The Burry Man's Day (41 page)

‘Safe?’ he said. ‘He’s been keepin’ me prisoner. But then, I’m a deserter, you know, so I deserve nothin’ else.’

‘But if he wanted to punish you –’ I began.

‘Why didn’t he turn me in?’ said Billy. ‘Easy Because if he’d turned me in everyone would ken and he’d nivver hold his head up again. This way I get what I deserve and none of it washes off on him.’ I could tell that this was a litany he had rehearsed to himself many times down here in the dark.

‘But why didn’t you just run away?’ I said.

Again he croaked a laugh and then I heard a dull knocking sound.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘For a start, I’m naked,’ said Billy. ‘He took my clothes away. And then there’s this.’ Again there came the same dull sound.

‘What is it?’ I said, but I could guess. Only it was such a horrid, such a ludicrous, idea I could hardly believe it.

‘It’s a ball and chain,’ said Billy. ‘A good one too. A while back I tried tae smash it open and ended up smashin’ my ankle instead. So now, even if I got the thing off me . . .’ He had the offhand way of talking that one puts down to bravery, the just-a-broken-arm-old-chap air that I was used to hearing from officers in the rest home where I volunteered but which I never expected to find in a deserter, and this tone as much anything else was making the scene as unreal as a pantomime.

‘Where on earth did your father get a ball and chain?’

Billy laughed. ‘Ye’d be amazed what ye can find lying around,’ he said. ‘It was likely out of the old castle.’

‘The
old
castle?’ I said. I knew he must mean Cassilis and if Shinie Brown had raided the dungeons before Cad and Buttercup had arrived on the scene . . .

‘Billy,’ I said again. ‘How long have you
been
here? It’s August now. 1923. How long has it been?’

‘August ’23?’ said Billy. ‘Really? I was tryin’ to keep track but it’s hard, you know, in the dark. It was winter when he put me down.’ I waited. I could not begin to imagine the journey he must have made, from France five years ago to here and I could not demand that he tell me, so I waited.

‘The worst bit of all,’ he said, ‘is bein’ on ma own. I wis nivver supposed to be all on ma own. Ma pal and me had a plan. I should say, ma pal and me had a new plan, after the old plan didnae work. An’ that was after the
first
plan didnae work. At first, we were goin’ south. Bobby said that would keep us safe. Everybody was on the watch for deserters headed north, so we went the other way. We were goin’ to Spain, to Morocco, to live in the sunshine.’ This time the laughter went on so long, ragged croak after ragged croak, that I feared he would never stop. ‘Live in the sunshine,’ he said at last. ‘An’ look where I ended up.’

‘So what went wrong?’ I prompted.

‘I dinnae ken where tae start tae tell ye,’ he said. ‘I suppose, underneath it all we jist got so tired. We jist got so damn tired, strugglin’ all the time for the next meal, the next couple o’ days’ work, a safe place to sleep. In the end, Bobby had had enough o’ it and he said, “Come on, Billy. Do or die, pal, eh? Go for broke. Do or die.”

‘We would come back here and get Bobby’s mammy and daddy tae set us up wi’ papers and gie us enough money so’s we could get right away oot o’ it for good. America, Australia, New Zealand even and wi’ papers, so that we would never look over wur shoulders again. So we struck oot. We kent we’d nivver keep together a’ the way and the plan was that if Bobby got back first he’d go straight to his mammy, if I got back first I’d keep masel’ goin’ somehow, hide away in the woods and wait for him. We kent his mammy and daddy might no’ feel the same way if it was jist me as if it was me and him together.’

‘And your own father?’

‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘I telt myself over and over again that I kent my ain father too well to chance it. Bobby made me promise I’d nivver go near him. Bobby kent it would be the end o’ it for both o’ us if
my
father found oot. But when I got here and I’d been up there in the woods, in the winter, livin’ on God knows what, scrapin’ oot folks’ bins at night, I just couldnae believe that he widnae . . . his ain son. I couldnae believe he widnae . . . So, at four o’clock one mornin’ I walked doon the railway line a’ the way doon intae the Ferry and chapped on his door. And – to cut a long story short for ye – here I am.

‘God knows whit happened tae Bobby. If he made it, he’d ken I’d been here – I left the signal for him. So he’d search for me, I’m sure, and he’d wait, but he widnae wait for ever. If he even made it.’

‘He did,’ I said. ‘He made it, but – I’m sorry – you’ve missed him, he’s gone.’

