It was 6am and the mist rolled off the lochside like butter curling beneath a hot knife. Panting and sweating I followed the single track road round by the side of the water. Struggling for breath I cursed the day I started smoking and wondered how many more days the Sergeant would make me do this run. I stopped jogging and decided to walk awhile. The mountains which huddled around the Lochside looked stern and grim, foreboding. ‘I guess that’s why I have to do this’ I thought, ‘You wanna be a cop and be part of Mountain Rescue too, you gotta be fit’. Picking up the pace again I could feel a stab in my chest, the heart and the head wanted to push on but the lungs were saying ‘Whoa!’. Once more I thought about why I was doing this ‘Do you really wanna be a cop?’ the lungs were asking my head. My head was entertaining doubts…’Five more miles to go, five more miles! You can’t make it, you won’t make it, give up you really dont wanna do this’. The doubts weighed so heavily upon my body that I ground to a halt.
‘Jeez Ben!’ I said out loud and thought I heard the faint echo of the words on the mountainside. ‘I can’t do this’ I thought ‘Why are you doing this? What’s the point of day after day running 15 miles round a Lochside in the Scottish wilderness and all to be a cop who gets spat on, knifed, abused and generally hated by the population of slumland Glasgow?’

Five miles to go and I could no longer find a reason for doing so. Off to my right I heard a stirring, with the absolute certainty that no fool other than myself would be found on the Lochside at this time of the morning I froze in apprehension. What I then saw transfixed me. A true Monarch of the Glen, King of the mountainside, emerged from the mist, reddish brown and the largest antlers I have ever seen he strolled majestically out onto the road before me. He saw me I have no doubt of that. And yet having seen me he did what Stags rarely do, he beckoned a small one to step forward. Together they stood on the roadside and I watched mesmerized. Slowly but with purpose the Stag made it’s way to the water’s edge and the little one followed. The Monarch stepped into the icy cold waters until only it’s majestic antlers and head could be seen above the waterline. He called for the little one and together they ploughed through the Loch. I watched as the Stag made sure that at all times it was beside the little one. It let the little one drive on and spent most of its time looking in the opposite direction to where it was going so that it never lost sight of the little one. I know the depths of those waters, I know the undercurrents and I watched with baited breath as they reached the most turbulent stretch across the middle. The stag every now and then moved it’s antlers to touch the little one, was it pushing it on? Was it re-assuring it? I don’t know….possibly both. Clearing the mid section I began to lose sight of them in the mist and as if by some divine intervention it started to lift and I watched as both made shore on the other side. Gently, quietly they made their way to the foot of Ben Vrackie and pushed their way through the trees and safety.

Still motionless I thought hard on what I had seen, my own thoughts from just fifteen minutes earlier came back to rattle around in my head ‘Why are you doing this?’ ‘We have a duty of care to the little ones’ came the reply. It was the fastest five miles I have ever run in my life.

Folks tend to talk about the the good things in their life more than the bad, I want tell you about some bad times because something special happened to me then. When I lived in London I was a high flyer with all the trappings and surroundings that success brings. A penthouse apartment in Chelsea, a beautiful wife, a fast car and and an even faster lifestyle. Then the brakes went on, I hit the booze and watched as the good life ran away and my wife ran away with the rest.

Homeless and with only the clothes I stood up in and my guitar I wandered the Streets of London sleeping in hostels at night and playing my guitar and singing on the streets for money by day. I played the tube stations, the shopping malls, but mostly I played Kensington Bridge which linked North and South London over the famous river Thames. It was hard, hard to look people in the eye when deep inside you knew all you wanted was their money. It was begging but using a guitar to shield myself from the harsh realities of all that this meant.

Down and out I’d sit there on the bridge and wait for the first of the commuters to start emerging from the tube stations and railways and make their way across the bridge. I’d sit there watching the river until they appeared. Once they started crossing the bridge I’d stand up and play, sing for whatever they could spare. It was while doing this that I noticed something special happen.

I had an Ovation guitar, beautifully strung and wonderfully weighted, she was a joy to play. It was while strumming her that I noticed the folks on the bridge faded from human form to beautiful colours, the more I strummed her the more my pain at what I’d become was washed away in a vibrant sea of colour and warmth. It caused me to sing louder, play better, more focussed, more ‘in tune’. She and I became inseperable. If I was there she was too. Whenever things got too much for me, whenever life kicked me hard again I would simply reach for her, stroke her gently and the colours would begin again and thus so doing she withered the harsh black and white that was reality.

I was ‘discovered’ thanks to her, the Pink Panther club and the Phoenix both found me playing on the streets and both gave me the chance to kick start life all over again. I grabbed it with both hands and now I’m okay, comfortable, a roof over my head and food in the freezer and still playing.

I’ve never forgotten what that Ovation did for me. Never forgotten the heights that she took me to. As the years rolled on I played her every now and then, more so when I felt low and sure enough no sooner would I stroke her than the colours returned.

