365 Read online

  So, says the chronicler, without any sign of repentance this unhappy traitor died in the sight of the people.

  5 January

  The Executioner

  I take a log from the pile, position it on the block, adjust my stance, swing the log-splitter. The log divides under the blow and the halves fall like toy buildings. I throw them into the creel.

  My father taught me how to do this. Method, not strength, he advised. ‘Feel the weight of the head,’ he said. ‘Let it do the work.’

  I place another log, swing the splitter. The log seems to separate an instant before contact, as if it self-destructs to avoid what’s coming. As if it could know.

  At my parents’ house over Christmas, I did various tasks around house and garden that they can no longer manage. The strong, practical, hand-son man who taught me how to split logs is now so slow, stiff and unsteady that it’s not safe for him even to put one on the fire.

  He was an outdoors man. Now he can’t walk to the paper shop without running out of breath or falling. Cold air kicks off his angina. But one mild, calm day I got him into the wheelchair and pushed him to the beach where he used to sail his boat and walk his dog – both now gone.

  We parked the wheelchair by the cars and made it down the wooden steps onto soft sand littered with clumps of weed left by a recent storm. With him gripping my arm, we reached the flat, firmer sand on which the waves were breaking, sullen and regular. A family was playing with two dogs. Dad’s distance sight is better than mine. He watched the joyous energy of those children and dogs for a long time.

  On the way home he was talkative – more than in the house where competing noises make it hard for him to hear or be heard. I leaned down to his ear and found we could communicate pretty well.

  Back by the fire he sat glaring at my mother, as a prisoner might at his warder. ‘I’m having another dog before I die.’

  An impossibility, but we didn’t deny him it. A few minutes later he was asleep.

  I take another log, position it, adjust my stance. Swing the splitter.

  6 January

  The House in the Glen

  He saw her first among the trees, flitting like a deer, or the ghost of a deer. With her long black hair and pale face, and her lack of fear, she wasn’t like a deer at all, but that was how he thought of her. She stopped, looked at him as a deer might, but then unfroze and moved on, careless of the cracking of twigs under her feet.

  She was from the big house. He had heard about her.

  He reached the stone wall with the gate set in it. This was as far as you could walk in the glen: the wall marked the policies around the big house, and the gate was usually shut and bolted. But today it was open.

  The house and the people who owned it were nothing to do with him or his kind. Money had built it, and the memory of money sustained it. The girl’s parents were hardly ever there, he’d heard, though he couldn’t recall who had told him this. Her father was in London, her mother in France. They led separate lives, so the story went, and neither of them worked. They didn’t have to. That was what made them different.

  He was just a boy from the village. She had been sent away to school, so they had never met. That was not supposed to happen.

  The house was old-looking, but not as big as he’d expected. He’d expected a castle. How could he have walked these woods for so many years and never seen the place? Because of the high wall, he told himself, but it wasn’t that. The house was like the ghost of a house. If he went away now and came back in the morning, would it still be there?

  There was a doorway with a low lintel. The door was of thick, rough wood with iron studs in it. It was open, as the gate had been.

  He thought, If I go in here, I may never come back out.

  He heard the girl’s voice singing, the clink and clatter of food or drink being prepared. For him?

  He said to himself, What do I have to lose?

  7 January

  Luggy

  There was a fisherman in Shetland, called Luggy, who went to sea with his companions in a long, narrow boat with a mast and a sail. They might be out for days at a time if the fish were not present. Sometimes a terrible hunger would come on them. Luggy had a basket in which he kept a line with a wee lead weight on it, and when they were starving and not a fish was to be had in the whole wide ocean he would drop this line over the stern of the boat and let it out to its full extent. When he pulled it in there would be a cod or plaice, fresh-grilled and steaming, on the end of the line. He would unhook the fish and share it with his mates. None of them knew how the fish came to be cooked like that, and they did not care to ask. They were famished, and the smell was irresistible.

