Death of a Bore

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

2

O! he’s as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill far,

Than feed on cotes and have him talk to me

In any summer house in Christendom.

—William Shakespeare

It was one of those odd springlike November days you occasionally get in the Highlands where a balmy wind blows in off the Gulf Stream. Hamish longed to go fishing, but Wednesday had come around, the evening of John’s first class, and he had not yet dealt with Dermott’s problem.

He found out which building site Alistair Taggart had been working on, phoned, and found he had been laid off. He set out for the Taggart cottage, which was at the end of the village where a large hotel had once operated and now stood empty.

Taggart’s wife, Maisie, answered the door. She put a hand to her throat when she saw him. “What is it, Hamish? Not my boy?”

“No, no,” he said soothingly. “I’m asking everyone in the village if they saw anyone put that graffiti on Patel’s wall.”

Maisie Taggart had the faded remains about her of what had once been a pretty woman. There was an ugly bruise on one cheek.

“Who is it?” shouted a man’s voice. “Another of your fancy men?”

“That will be your man,” said Hamish equably. “I’ll speak to him.”

She looked frightened and flustered. “Now’s no’ the good time.” And then she was thrust aside, and Alistair loomed in the doorway.

“What is it?” he barked. “I’m just sorting this bitch out.” He jerked a thumb at his quivering wife. “She says she’s going to thon writing class. Wasting my good money so she can see her fancy man.”

Maisie squeezed past her belligerent husband and disappeared inside the house.

“And you can get lost!” shouted Alistair.

“I was chust calling to ask you if you knew anything about the graffiti on Patel’s shop, but now I’m here, you and I are going to have a serious talk.”

Alistair made to slam the door, but Hamish put a hand on his arm and hooked him out onto the waterfront.

“If you hit me,” said Hamish, “you will be charged with assault and go to prison.”

Alistair dropped the fists he had raised and then demanded, “Well, whit?”

“You cannae keep things quiet in a wee village like this,” lied Hamish, reflecting that Alistair’s abuse of his wife had been kept amazingly secret. “We all know you beat your wife.”

“Who’s saying so?”

“Everyone. She’s got a bruise on her cheek.”

“Fell down the stairs.”

“Aw, pull the other one. That excuse is as old as the hills. I’m after you now, Alistair Taggart. Your wife is going to that writing class. Every time now you threaten her, I’ll probably be outside your house with a tape recorder. When you drive back from Strathbane, if you get another job, the traffic cops will be looking for you and they’ll check you for drunk driving. Now, let’s just take a look at that car of yours and your papers.”

“This is harassment!”

“It’ll do you no harm to get a taste of what your wife’s been suffering.” Hamish walked over to where Alistair’s car was parked at the side of his cottage. “Let me see. The front near-side tyre needs to be replaced. Keys?”

Alistair handed them over and waited, sweating in the balmy air as Hamish did a thorough check of car and papers. “You need new brake lights,” said Hamish finally, “and your tax disc is out o’ date.”

The bully in Alistair crumbled. “Look,” he wheedled, “I’ll take Maisie to that class maself and treat her nice. Will you leave me alone then?”

“Probably,” said Hamish. “After you fix your car. Behave yourself.”

♦

Hamish returned to the police station and then set out to patrol his extensive highland beat with Lugs beside him. He had given up leaving Lugs with Angela, the doctor’s wife, because she had complained that Lugs spent more time with her than he did at home.

Lugs was a thoroughly spoilt animal. Hamish sometimes still had a pang when he thought of the death of his old dog, Towser, wondering if he had treated the animal well, wondering if he could have done something, anything, to prolong Towser’s life, and clever Lugs was the beneficiary. He was a greedy dog and could easily stop the diets Hamish tried to put him on by lying down and closing his eyes and whimpering.

As Lugs sat beside Hamish with his large ears flopping and something that looked remarkably like a human grin on his face, Hamish felt, not for the first time, that he was saddled with some sort of possessive wife.

A new pub had opened out on the Lochdubh-Strathbane road called Dimity Dan’s. Hamish had visited it several times since its grand opening a month before. On the first night there had been a stabbing. He suspected the owner, Dan Buffort, of supplying drugs.

