Read Online Flower of Scotland by William Meikle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Meikle
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eaves of the cottage. But he knew that it wasn't the same thing. Not by a long way.
He left his notebook and pencil on the telephone stand in the hall and headed for the drinks cabinet. It took two large glasses of whisky for his mind to turn the memory of the voice into something more resembling a breeze, but even then it still nagged, still lodged way down deep in a place he didn't want to remember.
He tried to settle, but the television was broadcasting its usual inanities and the radio reception was so bad that he was forced to switch it off after a while. He sat at the window, watching a storm build up, until it got too dark to see. And even then he sat, watching his reflection for long minutes before drawing the curtains and closing himself in.
Silence settled around him.
Eventually the wind dropped and, apart from his trusty, wheezing, generator there was only the soft patter of snow on the window. Soon he began to hear rhythms in the noise, the weather sending him a coded signal of danger which he was only just unable to decipher.
"Music," he muttered aloud, needing to break the silence. "That's what I need. Something good and loud."
He rummaged around in a box of old tapes discarded by his wife, his ex-wife, when she left. He put on a compilation of pop songs from a happier time and let the mindless mania wash over him.
For nearly half an hour he managed to lose himself in the intricacies of police work in Ed McBain's 87th Precinct while the music washed around him. He had even found himself singing along at one point, but then a drum beat kicked in that he didn't recognise.
Twin guitars started to wail, then the vocal began, a vocal whose first phrase was echoed by another, deeper voice in his left ear.
Can you hear them, singing their songs
If you listen, they'll soon be a throng
He was up and out of the chair before the voice could continue and switched the player off by pulling the plug out at the mains so that the song died on a slow, ever deepening, chord. For long seconds he stood there, the plug in his hand, his heart pounding its own drumbeat in his ears. He half expected to turn and find that he was not alone in the room, but there was only a spilled glass of whisky and a book beside his chair.
"You're getting daft in your auld age." he said, and almost managed a smile as he realised that talking to himself was probably the first sign that he was right.. But when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantle he knew that he was only fooling himself.
Haggard eyes stared blankly back from sunken, blackened sockets. And that was when his mental filters dropped.
It was the eyes that did it - the same, dark blue eyes that his father had, the same eyes that had twinkled on a long ago night when stars filled the sky.
Jim had been twelve, and a vessel ready to be filled with wonderment.
"They're oot there," his father said. "Watching us. They come on quiet nichts jist tae see what we're up to. If ye jist haud yer wheest for a bit ye'll hear their wee voices singing ."
They sat there together, father and son, in the quiet dark
"Can ye hear them?" the older man whispered, and Jim tried, he really did, but there was only the wind in the trees.
"Never mind," his dad said. "They'll be back. They always come back."
Jim stood, staring deep into the mirror, hoping to read meaning in the eyes, trying to connect with the boy he had been, but no illumination was forthcoming. Maybe if Isobel had still been around she might have given some insight, but he refused to let his thoughts drift that way - one year wallowing in self pity hadn't brought her back and he was damned if he was going to go on wishing the rest of his life away.
He dragged his tired body off to bed and was asleep almost as soon as his head rested on the pillow.
The reverberations of some unrepeated noise startled him into wakefulness. His room was hazily lit by moonlight and for long minutes he watched the lazy crawl of
He left his notebook and pencil on the telephone stand in the hall and headed for the drinks cabinet. It took two large glasses of whisky for his mind to turn the memory of the voice into something more resembling a breeze, but even then it still nagged, still lodged way down deep in a place he didn't want to remember.
He tried to settle, but the television was broadcasting its usual inanities and the radio reception was so bad that he was forced to switch it off after a while. He sat at the window, watching a storm build up, until it got too dark to see. And even then he sat, watching his reflection for long minutes before drawing the curtains and closing himself in.
Silence settled around him.
Eventually the wind dropped and, apart from his trusty, wheezing, generator there was only the soft patter of snow on the window. Soon he began to hear rhythms in the noise, the weather sending him a coded signal of danger which he was only just unable to decipher.
"Music," he muttered aloud, needing to break the silence. "That's what I need. Something good and loud."
He rummaged around in a box of old tapes discarded by his wife, his ex-wife, when she left. He put on a compilation of pop songs from a happier time and let the mindless mania wash over him.
For nearly half an hour he managed to lose himself in the intricacies of police work in Ed McBain's 87th Precinct while the music washed around him. He had even found himself singing along at one point, but then a drum beat kicked in that he didn't recognise.
Twin guitars started to wail, then the vocal began, a vocal whose first phrase was echoed by another, deeper voice in his left ear.
Can you hear them, singing their songs
If you listen, they'll soon be a throng
He was up and out of the chair before the voice could continue and switched the player off by pulling the plug out at the mains so that the song died on a slow, ever deepening, chord. For long seconds he stood there, the plug in his hand, his heart pounding its own drumbeat in his ears. He half expected to turn and find that he was not alone in the room, but there was only a spilled glass of whisky and a book beside his chair.
"You're getting daft in your auld age." he said, and almost managed a smile as he realised that talking to himself was probably the first sign that he was right.. But when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantle he knew that he was only fooling himself.
Haggard eyes stared blankly back from sunken, blackened sockets. And that was when his mental filters dropped.
It was the eyes that did it - the same, dark blue eyes that his father had, the same eyes that had twinkled on a long ago night when stars filled the sky.
Jim had been twelve, and a vessel ready to be filled with wonderment.
"They're oot there," his father said. "Watching us. They come on quiet nichts jist tae see what we're up to. If ye jist haud yer wheest for a bit ye'll hear their wee voices singing ."
They sat there together, father and son, in the quiet dark
"Can ye hear them?" the older man whispered, and Jim tried, he really did, but there was only the wind in the trees.
"Never mind," his dad said. "They'll be back. They always come back."
Jim stood, staring deep into the mirror, hoping to read meaning in the eyes, trying to connect with the boy he had been, but no illumination was forthcoming. Maybe if Isobel had still been around she might have given some insight, but he refused to let his thoughts drift that way - one year wallowing in self pity hadn't brought her back and he was damned if he was going to go on wishing the rest of his life away.
He dragged his tired body off to bed and was asleep almost as soon as his head rested on the pillow.
The reverberations of some unrepeated noise startled him into wakefulness. His room was hazily lit by moonlight and for long minutes he watched the lazy crawl of
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