George Meikle’s laugh was harsh.
‘No, I wasn’t. But it’s not me we’re talking about, is it?
Murray felt weary with the weight of defending Lunan, a man who he suspected was probably as big an arsehole as George was implying. But it wasn’t the man he needed to defend. He said, ‘Archie Lunan may not have been Scotland’s favourite son, but he produced one of the most remarkable and most neglected collections of poetry ever to come out of this country.’
They had reached the foyer now. George turned to face him.
‘And you’re going to right that?’
‘I’m going to try.’
The older man’s voice was sweet with sarcasm.
‘A big thick book about a wee, skinny poet and his one, even skinnier volume?’
‘If I can.’
George shook his head.
‘And the greater part of it about how he went.’
‘It’ll be a part of it, but not the main part. I’m writing for the Edinburgh University Press, not the News of the World.’
‘Aye, that’s what Mr Moffat said.’ George hesitated, as if making his mind up about something. ‘You asked where I was when I spied Lunan in the pub. Half the time I was sitting opposite him, the other half I was sitting on the bench beside him.’
‘You were friends?’
‘Drinking pals, for a while.’ Meikle took a deep breath. ‘Why do you think Tuffet was bringing me along to meet you? You could find your own way to the request desk fine. He thought I might be able to fill in some gaps.’
‘And can you?’
‘I doubt it. All we ever did was hang about pubs talking pishy poetry. The kind of thing you no doubt get paid good money for.’
Murray grinned against the unfairness of George Meikle’s first-hand contact with Lunan.
‘I’d like to hear your memories of Archie, they could be a big help. Maybe you’d let me buy you a drink?’
‘I don’t drink.’
He wondered if anyone had conducted a study into the link between being teetotal and being a depressing bastard. But then the old man gave his first genuine smile.
‘You can stand me a coffee in the Elephant House when I knock off.’
Murray bought a ham and tomato sandwich from the newsagents opposite the library and ate it standing in the street. The bread was soggy, the tomato slick against the silvered meat. He forced half down then consigned the remainder and its plastic box to a bin. He’d turned his mobile off when he’d entered the library that morning, now he switched it on and checked for messages. There were two. He pressed the menu button and brought up Calls Missed. Jack had rung once, Lyn twice. He killed the phone and went back into the library. He had a lot of work to do before he met George Meikle.
The Elephant House was jam-packed, but Meikle had managed to bag the same seat that an insecure Mafia don would have chosen, near the back corner of the second, larger room commanding a good view of the café and ready access to the fire escape. Murray eased his way through the tables to greet Meikle and check on his order, then retraced an apologetic route back, past the glass cabinets stuffed with elephant ornaments to the front counter and the long queue to get served. When his turn came he asked for an Americano, a café latte and two elephant-shaped shortbreads, then negotiated his way back to the corner table, holding the tray carefully, praying he wouldn’t upset it, and if he did that it wouldn’t be over an occupant of one of the three-wheeled buggies that were making his journey so perilous.
Meikle folded the Evening News he’d been reading into a baton and slid it into the pocket of the anorak hanging on the back of his chair. Murray lowered the tray onto the table then unloaded the cups, slopping a little of the black coffee onto its saucer.
‘Sorry that was so long, there’s a big queue.’
Meikle gave the shortbread a stern look. ‘If one of those is for me, you’ve wasted your money.’
‘Watching your figure?’
‘Diabetes. Diagnosed three years ago.’
A vision of his father flashed into Murray’s head. He wrapped the shortbread in a paper serviette and slid it into the pocket of his jacket.
‘That’s not much fun.’
‘Eat your bloody biscuit.’ Impatience made George’s voice loud. One of the yummy mummies turned a hard stare on them, but he ignored her. ‘Biscuits I can stand. It’s the booze I find hard to watch folk with, and I’ve been off that twenty years.’
‘Since Archie went.’
Meikle shook his head.
‘You’ve got the bit between your teeth, right enough.’ He leaned forward. ‘An unhealthy obsession with your subject may be an advantage in your line, but remember Lunan only touched a small portion of my life. I’m sixty-five now, due for retirement at the end of the year. I’ve not seen Archie since we were nigh-on twenty-six. My quitting the drink had nothing to do with him. It was necessary, that’s all.’
Murray held up his hands in surrender.
‘Like you say, it’s a bit of an obsession.’ He took his tape recorder from his rucksack and set it on the table. ‘Do you have any objection to me recording our chat?’
‘Do what you have to.’
Murray hit Record and beyond the window of the small machine cogs began to roll, scrolling their voices onto the miniature tape.
‘So what was he like?’
George’s face froze in a frown, like an Edwardian gentleman waiting on the flash of a camera.
‘When I knew him he was a great guy.’
Murray rewound the tape and pressed Play. George’s voice repeated against the backdrop of café noise, When I knew him he was a great guy.
‘Jesus, I hope you’re not going to do that every time I say something.’
The young mother gave George another look. This time he held her gaze until she glanced away. He muttered, ‘You’d think no one ever had a fucking bairn before.’
Murray bit the head off one of the elephants and pressed Record again.
‘So what made him a great guy?’
Meikle answered with a question of his own.
‘What do you know about Archie?’
‘The work. Basic stuff, where he was born, his death of course, and a few things in-between. I’ve been interested in him since I was sixteen, but I’m only starting serious research into his life now.’
‘Have you talked to Christie?’
‘I’ve corresponded with her. She’s promised to meet me.’
‘And do you think she will?’
‘I hope so.’
George nodded his head.
‘Fair enough.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want to know.’
‘Whatever you want to tell me. First impressions. You said he was a great guy, what was so great about him? Did he consider himself a poet when you knew him?’
George raised the mug slowly to his mouth, as if it wasn’t the drink he wanted so much as the thinking time. He cradled the cup in his hands for a moment, then set it down, running a finger thoughtfully along the rim, rubbing away a thin brown stain of coffee.
‘When I first met Archie he didn’t know what he was. I mean I think he knew that he wanted to be a poet when he was in his pram. He was always straight about that, but he still wasn’t sure about who he was. He was a west-coaster like yourself, but he was living here in Edinburgh and he’d spent his early years on one of the islands, so his accent would scoot about north, east and west.’
‘Everywhere except the south.’
Meikle laughed.
‘That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. You don’t find many Scotsmen aspiring to come from the south, not the ones who stay, anyway. But what I meant was his voice reflected the way he was, unsettled, always trying out new personas. ’