Dead In The Water - Chapter Four

Chapter 4

         An airport lounge is an extremely depressing place to be when you are a lone traveller. I sit in my mildly comfortable seat in the smoker’s section (I thought we had all been banished from society!), looking down upon the departure lounges below. They are – in the main - filled with families, friends and loved-up couples, chattering animatedly, scolding the young ones for bad behaviour (but in that relaxed ‘we’re off on holiday’ mode which doesn’t convey any kind of sincerity in the reprimand), holding hands, making plans. There is, of course, also the occasional businessman or woman but even they are, I don’t know how to explain it, not alone somehow. They have places to visit, people to see, and even they are communicating with the world outside this hideous building that is Manchester Airport, with the mobile phones and hand-held computers. But I am just a pathetic loner, a hermit in a concrete jungle.

         Why is it that I have become such distant watcher of society rather than an active participant? I would like to have had a companion with me, you know, someone I could tell, “Hey, I can’t find my purse – would you hold my coat for me please?” or “You wait here, I’ll go get the coffee!” Instead, I’m watching my own things, fetching my own coffees, and in the process, constantly watching my own back for fear of being mugged.

~~~*~~~

         About five or six years ago I was mugged on the London underground. It was a terrifying experience. I was travelling across the City to meet Owen and a potential publisher – now that my popularity was waning, we (well, Owen) had to do all the running, the legwork, and I wasn’t looking forward to watching Owen almost lowering himself to begging, cap in hand, for a publishing deal for me. It was, frankly, humiliating.

         The underground wasn’t really busy as such on that particular day, it was somewhere between the end of the morning rush hour and lunch, but the tube was stuffy and I was tired from having travelled down from Bradford earlier that same morning. I boarded the train and sat down close by the door. I placed my handbag on the seat next to me and closed my eyes as the train set in motion. I couldn’t wait to get out at the other end. The next stop was only a couple of minutes away, but my stop was right in the city so I had a fifteen minute journey ahead of me. I decided to remove the Mack and silk scarf that I was wearing, and I was fumbling to get my arms out of the coat sleeves without having to get up, the train stopped. I vaguely registered the door opening, bodies shuffling past me as I shook the sleeve off my right arm and started folding the coat neatly in my lap, when suddenly I felt my handbag being yanked away from beside me.

         Although obviously peeved at having my possessions stolen in this manner, I also felt a small amount of admiration for the thief; he had timed everything to the last second. Passengers had boarded and left the train and as he jumped from the carriage onto the platform and made good his escape, the doors closed only a nanosecond behind him. I stood like an imbecile, hanging on to both poles on either side of the door, shouting obscenities at someone who had long since disappeared. No one on the platform noticed a thing, and with a jolt the train set off to continue its journey. I swore at myself for having been so heedless, so vapid and so (I wanted to scream at this point) typically me – now a thief had made off with my bag containing my purse, my keys, my mobile phone, my “ideas doodle pad”, my notes for the subsequent meeting, my (aaargh! I screamed inwardly) tampons for fuck’s sake, and I just wanted to weep.

         And here’s the thing: everyone is always saying how impersonal London is, how wrapped up in themselves everyone is. My experience in this instance, however, was one of neighbourly compassion. Two people volunteered as witnesses, several offered me their seats, handkerchiefs, loose change to make phone calls, even a peardrop which I declined owing to the hairs and pocket fluff stuck to it.

         When I finally disembarked at my station, I felt mildly composed though still trembling. I approached the stationmaster and explained my predicament. The elderly man stood, hands clasped behind his backing, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, with a less than welcoming look on his face.

          “I’ve just been robbed”, I told him, expecting this would mellow his menacing look, as he blocked my exit from the station.
          “Sorry, lady, I need to see your ticket”, came his impassive response.
          “But I just told you, I’ve been robbed. A thief made off with my handbag, my ticket was inside it”, I said as I realised to him it might sound as though I was babbling incoherently. I checked to see if perhaps he was wearing a hearing aid.
          “Then you’ll have to buy a new ticket”, he said, continuing his rocking motion.
         I was taken aback by his treatment; did he think I was a fare dodger? I supposed in his line of work he might have heard it all already. Red faced with fury I barked,           “And how do you suppose I do that if my frigging handbag has been stolen, eh?” I clenched my fists and physically had to stop myself from punching him on the nose.
         The stationmaster gave a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders and looked in the opposite direction while he said in a light tone, “no money, no ticket. No ticket, no exit!”
         At this point, one of my fellow passengers made his way towards the spectacle unfolding, no doubt wanting to prevent injury to the station master, myself or indeed both of us.
          “Excuse me, Sir, but I watched this lady being mugged on the train earlier. What is the standard procedure here? Shouldn’t it be reported to the Transport Police? A statement, a cup of tea perhaps?” His voice was clear and firm, and I wondered idly what his profession might be; headmaster perhaps.
          “Mugged you say, eh?” The stationmaster looked at me severely and stopped rocking, and pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket. “Well, why didn’t you say?”

         I was rather traumatised by the event not least because I once more felt like I was in the wrong, just like back when I was banned from writing by Aunty because she didn’t approve. My query was dealt with, credit cards were dealt with, my ego considerably bruised at the thought of some stranger being in possession of my personal effects, and the thief was never caught. I missed the meeting with the publisher and the novel never did make it to print.