There was a long silence after I had spoken and I could almost smell, almost taste the defeat in him. Then he caught his breath.

‘Whit d’you mean, I’ve missed him?’ he said. ‘I’m stuck doon here. He might well have been and gone but what do you mean to say I’ve
missed
him?’ The hope in his voice was heartbreaking to hear and it occurred to me that what his voice had had before, what it had shared with all those shell-shocked officers in the nursing home, was not bravery after all, but resignation and defeat. Now that he thought he could sniff a chance, his voice strained with hope.

‘It’s over,’ I told him. ‘Your father has been arrested. He found out about Bobby and he killed Robert Dudgeon. Murdered him.’

‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘That sounds like my father. But what about you? Who are you? How did you find me?’

‘I followed your father,’ I said. ‘When he knew the game was up he came straight to you.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Billy said. ‘To finish me off so’s nobody ever found out.’

‘No,’ I said, suddenly remembering Shinie Brown struggling out of his shirt as he raced along. ‘He was coming to set you free. He was going to give you clothes. He must have been going to unlock you. And when he realized that he was being followed he drew us away from you even though it meant giving himself up.’

‘And what about you?’ said Billy again. ‘What are
you
goin’ to do?’ Without giving me time to answer he went on. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, missus, whoever you are. If you turn me in and they put me against the wall and shoot me I’ll still be glad I ran away. At least it’ll be quick and I’ll ken for sure this time it’s over. Just like when Billy and me turned north and headed fur home; we didnae care by then. You jist get so damn tired.’ He did not speak defiantly, nor belligerently, but only as though he wanted to explain something I should never otherwise know. In this, of course, he was right. I never should. The closest I could ever get, if anything of the like happened again, was where Chrissie Dudgeon was, where Willie Brown was. I took a moment to examine my conscience, but it took no more than a moment and there was no doubt.

‘Stay here tonight,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow to the hole with the broken ladder, with clothes and money, and an axe for your chain, but then you are on your own. I can’t help you any more after that.’

‘What will I do?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s not my affair. I won’t help you any more than that.’

‘But I’m all on my own,’ he said. ‘I wis nivver supposed to be all on my own.’

I could feel the tears begin to gather in a spiky lump in the back of my throat. It was as plain as could be that Bobby Dudgeon was the leader and I did not give much for the chances of this boy all alone with no one to make the plans.

‘I’ll tell Joey,’ I said at last.

Billy snorted. ‘She’d turn me in quicker than you can blink,’ he said. ‘She’s married to a soldier, a hero.’

‘Did your father tell you that?’ I said. ‘It’s not true. Of course, you must decide for yourself whether to believe the man who kept you prisoner or the woman who’s setting you free, but I say go to Joey. Get as far away as you can. And take her with you.’

Billy lit a match to show me the start of my way and, knowing he was naked, I could not turn to bid him farewell and so I left without another look or word and began to feel my way back to where I had left Randall, in the dark. He had sunk down on to the stone floor of the passage and had fallen asleep; he woke with a gasp as Bunty barked at my footsteps.

‘I telt ye he widnae hurt ye,’ he said as I reached him.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Time you were home.’

The hole we had come down was hopeless obviously, but Randall knew another escape route: a huge pile of earth, up which we crawled on our tummies, feeling it slide away beneath us, until it brought us within feet of a ragged hole amongst tree roots, a nice size for Randall and Bunty to pop through like rabbits and just big enough for me to squeeze through with much grunting and effort and leaving behind me of buttons and trim.

‘God, no wonder you’re all so filthy all the time,’ I said, spitting out crumbs of dirt and trying to shake the worst off my hair and what was left of my dress. ‘Now let’s get you back to your mother.’

Inspector Cruickshank’s motor car was still parked at the Dudgeons’ gate when we drew up there minutes later. Randall jumped down and raced up his own path, turning back to face me halfway and drawing a cross over his heart. Then he opened the door and slipped inside to face, I expect, a scolding from his mother for being just slightly dirtier than usual. I, just slightly dirtier than him, was already dreading the scolding to come from Grant. I sat for a minute, wondering what was going on between Mrs Dudgeon and the inspector, hoping that the widow could get her story straight, or that the inspector might regale her with my version of Brown’s motive and that she might only have to keep quiet and nod.

I was just about to restart the engine and leave, when the passenger door opened. Bunty, asleep on the back seat, did not even stir.

‘Alec?’ I asked, as he climbed in. ‘Have you been waiting here or did you . . . follow me?’

