard for us aw back then.’

‘Her father’s dead, isn’t he?’ Mike asked.

‘Jock? Aye, he died a few years syne. His lungs gave oot. He came back hame for the last weeks and Ellen came ower tae see him a few times. She had mair time wi him then than she’d had for years.’

‘I hear he could tell a good story.’

She laughed her short, hard laugh again. ‘He could that. Ye’d think he’d built the dams single-handed the way he went on sometimes. But the weird thing was, when he died and we had the funeral, aw kinds o characters turned up. I dinna ken how – I didna invite them – but word must hae got aroond and there was a haill mob o them. Irish and Polish and Greek and Italian, it was like the United Nations at the purvey, and hauf o them fou o the same nonsense he used tae come oot wi. And fou wi drink tae. Jock’d hae loved it. Aye, he really missed himsel that day.’

After a minute she added, ‘Ellen has that frae her faither. She can tell a story. She disna aye get it richt, mind. This thing she’s writing noo that you’re taking the pictures for, she’ll get that wrang. She’s been away ower lang. She disna ken the toun ony mair.’ Another pause, a quick smile. ‘So dinna even think aboot taking my picture. It’s naething tae dae wi me.’

He tried to look surprised but she wasn’t fooled. He’d been itching to get the camera out. She had the very survivor’s face he thought would be right for Ellen’s article. But Mary was having none of it, and he was powerless against the strength of her will.

§

Ellen drove out of town and up the hill towards the Hogg residence. There was a scattering of new houses up there, and Denny’s was the biggest, a sprawling, brash, fuck-you announcement surrounded by a Spanish-looking white wall and a set of iron gates bearing a
BEWARE OF THE DOG
sign. And all, so the story went, built on running a taxi firm in Drumkirk. Aye, right.