Red Alert (5 page)

Once in the art class, he smiled and gave the others a nod of friendly greeting. He wondered what sort of accommodation they had. Some of them still lived at home with their parents, of course. Most of them no doubt paid rent to their mothers from money earned at part-time jobs. Only Betty Powell didn’t seem to have a job and she lived at home, he’d heard someone say. He should have paid his mother rent long ago. He felt guilty about that now.

As usual, he listened more than talked during the breaks. Today it was more because he felt exhausted with lack of sleep, but there had always been a quiet, shy side to him. He dreaded spending another night at Mrs McCormick’s, but before that he had to work for several hours in the supermarket. He managed the shelf-stacking all right, but he had also to lift heavy boxes to and fro and that really drained away any energy he had left. He managed to get a cup of tea in the staff canteen, which helped him a bit. He was intensely relieved, however, when it was time for him to leave. He decided to take a short cut through the Botanic Gardens and he hadn’t gone very far when he saw Mr Daiches, looking flamboyant as usual, with a black fedora rakishly poised on his head.

‘Hello, my boy,’ the old man greeted him. ‘Have you been at the orchestra concert in the Kibble Palace?’

‘No, I’ve been working in the supermarket along the road. I’m just taking a short cut back to my digs.’

Mr Daiches sighed. ‘What a wonderful experience you missed. An absolutely wonderful performance of the divine Mozart. His operas are my favourite. Are you familiar with his operas?
The Magic Flute, Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro
?’

Hamish shook his head.

‘Forgive me, my boy, but what is your name? I’ve become somewhat forgetful recently. Old age, you know.’

‘Hamish Ferguson, sir. I’ve been to some of your lectures.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I liked your take on Hockney’s paintings. I really feel more in tune with him now.’

‘Why, thank you, Hamish. Very good of you, I’m sure.’

For a few minutes they walked together in silence, until suddenly they were surprised by a whey-faced youth with a hooded top and white tracksuit bottoms tucked into his football socks.

‘Hey pal,’ he greeted them, ‘ye got a smoke?’

‘Sorry, I don’t,’ Hamish responded, and he and Mr Daiches continued their walk.

They were approaching the side gate when suddenly they were surrounded by five youths, one of whom was the ‘hoodie’ who had spoken to them before.

‘Whit’s yer problem, eh? Why did ye no’ gie us a smoke, eh? Whit’s yer problem? Are we no’ good enough or what?’

Hamish shook his head.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean? I don’t smoke, that was all.’

‘I only smoke cigars,’ Mr Daiches said. ‘You may have one if you wish. They are quite a good brand. I always say …’

‘Aw, shut up, ye stupid auld poofter.’ And with that, the ned thrust forward and rammed his head into the bridge of Mr Daiches’s nose. Mr Daiches staggered back with a cry of pain. Hamish tried to get in front of the old man to protect him from further violence, only to suffer a similar blow himself. A blinding pain shot through him, and involuntarily tears welled in his eyes with the shock. He too staggered back, and before he knew what to do next, the other neds all started swinging punches and kicks at both him and Mr Daiches. They both frantically tried to ward them off, but were soon knocked to the ground. They curled into a ball, hands round heads, as their attackers continued violently kicking them, shouting – and worst of all laughing – as they booted the defenceless pair. At last, tired of the assault and breathing heavily, the neds stopped and as they strolled away grinning, one of them called back, ‘We fair smoked you, ye pair o’ fags.’

Hamish eventually managed to crawl to his feet. Then he helped Mr Daiches, but the old man only managed to get to his knees.

‘I’m sorry, my boy. You’ll have to take my mobile phone from my pocket and get a taxi for me. For us both. I feel very weak and dizzy.’

Hamish could see blood pouring down Mr Daiches’s face. Blood was pouring down the side of his own face. He could feel it seeping into his T-shirt. He managed to find Mr Daiches’s phone and called for a taxi to take them both to the Royal Infirmary. He felt enraged and frustrated, and it wasn’t just the physical pain of the beating. It was the sheer hopelessness and humiliation that hurt him the most.