She sits alone, seperate from my other guitars. She looks at me every now and then as if to ask ‘Why are you not playing me?’. Time moves on and things change, new discoveries are made and realities change. She did me proud once but now I have no need to touch her. Now all I need do is think of her - and every pain, fear or heartache simply melts away, those wonderful colours emerge once more.

Whenever we had a show to perform Craig was always late. He was the one member of the band who never went professional, clung to his day job just in case we never ‘made it’. His job required him to be in some far flung region of Scotland and it was always a mad dash for him to get back in time to perform. He always made it by the skin of his teeth. The roadies would have his gear all set up and his Bass guitar tuned ready for him to burst through the stage door and shine, twenty six years old, blonde, blue eyed and the most talented Bass player I have ever known. He made her sing, fretless, he would slide his bridge building hands ever so gently down the length of her neck and caress her so sweetly that she moaned in sheer delight.

No-one called me Ben and Craig was no exception, ‘Big man’ he would say and for all his priceless talent it made me feel good that in those words there was a mutual admiration, a mutual respect, ‘Big man, the show we have next week in Anstruther! It’s only a few miles from where I’m building a bridge across the sand dunes, if we stay in a hotel that night I could show you where it is, it’s almost finished!’
He said it with all the innocence and excitement of a kindergarten kid who’d painted their first picture. How could I resist? I booked the band into a hotel and we made plans to go see Craig’s Bridge the day after the show.

The show was a sell out and a huge success, we spent the night celebrating into the wee small hours of the following morning back at the hotel. It was noon before any of us awoke the next day. Bleary eyed and hung over we clambered into the tour van and headed for Craig’s Bridge.

It was a beautiful day and walking by the shoreline Craig incessantly told us of the marvellous engineering feat he had created here. He told us about tension, weight loads and the difference it would make to holidaymakers who could now access the other side of the tricky dunes without trouble. In a drunken hungover condition we all murmured words like ‘Great Craig’, ‘Cool’, ‘Shuttup and just get us there will ya.’

We stood on the bridge and Craig ran the length of it ‘See it doesn’t shake!’ He said.
‘Well how come I’m shaking?’ I said.
‘Oh that’s alcohol big man, it aint my bridge’
The rest of the band laughed and then we all wondered what to say. What do you say about a bridge?
‘Yeah Craig, it’s a bridge alright and you can get from this side to that one without it collapsing or you falling over. Guess it must be a good bridge then’ Said Jocky the lead guitarist.
‘Does it lead to a bar?’ I asked.
‘You guys are Pagans’ He laughed, ‘Don’t you see the importance of bridges?’ Bridges bring two places together that were once inaccesible! Every bridge no matter where is a huge step toward integration of two previously separate areas. At a symbolic level bridges can be said -’
‘Oh Craig spare us the College speak and just find us a bar will ya?’ I interrupted.

Months later and Craig was still building bridges and still arriving late for shows. We loved him to pieces. We did a show at the Crooked Arms in his home town and he was welcomed by the crowd like a conquering hero returning to his roots. I even stood to one side and let him upstage me with a beautiful rendition of ‘Comfortably Numb’ by Pink Floyd. The smile on his face when he returned to his Bass position on stage said it all ‘Thanks Big Man’. No need for a hotel for Craig that night as it was his home town he could make his own way home. After the show we found somewhere to have a few beers and we all did what we do best, played music sitting with accoustics in our laps, talked music and drank. Craig was still on a visible high and drinking way more than he normally would. Time for sleep. Jocky the lead looked at Craig, ‘You’re not taking the car lad, gimme the keys.’
‘No worries Jocky,’ Craig replied ‘I can walk from here I’ll leave the car in the car park and pick it up in the morning’
With those words we headed for our rooms and let Craig take the walk home.

The cops told us that the brakes were never applied, they told us the car failed to take the corner and just kept on going, through a hedge, through a field before stopping, embedded in an Oak tree. He was killed instantly.

Every year I go to that bridge, every year I do the same thing, I stand there and I scream his name and I pray, I pray that wherever he is he’s still building bridges, only this time building one from his side to ours. I pray that somehow his beautiful face will emerge from nowhere and he’ll say ‘Did it Big Man’, ‘I built the mother of all bridges!’
If only he would.

Scotland has beautiful countryside, towering mountains and sweeping glens, lochs carved from rugged hills and heather covering it all in a beautiful purple shawl. It is there that you’ll find me in the summertime, or occasionaly at other times walking, climbing, always looking for a new vantage point, a new way of seeing things.

Glen Affric is a huge swathe of land crowned by a glorious mountain bedecked in pine trees and sits proudly and squarely in the Highlands. It beckons to all to come view it’s majesty. On a day when I felt troubled, I took myself off there to see if there was anything she could say. To see if there was another way of looking at things.

