“The Dangling Dirk Inn”, Moffat
-Evening McPeevish…Some weather, eh?
-…Brr!
-Didn’t catch that…
-Brrff!
-Call this cold? Worse last year. Even the sheep carried hot water bottles…
-Brrrrykn!!!
-Can’t say I have seen the Yukon…What d’you fancy?
-Mmmmt…
-Nice malt, eh? Got a shelf full of ‘em. Take your pick…
-Rdbgrrrr
-Ardbeg? Fine malt...Oops! Bit heavy with the thumb. Get that down you...
-BrrrrrBrbbbh!
-Better?
-Mmmmch…
-Freezes the birds in flight, this kind of wind, never mind the vowels…
-Smgn…Bnnhbhn…rrr
-Bunnahabhain it is…Minus seven last night…Old Bill the shepherd said the sheep were building igloos in the hills…Crafty buggers: no council tax on igloos in Scotland…
-Ssmmggnn…Brchlddchrrr!
-And how’s the good lady? Not with you tonight?...
-Wbrmmhhzzph…
-Ah! Just coming along…You’ll be upstairs for the Bridge night I expect…
-Jjbbhxx!
-Another? Same again?
-Cccl!
-Caol Ila…fine malt...
Give him his due, McPeevish thought; he was liberal with the thumb. Whenever he motioned for another, the landlord correctly interpreting the glottal sound he emitted from within the scarf and balaclava.
-Ah! Here she is. Evening Miss...
-Evening Jim. He still got lockjaw?
-McPeevish? Seemed in fine oratorical form to me. Malt will get past anything…The usual Horse’s Gaskin for you?
-Mmmm. How many of those has he had?
-Those? Just the one.
McPeevish noticed how her eyebrow arched just a notch, hardly recordable on any of Stevens’ scales of measurement: nominal, ordinal, interval or ratio. He must re-read Thurstone’s ‘The Vectors of the Mind’. Come to that he must have a haircut soon.
James gave a weak grin and nodded at the shelf behind him.
-And one of those and that and them as well. Seems he plans on drinking himself through the alphabet of malts.
F’s a bit of a bugger though, McPeevish thought.
-We’ll take these up with us, shall we darling?
McPeevish acknowledged the landlord with a nod.
He followed her up to the room where the Bridge tables were set out. He found himself desperately trying to distinguish a Phoney Stayman from a Reverse Drury; or was that a Fishbein? No that was Mrs. Crowhurst’s Maltese Terrier. Yappy little thing, especially when she bid one No Trump. Was that a Brozel? No, that was the kettle for tea at the break. And what the hell was a Rystra, some kind of West Indian music fanatic? Somewhere in his memory floated a Sputnik and a Flannery and a Gerber and an Ogust and a …
How the dear one did it McPeevish had no idea as he stumbled to the table and sat. She was elegance personified, greeting all about her with cheerfulness and a smile. If he moved a muscle he knew his face would crack like a skim of ice on a lake.
He looked at the cards he had been dealt, trying to remember the protocol of royalty, the order of numbers, the ability to feel. Where was his drink? Safely on the table, thank God. He arranged the pieces of card into reasonably pretty patterns.
Now everyone was looking enquiringly at him: what had he done? Couldn’t be his flies. Had he started to dribble? Dementia was similar to the tram project in the capital: by the time it was due to be finished you’d forgotten about it. Something stirred in the cellar of his memory. Speak-bid.
-Pss.
That seemed to relieve the tension and the eyes swivelled to the person to his left. Remember that one, McPeevish he told himself. Might come in useful again.
Oh Lord, now they’re all looking at me again, he thought. Should I be paying more attention? Drift off like that all the time. The cold, dulls the brain, like Scott of the Antarctic.
-Pss.
Worked again! he thought with delight, or at least the frozen embryo of delight. Easier than I thought, if I could think.
As relief edged through his autonomous nervous system, what little of it was still functioning after the teeth of the easterly had sawn through it, McPeevish considered the contents of his glass. Someone’s been at it, he thought. Short thoughts he could manage; the longer ones fell over the precipice of oblivion. Good word that, oblivion. He looked around, using his eyes rather than chancing swivelling his neck and breaking it- nasty shock to all if his head rolled around the carpet. McPeevish eyed the Maltese Terrier speculatively as it eyed him evaluatively. If it made a move towards his leg…
My, he thought, it has a long tongue. Why do dogs lick their undercarriage like that?
They were looking at him again.
McPeevish stared at the table. Oh Lord, there were cards strewn on it. They were waiting for him to play. Would his digits work? He desperately plucked a card from the fanned collection which clung to his fingers like a frozen bouquet.