  Luggy had another trick he liked to play in stormy weather, when he couldn’t get out to sea. His house was on the edge of a moor and he would go to a place where there was a deep, dark hole in the peat and let his line down through it, and pull up a smoked trout or salmon and take it back to his wife. She preferred a rabbit but she didn’t complain. Apart from anything else, there were no pans to clean.

  This all happened a long time ago. Nobody would believe you if you told such a story nowadays, but back then people were ignorant and believed all kinds of nonsense. Had Luggy told them, however, that there were billions of gallons of oil at the bottom of the same sea he fished, and that the oil could be brought to the surface and used for cooking, heating, manufacturing, powering vehicles and many other purposes, they’d have shaken their heads at him. ‘No, no.’ Especially if he’d gone on to explain that it would all be used up in less than a lifetime, every last drop. ‘Aye, that’ll be right,’ they’d have said. ‘Fetch us another fish supper, Luggy.’

  8 January

  Thanks, but No Thanks

  for Michael Marra

  As I was out walking the other day, I met a man who looked familiar. We passed, nodding and glancing as we did, and then, when we’d gone a few paces beyond one another, we both turned.

  ‘Is that you, Michael?’

  He seemed to weigh this up for a few seconds.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That’s what I thought, too.’

  It was his voice all right. The unmistakable gravel of his songs, of his phone calls: Are you going to be in later? Can I come round? Have you got time? I always had. And round he’d come.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well,’ he began – and then wasn’t there.

  I stood looking at his echo, the empty space six feet away. I thought, If I go home and sit in at one side of the kitchen table, maybe he’ll be there at the other side. He always took an age to drink his coffee. No need to rush.

  I wished I could remember everything he ever told me across that table.

  If it was easy it wouldn’t be worth doing, he’d said, more than once.

  ‘Did they send you back?’ I said. ‘Like Frida Kahlo?’ But that was unfair; it was what he’d imagined, in one of his songs. I had no right.

  I told him a story once, something that had happened after a death, and he listened but he was being polite, or kind rather, because that’s what he was, kind. ‘That’s okay,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘But I don’t want metaphors.’

  I could see how you wouldn’t, in his shoes.

  I carried on along the road, but I couldn’t stop myself imagining him telling me something, and it went like this: he’d arrived at the gate, and it was open, with no one on duty, so he’d just put his head in to have a wee look, in case he wanted to slip away without bothering anybody. All was fresh and neat in there, very meticulous decor, but he didn’t like how they’d applied the paint. They’d been mean with it. There wasn’t enough boldness of colour. And I bet, he thought, there isn’t a piano.

  So he didn’t go in.

  9 January

  Grass

  How is it that dogs understand instinctively that the best way to alleviate their stomach disorders is to eat grass? It’s not as if their mothers can have taught them this. Most dogs
are taken from their mothers when they’re barely off milk. Yet in later years, afflicted by constipation or just a bit bilious, they start tearing at the long green stuff. They know. How come?

  Perhaps a kind of canine folk medicine is in play, passed from generation to generation when older dogs meet young ones in the woods or in the park or on the street.

  One dog to another, sniffing its arse: ‘You’re smelling a bit bland, son. Bunged up, are you? What you need’s a good clump of grass.’

  Other dog: ‘Grass? What? You’re having me on!’

  ‘No, I’m serious. I know, it sounds weird, and none of us wants to be mistaken for a cow let alone a sheep, but grass is the thing, believe me.’

  ‘Not for me! I like my meat – fresh off the bone, or straight from the tin at least.’

  ‘We all do, but you can overdo it. No roughage, son, that’s your problem.’

  ‘Well, since you mention it, I am pretty tight.’

  ‘You’re like a drum. It’s hard work too, having to do your business in two minutes when you’re in that condition. Stressful. And they always bloody watch you. Anyway, give the old grass a go, that’s my tip.’

  ‘Right, I will.’