The climb starts off easy before becoming a real test of stamina. The foot deep layers of Pine needles hamper every step and only when you break through the trees do you begin to glimpse the delights she has to offer. Then your feet are on solid granite, then you can push forward with vigour but the climb steepens sharply. Forcing my way upwards I refused to look back or look down because I wanted to save the splendid view she would have for the top. I didn’t want to spoil it.

Once at the top I looked out across the Highlands and was humbled by the beauty of nature. Off in the distance I could see Ben Nevis proud and loftier than any mountain in Scotland, the little village of Drumnadrochit down below looked like a minature made for keeping encased in a glass bottle. Breathing in the pure clean air I sat down and wondered at the beauty of it all. If any man ever sought an answer to any problem then this is where it would be found. Here there were no lies, no deceptions, just beauty in all it’s glory and splendour, and in that beauty could be found truth.

A slight breeze began to blow but it was warm, comforting after the hard climb to the top. The weight of the sky began to press down as if forcing the question from my mind. Reluctant at first I ignored it by looking at the landscape but the landscape too demanded the question be asked. Knowing that this would be a final confrontation, a final question with a final answer I looked out once more on loch Ness down below and whispered the words, ‘Who is she?’. As the breeze gently glided past my ears I thought I heard it say a name. My head turned but the breeze had gone. Looking down once more I saw the waves ripple on the loch and they formed her name, the trees swayed and as the leaves turned round to display the lighter side of their bottommost parts they shone a name from the forest picked out from amongst the darker hues of the topside. The sun shone bright on Nevis and that bold granite mountain had her name carved on its side. Everything that nature had to offer fused into one and that one was a name. There could be no doubting it then, no denying it then, for atop Glen Affric there are no lies to be found. I knew not where she would be, I knew not what she would be doing, but I allowed a simple kiss to leave my lips and be carried on the breeze. Mother Nature and the mysticism and romance of Glen Affric would ensure it reached her.

Kensington Bridge could be cold for a busker. When the wind whipped off the cold river Thames it seemed to rise up and attack my fingers making it more difficult to play the guitar. As the day wore on however the sun rose higher and a gentle warmth would ripple through me. Watching the commuters emerge from the tube stations or alight from the buses I started to recognise the same faces day in and day out. Never knowing their names or their occupations I often wondered what it is they did for a living, where it is they go? I soon learned that certain people would part with a certain amount of money only if I was playing something they could relate to, something by someone they liked, the connections, at times, were hilarious.

One bowler hatted and pin stripe suited gentleman would always give me two quid if I was playing something heavy by Whitesnake. I imagined him back at his home in Suburbia after a hard day at the office shedding his suit like a snake sheds it’s skin and donning denim or leather before looking at his wife and saying something like ‘Let’s rock bitch’. A Japanese lady always gave me money if I was playing something by Neil Young, I thanked God that she wanted nothing musical from her own culture lest I found myself being lynched by an angry mob of commuters for singing like a cat. Every Monday to Friday I would see the same faces again and again. Only on a Saturday when the office workers changed to being shoppers did the faces really change.

Then there was Terry and Julia. I’d seen them and recognised them as a couple long before they ever paid any attention to the guy with the guitar begging for money on the streets. Every day they would step off the number 210 bus from Hounslow holding each other’s hands, on the sidewalk they would kiss and part company each heading for a different side of the bridge. On one particular morning they arrived a little earlier than usual and it was then that they introduced themselves to me. After some small talk and introductions Terry piped up ‘We hear you everyday man, you’re good.’
Julia had a magnificent smile on her face and I could sense that this was more than a ‘chance’ stop they had made to speak to the busker.
‘Hey do you know Nights in white satin by the Moody Blues?’ Terry asked.
‘Yeah sure I do’ I said pleased that he hadn’t said ‘Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen’ or some other totally impossible song for a solo musician to play and sing.
‘You see it’s going to be the first song at our wedding, we got engaged yesterday’
Julia took a small step forward and with her face lit up showed me the ring, it was beautiful. I held my guitar up winked to them both and sang my heart out for the couple. They rewarded me kindly.

From that day forward whenever the 210 rolled up to the bus stop I would play and sing Knights in white satin right on cue. Sometimes my position on the bridge would be different because of the cold wind whipping up and it would be Terry that would pass me and throw me a coin or two, sometimes it would be Julia but always, always, they smiled and gave me a thumbs up sign or some other gesture to let me know the novelty hadn’t worn thin. One morning they never arrived, the same thing happened the next, ‘Holiday’ I thought until Terry arrived the following day but without Julia. Sensing that something was wrong I didn’t launch into Nights in white satin but left it alone and tried to catch Terry’s eye as he passed. He noticed and sidled up to me slipping through the throng that was heading over the bridge.
‘It’s over man, we had a bust up and it’s over. So please if it’s okay with you no more Nights in White Satin’
‘Jeez I’m really sorry to hear it but no problem I won’t do the song again. No chance of sorting it out?’
Terry shook his head emphatically ‘Guess not, I love her like nothing on earth but we just lost it somewhere along the way.’