There, now someone else has the problem, McPeevish thought. He felt a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck. The open fire was thawing him out. How long would it take, he wondered, before it was safe to remove the scarf and balaclava?
The eyes were on him again. There, take that, he thought as he propelled another card on to the green cloth. The eyes moved on around the table. McPeevish wondered what his eyes were doing. At least they were still in his head. The internal mechanism for shifting them seemed reasonably intact, the channels of communication with his central sponge likewise. They found the glass; dare he take another sip? Life was full of conundrums and half-empty glasses and dogs that licked their unmentionables with glee…
*
-Well played, partner; a nice finesse.
McPeevish blinked. They were going down the stairs, her arm though his.
-One for the road? The landlord called as McPeevish and consort reappeared in the lounge bar.
-Oh I think so, the beloved voice said.
McPeevish fumbled through the vague imprints of the snow-banks of his recent memory. Finesse?
He looked around, noting that each person present seemed constitutionally correct and intact. No sheep had infiltrated the company. The beloved one was deep in conversation with those others from upstairs who had likewise mastered the ability to descend. Probably talking about horses and the prospects for Kelso on Sunday, McPeevish decided.
Finesse.
McPeevish glanced at the landlord, who stood receptively and attentive to every nod and wink.
Nod or wink? McPeevish thought. I’m not a nodder or a winker.
Finesse.
That did it. Some of the old skill was still there, McPeevish. A glass, nicely filled with a light amber restorative that promised bliss seemed to materialise in his hand, which remained attached to his wrist and arm. Some things hadn’t changed, despite the cold. Now, could he raise it to his lips, parting the scarf carefully so as not to expose too much flesh?
Done. Bliss.
*
-A fedora’s not much use in a blizzard, is it dear?
-Hwfrtg?
-It was kind of the Colonel and his wife to ask us over tomorrow night.
-Nmm?
-Oh you poor dear, the sinuses must be gummed up too.
McPeevish’s head had always been the problem, he thought. They struggled against the howling blizzard which raked the High Street like Stukas on the rampage. He knew no Colonel, let alone this chap’s wife. God, how much snow was coming down from Siberia? Couldn’t they keep their house in order there? Snow-nets, everyone knew you needed snow-nets or it blew all over the blace. Blace? His synapses were seizing up. He was moments away from Nirvana and he didn’t mean the pop group. Think warm thoughts.
His arm was squeezed in reply.
-Almost there, darling.
He knew that voice; he knew that tone. There was a strange tingling feeling…
-This should take away the chill, she was saying as he sank into the armchair. I thought all those Canadian winters you told me about would have toughened you up for a little blow like that.
McPeevish considered that cat. The cat considered him. They agreed: little blow outside it was not.
His feet were still there, thank God. How he’d not lost them during that interminable trek through mountains of snow he had no idea. Best not to think about it, McPeevish. Remember Scott, Robert Falcon not Walter Sir.
His hand clung to the glass she had put in it. His spirit clung to his body. What his body clung to he wasn’t sure.
A mere hundred yards? What did she mean, mere? Men like he and Scott of the Antarctic knew that yardage was nothing where snow was concerned. Snow had this way of erasing all meaning. You never caught sheep nipping down to their local for a snort or two and a hand of bridge on an evening like tonight. Snuggle up to a bottle of Moffat malt, that was the sensible answer to weather like this.
-We’ll take a bottle of wine over tomorrow, shall we dear?
If there was a tomorrow, McPeevish thought glumly. After all that stuff about Global Warming, this could be the final, apocalyptic snow to end all snows, the capo di tutti capi of snows, the Grandfather of the Godfather of the capo di tutti frutti capi of snows…
Then again, McPeevish thought as his glance caught that of the dear one in the armchair on the other side of the fire, if there was a tomorrow then, by the miracle of logical deduction, there had to be a tonight! He could see the flames reflected in her eyes and he rapidly gulped the remains of the malt…
*
The full moon shone on the mother-of-pearl snow-covered lawn.
-What a lovely bird bath.
-He’s cheating, McPeevish muttered through clenched teeth.
He felt her hand tighten on his arm.
-Good Lord, dear heart, surely not here in Moffat!
-The buttons on his cardigan, McPeevish whispered.
-I thought he was just a bit fidgety.
The Colonel was at it, all right, McPeevish thought as they circumnavigated the Stupa by the garden shed. It was the way the Colonel fingered the buttons before and during the bidding. Everything had been tried now, McPeevish thought despairingly, wondering at the depravity of a man who could involve buttons in his perfidious schemes.