Glasgow’s first Royal Infirmary was designed by the world-famous architects James and Robert Adam. As the population of the city grew, a larger building was needed. One third of all patients died after the simplest operations. Many died of cholera and were buried in mass graves. Additions to the original Royal Infirmary were built on top of these mass graves. This went on until Joseph Lister recognised the need for sterile conditions.

A new infirmary was built after the original Adam building and the Lister wing had been pulled down. This was much criticised at the time because, for one thing, it was on the west side of the cathedral and would completely dwarf it. However, the project went ahead and its grim and bulky proportions made it the largest building in the United Kingdom at the time. The infirmary had always been funded by voluntary contributions and one of the best known of these voluntary sources was the money collected each year by the city’s students through the streets of Glasgow. It seemed incredible now that places like the Royal Infirmary and everywhere that people needed medical or surgical treatment were dependent on voluntary contributions, much of it raised by the conscientious efforts of university students.

Hamish was certainly glad of the National Health Service now that he urgently needed help.

The taxi pulled into the small drop-off lay-by outside the massive square building that housed the Accident and Emergency department. Groaning, they clambered stiffly out and staggered through the group of smokers who had collected at the entrance.

Inside, there was a waiting area and a counter with a frosted glass window where people had to report on arrival. There was already a police presence, although it was early evening. The admissions were dealt with behind heavy toughened glass screens, and drunks milled about in the waiting area, loudly talking and arguing. Minor scuffles would occasionally break out, but were quickly suppressed by the security guards. Hamish and Mr Daiches sat quietly in a corner, trying to remain inconspicuous. Hamish found it incredible that such violence could be going on in a hospital waiting room. The language was loud and foul as well. Hamish was very sorry indeed for the nurses and doctors who had to deal constantly with such people.

After they had seen a doctor and a nurse and were patched up, they nervously emerged from the hospital and into the taxi they had called. Hamish once again blessed Mr Daiches’s mobile phone.

‘I would be most obliged, dear boy, if you would see me safely home and into my bed. I fear I am not able to alight from this taxi cab without your help and support.’

‘OK.’

Mr Daiches lived quite near the Glasgow Art Gallery and Museum. A cluster of spires and towers topped the huge red sandstone building. It was one of Hamish’s favourite places. Many an hour he’d spent there. Apart from a magnificent collection of paintings by the great Dutch and Renaissance masters, there was a wonderful range of Impressionist works.

Some of the best examples of Rembrandt, Botticelli, Monet and Picasso could be admired on the walls of its halls and picture promenade gallery.

There were also examples of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s paintings and furniture.

‘Take the necessary payment from my wallet, dear boy,’ Mr Daiches said when they arrived at their destination.

Hamish paid the driver and then half-carried Mr Daiches into his flat. He tried not to groan with the intense pain he himself was suffering. He was truly thankful that it was a ground-floor flat and there were no stairs to climb.

Mr Daiches fumbled for his key chain and opened the door. As they both hobbled inside and shut the door behind them, Mr Daiches said, ‘Dear boy, dare I ask you yet another favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘A cup of tea would be so very welcome.’

‘Where’s the kitchen?’

‘Just at the end of the lobby. If I could just have a seat in the front room, over there on the right.’

Hamish helped him into a room with an old-fashioned moquette suite, a piano and a dark red Turkish-style carpet. Hamish lowered Mr Daiches into one of the fireside easy chairs.

‘OK?’

‘I deeply appreciate your help, dear boy. You are an extremely kind young man.’

Hamish shrugged.

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Milk and two sugars, thank you so much. I will never forget your kindness. What is your name, dear boy? Forgive me, have you told me before?’

‘Hamish. Hamish Ferguson.’

Hamish left and made his painful way through to the kitchen to find what was needed to make a pot of tea. In a few minutes he returned carrying two cups.

‘I feel I need this myself.’

‘Yes, Hamish. It has been a dreadful night for both of us. And to think I had been having such a lovely time at the classical concert.’ He took a sip of tea and sighed. ‘The divine Mozart. Are you familiar with any of his music?’

Hamish shrugged. ‘It’s all art with me. And architecture. And history. I like history. Scottish history.’

‘Ah yes. Obviously art is my main subject. But next to art, I have a keen appreciation of music. Of course, my mother was a beautiful pianist. She used to take me to concerts even when I was very young. Was it art galleries your mother took you to?’