  ‘Mind you, don’t overdo it, and don’t look like you’re enjoying it. Sends out the wrong message entirely. I hear some poor sods are getting fed nothing but a kind of dry vegetarian biscuit mix, day in, day out.’

  ‘It’s a bloody sin, imposing that on a dog.’

  ‘Then of course they go crazy at the first opportunity, hoovering up roadkill, a rotten seal on the beach, anything with some flavour. But their systems can’t handle it. Back it comes, all over the best carpet. Then they get a leathering.’

  ‘There’s no justice, is there?’

  ‘None. Well, can’t stand around sniffing your arse all day. You take my advice and eat some grass. This time tomorrow you’ll be feeling brand new.’

  10 January

  Appointment in Samarra

  On his arrival in Samarra, Death’s first thought was to track down the man who had thought to evade him in Baghdad, and settle their score. But something made him pause. What was the hurry, and why the need to hunt for him deliberately? After all, had he not always expected their meeting to take place here? Furthermore, he knew from the man’s master that it was to Samarra that the servant had fled, so fate had obviously decreed that this was where their paths would cross.

  Nevertheless, Death was not entirely at ease. What had been worrying him all day was his own reaction on first seeing the man in the marketplace in Baghdad. Why had he been surprised? And why had he let his surprise show on his face, even if the servant had misinterpreted that look as threatening? Was he losing his touch? He did not think so, but the affair had upset him.

  He took out a small mirror which he always kept about his person, and practised expressions. No, he did not think anyone could easily mistake a look of surprise for one of malevolence.

  As he pondered thus, he heard a commotion in a narrow alley just off the street where he was walking. Two men were grappling with a third, apparently trying to rob him. Death saw the blade of a knife glinting in the moonlight. He shouted a warning as he advanced, and the robbers, horrified at the sight of him, ceased their attack and ran off into the night.

  ‘What good fortune that you came by at that moment, sir,’ the victim said, ‘for if you had not, those villains would undoubtedly have murdered me. How can I repay you?’

  ‘I have no need of a reward,’ said Death.

  ‘Well, I am doubly grateful,’ the man said. ‘Especially as this is the second time today I have narrowly avoided death.’

  Now Death was thoroughly confused. He quickly took his leave of the man, who it was clear did not recognise him, although the two robbers had.

  Death found a quiet, dark place to be alone, and there he stayed for several days. He needed to think.

  11 January

  Jack’s Message Home

  Jack was setting out to seek his fortune. ‘You take care, Jack,’ his mother said, ‘and keep an eye out for yer twa brithers that went ahead of ye. We’ve never heard onythin frae them, and I’m feart they’ve got intae trouble. They might even be deid.’

  ‘Dinna you fash aboot me, Mither,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll send word back aboot how I’m gettin on, and if I find ma brithers I’ll let ye ken.’

  After a few miles he came to a town, and he stopped at an inn. And his two brothers were inside, drinking and laughing and singing with a crowd of other folk. ‘I’m glad tae see ye’re weel,’ said Jack, ‘but ye might at least hae got word tae oor auld mither. Ye ken whit a worrier she is.’

  ‘Ach, we’re that busy,’ they said. ‘Tell her yersel if ye like. We hivna the time.’

  So Jack went on down the road, and things turned rough for him. First a giant tried to eat him, then he had to get through a forest of thorns, then he was robbed of his money. He’d just about had enough of fortune-seeking when he met a man coming the other way. ‘Will ye take a message tae ma mither?’ Jack said. ‘I will,’ the man said. So Jack described all that had happened to him. ‘But I’m still alive,’ he said. ‘And so are ma twa brithers, but they’re too busy enjoying themsels tae tell her.’

  So the man went on, and he came to Jack’s mother’s house. There was a big party going on, with an old woman at the heart of it. He said to her, ‘Are you Jack’s mother?’ ‘Aye, I am that. In ye come, sit doon and get yersel a drink and a bite tae eat. Now, whit was it ye were sayin?’