There’s obviously some kind of rudimentary coding system, a bit like Schapiro and Reese using their fingers to signal Hearts held, McPeevish thought. The Italian pair Facchini and Zucchelli had been more direct, playing footsie under the table. Others held their cards high or low, held them in peculiar portions, or coughed and sniffed to signal to their partner. There was even one inventive pair who hummed and whistled excerpts from operas!
-Why on earth would he stoop to that? her beloved voice floated to his ear. He’s such a good player he’s really no need to do that to win.
How ‘superior’ did one have to feel oneself to be? McPeevish supposed that, wiser in the ways of devious and scheming men, he might make a stab at trying to fathom the Colonel’s motives; but was it worth the effort?
-What are we to do? Shall I have a headache?
How typically sweet of her to offer to be the victim, McPeevish thought. Why do I have to be so damned observant?
-That must be why Clarrisa advised me that we shouldn’t play Bridge with them after supper tonight.
This is fiendish! They must have done it to other couples from the club, McPeevish thought grimly. I was the new boy so the Colonel decides it was our turn. For him it must be like branding strays.
Their hostess’s voice announcing that the coffee was ready floated from the open French windows like an escaping moth.
I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with this, McPeevish thought determination stiffening his resolve. It took a lot to do that to McPeevish. If there was a way to avoid it, whatever it was, he’d head for that channel with all paddles flapping. The man’s probably not even a Colonel, just like Elvis’s manager wasn’t. What unit did he say he served in out in India, the King’s Own What? Surely it had been the 6th Field regiment out there? Even the 4th Indian, the Red Eagles, had fought with the 8th Army through Africa and Europe. Maybe like Adolf in the Great War the Colonel just ran messages from gin hole to snooker table. Was that really a Cobra bite on his wrist? Having Sabu’s autograph on the brochure of the premiere of ‘Elephant Boy’ didn’t prove anything other than the gullibility of the on-line buyer. Quoting ‘Gunga Din’ carried no weight; nor did having jars and jars of Kopili Assam and Nilgiri Black and Darjeeling Green or Kashmiri Chai teas. Nowadays the local ‘Spar’ catered to your every taste.
--I’ll try to think of something, McPeevish whispered as they neared the windows. If I do I’ll start talking about pony trekking in Tibet.
-Oh darling, not that!
-When I do, if I do- when and if I do- just have a wobbly, you know, come over all flushed or something, women’s stuff and get their attention for a moment. Then just say ‘Pass’ when it comes to the bidding.
-Be careful, dear heart.
Thus it had been with Hannay, so it must be with McPeevish, McPeevish thought.
As they stepped back into the deceitful warmth of the drawing room with its walls hung with souvenir paintings of Ratnasambhava and kha-dens from the Himalayas, McPeevish felt as though a mantle had fallen upon his shoulders. But it was only her hand gently brushing dust, loose hairs and drops of snow from his sweater. Thus did the women in ancient Greece prepare their men-folk for battle with the Persians, McPeevish thought approvingly. Fortunately she wasn’t given to the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the pot smashing and foul Attic oaths which also accompanied the men-folk decamping for a good randan.
In his childhood he had once shoved tadpoles in his brother’s ears. That had been enough to prove conclusively that it could be done. Whether it had been a wise thing to have done was another matter. Wisdom and boldness sit uncomfortably together- who said that?
-Alan Sugar, I’m afraid dear, she whispered back.
Oh well; at least my name’s not an anagram of ‘a glar anus’, McPeevish thought.
The bruises his brother had inflicted upon him had soon healed. If the gods of the card table were with him- and so far this evening they were sneering disdainfully at his efforts to trump, finesse, overcall and show that he had a modicum of savvy- then perhaps he, McPeevish, would be able to teach the Colonel something. As long as it wasn’t ‘There’s always another sucker who comes along’- was that W.C.Fields? It certainly wasn’t Saint Augustine.
As their hostess poured the coffee the Colonel offered to pour the special Indian liqueur he had had sent over from Mumbai. It tasted suspiciously like Cointreau to McPeevish, with something not un-akin to ‘Quink’ added to it. He blinked as the Colonel asserted that it was an ‘expensive’ Arrack whose ingredients included cardamom and blueberries. When McPeevish said he preferred the Mangalore with its flavour of the coast of Malabar, the cinnamon and cardamom being blended to smooth out the pepper, the Colonel suggested they resume play. McPeevish glanced knowingly at his beloved who had been discussing croquet grips; she had heard the exchange and caught his raised eyebrow, acknowledging the sub-text: the man is a fraud. Perhaps I can unnerve him a bit, McPeevish thought, letting drop that his mother came from the foothills of the Hindu Kush and had grown up on the sub-continent. She used to croodle to him in Hindi as he lay in his cot. He excused himself to use the facilities as the others edged their way towards the table, his eye having been caught by the very thing he’d hoped to see on a desk in the hall.
