The locomotive is due into Edinburgh soon, taking me back to the haunts of my younger days, hearing once familiar accents and walking in the shadow of blackened tenements.
It must be twenty years since I last visited. There didn't seem much point after Mum's death and falling out with my brother Angus. I’m sure she left him more than half of her estate because he browbeat her into believing he wasn’t provided with the advantages which I’d enjoyed. He chose to forget that when our parents offered to support him through college, he declined as he wanted to start earning as soon as possible. But then he squandered most of his wages on drinking and gambling.
It was a shock when Patrick's widow, Morag, wrote inviting me to his funeral. I knew my old pal was poorly but didn´t realise his life was at risk. I hope Kenneth will be there as I've not seen him for two years. Like me, he moved down South before the War. He went to work for a shipping company in Liverpool and I took up the opportunity to work for my uncle’s insurance firm in London. It would be great to have a blether about our time at secondary school and the japes we used to get up to with Patrick. I still chuckle about the times we climbed into the orchard beside the big house and escaped back over the wall with our loot of apples when the grumpy owner came rushing out.
Reminiscing also brings back memories of that toerag Frank Macdonald who made my life misery for ages. He was an ugly boy with a protruding lower lip, a bit older than us and tall for his age. He picked on small lads like me and liked to pounce when I was on my way home from school, punching my arm, grabbing my bag and tipping out the contents. I recall the smell of his fetid breath and the spittle on my face as he shouted at me.
‘Teachers’ pets may be safe in the school but when you walk out of the gate it’s a different story.’
I still feel the shame of coming home and running upstairs before my parents could see I'd wet myself. My brother had left school by then so I couldn’t look to him for protection.
Still, Frank got his comeuppance. One summer when I was visiting Mum on leave from the Army, she told me his parents had received a letter from the RAF saying he'd gone missing in action during a raid over Malaya. I had a wee smile to myself but felt sorry for the other men who went down in the plane with him.
The light is fading as the train pulls into the station. After disembarking, I climb up the steps to Princes’ Street breathing in the bready, yeasty smell blowing in the wind from the brewery, prompting me to go for a pint before I check into my hotel.
The taxi pulls up outside the church. There are black clouds above and a wind is whipping up. I pay the driver and walk up the path. I spot Kenneth amongst a crowd at the door wearing a light grey overcoat and a matching homburg. He turns and his face breaks into a broad smile.
‘Hello, Andrew,’ he says stepping forward and reaching out a gloved hand.
‘Good to see you, Kenneth.’ His grip is as firm as ever.
‘Such a shame. Patrick was still a young man.’
‘There for the grace of God go you and I. How’s Margaret?’ he asks.
‘Well, thanks.’
This is not the time to tell him she’s left me. Being a lifelong bachelor, he wouldn’t understand anyway.
We enter the church and sit down in a central pew. It fills up quickly with others who have come to say farewell to Patrick but it’s shocking to see some female mourners wearing miniskirts.
A few minutes later, the door opens behind us, a gust of wind blows in and the organ starts to play. Morag passes with her two teenage sons and the coffin follows carried by four bearers. The minister who is tall and thin walks behind.
The coffin is laid on a trestle at the front and the minister turns to us. He is a gaunt looking character and only has a few wisps of hair left. There’s something vaguely familiar about him but I can't put my finger on it.
‘Good morning. We are gathered here today to lay Patrick Harvey to rest. As we remember him, let us recall Burns’ saying ‘dare to be honest and fear no labour’ which was Patrick’s favourite.’
As I watch his protruding lower lip move, the voice becomes recognisable.
‘That sentiment guided his every action and we stand as witnesses to the ways in which his spirit touched and uplifted others.’
Old feelings of dread come flooding back. I turn to Kenneth and whisper.
‘Is that Frank Macdonald? He's supposed to be dead.’
‘I'm afraid it is. We have come to pay homage to a deceased friend but a ghoul is presiding over the proceedings,’ he mutters.
I sit rigid in my seat as heartfelt testimonials are delivered by family and friends and hymns sung by the mourners, my eyes fixed on my former tormentor. After he reads the final psalm, the coffin is carried out of the church into the graveyard. Heavy rain greets us as we follow it outside and Kenneth puts up his umbrella to shelter us both.
We watch the coffin being carried to the grave and lowered into the ground. As Frank says a prayer over it, I recollect Patrick challenging him in the playground one day. I don’t know what he had for breakfast that morning but he was fired up.
‘Leave Andrew alone. Pick on someone your own size.’ He stood on his tiptoes as he spoke.
‘Or else what?’ Frank gave him a shove. ‘Clear off or I’ll give you a doing.’
To his credit, Patrick stood his ground and Frank walked away swearing.