  ‘I’ve a message for you from Jack,’ the man said. He could hardly make himself heard. ‘He’s had a bad time, but he’s alive. And his brothers, they’re alive and well too, but he said they were too busy to get in touch.’

  But the woman had turned away and was already speaking to someone else.

  12 January

  Metamorphoses

  The girl climbed the stairs to bed, carrying a much-loved book, a collection of fairy tales. Even before she could read, that book had gone everywhere with her. She would insist on the stories being read to her, or she would look at the pictures and tell the stories to herself. Later she read them out loud, and now she was able to read them into herself. The book was part of her, and a part of her was in the book.

  Her father cycled to his work every day, five miles there and five miles back. More than two thousand miles every year. If you are familiar with Pluck’s theory of atomic exchange, you will understand how, over time, some of him became bicycle, and some of his bicycle became him. Yet despite this interaction it was still quite easy to tell them apart.

  Often the girl would sit and watch her mother sewing and patching a favourite pair of jeans. She had had these jeans for many years, and there were so many repairs in them that it became impossible to discern where the original material stopped and the repairs began. But as far as the mother was concerned, they were still the same jeans, and they still fitted her.

  The girl’s grandfather had spent his life at sea and now liked nothing better than to potter about in his wee wooden boat. It was an old boat. It had been his father’s, and before that his father’s, back and back through the generations. And the boat was like the jeans. Everything in it had been replaced at some time or other – boards, mast, tiller, oars, sails, ropes. But it was still both the grandfather’s boat and the boat his ancestors had sailed.

  Then there was the grandmother, a fine, youthful woman, but with new hips, new knees, new toe-joints and various internal organs that had not originally belonged to her. Yet when her granddaughter cooried into her she was still soft and warm and smelled just the same as she always had.

  And soon the girl would be a woman. But where would the girl in her end, and the woman begin?

  13 January

  Five a Day

  ‘The implications of this are quite appalling,’ the Minister said.

  It was clear that he spoke for everyone round the table. They sat in silence, contemplating the implications. Sun
light streamed in through the windows behind the Minister, half-blinding the Chief Food Safety Officer, the Chief Medical Research Officer and the Chief Agricultural Officer. The Minister’s Chief Political Adviser let them suffer for some minutes, then rose and lowered the blinds.

  ‘How can you people have got this so wrong?’ the Minister said.

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say we got it wrong, exactly,’ said the Chief Food Safety Officer.

  ‘The science is very complex,’ said the Chief Medical Research Officer. ‘We can only base our recommendations as to what constitutes a healthy diet on the latest available evidence.’

  ‘There is nothing the matter with fresh fruit and vegetables per se,’ said the Chief Agricultural Officer. ‘It’s just that they’re not as good for us as was once thought.’

  ‘Not as good for us?’ the Minister said. ‘They’re really bad for us. We’ve been banging on about five portions a day for years and it turns out we’ve been advocating poisoning the entire population.’

  ‘That’s pitching it a bit strong,’ the Chief Food Safety Officer protested, but without conviction.

  ‘Well, what about these cancer-risk figures?’ said the Chief Political Adviser. ‘What about these heart-disease estimates?’

  ‘I don’t suppose the results could be inaccurate, could they?’ the Minister asked in a pleading tone.

  ‘Biggest survey of its kind ever undertaken,’ said the Chief Food Safety Officer.

  ‘Flawless methodology,’ said the Chief Medical Officer.

  ‘The proof’s in the potatoes,’ said the Chief Agricultural Officer.

  There was silence again. Then the Minister turned to the Chief Political Adviser.

  ‘Clive,’ the Minister said, ‘this time tomorrow morning, when we reconvene, I want a full strategic action plan in place. Gentlemen, we must not sidestep this issue. We must face up to our responsibilities. Immediate, decisive and effective action is required. I take it we are all agreed? Very good. It is absolutely imperative, then, that not a word of this is permitted to enter the public domain for a period of at least – shall we say – thirty years?’