~~~*~~~

         I stub out my cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray and make my way to the queuing throng of fellow passengers boarding the plane to Aberdeen. I remain in my seat during the entire flight, drink a cup of scarcely satisfactory tea and read up on the history of the Granite City. Veritably absorbed in my book, I take no note of the landscape below me and the hour-long flight passes without incident.

         The Romans, I learn, initially established Aberdeen, but it was the Normans who exploited its potential as a port. By the end of the 13th century a variety of goods such as fish, wool, hides and timber were shipped from Aberdeen to other parts of Britain and across the North Sea to Europe. The economic development of the City was further aided by the building of the Aberdeen Railway, which was opened in 1850 after five years of continued technical difficulties.

         This my first history lesson of Aberdeen also includes a quote by Daniel Defoe in his book A Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain which was published in 1724, seven years before his death, which I devour in seconds as I am a long-time admirer of Defoe’s.

”Aberdeen is divided into two towns or cities, and stands in the mouth of two rivers; one on the River Don, the other on the River Dee. The market place, which is very beautiful and spacious and the streets adjoining are very handsome and well built, the houses lofty and high.

The profits from salmon fishing are very considerable, for the quantity of fish taken is exceedingly great, and they are sent abroad into several parts of the world. Herring fishing is also a common blessing to all those living on this coast.

They also have a very good manufacture of linen, and also of worsted stockings, which they send to England in great quantities, and of which they make some so fine, that I have seen them sold for twenty shillings a pair.”

         My interest in Defoe started back in school where “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders” was on the compulsory reading list; I finished the book in just over four days, which was no mean feat considering its size. After that, Defoe with his fluent and vigorous style, became something of an inspiration to me. I quoted his works in essays and assignments – my favourite of which being ‘I have often thought of it as one of the most barbarous customs in the world, considering us as a civilized and a Christian country, that we deny the advantages of learning to women’, a quote which went down particularly well with more feministic teachers at school.