*
The cards were running better for them after the break, McPeevish thought. Maybe he had rattled the Colonel a bit. Damage limitation was all he and his wife could muster for a run of several hands until McPeevish and partner equalised the score and sent it into a final game for the rubber.
How many hands had they played now?
Not that any of their successful rear-guard action could be put down to McPeevish. He was playing like a berserker intent on reaching Valhalla at all costs. His bidding, never the most seasoned part of his game, stank to high heaven, ranging from the unimaginable to the gorblimey. It was only by the heroic and Herculean efforts of the dear one that they avoided being despatched time and time again.
She reads me like a book, McPeevish thought as yet again she interpreted his bizarre play and found the rescuing card, the route that avoided loss of game.
McPeevish could see that the strain was beginning to tell on the Colonel. There were no more generous chuckles and words of consolation, no more sparkling repartee and witty remarks to his soul-mate and aide-de-camp. They were well past the stage when slippers would have been welcome. There was that set look about the Colonel’s mouth that McPeevish had once seen on John Wayne’s face as he despatched an injured horse. Perhaps the Colonel had seen the same film? He had long given up responding to McPeevish’s puerile and dislocated remarks and questions. Now and then McPeevish caught a look of contempt on the Colonel’s face as with the luck of the devil and the dear one’s skill yet again they drew back from the abyss. They had eased their way through the drinks trolley, McPeevish carefully sticking to the rather inferior (and probably watered) whisky, leaving the much touted Indian liqueur to the Colonel.
There is a heavy cobalt tinge about his gills now, thought McPeevish, the kind of colouration known as ‘Calcutta Shadow’.
That remark almost made the Colonel snarl; but hosts don’t snarl. Perhaps aware that some primordial test was nearing its culmination and mindful of her best china and ornaments, his wife was mechanically playing her cards. She seemed hypnotised by her husband’s button fiddling, which at times had a Wagnerian frenzy about it.
The cotton thread will be wearing thin by now, McPeevish thought. A few more tugs and twists and he’ll lose number three. I’m sure that button number four shows acute signs of wear as well. Will he twiddle his shirt buttons next? His belly button? He’s close to cracking, that’s for sure.
But McPeevish was concerned about his partner. Throughout the proceedings he had kept a close eye on her. Uncomplaining she had taken up the slack as he had seemed to disintegrate under the effects of the alcohol and that rich dessert of Makhana Kheer. A wisp of hair, like a silent question mark, had come loose from her coiffeuse. It seemed such a frail, slender thing as it trembled against her temple, wherein he could discern the pulse of a delicate blue vein. He longed to reach over and…
The clock struck eleven.
The mechanical figure of Shiva as Nataraja with his unkempt hair within the fiery circle emerged and began his ritual dance.
McPeevish, whose deal it was, reached for the cards and began to shuffle.
-D’you know, once when I was pony trekking in Nepal…
The dear one seemed to snort and whinny, then let out a scream that Bette Davis would have given her soul for. She fell sideways in her seat, twitching and mewling. The next moments were a whirl of activity as their hostess leapt to comfort her and the Colonel poured her a stiff medicinal brandy from the reserve supply in his ivory golfing hip flask with its tiger skin covering.
-I am so sorry, the dear one said fanning herself as she gulped down the brandy. The curtains…when the clock struck…Nepal…that anecdote of yours at supper, Colonel…I thought I saw… those demons Rahu and Shesha…
With a vigorous bracing of her shoulders she regained her composure, smiling weakly in thanks as their hostess patted her hand. The loose strands were neatly tucked into place. Everyone settled.
It had been a rather dark story the Colonel had told as they’d dined, McPeevish mused. You couldn’t call him a bore, whatever else you might call him. The tale certainly ranked with the best of Rider Haggard. In fact it was Rider Haggard! The Colonel had subtly stripped it from its nineteenth century setting and brought it into the nineteen forties, making himself rather than Allan Quatermain the hero. Few people knew of ‘The Jewel Stone of Shambhala’ these days, McPeevish sighed inwardly. Perhaps I should have spoken up then, cut the whole thing short. But when you are a guest you’re rather on the back foot, at the mercy of those who are entertaining and feeding you. What was that story about the couple who would never let their guests leave? Was it by Edgar Allan Poe or Marie Louise Ramé?