Weeks passed and I would only see Terry alight from the bus, I never saw Julia. Terry would rush if he was late and barely acknowledged my presence, but that was okay, I understood. Once or twice he stooped down to drop a few coins in my hat but he never spoke, his face and his demeanour told me of the pain he was going through.

It was a Saturday, a day I’ll never forget and even to this day I keep repeating to myself ‘There are twelve million people in London, twelve million!’. This Saturday I was destined to meet only two, or rather only two would matter.

The 210 rolled up to the bus stop and I saw Terry alight, it was the first time I had ever seen him without his office suit and tie and it was the first Saturday that he had ever come into the heart of London on my bridge. He nodded to me and headed off in the direction of Kings Road. Less than a minute later another bus rolled up and Julia stepped off. The first time I had seen her in a month, she didn’t look over toward me as I was some way back but she headed for the south side of the river in the opposite direction to Terry. I was dumbstruck, both on a Saturday. I looked North on the bridge to see if I could catch a glimpse of Terry and maybe he would have noticed that Julia was here too. I couldn’t see him. Julia was getting further away with every step. There was only one thing to do, one thing to play, one thing to sing.

Picking up my beloved guitar I started the first strains of ‘Nights in white satin’, I let the tempo quicken as my heart was pounding and ruling my arms. I hit the chorus line and sang louder than I have ever sung before, I watched as Julia stopped further down the bridge and turned herself around to look at me. I kept on singing and slowly, uncertain, she walked toward me. I smiled at her to reassure her as I carried on singing and I looked North once more to the other end of the bridge and sure enough there was Terry staring back down the length of the bridge. If ever a song could enchant someone, if ever a song could mesmerise two people toward it’s source then it had to be now. I couldn’t stop, I had to keep on singing and like a fisherman pulling in his catch draw them nearer. Slowly but surely they both made their way toward me. They caught sight of each other and stopped but there was no way I was going to stop now. Once more they started toward me before finally they met in front of me.

I have no idea what they said to one another, I have no idea what they thought or did afterward, I know only that they both walked together to the North side of the bridge before melting into the crowds as one.

Those that were watching the busker on the bridge at that time, at that very moment, will probably be wondering to this day why I took my guitar gently and kissed her beautiful neck.

I think of her when I’m awake, I think of her when I’m sleeping she quite simply ‘is’. There is nothing I do where she does not play a part either in my mind or my heart. Quite simply she is everywhere. It is water that divides us and in my dreams water cascades all around and she moves gracefully beneath a waterfall, I glimpse her but the vast expanse between us is too great to narrow.

There is a bridge in my dreams, a bridge where like two children we can meet before the witching hour demands we part and with all the innocence in the world we cast something into the water to see who will win in the great race downstream. I choose a stick she chooses a yellow handkerchief. We run along the bank watching as first that one picks up speed and then this one. Then when we are exhausted from the race we tumble headlong into each others arms. We kiss by the banks of the river. At an appointed time however the bridge will vanish and we both must return to our seperate shores. Such is my dream.

Well reality found me on the Moray Firth, fishing. It was a grey day (Perfect for fishing) but nothing was biting. Up to my knees in water it felt cold as it swept gently past. ‘No Salmon for tea tonight’ I thought and as I did so my mind wandered from the river to her once more, I saw her face, her smile and I thought of our nightly trips down the riverbank.

Out of sight, out of reach and with a vast expanse of water between us I gave a pained expression as I longed for her. She had become everything that I lived for, everything I loved, everything I desired but oh that heart aching distance between us. Reeling in my line, I gently gathered the fly hook and taped it to the rod. I took one last look at the Moray in all her splendour, her calm ways, her depth, her mystery. I looked down at the water’s surface and smiled at the crystal clear nature of her - I could see my feet some three feet below the surface! With a smile at the thought of her I waded gently through the river toward the shore when something caught my eye. Heading straight for me with no deviation something moved swiftly but silently and as it neared I reached out a hand and grabbed at it….It was a yellow Handkerchief. As I looked upstream and wondered, I realised that this day on the Moray, I’d made the catch of a lifetime.

He pushed his nose up hard against the cold window, his breath covered the pane. With his fingers he created a little square through which he could see the gaslight man walking the road and extinguishing the lit flames along the roadside. His mother was ironing, a tall slender woman whose beauty seemed to be ebbing lately. Too much worry.

“Why don’t you go out and play Ben?”
He said nothing. It took a lot to get him to leave the top floor flat of his slum tenement and descend the spiral staircase. The toilet which was shared by eight other families and lay at the bottom of the stairwell worried him. At night when he climbed out of the bed he shared with his three sisters he would rather pee in the sink than go down there.

“Everyone else is at school, you’ll be free to play by yourself.”
He thought about it before deciding that his mum was right. No-one would be around, he would be free. But it meant descending the staircase.
“Will you take me?” He asked.
“Course” His mother smiled.

