James Kelman - Dirt Road

A few in the audience laughed but most seemed not to know anything, but Murdo knew. Robin Hood couldnt have been Scottish because he wore a green uniform. Protestants blue and Catholics green. Murdo looked to see Dad. It was the kind of stuff he hated. And hearing it out in the open made it strange-sounding and childish.

Chess was now on stage and with his fiddle at the ready. Declan pointed at the slogan on his baseball cap: Duncan Bizkitz Outlawd! Them’s the politics I respect! Old Duncan now, he was a good old boy, fought a good fight and what happened to him? turned him into a goddam franchise.

Applause and some laughter.

Yeah, now, you all know another Macpherson? General James B?

People were quiet. The younger guys in the kilts and Glengarrys were staring at him.

Yeah, nothing worse than a Civil War, brother against brother. James B fell in the struggle for Atlanta, killed by men under the command of the bold John Hood; a hard man, a one-legged man; them two boys both Scotch descended, one north, one south, same class at West Point. Macpherson had the brains, helped Hood pass his exams. But Hood had the savvy. Declan spoke into the mic: You talk about your Beauregard and sing of General Lee;

but the gallant Hood of Texas he played Hell in Tennessee.

Yeah! called somebody, and another gave a loud piercing whistle, some scattered applause but then silence. And Declan continued: Another of the bold fellows there, Ould Paddy Clebourne from County Cork, Irish as the day is long. And a Protestant! Yeah. Some man the ould Paddy fellow. You all know he annoyed the bossclass? Asking them to emancipate and arm the slaves? Declan paused. Confederate Army General asking them old armymen to dish out guns to the slaves, free them and their families. Yessir, aint that a man.

Declan chuckled, glanced about the audience. Moral to that story: life is complicated. Okay! Listen up now, this is the bit makes me smile, some of them rebel boys — Scotch, Scotch-Irish, Ulster-Scotch, whatever you want to call it — they put their own words to this song. Folks been trying to track them lyrics down, cannot trace a single line. The men are gone so’s the words they wrote, commemorating the time they shot down James B. Macpherson, made him one Union soldier that did not go

marching through Georgia.

He had sung the last line and it was to a tune Murdo knew from back home to do with Protestants fighting Catholics. Declan looked about the audience again. No sir, he said, they stopped him dead in Atlanta.

Declan did his stagey growl into the mic: Good talking here in my home state. Cant get talking this way in Texas boy they would string me up. All them songs are histories. Lyrics I sing written by whoever, I dont know, tune goes back seventeen hundred or thereabouts. Right Chess?

Chess nodded, adjusting the fiddle.

“Macpherson’s Farewell”, said Declan leaning in to him, and added, Shoulder to shoulder.

They exchanged looks then Chess did four scrapes of the bow. Four scrapes. How did that work? Sad but not sad, not like for crying. This was straight-talking how Chess played it: here is the story this is the story, and in Declan came with it:

Fareweel, ye dark and lonely hills,

far awa beneath the sky

Macpherson’s time will not be lang,

On yonder gallows high.

Farewell. Getting put to death on the gallows. This became a fight too. But what was the fight? Murdo didnt know. But that is what he heard. Tough was Macpherson’s life and tough how he led it. Murdo knew the tune well but this was different how Chess played it and the song like how Declan Pike sang it. It was a thrilling thing and not a lament like a farewell: more of a big and loud “Cheerio guys”, a shout: “Cheerio guys!”

Just dealing with the problem, that was Macpherson. Hullo and cheerio. Up on the gallows awaiting the drop. People waiting to buy yer fiddle. Guys ye knew. Ye were maybe having a beer with them the night before. Now here they were, wanting yer stuff. Oh you’re going to be dead in a minute so give me yer fiddle. Fuck you. Maybe yer clothes too, jees, the olden days; people had nothing. You go your way they go theirs. Families and friends split down the middle, you go one way yer pals go another.

Ye expected one thing in music then it was away someplace else. How did it happen? But it did. Everything was in that song how these two guys played it, and the men fighting and the women suffering and all everything that happened, all just stupid. They were telling ye and if ye didnt like what they were telling ye then hard luck.

It was special, so so special. Murdo was lucky, how could he be so lucky like just being here and just like everything, everything. He was wanting to play, it would have been good to play. He got up onto his feet and that was that, not looking at anybody; kept his head lowered, stepping to the side of the area, having to go round the back to get out.

There were plenty gaps in the audience. Less people here than Murdo thought. Maybe a few had gone earlier. He didnt look too closely in case Dad was looking, he just needed away.

*

Stalls and tents mostly were closed now; people shifting things into cars and pick-up trucks. The places doing business were for food and drink. The busiest cooked bar-b-que. Folk sat inside or on chairs outside, having a smoke and drinking beer, laughing and talking. Their voices carried. People had gone home and would return for the Hielan Fling. Most but not all. Ones who had traveled a distance would be staying during the in-between time.

Today was the first gig he had been to in ages. Since before Mum died. And being in the audience was good. That strong effect it had inside ye. The music into the body, connecting ye. Sound wasnt just mental it was physical, made up of these tiny wee particles just like anything else; yer hair and yer teeth, yer socks and shoes; yer entire body: sounds were part of it.

The field at the other side of the Gathering area. Murdo had been walking and arrived here without knowing. Earlier on boys and a couple of girls were playing football. At one stage the ball trundled towards him and he did six keepy-uppies, then passed it back. The boy who collected it did a weird flick trick with the ball between his ankles, then kneed it to one of the others who trapped it on the upper part of his foot. So ha ha to you!

It was true but, Murdo wasnt good at football. Dad was a lot better. Dad played for actual teams when he was a boy. He used to come out with other dads. They played in a patch of spare ground down the street where they lived. The boys and the fathers together. That was fun.

It was still hot and Murdo had the jacket slung over his shoulder. He only brought it for the pockets. He reached the fence at the far end of the field. There was a break in it. He could walk through. Beyond was a clump of trees. Ye could cut through here and be away altogether.

The sound of a helicopter; there in the sky circling. Where had it come from?

He kept walking. Cattle! Cowboys riding through gulches and canyons. In the old days in Scotland ye got cattle drovers from the Highlands driving the herds down to the big Glasgow market, cutting open the veins in the cattle to let out blood for food; mixing the blood with porridge oats.

Cattle look at ye. Captured and chopped. What happened to the horns and tails? Hamburgers and sausages. A lassie in school said how all the disgusting bits made hamburgers. She was a veggie, but what she said was right enough. She had her own style, and her own laugh too; a real laugh, sounding like a gurgle or something, and ye could make her laugh.

That certain way a lassie laughs. Guys can make them laugh. Ye make a lassie laugh, that would be special.

Imagine walking through the trees. Imagine he had brought the rucksack and his stuff was all inside, so ye could just like head off into the mountains. Maybe that was the way to LaFayette, marching to Georgia, that would be him, and Murdo laughed. There by himself, he did, he just laughed; not for long.