McPeevish finished dealing. He tried to focus on his hand as he fumbled the cards into some semblance of order. The Colonel noticed the trembling in McPeevish’s voice as he croaked out his bid:
-Err…One clubby thingy…
Scenting the coup de grace the Colonel permitted himself a final Godfrey Philips cigar. Clearly his posture now said: I am a man of patience, a determined man, a man not to be gainsaid. McPeevish couldn’t recall if he had ever gainsaid anyone in his life. It didn’t sound a pleasant thing to do, rather like gutting a trout. Not that he’d gutted a trout either. Gainsaying and gutting were two things, without deliberately avoiding them, he had never done and never would. Never. Yes, the Colonel had the air of a man who had been mightily tested, mightily, but who now was about to reap the reward of his patience as Sinatra prepared to sing ‘My Way’.
Everyone passed.
You could hear a cymbal drop, McPeevish thought as he screwed up his eyes, screwed up his courage and seemed to screw up altogether.
-Umm…two Spades.
Pass once more echoed around the table. McPeevish seemed hell bent on hurling himself over the barricade as he found voice afresh:
-Ahhh...three Hearts? his voice quivered querulously.
There was to be no relief for Lucknow tonight, the Colonel’s blood-shot eyes seemed to be saying.
There’s more passing going on than during the Melrose Sevens, McPeevish thought as once more the Greek chorus that foretold his doom rang out crystal clear- bass profundo from the Colonel, the lyric soprano of the dear one and the contralto tessitura of the hostess: P-ASS.
McPeevish sat back, studied his hand, looked at the clock, looked for the exit sign and seeing none assumed the air of Sydney Carton mounting the scaffold.
-Seven diamonds, McPeevish said with what might have been his last breath.
-Double, the Colonel snapped.
Both ladies passed and for a brief moment all that could be heard was the creak of a hempen rope somewhere out in the dark night.
That’ll be the bird feeder, McPeevish thought.
The Colonel ran his eyes over his cards. He looked pitying at McPeevish who seemed aghast at the shore to which he had drifted. The Colonel let his gaze wander deliciously over to the cabinet in which were displayed his collection of antique knives. He seemed to be trying to decide which one to select for the final thrust- a katar? A kukri? The kila which had belonged to Vajrakilaya? Finally he led the King of Spades and dummy lay down her hand.
-‘Roger, thou, unskilled in art must, surer bound, go through thy part,’ McPeevish muttered.
What the devil is the fool on about? the Colonel thought. He was now sure that McPeevish had completely taken leave of his senses.
Whistling can have an odd effect on some people. Dolphins may take to their heels at a certain pitch, horses bolt and kangaroos dive in each other’s pouch. Whistling, like a persistent wasp or midge, can drive maiden aunts to profanity. There are tales told about Saint Simon Stylites…but this is hardly the place to go into that.
McPeevish was emitting a sound that could have been the punctured boiler of the ‘Flying Scotsman’ as it wheezed its last. There were many useless skills he had not mastered and whistling or blowing bubbles with chewing gum were two of which he was particularly proud. Give him a yo-yo and ask him to make it ‘walk-the-dog’ and he’d benumb his toes with each failed effort. Let him loose on a Border hillside with a whistle like that and sheep would flock to him while sheep dogs bolted for the horizon. Men would dive down mines should they hear a whistle like that, thinking that a doodle-bug was about to land.
-Well there’s a stroke of luck, McPeevish said as he trumped the King with ‘The Curse of Scotland’. Wasn’t the nine of diamonds the card used by Sir John Dalrymple to authorise the Glencoe Massacre, my sweet?
-I do believe it was, she said smiling across the battlefield at him.
*
McPeevish had noted with joy the uneasy expression that began to flit like a grave-robber across the Colonel’s face. The latter had shifted more and more uncomfortably in his seat, as though prodded somewhere delicate by Shiva’s trishula. As the play had unfolded the Colonel watched with all the reluctance of a man obliged to lick a leprous toad. The buttons popped one by one. As he won the last trick completing the grand slam McPeevish had smiled at his beloved and sighed:
-‘Such are the fortunes of the game, and those who play should stop the same by wholesome laws.’
They had bid their hostess goodnight thanking her for the wonderful meal and delightful evening. She had seemed distracted beyond conversation, aware of the strangled growling noise coming from the sitting room. The Colonel had been too busy folding the table, picking up the scattered cards and pieces of the broken glasses to see the couple out.
*
-McPeevish, the dear one said much later; you are the only man who can make me snort and whinny without feeling like a complete nincompoop.
-And you, beloved, are the only woman who can…
She silenced his mouth with a kiss.
And she did.
© R.L.Paige 2010
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