As she walked him down the spiral steps he held the wooden bannister, looked at the iron rails and wondered what they would be like collapsing whilst the very stairs beneath his feet tumbled, down, down, down. Would he be on top? Would he beat the stairs to the bottom and fight them off as they headed for him? As the thoughts ran through his head the light of the backyard door shone through the dark stairwell.
“Somebody in” A voice called from the toilet built into the wall at the backyard door.
“It’s okay I’m just letting the wee man out to play” His mother called to the strangers voice.

Five large fingers let go and he was gone. “And stay out of the green puddles, you’ll get scarlet fever!” He heard her but wasn’t listening.
Already he was working out where the Commando was. Six times he’d thrown it from the kitchen window and five times he’d found it.

The backyard and all that stretched before him resembled the remnants of a World War one battle scene. Rubble, holes, puddles, rubbish and filth everywhere. Picking up a stick he headed for the big green puddle, he was sure it landed in there. Stirring like a witch in her cauldron he swirled the stick until it hit something that moved. By the sense of touch through the stick alone he manouvered it to the side of the puddle to a point where he could plunge his hand in and pull it out. “Yes!” It was the little plastic Commando, six missions succesfully completed. Putting it in his short trousers pocket he meandered on, counting bottles, broken bottles, bricks and tin cans until eventually he stopped looking down and looked up instead. There they were. Giant poles with wires crossing at all points.

His family had never had a telephone and at the tender age of five he really thought that the poles and the wires were what kept the rows and rows of dirty brown sandstone tenements together. Those poles and wires held the whole city of Glasgow upright.

Climbing up onto a washouse roof he could hear some women inside washing clothes. He hoped it wasn’t Mrs Mcallum. She knew it was him that chalked Ben loves Molly all along the wall of number twenty six. It was only a matter of time before she met his mum and told her. Then there’d be trouble he thought. Maybe they’d met already, maybe his mum secretly knew and was waiting to pounce. Or worse still maybe Mrs Mcallum would get him on his own. But then there was Molly…he meant it, yes he was only five but he meant it. When she and him sat in the darkness of the backyards at night they’d light fires and talk about ghosts and she’d giggle. He was always frightened but she’d giggle. Then she’d tell him about two headed men that hid in the toilets at night.

Just thinking about her made him swing his view toward number twenty eight and the barricaded backyard door. He thought about what lay behind, the rubble, the iron railings, the wooden bannister. He saw her fall. Heaven they said.

Leaping from the washouse roof he landed on the dyke wall that ran the length of Stoneyhurst Street and ran. As he ran he stopped ocassionaly and looked at the poles, too small he thought. ‘Too small’. There at the end of Stoneyhurst street was the biggest one. From his vantage point it touched the clouds. In an instant he was moving again, he heard a washouse door slam as one of the women came out to see what the noise on the roof was, he kept running the dyke. Every now and then he leapt the missing capstones of the dyke and landed on the other side - now he was there. The big one. With the grasp of a human monkey so natural to all the kids from Possilpark he started climbing. Off in the distance he could hear someone drop their washing as it hit the bricks with a mettalic thump.
“Betty” The washing dropper called. “Betty!”

His mum was called Betty. He loved her and would never deliberately annoy her but he loved Molly too and today was her day. One last time he would see her, touch her. On he climbed.

“Jesus Bettyyyyyy” The voice was a call of alarm now. “What?” He heard his mum call back from the kitchen window at the siren.
“Look”
“Fuck! Stop him I’m comin’ doon”

It was too late he was only inches short of the wires now. He had heard they were ‘electric’ but wasn’t sure what that meant but to be on the safe side he squeezed between them until he had finally reached the top. Looking down he saw the heads of half a dozen women and the faces staring up at him.
Clinging for all he was worth with one hand to the pole he reached out to the clouds with the other. Heaven they said.
“Molly” he said. With tears in his eyes he tried once more, “Molly”. Nothing happened. His gripping arm was growing weaker and shaking with the tension of holding on for so long “Molly” he shouted and stretched out his free hand.
From the ground he heard his mother’s voice “Molly’s in heaven son…Molly’s in heaven”.

He knew he couldn’t reach, she was too far away. Before descending he decided if he did nothing for the rest of his life, he would find her. When he became a man, no matter how high he had to climb, how difficult the journey, heaven would be in his grasp and with it, his beloved Molly.

As a kid I’d sit at school and daydream. We had the perfect classroom for it - High on a hill and our class perched at the top of the building. Three sides of the room were huge floor to cieling windows and through them, through the wide eyed gaze of an innocent and curious child I could gaze at the world out there.
‘Goodwin! You’re daydreaming again!’ became a regular cry of despair from an overworked Miss Clarkson. Picking up the chalk she’d just thrown at me I’d offer an apology and retake my seat whilst the rest of the class giggled. Seven years old and itching to be older it took all her powers to break the distraction of the vast expanse outside those three windows.

