LITMIR.BIZ

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your dial, however bonny the lassie may think it is. I can tell you that, Corporal … We’ll have a tune now. We’ll have Morag’s Lament again.’ Jock looked solemnly at the Corporal. ‘Morag was the name of my lassie, once upon a time, and Morag’s the name of my wee girl.’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘And then we’ll have The Big Spree. After that we’ll think and you’ll have something to wet your lips. Come away with you then. Come away with you.’

      To the unpractised ear a pibroch has no form and no melody, and to the accustomed ear it has little more. But it is a mood and a pibroch was something Jock felt almost physically; damp, penetrating and sad like a mist. It envel-oped him and pulled at his heart. He was far too much the professional to be moved to tears, but the Corporal played well and it took a moment before Jock fully recovered himself. The pibroch very often comes to a sudden end; it is a finish that makes it a fragment, and the more sad for that. Jock nodded his head slowly, three times.

      ‘Corporal Fraser, you’ll make a piper yet.’

      The Corporal gave a sunny smile.

      ‘Aye, you’re better at the pibroch than I’d known. Your grace-notes are slurred but otherwise it was good. Now give me the pipes, lad; we’ll have a turn ourself.’

      In his trews, with his fat bottom waggling as he marched up and down the room, Jock looked comic. To begin with, he looked comic. But soon he was in the full rhythm of the tune, and he was absurd no longer. A good piper is like a rider who is one with his horse, and Jock was soon part of the music. He played some marches, with a fault or two; then a slow march; then a faultless pibroch. That is something that a man does only a few times in his life; and the Corporal was dumb with admiration.

      As he slowly laid the pipes down, Jock himself was aglow with pride. He was sweating with the exertion, but his eyes too were glistening. He was like a schoolboy who has won his race.

      ‘That’s how to play the movement, laddie. It’s no just a question of wobbling your fingers on grace-notes.’

      The Corporal at last found his voice.

      ‘I’ve never heard the pibroch better; never better.’

      Jock nodded shyly.

      ‘I don’t think I’ve ever played it better. So there you are. You have to be in the mood for the pibroch; it is a lament. It is a lament.’ He mopped his brow. ‘But it is something else as well. That’s the catch. It’s no just a grieving. There’s something angry about it too.’ Charlie Scott was sure it was all beyond him and in a moment Jock said, ‘Och, well, Corporal, you’ll be wanting away to your lassie. You’ll have to jump the wall.’

      ‘It’s too late for that now, sir.’

      ‘D’you hear that, Charlie? The lassie’ll have gone home to bed. Now see what you’ve done.’

      ‘Wise woman.’

      ‘Then away you go, Corporal. Away to your own bed.’ The Corporal put on his bonnet and came sharply to attention.

      ‘Permission to dismiss, sir.’

      Jock looked up at him. He liked the formality. Suddenly he approved of the Corporal.

      ‘D’you want me to help you with that pibroch, Corporal?’

      ‘Very much, sir.’

      Jock nodded. ‘A-huh,’ he said, and he clasped his hands and bent forward in his chair. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

      Charlie said, ‘You’ll be in no sort of shape tomorrow morning.’ But Jock ignored him.

      ‘Half-past twelve?’

      ‘I’ll be in the gym then, sir.’

      ‘What are you up to in the gym?’

      ‘Boxing, sir.’

      ‘You’re a boxer? Light-heavy, is it?’

      ‘That’s it, sir.’

      ‘Then we’ll meet some other time. You’re a man after my heart, Corporal. We’ll make a piper of you yet.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      Jock nodded again. He made a little gesture. ‘Dismiss.’

      Through the biting cold, the Corporal made his way back to his bunk in the band’s quarters. He was shivering in spite of the whisky inside him, when, half undressed, he slipped between the rough blankets and drew his greatcoat over the bed. He had put newspapers between the blankets earlier in the evening, and now he was glad of them. As he lay there he could see the cloud of his breath in the pale light of the barrack lamp which shone through the narrow window by his head, and he felt a soldier’s loneliness. He thought for a moment of the grace-notes, and the pibroch; then he thought of his girl; just thought of what she looked like. He wished he could keep her more constantly in his mind but she kept slipping away from him, and away again as he slowly fell asleep. But in his dreams her face was trans-formed, for the Corporal dreamt of his Colonel.

      The bottle was three-quarters empty.

      ‘You’re a miserable man,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s not three-quarters empty. It’s a quarter full.’

      ‘It’s your turn.’

      ‘I had some when you were blowing your guts out.’

      ‘You have no music in you. No music in you at all.’

      Jock put the bottle to his lips again, then he held it in his lap. The chairs all round faced one way and another. It was as if a storm had abandoned them there.

      ‘I was thinking as I played, Charlie. I should have been the Pipe-Major; that’s what I should have been. But that was not the way of it. And I’ve acted Colonel, and I bloody well should have been Colonel, and by this hand boy, I bloody well will be Colonel. I will.’

      But Charlie was snoring. For an instant Jock looked as if he were going to kick him, then he seemed to see the joke.

      ‘Oh, you bastard,’ he said slowly and gently. He pro-nounced the word with a short a. ‘Oh, you bastard! You’re no a good listener, either.’ And alone he finished the bottle.

      Like a bath of water, the room grew slowly colder and Jock sat dazed. He could not bring himself to move, though the hand which clasped the empty bottle grew icy cold. At last he bit his lip and, stiffly, rose to his feet. Then gently – and it took great strength – he lifted Charlie in his arms, and a little unsteadily, carried him upstairs. He placed him on his bed, and threw a couple of blankets over him. Charlie was still sound asleep. And Jock smiled on him, as if he were a child.

      He brushed his hair in front of the mirror, and once more he buttoned his tunic and his trews. He lit a cigarette, and with great concentration he found his way to the cloakroom where he remembered to collect his bonnet and coat. The air outside made him gasp. The wind had dropped but the sky was starless; there would certainly be more snow before morning. He dug his heels into the ground in the approved fashion, but this did not prevent him slipping on the icy patches. Precariously, he picked his way round the barrack square. As he marched up to the gate he walked more confidently and he swung his arms. Then suddenly he felt an urge to call out the guard and he instructed the sentry to shout the necessary alarm. The guardroom came to life with the sound of swearing and of soldiers clambering off their steel bunks. Rifles were dropped and somebody kicked over a tin mug; knife, fork and spoon were scattered over the concrete floor. But by the time they had formed in their correct rank outside Jock seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings. He could see a fault in the dress of every man there but he did not bother to inspect the guard. He just returned the Corporal’s salute, and without a word went on his way. He left the guard bewildered and the Corporal apprehensive.

      FOUR

      ON SUCH A night and at such a time he tended to call on Mary Titterington, but it was six weeks now since he had seen her and he had decided on

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