After a pause Mr Ross said firmly, “It is NOT good enough.”
“Then you’ll let me try to do something about it?”
After a pause Mr Ross picked up his book, appeared to read it again and muttered, “Go ahead.”
Swiftly McCrimmon unpacked his camera, clipped on a flash mechanism and snapped the still figure in the bed from several angles. Then he said, “You next Mrs Ross.”
“No. On no,” she said firmly, “I’m not going to have a lot of total strangers staring at me. It wouldnae be right.”
“You never told me to expect anything like this,” muttered McCrimmon, scowling at the teacher. Ten minutes passed before Mrs Ross was persuaded to sit.
“Don’t let them make me do it, John,” she begged her husband. He said, “You might as well, Beth. The pictures won’t appear in any papers sold in this area. If they’re printed in a book Glasgow libraries won’t stock it. Snap her quick, McCrimmon.”
“Hector’s photographed the queen, Granny!” said the teacher. “You’re as important as the queen is. If the queen gets photographed by Tony McCrimmon why shouldn’t you?”
At last she consented to sit in her rocking-chair with the tea things beside her, both hands thrust out of sight in her apron pocket and the kettle on the range blowing a faint cloud of steam behind. She gasped each time the flash exploded but kept the unyielding expression of a martyred stoic.
“Your tea will be cold now,” said Mr Ross, shakily putting down the mug with the straw which he had sucked a little. “Drink it up Mr McCrimmon and she’ll make another pot while you tell me more about this Matthew Brady and his impact on the American dust bowl.”
“No tea for me,” said McCrimmon swiftly packing, “I’m already late for my next appointment. But my time has not been wasted. You have both added to the fruitfulness of what promises to have been a rewarding evening … Coming?” he asked the teacher.
“I’m afraid I must go, Granny. Tony and me have this appointment. But I’ll be back soon, probably with Lorna and the boy. Good night Grandad.”
“Aye,” said Mr Ross.
As Mrs Ross helped the teacher on with his coat she murmured, “Yes, bring Lorna and the laddie soon — but don’t bring him.”
“I won’t.”
“Will we be paid anything for all that fuss?”
“I don’t know Granny.”
“A bit of extra money would be a help now he never leaves his bed.”
“I’m not rushing you! Stay here if you like,” called McCrimmon from the landing. The teacher followed McCrimmon downstairs. Though admiring how the photographer had managed his grandfather the visit had not left him happier. He also wished he had not suggested he would soon return with his wife and child. That would never happen. Lorna hated slums and the Cowcaddens had become one. At the close mouth McCrimmon said, “A very punishing session. For God’s sake lead me to a pub.”
6
Two hours later they sat in a noisy overcrowded lounge bar, the teacher brooding over the visit to his grandparents and trouble with McGrotty. He wondered why they worried him equally. The money he was spending on drink for McCrimmon also worried him. The photographer kept ordering pints of Guinness with large malt whiskies. This sacrifice to Bohemian good-fellowship had brought the teacher no greater liveliness, no brighter sense of social existence. He felt feeble and dull and oppressed by loud voices from adjacent conversations.
“So this big blonde with the huge tits walks straight up to me and says, ‘Is there anything you would like sir?’ HAW HAW HAW.”
“Thistle is a rotten team. The Thistle hasnae a chance. Our lot will walk over them. Our lot will walk right over them and trample them into the ground.”
“And that is the true story of my last and worst encounter with Beaverbrook, but I confess to pangs of injured vanity laddie. I seem to be casting pearls of wisdom into unreceptive ears.”
A barmaid placed a Guinness and a Macallan before McCrimmon. The teacher reached into his pocket saying gloomily, “I’ll pay.”
“You’ll have to, laddie. The McCrimmon wallet is not in the best of health.”
There was silence between them for many minutes.
“Queer about that old woman,” said McCrimmon suddenly.
“What old woman?”
“That old-age-pensioner. Your granny. Did you notice her primitive reaction to this?” (McCrimmon touched his camera.) “She definitely did not want to be photographed.”
“She was shy. A lot of people hate being stared at by strangers.”
“What is shyness? Irrational terror. Your granny is like African blacks who think anyone who takes their picture has captured their souls. And we find the same superstition in the wife of a Glaswegian industrial serf! We have not advanced as far above the ape as our atom-splitting technology suggests.”
“You annoy me sometimes.”
“Tell me more, laddie.”
“You keep changing your story. You told me you wanted a record of folk in the old tenements because there was something fine and artistic about them. You told my grandad …”
“I know what I told your grandad. Did I contradict myself? Very well, I contradicted myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes. Don’t try to shut Tony McCrimmon into your toty-wee mental filing cabinet, laddie. He won’t fit. He’s too big.”
With an appearance of great satisfaction McCrimmon swallowed his Macallan. The teacher, crushed by the toper’s superior intellect, heard a bell ring and the bar manager shout, “Last orders ladies and gentlemen. Your last chance of a drink before closing time.”
“What use is life Tony?” asked the teacher desperately. “Is there a purpose in it, a way to make it better, or should we just suffer and survive? I’m asking you because I know you won’t give a religious answer. I don’t like religion. My mother was a Catholic who had to leave the church because she married a Protestant. She died thinking she would go to hell because of that. I know she didn’t go to hell. I know there’s no afterlife so I can’t be religious. But I want to believe something.”
“Quite right, religion’s just pie in the sky, OVER HERE DEARIE!” roared McCrimmon waving imperiously to the barmaid. “Purpose of life et cetera? In two words? Get me the same again and I will give you … the entire scenario and destination of our existence … in a coupla words.”
The teacher bought the same again and waited while McCrimmon, frowning deeply, refreshed himself with thoughtful swallows.
“Feel good,” he announced abruptly. “Feel good is what the life-force in each one of us decrees. Hemingway said it. Agree with him.”
“I can’t!” cried the teacher, exasperated. “I only feel good by accident. Nothing I plan to do or try to do makes me feel good and the harder I try the worse I feel. But what I most hate is that nobody respects me. Why should they? What is there in me to respect? Yet look at my grandad and granny. They’ve had rotten lives compared with mine, overworked and underpaid when not downright unemployed. Their most prosperous times were during two world wars. They never expected to feel good but they’re still better people than me. They have dignity. I think my grandad will be dead in a year or less, and knows it, but is dying with dignity because he respects himself. I think my granny knows it too and is helping him, though God knows what will become of her when she’s left with nobody. No wonder I hate visiting them. They make me ashamed of myself.”
“I can explain all that,” said McCrimmon with a slight hiccup. “You see there are always two main types in this world of ours, always have been, always will be: aristocrats and serfs. The aristocrats are the feel-goods — the five per cent born into the dolce vita. Eating, drinking, clothing, housing, fucking is no problem to that class because they have everything money can buy. Their only work is issuing orders and pulling off money deals. They enjoy that because it proves how important they are. The other class are the serfs whose only satisfaction in life — if they can get it — is doing a job that thousands of others would do just as well if they dropped down dead. Religion was once the opium of the serfs but nowadays it’s socialism. Is your grandad a socialist?”