‘Today we are doing the ten times tables’ She said. Knowing that I could do up to the fourteen times table I let my attention slip and once more turned my incredulous eyes to stare out across the vast City of Glasgow. Out there I thought, there are men and women doing things which are so important and grown up. I wanted to do that too. I wanted to deliver milk, I wanted to make machines work and drive lorries and press buttons and pull levers and out there thousands of people were doing just that. Oh how I couldn’t wait to be older.

One beautiful Spring morning I gazed out at the city once more and the strangest thought popped into my little head. ‘She’s out there’ suddenly I could see it all so clearly - ‘She’s out there’ In amongst all the buildings, roads, seas and mountains there is the girl I am destined to love and marry. ‘What will she be doing now?’ I thought ‘Where is she? Will she be thinking the same thing as I? Will she be in a classroom in this country or another and gazing awe struck from the windows? Is she blonde? dark? tall? cute?’ All of those thoughts rushed through my mind and I could barely contain my excitement at knowing that one day, one fine day I’ll see her…..and I’ll know. I thanked God for those windows, I thanked the angels and the stars above, I thanked Miss Clarkson and anyone I had ever known.

Many years later I found her.

Today I’m forty five years old. I have a pleasant little cottage with a huge window in the lounge. I sit there looking out at the grand sight of the famous Ben Wyvis mountain. Every now and then a thought pops into my mind - ‘She’s out there, somewhere amongst the buildings, the roads the seas and mountains…she’s out there’, and I curse God, I curse the Angels, I curse the stars above, and slowly, painfully, I close the curtains.

This story was first written a year or two ago. In looking over it again I do so with a heavy heart. I received news here in Australia just two short weeks ago that Davie met his end by his own means, his own hands. You’ll never be invisible Davie, not to those who have eyes to see. Ben Goodwin 07/11/2006

Glasgow is a mean city, her tenements stand proud, but like a lady down on her luck her tattered outer garments betray the once glittering heady days. She’s strong and with a vice like grip clings to all that know her. So terrified of the future is she that Mother Glasgow never lets her children fly. They are grounded in all the harsh realities that life can bring, poverty, alcoholism, violence and crime.

We were just kids, Davy, Sad sack and me. Seventeen years old and the crushing weight that was our mother city held us firmly in place. We’d just stolen a seven foot display bear from outside a carpet shop and together we ran with the bear through the streets until we hit a wasteland outside Drumchapel where we lay down in the long grass. Breathing hard we giggled and looked up at the bear staring down at us, it was trying to sell us carpets.
‘What will we call him?’ Sad sack asked.
‘Yogi’ Davy replied. Another round of giggles ensued before Davy pulled a bottle of whisky from his pocket and now that we could breathe properly we all took a long swig each.
‘It’s gonna be difficult getting him back to the bedsit guys. We’ve gotta go through the main street and if the cops are there they’ll nail us.’ I said.
‘Stop worrying Ben. Jeez that’s all you ever do.’ Sad sack said, ‘Who’s gonna hang around when they see three guys walking up the road with a bear? From a distance it looks real’. More giggles, more alcohol.

The night was closing in and as we lay in the long grass we all turned our attention skyward. A long silence ensued.
‘Why did we steal it?’ Davy asked thoughtfully
‘Because we could?’ I said, and as I did so the street lights switched on over on the streets ahead of us.
‘Probably’ one of them answered.
‘We stole it because we’re frightened’ Davy suddenly piped up. Sad sack and I burst out laughing. We were the Drumchapel hard lads, frightened of nothing and baptised in fire, we had blazed and burned a trail since we were twelve years old.
‘Laugh if you like but it’s true’ Davy protested. We stopped laughing long enough to hear him continue, ‘We’re all frightened, think of all the shit we’ve done guys, think of all the bad things. Remember when we chased that Ice Cream guy out of here because we were being paid by the pushers to leave the streets open for them? Remember what we did to him? Or all the insurance scams we’ve organised? How many guys have gone to the Western Infirmary with our hallmark all over them? We do that cause we’re frightened!’

This was so unlike Davy. Davy was as hard as nails and normally his behaviour carried no logic, no thought, no conscience and no remorse. A fierce fighter and as red headed as can be, nothing and no-one stood in his way when he took it upon himself to act.
‘What the fuck you talking about Davy?’ I asked.
‘Ben, you me and the Sad sack were born on the wrong side of the tracks. Don’t you get it? Look at us right now….we’re hiding in long grass with a giant fucking bear and we don’t even know what we are doing here?’ He sat upright to emphasise his final point, ‘We are fucking terrified!’
‘Of what!’ Sad sack yelled back.
‘Of growing up’ Davy replied thoughtfully ‘Of growing up invisible, of dying INVISIBLE!’.
We all sat in silence before I stood up and clutching the bear by the neck started to walk through the long grass and head for our shared bedsit. The others slowly followed.

