The Pure Land Read Free

peering out the high window into the grey.
    Robertson followed his gaze.
    ‘Call it Aberdeen!’
    Glover cracked his knuckles, dipped the nib of his pen in the inkwell, settled to work through the pile of papers on his desk.
    By mid-morning the sun had started to burn off the haar. He stood up from his work and crossed to the window, looked out. Great granite buildings took shape, crenellated bulk rising out of the mist.
    This city. Its solidity.
    In the other direction, down the street, he could see the masts of the ships at anchor, gulls circling overhead.
    ‘Have you dealt with those bills of lading, Mister Glover?’
    He hadn’t heard old George come in to the room. The voice was quiet, dry. Rustle of parchment.
    Glover turned.
    ‘Aye, sir. They’re on my desk.’
    ‘Well, Mister Glover. I would appreciate it if they were on my desk.’
    George swished out the door again. Glover picked up the documents, caught Robertson’s eye and mimicked the old man’s soor prune face to perfection.
    *
    The air of the pub was a yellowing haze, a sepia fug, nicotine tinted, thick with the reek of tobacco.
    Glover shouldered his way from the bar, through the hard drinkers crowded into the smoky den, made it back to his table holding steady the two mugs of beer.
    Robertson shouted to him above the noise.
    ‘I’d appreciate it if that pint was on my table, Mister Glover!’
    ‘It’ll be over your fucking head in a minute, Mister Robertson!’
    He set down the mugs, licked the spillage from his fingers, shoved his way along the bench.
    ‘Your health!’ Robertson took a sip.
    ‘Aye.’ Glover swigged, wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.
    ‘Dour old bugger,’ said Robertson. ‘Old George, I mean.’
    ‘Tornfaced,’ said Glover. ‘And prim. Mouth on him like a cat’s arse.’
    Robertson spluttered and sprayed, almost choked on his pint. When he’d recovered, he said, ‘Makes you wonder how he could have fathered a divine creature like young Annie.’
    ‘I would imagine,’ said Glover, ‘in the usual way. Mind you, there are some things I would rather not imagine!’
    He swilled down more of his beer, for the first time all week began to relax, unclench.
    ‘Thank God for Saturday night, man.’
    ‘You think it’s God’s work?’
    ‘Isn’t it all?’ said Glover. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, and on the Saturday night thou shalt be half seas over.’
    ‘Amen to that!’
    By the fourth pint, Glover could feel the surge of it through him, euphoric. It was glorious, bathed everything in a warm benign glow. Yes. Aye. Life was good. He threw back his head and laughed a great roar of a laugh.
    ‘What?’ said Robertson.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Glover. ‘Everything!’
    When Robertson had taken a drink or two, he liked to quote Burns. Tonight it was Tam o’ Shanter.
    ‘ We sit boozing at the nappy, getting fou and unco happy .’
    The place sweated and stank, dripped condensation from the low ceiling. It swayed and heaved, ship in a heavy swell. At closing time it pitched them out into the street. They surfaced, gulped in air. The cool was a sudden rush, delicious shock of exhilaration.
    ‘Yes!’
    The sky was cobalt, the nearest it would get to full dark. Simmerdim. The light nights.
    They fell in with a few others they knew, young clerks like themselves. Now they made a company, and they roistered and swaggered, their boots clattering on the cobblestones down a dark lane by the docks.
    Glover stopped. He had an important announcement to make. He articulated his words with great care.
    ‘I need,’ he said. ‘To pish.’
    He heard himself and laughed at the pompous sonority of it. The others moved ahead and he unbuttoned himself, released a steaming stream against a dank wall. The relief was exquisite. Yes.
    He turned, shaking off the drips, and caught his breath as he realised someone was watching him.
    She had stepped out of the shadows, stood half-lit in the fainterratic flicker of the