previous brain wave had nearly got me killed in a night riot, I knew I’d now got a winner. Find a reasonably sized transport caff, park my giant wagon, and get a lift into Perth where trains and buses lived, and zoom to find the enigmatic Shona McGunn. No road map in my nicked wagon, of course. Typical.
By dawn I was noshing among the hunched leather shoulders of the night hauliers in a caff near Perth, rather sad at thoughts of leaving my monster.
A walk of three miles along the road when the lorry convoy had departed, and I became a poor motorist whose car had broken down. A kindly motorist gave me a lift to the Perth turnoff, and I got a bus into that lovely city just as the shops opened.
Pausing only to sell a Hudson Bay Co. folding rusty penknife pistol that I’d kept back from Francie—flat horn sides, percussion, two blades—for a giveaway price which still rankles (these 1860-70 collectibles go for twice the average weekly wage nowadays), I phoned the police, anonymously reporting that a Sidoli wagon was ditched in the night caff. Then I got on the train and dozed. I’d got a cold pasty and some rotten crumbly cake I couldn’t control. They fetch tea down the corridor just as you’re on your last legs, so I eventually made it, though weakening fast.
Painful thoughts of Three-Wheel came to me while I nodded on the journey. And Joan’s gray eyes and long- term philosophy—maybe she was the one bird whose perception had made it? And Jo. And Tinker would be bewildered with a score of deals waving uncompleted in the breeze. And poor dead Tipper Noone under the coroner’s hammer.
And yon driver, poor bloke. Naturally, a twinge of fear came with the haze. I’d started the journey north towards Caithness with a whole fairground full of tough allies, and ended it with two fairs bulging with enemies: Sidoli’s for leaving them in the lurch, and Bissolotti’s for, er, borrowing their vehicle.
Not much of a social record, you might say. But I felt that all in all I was entitled to pride. So far I’d reached Sutherland. I was in one piece, and being alive is always a plus. I had money in my pocket, and was heading for a mine of antiques, those precious wonderments whose very existence is proof of something more than the brute Man. And good old Shona knew where they were.
The last part of the journey was by bus. Our little local trains have been abolished in the interest of greater efficiency, so now nobody can get anywhere except by public yak. Dubneath’s version of the yak was a bus carrying smiley basket-toting women and distant-eyed men. Before we bowled into minuscule Dubneath I’d revealed all, grilled by the clever interrogation of a pally little rotund lady. I confided that I was a visiting writer. Not going anywhere in particular, just traveling. And I might look up some possible ancestors… Oh, my own name, yes. That’s what I wrote my poetry under.
What name would that be? “Oh, sorry, love,” I said absently. “McGunn’s the name. Ian McGunn.” Cunning, no?
It was the last bus that day. I was put down in Dubneath. The sea was there in the late evening. It earned a word of praise from me, which pleased my companion, though the little town was poorly lit and somnolent. Bonny place in full day, I supposed. My plump pal was going on to Lybster farther up the coast, but she said there was an inn in Dubneath. “Where,” she added darkly, “folk drink.” We both agreed, tut-tut, sin gets everywhere these days. She’d told me that McGunn was not an uncommon name hereabouts. I said fancy that, and waved the bus off into the night.
The tavern, replete with drinkers, instantly recognized me as a fellow sinner and agreed to put me up. I’d bought a cheap cardboardy case in Perth, plus a skimp of clean clothes, so I could portray respectability. I was so thrilled at myself I offered to pay in advance. A huge meal, and I tottered exhausted to bed in a long narrow room.
Came daylight, I saw that it was Sunday. In that part of the world they go big on the Sabbath. Nothing happens. By that I mean nil. Even the bloody sea gulls didn’t seem to fly, except a couple of backsliders that reveled unrepentantly in the clear air squawking their silly heads off. I walked down the quay, examined the sea. Yep, still there, all the way out to the skyline. Back to the tavern, two streets from the edge of the known world.
The surrounding countryside was uncomfortably close. As long as it stayed loomingly over there and didn’t ride into town to take over, I’d be happy. The shops were closed.
The harbor boats looked at prayer. A few people emerged blinking into daylight, hurried away bowed as if under curfew.
I walked down the quay, Dubneath’s vortex. Two old geezers were there, eyeing the sky. A lone kid fished off a wall. I bade the blokes good morning; they said good morning. A riot. I sat on the harbor wall. Got off after a minute, and walked the streets of the metropolis.
And back.
About eleven a saloon car of baffled tourists—French registration—whined miserably through. It was all happening today in Dubneath.
High noon, and a man strode out with a spyglass, notebook, knees showing above elasticated socks. God, I was overjoyed to see him. We spoke. He was disappointed that I wasn’t a bird watcher. I was disappointed that he was. We parted, him off into the countryside, smiling in happy anticipation. You get these nutters in East Anglia too.
The tavern creaked awake. By that I mean they served up at dinnertime, after which Dubneath plunged back into the twilight zone. Of interest: a few badges, glass-framed, in the taproom, wartime memories now worth enough to redecorate the downstairs rooms; a brass racehorse doorstop of Crowley & Co., Manchester, about 1860—go for these if you’re wanting cheap Victoriana with class, and by the bar mirrors, a trio of little match- strikers. Go for these too: Many pubs have them left over from times when every smoker used unboxed matches. You can get them for a song because pubs hardly change, and people have forgotten what they’re for. The most desirable are German porcelain figurines by Conte and Boehme. A good one, with a humorous inscription, will keep you in luxury for a week. Three should pay for a modest continental holiday.
“You know about those?” I couldn’t help explaining their value to the taverner, a husky bloke called George MacNeish.
“Is that a fact,” he said.
“They’re highly sought after, you see.”
“Aye, but I like the wee things.”
My heart warmed to him. I’m always pleased to hear this. I offered him a drink, but no.
