44 Scotland St
VOLUME 14 CHAPTER 6 YOU TATTIE-BOGLE
That night, while Irene conducted a lengthy telephone conversation with a friend from the Carl-gustav Jung Drop-in Centre, Stuart put Bertie to bed. The ritual was always the same: with the main lights out and the room lit only by the glow of a small night-light, Stuart would ask Bertie about his day, listen to the reports of activities down amongst the children, as he thought of it, and then he would tell his son a story. That story did not have to be a new one: stories that had been repeated many times were still appreciated, even more so, perhaps, than those that were new. Like so many children, Bertie was, at heart, a traditionalist – in the broadest sense of the word: he did not want things to change. Which is not such a surprising position: the child, for whom all things are new, might be forgiven for not wanting to abandon that which is only recently experienced and, for the most part, found good –because anything better has not yet been experienced.
A few days earlier, Bertie had asked about kelpies. His interest had been piqued by a newspaper photograph he had seen of the great metal kelpie statues near Falkirk – towering horses’ heads that had become so popular. “Were there really any kelpies?” asked Bertie. And then answered himself with a further question, “They’re mythical, aren’t they?”
Stuart had been relieved. Kelpies were typical water spirits, and there were few water spirits that were consistently benign. From what he remembered of the Scottish folklore on the subject, kelpies were particularly unpleasant. If you unwittingly climbed on a kelpie’s back, you would be stuck there, unable to get off, and would in short order be taken into the water and drowned. Thereafter the kelpie would eat you. This, after all, was folklore, and folklore is generally not for the faint-hearted. In that respect, the kelpie barely differed from the sirens whose charms lured sailors onto the rocks. With sirens, one must avert one’s gaze to have any hope; but there was only one way in which the kelpie could be mastered, and that was by seizing their bridles. It was for this reason that the Clan Macgregor was said to possess a potent bridle, passed down from generation to generation, exclusively for use on troublesome kelpies.
Stuart was happy to allay his son’s concerns. “Kelpies definitely do not exist,” he said. “Nor do many of those other creatures people talk about, Bertie. There’s no need to worry.”
From his drowsy pillow, Bertie muttered, “And tattie-bogles, Daddy? What about tattie-bogles?”
Stuart smiled. He knew all about Scottish scarecrows. “Oh, they exist, Bertie. But they’re just tattie-bogles – nothing more. They can’t chase you or do any of the things in stories. You won’t find any tattie-bogles walking about.”
He remembered a poem he had learned as a child. Now it came back to him, dredged from the recesses of memory. It was by Willie Soutar, a bed-ridden Scottish poet who had had such a short life – a little longer than Robert Fergusson’s, but still curtailed. Now he recited it to Bertie: The tattie-bogle wags his airms: Caw! Caw! Caw!
He hasna ony banes or thairms: Caw! Caw! Caw!
We corbies wha hae taken tent
And whamphl’d round and glower’d asklent
Noo gang hame lauchin owre the bent: Caw! Caw! Caw!
(The tattie-bogle wags his arms: Caw! Caw! Caw! He hasn’t any bones or insides: Caw! Caw! Caw! We crows have taken heed of this; we’ve flown around, looking sideways at him, and now go home in fits of laughter over the moor: Caw! Caw! Caw!)
Bertie listened quietly, and then, his voice increasingly drowsy, he asked his father to recite the poem again. Stuart did so, and by the time he finished, he realised that the little boy was asleep. He gazed at him for a few minutes, fascinated by his son’s face in repose. There was such vulnerability, as in the face of any sleeper, although in the case of a child that vulnerability can surely break any heart. Could surely melt ilka heirt …
He thought of Willie Soutar’s poem. His English teacher at school – one of those inspiring teachers who can arouse a love of poetry in even the most sceptical of young people – had told them about Soutar, reading to them Douglas Young’s touching tribute to the young poet. Twenty year beddit, ran that poem, and nou the mort-claith … Twenty years confined to bed, and now the shroud … Was his life warth livan? Ay, siccar it was. He was eident, he was blye in Scotland’s cause …
He returned to the kitchen, where Irene was finishing her telephone call.
“We need to bring that up with the committee,” she was saying. “They have to face reality.”
Stuart stared at her. It was typical of Irene that she should be more concerned with the affairs of the Carl-gustav Jung Drop-in Centre than with her own small son, that little boy with all his anxieties about kelpies and his thoughts of tattie-bogles. But there was no point in going into that now. There was no point in talking to Irene about anything, really, because she simply did not hear what you said to her. Everything was filtered through a belief system that excluded any opinions – or evidence – that she did not want to hear.
Irene tucked her telephone back into a pocket and looked expectantly at Stuart. “Well,” she said.
“Well, what?” Stuart countered. “What are you up to, Stuart?” Stuart gave a gesture that embraced the flat about them. “Running this place,” he said. “Getting Bertie to school in the morning. Taking Ulysses for his inoculations. Earning the money to pay for all this.” He wanted to add, “Using up my life in keeping our heads above water” but he did not. Irene was quick to detect self-pity and Stuart did not want to give that her any ammunition.
“Are you happy, Stuart?”
He thought for a moment before he answered. He could say that while he was not sure that he was as happy as he might be, he was certainly happier than he used to be. “Enough,” he said. “I’m happy enough, I suppose.”
Irene looked at him quizzically. “I suppose one gets accustomed to failure,” she said. He said nothing.
“Ambition is not for everyone,” Irene continued. “There are those who want to get ahead, and those who are content with staying where they are.”
Stuart held her gaze. “I suppose you’re putting me in the second category. Division two.”
“If that’s where you see yourself,” said Irene. She paused, as if waiting for a mea culpa to emerge. “Surely you know in your heart of hearts that it doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do. Nobody much is going to notice it.”
Stuart bit his lip. She was a tattie-bogle – that’s what she was. A real tattie-bogle.
Now she lowered her voice. “I’d be most interested to hear if you’re seeing somebody, Stuart,” she said.
He looked at her. Why would she want to know that? Their marriage was over and he regarded himself as perfectly free to see somebody if he wanted to; and the same was true of Irene. Surely, she could not know about his romance: it was far too recent, too discreet, to have registered with anybody Irene might know.
“I might be,” he said. “But I feel that we don’t need to inform one another of this sort of thing. There are no requirements, I would have thought, of full disclosure …”
Irene drew in her breath. “I take it that means yes,” she said.
“I didn’t say that,” protested Stuart. Irene spoke as if ex cathedra. “Often what you don’t say is more important than what you say.” She paused. “Who is she?”
Stuart did not reply, and Irene moved on. “I’ve made up your bed on the sofa,” she said.
He closed his eyes. She was the visitor; she should sleep there. She was the one who had left, and he saw no reason why she should now feel she could return and put him out of his bed.
The injustice of it, he thought; the sheer injustice.
“Tattie-bogle,” he whispered under his breath.
“What?” said Irene.
‘Surely, thought Stuart, she could not know about his romance: it was far too recent, too discreet, to have registered with anybody whom Irene might know’