         Long before, but certainly also after, the school library incident, I became something of a teacher’s favourite. Up until then, I had excelled in History, English and English Literature, but after the my national fund raising success, even teachers with whom I had nothing directly to do, started taking a shine to me. I was often patted on the back, praised for good behaviour, given Term Prizes and, well, all the other children hated me for it. Whereas before I was just a bit of a loner and a bookworm, I was now loathed by the in-crowd whose sole purpose in life appeared to terrorise teachers and convince the other children that education was a waste of time, that swotters are the number one enemy – especially when they, like be, are bespectacled. In spite of this, I carried on as normal and achieved three straight A’s and went onto University. And the interesting thing is this: knowing what I know now, I would still have done those two hundred and fifty odd laps.

~~~*~~~

         As the plane touches down, I feel a surge of excitement rushing up my spine – a feeling close to orgasmic if you ask me – and grab my bag with a sigh. Alas, I am here not to study Defoe but sheep.

         The trip by taxi from the airport to the centre of Aberdeen takes half an hour. The Grampian Guest House is located just off Union Street, smack-bang in the heart of the city. That, however, is just about the only positive thing I can say about the Grampian. The owner greets me not so much with a smile but with a grunt, leaving me with the discomforting notion that I am a nuisance, an unwelcome interruption to her daily routine. In the sitting room behind her, I can hear the theme music to Countdown and I am under no illusion that she would rather be watching Richard Whiteley than going through the motions of signing in a new guest. From somewhere inside the sitting room, I hear a loud coughing noise followed by what sounds like phlegm being coughed into – I hope – a handkerchief.

         When it comes to comfort and luxury, my room at the Grampian is not exactly what I would call an improvement on my own house. Apart from being only somewhat tidier than my own place and the inevitable tea making facilities and stale biscuits next to the television, I don’t exactly feel as though I am being welcomed to the bosom of the Scottish Highlands.

         The interior of my room is well, interesting. Green wallpaper with large pink flowers, peeling off the wall in several places and large, dark brown patches of damp. Heavy blue curtains hang off the rail with too few hooks, giving them a tired look which is not helped by the clear signs of fabric fatigue and streaks of near white where the material has been bleached in the sun. The carpet is a fascinating mix of deep brown pile and miscellaneous spillages, which have not been cleaned. I make a mental note not to tread the floor barefoot.

         The box bed looks uninviting with its grubby bedspread of ambiguous colour; I am not sure whether it used to be beige or pink. I resist the urge to peep beneath the spread and instead head for the kettle, which I fill with just enough water from the bathroom sink to make one cup of tea. As I plug the kettle and take a cup for the teabag, I realise it doesn’t appear to have been washed since it was last used. I shudder, grab my coat and handbag and head off into town for some preliminary research, and cannot stop myself from wondering whether this was why Owen chose this particular guesthouse.

         As I wander down Union Street with its assortment of town centre shops typical of, well, any town centre in Britain, I notice that despite its size, Aberdeen lacks the sense of urgency so often found in other cities; I find it charming. Not quite so charming, however, are the number of addicts, approaching me for some change, dodging four lanes of fast-moving traffic as they so. I am astounded that no one got killed.

         The one thing I can say about Aberdeen, upon first impression, is that it is grey – depressingly so. The buildings, the pavements, the walls encircling the gardens, the roads, even the sky. I consider how much more beautiful the city would have been, had the pre-Medieval fashion of building from sandstone not been replaced with granite. Alas, I am amidst this sea of grey, substantiated by the continuous downpour has not ceased since I stepped off the plane.

         It is amazing, truly, how many pubs, bars and off-licences you come across when you are trying to avoid them. To be honest, smoky, noisy pubs have never been my scene; it is the dreaded off-licence that is my downfall. I spend several minutes hovering outside one such establishment, tempted by discounts and three-for-two offers. I know if I set foot on the wrong side of the threshold, I am doomed. I watch as customers leave the shop with plain plastic bags emanating teasing, tempting clanking noises. It takes an indescribable amount of determination to haul myself by the shirt collar and away from the lure of the wine.

         I notice a signpost for the Kirk of St Nicholas which I decide to follow, partly drawn by the name (Kirk clearly originating from the Danish word for church, kirke) but mostly to seek refuge from the rain. There is no reference that I notice, to any Viking connection to the naming of the church, which strikes me as slightly odd; surely any discerning tourist or visitor would spring that question on the churchwardens and volunteers?

         I spend an hour inside the church, which is just about my limit of tolerance, waiting for the rain to stop. Historians suggest there has been a church on the present site from the 1060’s but there is no real documented evidence until 1157. There is no doubt that between fires, alterations, religious upheavals, it is surprising to see a church there at all. The Kirk now boasts the largest carillon in Britain, which is the last piece of information I absorb before hazarding a tentative return to the outside world.

         What must have been hours of non-stop rain has left its marks and consequently I spend my return to the heart of the City skipping across puddles and dodging the spray of moving vehicles. Exhausted, cold and soaked, I enter a café where I refresh myself before settling down with a strong cup of Columbian filter coffee and decide to get down to work.

         Three hours and four cups of filter coffee later and I have thumbed through all of my reference books, pamphlets and leaflets, defaced every single page with asterisks and margin scribbles, made notes in my doodle pad and head back to my room to type up the article. To sell my soul for the sake of paying the mortgage, as it were.

         Since as long as I can remember, it was a case of, a sheep is a sheep, is a sheep. I had no idea that there are so many different breeds. Until today, if you had asked me to close my eyes and picture a sheep, it would have been a white fur ball on four legs, with a small tail, short ears and a non-distinct face. I do wonder why it is that, in the animal as well as in the human world, the cutest of offspring end up making the most ugly of grown-ups. This is certainly the case of chicken and sheep.