Three kids and a bear picked out by the moon like we were trapped in a spotlight. We must have made quite an impression on anyone who happened to be looking. But Davy was right. All our lives we would be invisible and all of our lives would be shaped by that knowledge.

Every summer during the school holidays I would be packed off to Grandad’s out in the country. The change from the drab, mean streets of the city was more than just pleasing to the eye. It was physical. After two weeks in the country when I spat, my spit was white. Being a kid I had no idea the smog that choked us back in the city was burrowing its way into my lungs. I put the ‘whiteness’ down to the fact that Grandad always made me hot milk each morning. Little did I know.

Although Grandad’s house was tucked snugly inside the little village of Dailly in South West Scotland, it was just a hop, skip and a leap to cool, fresh water, rivers where no foam or froth from detergents had ever been, and fish stayed alive long enough to catch them with a rod. Those rivers snaked their way slowly through lush green meadows as far as the eye could see. Grandad always treated me like a grown up even at ten years old. Every morning I would have to rise at six am and make ready for the Gypsies and tinkers who’d pass through the village on a lorry stopping only outside his house. Waving goodbye I’d climb on board and head for the fields to pick potatoes for ten back breaking hours. This wasn’t exploitation in the sense that we understand it now. The work was hard and it was mean but it meant that ten year old me came home with a pay packet at the end of the week which was almost the equivalent of a grown up. It made me old before my time but I loved every single second of it. Not only that but the weekends were all my own.

A mile from Grandad’s a solitary run-down bothy stood rotting gently in the hot summer sunshine. The village kids had told me ‘Tam the Herd’ lived there and that if I ever went fishing to avoid passing his bothy because Tam had been known to steal children from the city and lock them up in his bothy, and they’d never be seen again. Very few of those same village kids had seen Tam, he needed no trips to the village shop, drew his water from the nearby river and found food in abundance in the fields around him. At times I thought he might be a myth used to scare ‘townies’ like me. If so, it worked.

I always saved as much money from potato picking as I could. I always wanted to thrill and please my mother by returning to Glasgow with ‘gold in great store’ as the famous song went. Weekends were for hunting, running, fishing and simply soaking up the country air, all of which were free.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was high on the hill at Hadyard Terrace getting ready to race a bicycle downhill over a bumpy dust-track to prove to the village kids that us townies were just as foolhardy as they. Suddenly one of the kids shouted ‘Stop!’. I’ve no idea how many teeth that yell saved me, but it was welcome.
‘Look!’ The yelling kid pointed an outstretched hand in the direction of the main road - ‘It’s Tam the Herd!’
Sure enough there was a figure walking purposefully down the road, but before I could focus properly the kids were running full pelt down the hillside in his direction. I’ve often wondered if kids have some kind of psychic ability, some kind of telepathy because no sooner had he been spotted than it seemed to me the entire village’s population of kids were streaming out of doorways and all rushing headlong in the direction of Tam the Herd. Not being sure of what was going on, I followed but kept a healthy distance on my bicycle from the main raft of kids. Getting closer I could see an old, tall man with whiskers down past his chest and wild, shining eyes. He wore Wellington boots, which almost passed his knees, and they made a flopping sound with every step he took. Baggy trousers were held at the middle by a piece of rope and he wore only a jacket with nothing beneath. As he strode alone down the centre of the road he pushed a large stick before him simultaneously using it for walking and shaking at kids who were now taunting and teasing him. Every now and then if a kid got too close he would weild the stick high in the air before swinging it but never was any contact made as the kids were just too nimble.

I followed the pack as Tam rounded the bend at the foot of the road and watched as he made his way inside the Greenhead Tavern. It seemed to me there were hundreds of kids staring through the doorways and climbing up onto window ledges to see what was going on inside. Soon the owner of the bar emerged and threatened us all that if we did not leave he would telephone the police. Given that my Grandad was one of only two people in the village who had a telephone, and that he never let anyone use it allied to the fact that the nearest police station was 17 miles away there was no great urgency as the kids started to split up and make their way home. I decided to go back to Grandad’s and get my fishing gear ready for some night fishing.

I caught a Salmon, not a large one but four or five pounds worth of Salmon was a treasure. It was late and having no way of keeping the fish fresh, I decided that as the full moon was well high, I really should get back to Grandad’s. Taking care not to get caught on the barbed wire fences surrounding the fields, I made my way through the darkness and although a small road skirted the field I was in, I ignored it. It led to Tam the Herd’s bothy and there was no way I was emerging from the gloom to walk past there. Using the field I walked on until I was sure that Tam’s bothy was behind me before climbing the last fence and stepping onto the track clutching my rod and salmon. I had only taken a few paces when through the darkness I thought I heard a strange sound. Once more I heard it and it sounded like a moan. My heart was in my mouth. I couldn’t see a source for the sound and in such a state of fear I froze. I could neither run for Grandad’s, nor run back the way I came, as the sound was so close that I could be running toward it!  Once more I heard it only this time it was clear and discernible ‘Help me!’ it said. Using the moon as the only source of light I scanned the bushes surrounding the field on the opposite side of the road. Unmistakably a man lay partially covered by grass and down in the ditch by the side of the track. ‘Help me son?’ The voice pleaded. I moved closer and realised to my horror it was Tam the Herd.

