Barra’s Angel. Eileen Campbell
Rose,’ Barra had answered. ‘She’s yir gran. She died, slowly and with great pain.’
‘Why, Grandad?’
‘Because yir ma turned at the door, and was lost to us for ever.’
Rose hadn’t understood. Throwing herself into her grandfather’s lap, she’d cried. ‘You’ll no’ turn at the door, Pops? You’ll no’ leave me?’
Barra had held her for as long as he could, but he too had had to leave. Months after the wedding, when he so proudly walked her down the aisle, Barra had slipped away.
And the first morning Rose had rushed to vomit into the cracked toilet-bowl, she knew she would have a son. And she knew he’d take his great-grandfather’s name. Her heart had filled to overflowing when she told Chalmers her news, and he kissed her, and held her close in these new arms, the arms she had come to love so much.
‘Barra it is,’ he’d laughed, covering her with kisses. ‘Barra it is.’
‘Right, Barra. We’re off.’ Chalmers strode back into the living room.
Rose pulled herself from her reverie and glanced towards her husband.
‘Sure you won’t come, Mam?’ Barra asked gently.
With a last squeeze of his hand, Rose released her son. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. No, thanks.’
Chalmers had broken his stride only slightly. ‘Yir welcome, y’know.’
‘Am I?’ Rose asked, her head back in her book.
Barra looked at his father. ‘She should come.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t you start,’ he grumbled. ‘C’mon, or the night’ll be over before we get there.’
With a final look behind him, Barra ran to catch up with his father.
Chalmers was already around the path and on to the road before he became aware of his son’s presence at his side. There was no reason to go by the road. It would have been quicker and far more pleasant to cut through the woods. Chalmers was annoyed at himself for having given in.
‘We said we’d take the road,’ he told Barra, shoving his hands deep in his cardigan pockets. ‘We’re no’ wise.’
‘We’re not,’ Barra agreed solemnly. ‘But we promised.’
‘Well, we’ll no’ stay too long. There was no word about not coming back by the woods.’
Barra kicked at a stone. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, worried at the possibility of breaking a promise.
‘I’d’ve taken note,’ Chalmers assured him.
Barra caught up with the stone, and kicked it again with delight. ‘Great.’
Chalmers smiled to himself. They were needing more time together, the two of them. Away from the womenfolk and all the problems they brought. God, wasn’t it a fine thing to go for a pint on a Saturday night with yir boy at yir side.
‘Aye, we’ll be going back by the woods then,’ he stated. Then he began whistling, a very tuneful rendition of ‘Dark Lochnagar’. He clapped Barra on the back. ‘Join in, son.’
Moments passed before he realised that Barra was silent still.
‘I thought y’knew this one,’ he said.
‘I canna’ whistle,’ Barra answered cheerfully.
Chalmers came to a halt. ‘Since when?’
‘Since always.’ Barra was unconcerned, skipping along ahead of him now.
Chalmers face darkened. ‘It’s time you learned.’
‘I canna’ learn, Da. I’ve tried.’
‘Then yir no’ trying hard enough!’
Barra turned, frowning. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. I just canna’ whistle.’
Chalmers glared at him. ‘You’ll have a pint the night,’ he commanded.
Barra grimaced. ‘I don’t want a pint.’
‘You’ll have one just the same.’
‘I won’t, Da. I don’t like it.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve tried that, too. God, d’you no’ remember? Last Hogmanay? I was sick as a dog.’
It was Chalmers’ turn to grimace. How could he forget? It had been months before Rose stopped bringing it up, how he’d forced the brew on Barra and she’d nearly had to call the doctor as a result.
‘I’ll teach you to whistle, then.’
‘You can’t, Da,’ Barra insisted, exasperated now. ‘I’m good at spitting, though,’ he added as an afterthought.
Chalmers raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you now?’
‘Aye,’ Barra answered. ‘Watch.’
Chalmers was impressed. ‘No’ bad. No’ bad at all, son.’
Barra grinned. ‘Doubt if you’ll beat it,’ he challenged.
‘Huh, make way for the maestro,’ Chalmers said, pushing Barra aside, and making his point with great effect.
‘I bet I could beat you,’ Barra said, ‘if I was taller.’
‘Height’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘Aye, Da, it has. It’s scientifically …’
The two argued and spat all the way to the Whig.
‘Where’s yir mam?’ Maisie enquired, setting a knickerbocker glory in front of Barra, and having to squeeze her girth between his table and the wall to do so. The bar was full, but then it didn’t take more than a dozen faces to give that impression. She was wearing another of her flowing kaftans, this one adorned with waves of cerise on a sea of inky blue.
‘She didn’t want to come,’ Barra replied. ‘Sorry, Maisie, but I don’t know if Da would be wanting to pay for this,’ he added, staring at the tall glass with longing.
‘It’s on me,’ Maisie said. ‘It’s over from the afternoon teas, all two o’ them. Imagine asking for scones when you could have the likes o’ that? Besides, you’ll be the only one here worth blethering to in another hour or so. Bon appetit!’
What should have been a delicate wave of her hand developed into a tortuous effort to extricate herself from behind Barra’s chair.
‘Where y’buying yir frocks?’ enquired Eddie Bain, seated at the opposite table. His head lolled in circles as he tried to make sense of Maisie’s kaftan. Already three sheets to the wind, he appeared mesmerised by the pattern and was close to becoming violently ill.
Pulling herself free, Maisie sailed towards the bar.
‘Abdul’s,’ she called over her shoulder.
Eddie scratched his head, trying to focus. ‘The Paki in Craigourie? I thought his name was … something else.’
‘No, darling,’ Maisie trilled, pushing a glass up to the optics. ‘Abdul, the tentmaker – in Jellalabad.’ With that she guffawed with laughter, and the men at the bar, most of whom had no idea what she was talking about, joined in. Maisie’s laughter was like that.
‘A double Grouse, sir,’ she said, placing the glass in front of Chalmers. ‘Chaser?’
‘Ta, Maisie,’ Chalmers answered. ‘McEwan’s.’
‘Mais naturellement,’ she answered, pulling the pint as she spoke. ‘Douglas?’
‘In a minute,’ he said, motioning to the tumbler