The youth of the Highlands who once left for the cities or the army as soon as they had graduated school or college now showed a distressing propensity to stay at home in the villages and slope around, making trouble.

Hamish entered the smoky pub. Two youths were playing snooker, others were propping up the bar drinking Bacardi Breezers. A lot of alcopops, those sweet alcoholic drinks, were lined up behind the bar. The manufacturers had claimed that they weren’t targeting young people with their products, but Hamish did not believe a word of it. They were produced in tempting little innocuous-looking bottles with names like Archers Aqua Peach, Bliss, and Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

Hamish ordered a mineral water. “I hope you aren’t selling to underage girls and boys,” he said.

Dan Buffort was a burly man with thick tattooed arms, ginger hair, and small piggy eyes.

“Wouldnae dream o’ it,” he said with a grin.

“I’ve heard otherwise,” said Hamish. “If I catch you just the once, you’ll lose your licence.”

“I’ve naethin’ tae fear.” Dan polished another glass.

Something was nagging at the back of Hamish’s mind. When he had driven up to the pub, he was sure he had noticed something different. He paid for his mineral water and hurried out of the pub. He stood back from the building and stared up at it.

And then he saw it.

A new CCTV camera had been installed, but instead of pointing down to the pub entrance and the car park, it was pointing directly along the Lochdubh Road.

Hamish ran back into the pub and through to the toilets. A window was open. He looked out, and there, racing over the moors in the distance, were two small figures.

He went back into the bar and confronted Dan. “You will get that new camera of yours pointed down at the entrance where it should be. You put it there so you’d know when I was coming.”

“It was those idiots who installed it,” said Dan, quite unfazed. “I’ll get it put right.”

“See that you do. I’ll be watching you closely from now on, day and night. One sight of an underage boy or girl or one sight or suspicion of drugs and I’ll have you closed down fast.”

Hamish left and continued on his long beat. His duties involved calling in on the elderly and the isolated, and he got back to the police station just in time to change into civilian clothes and attend John Heppel’s meeting at the village hall.

There were a lot of villagers there. Twin sisters, Jessie and Nessie Currie, were in the front row beside Mrs. Wellington and Archie Maclean. Clarry was in the row behind them, and beside him was Willie Lament, another ex-policeman who had gone into the restaurant business, Mr. Patel, Callum McSween, and Freda, the school-teacher. Various other villagers filled the other seats. To Hamish’s surprise, Alistair Taggart was there with his wife, Maisie.

Hamish took a seat at the back next to Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “Don’t you know the man’s an idiot?”

“Well, he got a book published. I’ve always wanted to write. I need all the help I can get. Where is he? We were due to start at seven-thirty.”

“He’ll want to make an entrance,” said Hamish.

At quarter to eight precisely, John Heppel strode into the room. His coat was slung over his shoulders and he was carrying a large travelling bag. He hung his coat on a hook and then mounted the stage, carrying the bag, and faced the class. He was dressed all in black: black roll-necked sweater, black cords, and black shoes. His face was made up.

“He has the make-up on, make-up on,” hissed Jessie Currie, who, like Browning’s thrush, said everything twice over.

“Maybe he’s a transferite,” said Willie Lament.

“Transvestite is what you mean,” boomed Mrs. Wellington.

“I have put on my television make-up because they said they would be here,” said John crossly. “Perhaps we should wait.”

“I cannae wait all nicht,” called out Archie. “I’ve the fishing to go to.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Very well,” said John. He bent down and opened the bag and lifted a pile of his books onto the table in front of him. “At the end of the class I will be glad to sign one of my books for you. A special price. Ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds!” exclaimed someone. “They’re remaindered for three pounds ninety down at Best Books in Strathbane.”

John ignored the interruption.

“I will tell you all how I got started,” he began. His eyes assumed a fixed look, and his voice took on the droning note of the habitual bore. “I was born into one of the worst slums in Glasgow. We didn’t even have a bath.”

Hamish’s mind drifted off as the voice went inexorably on, and he only snapped to attention after twenty minutes when Mrs. Wellington stood up and said, “You said you would teach us how to write.”

