The audience did not move. A girl begged, “One more?”
“Right, a short one. Bonnie George Campbell … Don’t try to accompany this,” she told Plenderleith and sang,
“High in the Highlands and low upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell rode out on a day,
Saddled and bridled and gallant rade he,
Hame cam his guid horse, but never cam he.”
During the last verse the teacher was gripped by an audacious notion which made him tremble with excitement.
“Doon cam his auld mither greetin’ fu sair,
Doon cam his bonny bride rivin’ her hair —
‘My meadow’s unreaped and uncut is my corn,
My barn is unfilled and my babe is unborn.’ Now give me something to drink because my belly thinks my throat’s cut,” said the singer. There was a murmur of laughter and applause and someone handed her a glass of wine. The teacher hurried over to Plenderleith and said urgently, “Do you remember On Duty, Plendy?”
“Eh?”
“On Duty — A Tale of the Crimea. I sang it on the staff outing to Largs.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to sing it now. Vamp along with me will you? It’s an easy tune — dee dum dum dum dumpty, dee dum dum dum dum — you can do it.”
Plenderleith looked thoughtfully at the teacher for a moment then shrugged and said, “All right.”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” cried the teacher loudly, “ladies and gentlemen I don’t know who the last singer was but we must all agree she was splendid! Wonderful! Sublime! But she sang nothing very patriotic, did she? So it is now both my duty and my pleasure to give you a rendition of that popular patriotic ballad, On Duty — A Tale of the Crimea. Would someone near the door switch on the ceiling light? This ballad goes better without moody lighting. Thank you! Here it comes — On Duty — A Tale of the Crimea.”
Standing to attention like a soldier on parade he sang,
“The place was the Crimea, the year fifty-four,
When passions had unleashed the demon of war…”
Most of the audience were rising to leave when he made his announcement but paused to hear the start of the song. It glorified the charge of the Light Brigade, in such melodramatic clichés that the teacher’s Marxist uncle had amused family gatherings by singing it with an appearance of solemnity. Nobody here seemed to understand the joke, no matter how rigidly the teacher stood and how loudly he sang in the dialect of an English officer, so he changed to a London cockney dialect. Halfway through the second verse his only audience was an old smiling man in an easy chair and the former singer. When the teacher faltered into silence the old man said, “Go on! You’re doing fine!”
Nursing the glass of wine on her lap the singer said kindly, “Don’t worry son, it happens to all of us sometimes. It’s happened to me.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” said the teacher, “I’m very sorry.” He went to a sideboard and stood with hands in pockets staring at a framed print of van Gogh sunflowers. He would have liked to flee through the lobby and out of the house but dreaded coming face to face with another human being. Noticing Plenderleith beside him he muttered, “Sorry about that. I’m no use, you know.”
“Have a nut,” said Plenderleith offering a dish of salted peanuts. The teacher took and nibbled some.
“What are you no use at?” asked Plenderleith. The teacher brooded on this, sighed and said, “I envy Tony McCrimmon.”
“Why?”
“He enjoys life. He appreciates himself.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“He talks too loud.”
“I know what you mean. Yes, he blusters and bullies and ignores people’s feelings but, well, I think he’s entitled to do that. He’s made something of himself. He’s a talented photographer.”
“He’s a rotten photographer.”
“But he works for the Sunday Times!”
“A year ago they used one or two of his photographs, that’s all,” said Plenderleith between crunching on peanuts. “When he first landed in London he bluffed his way into one or two worthwhile commissions — they were never renewed. People soon saw through him. Of course he drinks like a fish, which doesn’t help. Have another nut.”
The teacher stared at him blankly then nodded and hurried from the room.
He found McCrimmon in the crowded living-room talking to a blonde girl in a very short black dress and fish-net stockings. He had backed her into a corner and was saying in exasperated tones, “I am not asking you to do it nude. You wouldn’t need to wear less than, shall we say, the briefest of brief bikinis!”
“I’m not interested!” said the girl. “Get it into your head that I don’t want to talk about it, let alone do it!”
“Tony,” said the teacher.
“But there’s money in it,” cried McCrimmon, “big money! You’re the type they go for…”
“Excuse us Tony,” said Jean walking round him and placing an arm on the girl’s shoulder. “Rita, there’s somebody over here who wants a private word with you. Sorry Tony.”
She led the girl away.
“My God,” said McCrimmon turning and surveying the room with disgust, “what a party. Cheap food, no booze and the most frigid women I’ve met in my life.”
“Tony,” said the teacher.
“What do you want?”
“I want to buy that film from you.”
“What film?”
“The film in that camera —” (McCrimmon still wore his overcoat with the gear of his profession hung from the shoulders) “— the film with the photos of my granny and grampa in it.”
“You do not understand photography, son. I own the copyright of everything I take. In the course of time I will send you a sheet of contact prints from which you may select those you would like which I will then enlarge. But remember this, it won’t be cheap.”
“That’s not what I asked you to do. I said I would pay you to photograph my granny and grampa. You did it and now I want the film.”
“I don’t get this!” said McCrimmon shaking his head. “You make me photograph your old folk — make them sit for me — then without a word of explanation you ask for the undeveloped film!”
“No. I’m telling you to sell me the undeveloped film. Here and now! At once!”
McCrimmon turned his back and shouldered his way into the lobby saying, “Sorry son, you cannae afford it.”
“Hand that film over Tony,” cried the teacher, following.
“I get it! You’re jealous!” said McCrimmon facing him again. “You’re jealous like all the others. You cannae see someone do something original and artistic without wanting to throw your own miserable wee brick at it. Your trouble, Jimmy, is your totally third-rate mind …”
“You’re a liar McCrimmon,” said the teacher feeling his face get hot and speaking with a voice which grew suddenly huge, “a liar, a bully, a boaster, a phony and a failure! What could be more third-rate than you? — You drunken idiot!”
He glared at McCrimmon and in the silence which followed knew many were watching him and that he had never spoken so nastily to a human being before, not even to the worst of his pupils. His muscles were tensed for a fight but McCrimmon replied with unexpected dignity.
“You’re wrong. I may be a failure and drunkard and … and other things but I am not third-rate. Second-rate yes, all right, but not third-rate. At least I’ve tried to get out of the rut. I failed, true. You havenae even tried.”