The sight of seeing Frank now towering over my friend again is too much and I walk away. I want the rain on my face to wash away the memory of what I’ve just seen.
Kenneth catches up with me as I head down the street.
‘Andrew, it would be disrespectful to Morag not to attend the wake.’
I stop and pull myself together.
‘You’re right. Is the hotel far?’
‘It’s only a few minutes away.’
We walk in silence to the venue where we find Morag standing in the lobby.
Thanks to you both for coming today.’
The crow´s feet around her eyes were not there when I last saw her and Patrick in London.
‘I'm sorry for your loss,’ I say.
‘You have my condolences,’ Kenneth adds. ‘How are you managing?’
‘So far, I’ve been coping. I have to be strong for my boys. Although I hadn’t met him before, the minister has been a great support to me. I’m sure Patrick would have liked him.’
Kenneth and I look at each other before he quickly changes the subject.
‘How old are your lads?’
‘Fifteen and seventeen.’
‘They’re both handsome young men and a credit to you and Patrick.’
“Thank you.’
A flicker of a smile creeps across her lips.
We go into the cloakroom, drop off our coats and hats, and head for the bar.
‘What will it be gentlemen? The first drink is on the family.’
The young barman has a pleasant manner but the mop top hairstyle doesn’t suit him.
‘Two drams, please, son.’
We place our drinks on a table and go over to the counter where the food is laid out. Sandwiches, bridies, and cakes are on offer. We take our selections back to the table and reflect on the previous hour.
‘So what did you make of that then?’ Kenneth asks.
‘I bet you Patrick was looking down from above in horror at that grotesque charade.’
As we talk, I watch Frank moving around the smoke-filled room, shaking hands, putting an arm round the odd shoulder and having a word in the ear of some folk. I hope the creep stays away.
We chat for a few minutes more before I see him heading in our direction. I turn my back on him but he doesn’t take the hint.
‘May I join you?’ he asks, pulling up a chair.
‘Can’t stop you,’ Kenneth says.
‘It must have been a surprise for you to see me today.’
‘More like an unpleasant shock,’ I snap.
‘I don't blame you for saying that.’
‘How do you explain your reincarnation?’ Kenneth asks.
He takes a deep breath before replying.
‘Our plane was hit and crash landed in the jungle. Miraculously, none of us were seriously injured and we were taken prisoner by the Japanese and put in a camp for over two years until we were liberated by the Allies. Many of my comrades died from disease, malnutrition or overwork but I managed to survive. When I got back home, I realised my survival was not welcomed by some. I knew I’d been obnoxious when I was younger and resolved to be a better person. A minister took me under his wing and a few years later I started to study theology.’
can’t listen to this fairy tale anymore.
‘Get you another, Kenneth?’ He nods and I grab our glasses and jump up.
By the time I get back, Frank’s seat is empty.
Time passes quickly blethering and, when the clock hits two o’clock, I decide I’d better leave so I can visit my parents’ grave before catching the train home. I say my goodbyes to Morag, Kenneth and a few other mourners, and make my way to the cloakroom. As I’m donning my coat, I see a dog collar in the corner of my eye.
‘Before you go, I wanted to check your return to society is going well,’ Frank says in a low voice.
I swing round.
‘What do you mean?’
‘After your release from prison.’
‘How do you know about that?’
He doesn’t blink an eye.
‘The minister who saved me is now at St Columba's in London and visits Wandsworth prison. We keep in touch and when he rang me earlier in the year, he mentioned meeting a chap from Edinburgh with your name.’
I square up to him and he takes one step back. I’m much taller than him now and he looks alarmed.
‘I hope you haven’t said a word about this to anyone here today. Otherwise…’
‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘You have my word. I’m only concerned for your welfare.’
‘Just mind your own business. I can look after myself.’
I eventually managed to get a decent job despite having done time for fraud and I don’t need another cleric – particularly this one – patronising me. It was bad enough listening to Margaret lecturing me during her prison visits before she finally scarpered.
I put on my hat and brush past him.
‘By the way….’
‘What now?’ I shout turning round.
‘If you have time, you might go and see your brother, Angus. He's very poorly from lung disease and has had to give up working down the mine. He talked about you a lot the last time I saw him. I'm sure he'd appreciate a visit.’
He was a strapping young man the last time I saw him.
‘How bad is he?’
‘He’s constantly short of breath, complains of chest tightness and rarely leaves home.’
The thought of him reduced to a shadow of his former self saddens me.
‘Is he still living in the same flat on the estate?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll pop in on my way to the station.’
I don't suppose Mum and Dad will mind if I visit their other son instead of them. It’s probably time to let bygones be bygones.
About the Author
Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by CaféLit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.