John looked flustered. “I think, then,” he said, “we will start by discussing the novel. Perhaps we will discuss linear progression.”

“Do you mean the plot?” called Hamish.

“Er, yes.”

“Then why not say so?”

“I tell you what I am going to do,” said John. “I am going to ask you all to bring a piece of writing here next week. It can be anything you like – poetry, essays, fiction, anything – and I will give you the benefit of my expert advice. It will be easier for me to assess your work if it is typed and in double spacing.”

“You mean we’ve all got to get computers, get computers?” wailed Jessie.

“Perhaps not right away,” said John. “I will now take questions.”

Archie piped up. “Have you met J.K. Rowling?”

“Ah, yes, a most charming lady. We signed books together in Edinburgh. She was kind enough to congratulate me on my work.”

What a liar, thought Hamish. Any bookshop lucky enough to get J.K. Rowling was not going to clutter up the premises with a minor author.

“Do you think it’s easier to write for children?” asked Mrs. Wellington.

“Very much so,” said John.

Angela stood up, her thin face flushed with annoyance. “I think that is very misleading,” she said. “A lot of people are misguided enough to think that writing a children’s book is easy, but the author needs to have a talent for that genre.”

“Perhaps I said that,” conceded John, “because I personally would find it easy despite my own unfortunate childhood. Why, I remember one dark Christmas…”

And he was off again down memory lane. A bored highland audience does not stamp out or make any noise. It just melts away. Hamish decided to join them.

He was just heading back to the police station when he saw the Strathbane Television van approaching along the waterfront. He stood out in the middle of the road and held up his hand.

Jessma Gardener was in the front seat. She rolled down the window. “If you’re on your way to the writing class, you’re too late,” said Hamish. “It’s finished.”

“Oh, good,” said Jessma. “I couldn’t bear the thought of it But the lights are still on in the village hall.”

“Cleaning up,” lied Hamish, who well knew that some of the audience were still there. “Why does Strathbane News want to cover a village writing class?”

“There’s a new drama executive who handles the soap. John’s written a script for it. The exec says it’s brilliant, so we’re asked to cover anything John Heppel wants us to. Still, thank goodness for an early evening.”

She waved to him. The van did a U-turn and headed back out of the village.

“I’ve been very petty,” Hamish told his dog when he entered the police station. “I should have let the wee man have his bit of glory, and him all made up for it. But I don’t like him and that’s a fact. It’s not because he’s a bore. It’s something else. I feel he means trouble.”

“Do you usually talk to your dog?” asked a voice behind him.

Hamish blushed and turned round.

Freda Garrety stood there, smiling. Hamish had left the kitchen door open.

“Can I help you?” he asked stiffly.

“I wanted to talk to you about John Heppel.”

“All right. Shut the door and sit down. Tea or something stronger?”

“I wouldn’t mind a dram.”

Hamish took down a nearly full whisky bottle from the cupboard and two glasses.

“That’s a very odd-looking dog,” she said. “I’ve never seen a dog with such blue eyes.”

“Water?” asked Hamish, ignoring her remark because he was cross with her for finding him talking to Lugs.

“Just a little.”

Hamish filled a jug with water and put it along with the whisky and glasses on the table. He poured two measures.

Freda added a little water to her glass. “He presented a copy of his book to the school library. Because he’d won a literary prize and all that, I didn’t think of checking it. Then I found one child after another was asking to borrow it. So I took it home and read it. It’s full of swearwords and explicit sex. Now, I know they get a lot of stuff on television and on the Internet these days, but I do try to keep them children as long as possible. I mean, I don’t want to contribute to fouling up their minds.”

Hamish shared her worry. Despite all the encroachments of the modern world, there was still a certain innocence about the village children which had been taken away from their counterparts in the cities.

Again he had a feeling that John Heppel was a cancer eating into local society.

Freda spoke again. “A lot of the parents are furious, but then there are others who are seduced by the idea that they, too, could write a book. They say John’s book is literature and there are a lot of nasty things in Shakespeare.”