‘I came here to meet up with you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t work it out in time to follow you, unfortunately.’

I said nothing.

‘Did you find him?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Naked, in chains, half-starved. I found him.’

Again we sat in silence, but this time it was me who broke it, just as Mrs Dudgeon’s door opened.

‘Here comes the inspector,’ I said. ‘So if you have anything you want to say to him, now’s your chance.’ Mrs Dudgeon, seeing me, waved sadly before she shut the door.

‘No,’ said Alec. ‘But there is something I want to say to
you.
I have a few old clothes with me that I don’t really need any more. If I were to look them out . . .’ I could not speak; if I stopped biting down on my teeth I should sob.

‘I’ll get them in the morning,’ I said at last. The inspector was walking towards us and I hoped the darkness would cover the worst of my dishevelment. ‘I need to pop into the village to the bank,’ I said, ‘and then I thought I’d ask Mrs Murdoch for a picnic basket and come for a picnic in the woods.’ Inspector Cruickshank drew up beside us.

‘You’re not too scared to be in these woods now?’ he said, hearing me.

‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘In fact, I think I’d like to be alone tomorrow, Alec, if that’s all right with you.’

‘I think so too,’ Alec said.

‘What can I do for you?’ said the inspector. ‘You were waiting for me, I see.’

I was momentarily stumped, but Alec came to the rescue.

‘Thinking things over, Inspector,’ he said, ‘it occurred to us that you can close another case you’ve got open on your books. A double murder, four or so years back?’

The inspector scratched his head for a moment and then whistled, impressed.

‘By George, I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘It was exactly the same. I’ll get right on it, sir. First thing tomorrow.’ He reached across me to shake Alec’s hand and then took mine too. ‘See and enjoy your picnic, madam. Or is it more than a picnic?’ he went on, twinkling. Solving three murders in one night had put him in a tremendous good humour, it seemed. ‘Are you bringing an offering to all these spirits and demons and beasties we hear so much about? Don’t let the Turnbulls catch you at it.’

‘No, not an offering,’ I said. ‘Just a picnic lunch. After all, it’s the living we need to take care of, isn’t it Alec, not the dead.’

Facts and Fictions

Most of the places here are real places, although Brown’s Bar is fictitious, as is Cassilis Castle, which can be understood to lie somewhere between Scotstoun and Carlowrie. There was a short-lived shale mining enterprise on the spot where I imagine Dandy and Randall had their adventure, as well as the larger and longer-lasting Dalmeny Shale Oil Works, the entrance to which lay just behind the station.

Most of the minor characters in the book – the Turnbulls, the Lamonts, Father Cormack, The Rev. Dowd, The Rev. McAndrew, Inspector Cruickshank, Dr Rennick, Provost and Mrs Meiklejohn, and Pat Rearden – are entirely fictitious, as are all the principals: the de Cassilis family, the Dudgeons, and obviously the Browns. Folk like that could never belong in the Ferry.

Some of the others are real. The three families of Linlithgows, Roseberys and Stuart-Clarks did and still do live in three estates around Queensferry; I have stolen some land from the Dundas and Dalmeny estates to make way for Cadwallader’s acres. Also, in 1923, Mr Faichen was the undertaker, Mr Fairlie was the grocer, Mr Mawdsley was the harbour master, and there were Quigleys, Marshalls, Christies and McPhersons in Queensferry as there are today. It should be noted too that Dandy was right about wee Doreen Urquhart: she did grow up to be a beauty and she had a huge personality inside that tiny frame.

As far as I know, there never was a feud, a squabble, even a murmur, over the Burry Man or any other aspect of the Ferry Fair. Also, although Queensferry does have its fair share of ghostie stories and pubs, it is not
quite
as steeped in horrors as I have suggested here.

Finally, the Burry Man can still be seen walking the town on the second Friday in August. Hip, hip, hooray.

Acknowledgements

For invaluable help with historical detail I would like to thank: Jimmie Boner, Ranald Mackay, Sheena Mackay, Lyla Martin, Len Saunders, Jimmy Walker and the other members of the Queensferry History Group; Robin Chesters and Carol McDonald of the Almond Valley Heritage Centre; Nancy Balfour, Jim Hogg, Ann Morrison and the rest of the staff at the Edinburgh Room of the City Library; Jeff Balfour at Kirkliston Library; and Jim McPherson for patient recall of details of the old Ferry. Thanks too to Nancy Johnson for her Queensferry memories.