Keeping a safe distance, I called ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I have fallen laddie, fallen, and I think I shall never get up without help’
It was clear that he had fallen and even through the half-light I could see blood winding its way down his face from a gash on his head.
‘You won’t try anything funny?’ I asked, petrified that at any moment he might leap up and grab me, just as the village kids said he does.
‘This is a very unfunny situation laddie. I simply don’t have the strength to get up.’ There was something in his voice that calmed me, reassured me of its truth. Even so when the moon caught his eyes they looked wild, fiery. Moving closer I put my rod and fish to one side and placed an arm beneath his. As I did so I became aware of the horrid stench that came from him. Getting to his knees he pulled himself up and the reek of alcohol threatened to make me sick.
He placed a hand on my shoulder ‘Thank you Laddie. Could you find my stick down there?’ He pointed to the long grass in the ditch.’

Handing it to him he asked, ‘Will you see me to my door? It’s not far.’
Knowing that no-one would be this way until morning I left my rod and fish by the trackside and let him lean on my shoulder all the way back to his bothy. He talked as we walked ‘I don’t know your face, you don’t have a village face’ he said between groaning at the pain his movements were causing him. ‘I’m Betty Doran’s son’ I said.
He stopped in his tracks ‘A Dorans!’ He exclaimed ‘Now there’s a family to be proud of! Black Watch! Heroes of Burma, Palestine and Indo-China!’. I knew vaguely what he was referring to as Grandad had been someone famous in the Black Watch regiment and had been decorated so many times he needed two large wooden boxes to keep his medals in.

As we approached his door he beckoned me to enter. ‘I dunno sir’ I said ‘I don’t think I should’.
‘Fear not young Dorans, I simply need some water for my head. If you fetch me it from the bowl in the kitchen, I’ll keep you no longer’. He lit up an oil fired lamp which stood outside his doorway and pushed open the door, ‘See just through there’. Peering inside I could see the bowl by a large copper tub, which he used presumably as a sink. He turned left into a room and was gone leaving me with the decision to make. Quickly I made my way toward the bowl but as I did so I could feel my feet sinking deeper into the floor, it caused no small alarm in me. Looking down I could see that his bothy had no carpets, instead were layer upon layer of empty Hessian potato sacks. Fetching the bowl I made my way carefully to the other room and found him seated by the oil light. It seemed to me his wild eyes burned brighter than the lamp. ‘Here sir’ I said.
‘Thank you laddie, I should have known a Dorans would never desert a needy soldier’. His tone was pleasant, his voice warm and mellow and I stopped feeling so terrified.
‘Why do they call you Tam the Herd?’ I asked, as he dipped his hand in the bowl of water using the sleeve of his jacket to rub it over it his head.
‘After being a soldier in the First World War I became a Shepherd hence ‘the herd’. Your Grandfather knows well of me. Many a day we have remembered the fallen at the Greenhead Tavern’
With all the innocence of youth I asked ‘Why do you live like this?’
He pulled on his beard and his wild eyes looked upward and he gave a pained expression. ‘Maybe you’re grandaddy will tell you’ He said.
‘Please, can’t you tell me Sir?’
His wild eyes fixed themselves firmly on me, but his voice remained calm, his gruff tone dropped an octave, ‘I fought in the war to end all wars Son. I watched the flower of two countries fall beside me. I saw things that I prayed to God would never happen to ones like yourself.’ His eyes began darting around the gloom ‘When it was over I came home to Scotland from France and with the promise of peace and prosperity I built this little house, married a fine lady, a fine, fine lady, and had three strapping sons of my own.’
I was about to interrupt saying ‘that doesn’t explain anything’, when he raised his hand to quell my words. ‘Angus, Fraser and Stuart are my sons, three more beautiful and strong men you will never meet. Oh what possessed me? Oh what posessed me?’ The spaces between his words filled with pain and the words themselves formed questions, his eyes continued their hurried glancing as if looking for answers. Once more he turned to me and there was no mistaking the tears filling his eyes. ‘The evil that filled Europe returned and once more my stock Laddie, my stock rose to the call. My laddies, my beautiful laddies.’ The tears were flowing freely and he reached to hold my shoulder. ‘I sent them to war and they never came home’. As the words left his mouth he pulled me tighter and howled like a hurt fox. I didn’t know what to do. I started to cry.

In some small way, for a brief moment in time, I hope however fleetingly, he felt like one of his laddies had come home.

Ben