“I think we’re worrying ower-much,” said Hamish slowly. “He’s so self-obsessed, so conceited, and so boring that people will stop attending his classes. This will hurt his vanity. I think he moved here to be a big fish in a small pool. Once the locals have got over the romance of writing, they’ll ignore him and he won’t be able to bear that. What made you decide to come here?”

“I was working in a comprehensive in Lanarkshire. The kids’ parents were mostly on the dole. It was a miserable existence. Some of the boys were violent. One day one of them held a knife to my throat in the playground. He was overpowered by two of the masters. The school tried to suspend him, but the bleeding hearts at the education authority decided he had to stay. I saw the job up here advertised. I love it. I love the children.”

“It’s a lonely life for a young woman.”

“Oh, on my weekends off I go clubbing in Inverness.”

Hafflish suddenly felt ancient. How old was she? Hard to tell with her neat harlequin features.

“I have never been clubbing,” he said.

“You can come with me one weekend, if you like.”

“That would be grand,” said Hamish. “I like new experiences. More whisky?”

“No, I’ve got exam papers to correct. Let’s just hope John Heppel fades away.”

♦

Despite the boredom of Heppel’s initial class, most who had attended were determined to write.

Archie Maclean, banished from home as usual by his house-proud wife, was sitting on the waterfront wall, busy scribbling in a large notebook.

Hamish called at the manse to see if the normally sensible Mrs. Wellington had given up the idea of writing, only to find her seated at her kitchen table in front of an old Remington typewriter, bashing away energetically at the keys.

“What is it, Hamish?” she asked crossly. He had walked in by the open door, the weather being still unseasonably warm.

“I’m disappointed in you,” said Hamish. “You don’t really think that scunner can do anything to help?”

“I’ve always wanted to write. I’m starting with something easy. I am going to prostitute myself by writing one of those little romances.”

Hamish sighed. “I once spoke to a writer who said you can’t write down, and if you don’t enjoy reading romances, then you can’t write them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Wellington triumphantly. “I am getting along just fine.”

Then she ignored him and began to rattle the keys busily.

Hamish left, wondering whether he was being a killjoy. Surely it was better for the villagers to exercise their minds during the long winter months than sit every evening looking at television.

He walked out and down from the manse. A Strathbane Electrics van was parked on the waterfront, and two men seemed to be busy delivering computers.

He shook his head. “It’ll all end in tears.”

“Talking to yourself, Hamish? That’s a bad sign.”

Hamish turned round. Angela Brodie was standing there, smiling up at him, her wispy hair blowing about her face.

“I’ve still got a nagging worry about Heppel.”

“He’s an awful bore,” said Angela. “But it’s all turned out a bit of fun. It’s a long time since Lochdubh’s been so excited about anything.”

“But a lot of people left the class before he had finished.”

“It’s because he said he would look at their work. Once they all got home, they began to dream about bestseller lists.”

“I think a lot of them’ll be getting nervous breakdowns before they grasp how to operate a computer.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. I heard Jessie Currie saying that Hamish Macbeth had a computer at the police station, so he could help them.”

Hamish stared at her in alarm. “I’d best be off on my beat.”

He hurried back to the police station, collected Lugs, and got into the Land Rover.

The mountains were shrouded in mist as he drove up into the moors and foothills. The narrow one-track road shone black in front of him. Then as he reached the crest of the hill above Lochdubh, the mist began to roll up the mountains. He stopped the car and watched. This, he reflected, was one of the reasons he loved this part of the world so much. It was like watching a curtain rise at the theatre. Up and up went the mist, a stiff wind sprang up, and then the sky above the mountains cleared to pale blue, the sun shone out, and the wet road in front of him turned to gold.

He got out of the car and lifted Lugs down. The dog scampered off into the heather. Hamish stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the scene. He turned round and looked back down to Lochdubh. On the other side of the loch, in front of the dark green of the fir plantation, a perfect rainbow curved down into the still black waters of the loch. As he watched, the rainbow faded and the loch changed to deep blue.

He gave a sigh of satisfaction. He could feel all his troubles about John Heppel rolling up and away from him like the mist.

He was sure his fears about the man bringing something bad into the area were wrong.

And that feeling lasted until something prompted him to attend the next writing class.