Hamish started to laugh but had to cut his hilarity short because of the pain in his chest.

‘No, my mother never bothered with me. Usually it was babysitters but they never bothered much with me either.’

‘Oh, my dear boy.’

Hamish shrugged.

‘I just went around on my own. I always found a library or an art gallery wherever we happened to be staying. I’d sit there for a while either admiring the pictures or reading books about art and architecture and Scottish history.’ He took a noisy sup from his cup. ‘I managed all right.’

Mr Daiches shook his head and sighed and sipped at his tea.

‘Where do you live, Hamish?’

‘Round from the Queen Margaret Drive fire station.’

‘Dear, dear. You can’t go away over there in the state you’re in. I have a spare bedroom. You are welcome to stay there tonight.’

Hamish hesitated but he certainly did not feel able to make his way to his digs.

‘OK.’

Eventually he helped Mr Daiches into his bedroom, but drew the line at helping him to undress. He escaped into the other bedroom and collapsed on to the double bed there, only drawing the big satin quilt over himself.

What a dreadful night, as Mr Daiches had said.

And more to come, Hamish thought, remembering his digs.

Betty Powell hated to leave the Art School every day and return to her widowed mother’s flat in Great Western Road. She was an only child born late in her mother’s marriage. Her father had died when she was a baby and so she had no recollection of him. It seemed a miracle that her mother had conceived at all. She had such a disgust of sex and the men who perpetrated the revolting act. Her mother spoke of her father, if she spoke of him at all, as if he had been some sort of predatory animal.

Mrs Powell was always warning her daughter about what animals men were and never to have anything to do with them. She even had a disgust of the human body and all its functions. Betty had never been warned about the onset of menstruation or given any explanation of it. Even sanitary towels had never been mentioned.

Betty could just imagine her mother’s horror if she knew about the life drawing and painting classes she was taking and especially how, at the moment, she was painting a nude male model. Her mother thought she was attending an embroidery class. She’d shown her mother a photo of the embroidery studio with its long tables and chairs set out for needlework. And of course, Betty had assured her, it was an all-female class.

Her mother didn’t know about her poetry either. If her mother ever found any of the verses she’d penned, she’d be certain that her daughter was going down to hell to burn there forever. Her powerful sexual feelings overflowed into poetry and vibrated on the page and throbbed to a climax almost like sex itself. Or what she imagined sex would be like. Now the images were becoming even more real and vivid, since she had seen Greg McFarlane’s naked body. Every day she sat at her easel and devoured every inch of him. Every day her mind and her body throbbed with sexual passion. Nobody guessed, of course. To all the other students, she was just a mousy-haired, bespectacled girl and a bit of a loner.

How she envied Sandra Matheson and the obvious love affair she was enjoying with Tommy Pratt. At least, she had thought like that until she had seen Greg McFarlane and realised what stronger emotions could be aroused. Sandra, and the other female students, didn’t seem at all aroused or even interested in Greg McFarlane, except of course as a model, something to copy on to canvas.

Only the tutor had noticed something that set her heart racing with panic and made a flush burn over her face. He’d said, ‘What’s happening here? Are you having difficulty with the genital area or what? You seem to have got stuck on that penis.’

‘I think I’ve got it now.’ Her voice wavered nervously. ‘Haven’t I?’

‘Seems a bit on the big side to me but if that’s how you see it …’

Fortunately it was time for their break, which abruptly ended the conversation. The tutor liked his breaks. He usually spent them with one of the directors.

Greg had pulled on a pair of black trousers and a black T-shirt. Apparently, all the firefighters wore black trousers and black T-shirts. He was already chatting with Tommy and Sandra and some of the others, and they were all trooping out to the rec for the lunch break. It seemed amazing to Betty how calm they all were, as if this morning had been just another ordinary day, and Greg McFarlane was just another ordinary man. She was drowning with passion for him as she followed everyone outside, eyes lowered, silent. Her palms were moist with sweat as she fantasised guiltily about various rescue scenarios where Greg would sweep up her naked body and hold it close to him as he burst out of a burning building. Inside of her, a poem was forming like a lifebelt, floating towards her, rescuing her.