Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

Murray wondered if the old man was trying to provoke him away from the subject.

‘I’ve already spoken to Fergus about Lunan. He gave the impression they weren’t acquainted, though he did mention they’d met once, at a poetry reading. He said Archie was drunk.’

‘I’m afraid Professor Baine may have been rather economical with the truth. He and Lunan were well acquainted. They were both key parts of my little group.’

An ache nagged at his left leg. Murray shifted against the wall, unable to make sense of what James was telling him.

‘He never mentioned it.’

‘I’m surprised.’ James sounded anything but. ‘Maybe he chose to forget. Clever men are sometimes reluctant to remember fields in which they didn’t shine.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me, professor?’

He could hear the old man’s smile gleaming across the miles that separated them.

‘Many things, Murray.’

It was the first time the professor had used his given name. Was it an invitation to press further, or simply a tease?

‘Something to do with Lunan?’

‘Why don’t you ask Baine? After all, you’re colleagues. It was a long time ago and what I heard may have been gossip.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘The front door, I think it must be Helen.’ There was a clunk as the receiver was dropped. Somewhere in the distance James said, ‘Did you get any of those biscuits that Iris is fond of?’ And more remote still came the indistinct tones of a female voice answering him.

Murray stood up and stretched. Day had slipped into night now and he would have to walk back in the dark. He held the mobile to his ear, hearing the faraway rattle of Professor James’s domestic life, distant as the sound of the sea heard through a shell. He was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello? This is Helen Trend. With whom am I speaking?’

He hunkered down behind the shelter again, cupping his hand round the phone to protect his words from the wind.

‘Dr Murray Watson. I think Professor James may have forgotten he was talking to me.’

Professor James’s daughter was briskly cheerful.

‘In that case he’s been struck with sudden senility since yesterday. I’m afraid my father has just stepped out of the room. Nature calls rather frequently these days. You might be advised to ring back later, unless it’s anything I can help you with?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘So certain.’

Helen Trend’s voice assumed an unexpected flirtiness. Murray pictured a well-preserved fifty-year-old with buttery yellow hair. It amazed him that even here, on this inhospitable hillside, his mind could conjure an image worth fucking.

‘We were discussing his poetry circle, more specifically Professor Fergus Baine.’

The voice on the other end lowered an octave.

‘That’s a name I haven’t heard in an age. Why on earth were you discussing that rogue?’

‘I’m writing a biography of the poet Archie Lunan. According to your father, he and Professor Baine were associates.’

The woman laughed.

‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything my father has to say about Fergus Baine, I’m afraid his name is mud in this house.’

‘Do you mind my asking why?’

There was a pause on the line. The sheep had stopped calling to each other, but the hillside was alive with noise. A shrill cry sounded from somewhere in the settling dusk and Murray pulled up the collar of his jacket. He remembered reading of some plan to reintroduce wolves to the Scottish Highlands, wondered if it had ever gone ahead. No, surely the sheep farmers would never allow it.

Helen Trend asked, ‘What institution did you say you were associated with?’

They both knew he hadn’t associated himself with any institution, but Murray didn’t bother to argue the point.

‘The University of Glasgow.’

‘I see.’ Once again there was the slow pause as if she were considering what to say. ‘I’d heard Fergus was back teaching there.’

‘He’s currently head of department.’

‘Yes, so my sources tell me. And you and my father were discussing him in relation to a book you’re writing about Archie Lunan?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did my father tell you?’

He had never been much of a card sharp, but instinct told Murray to conceal the fact James had told him nothing.

‘I’m not sure that I’m at liberty to discuss that.’

‘No?’ The flirtiness was gone now. ‘Then let me phrase my question in another way. Was it anything that might be construed as libellous?’

Despite the cold and the dread of the downward journey, he was suddenly enjoying himself.

‘I’d have to consult a lawyer before I could answer that question.’

‘I could recommend the services of my husband or two of my sons, but there might be a clash of interests.’

In Murray’s mind the soft, buttery hair shifted into Margaret Thatcher’s lacquered helmet. The conversation seemed to be escalating beyond his control.

‘Mrs Trend, I get the feeling I’ve inadvertently offended you. I can only apologise, though I’m not quite sure what I’ve done.’

‘No?’ The laugh returned, sharp against the wailing wind. ‘Let me make it clear then. If you were to print anything my father told you about Fergus Baine that could even be considered libellous, and therefore detrimental by proxy to my father’s reputation, I would have no hesitation in instructing my lawyers to begin a case against you, and remember Dr Watson, I get my legal counsel for free.’

‘I’ve got the deepest respect for your father. .’

His words were cut short by James’s voice on another extension.

‘This is a private telephone call, Helen, hang up, please. I’d prefer to talk with Dr Watson alone.’

‘I was just telling him that. .’

‘Hang up, Helen. I’ll be through shortly.’

Professor James’s voice had regained all of its old authority. Murray gave an involuntary cringe at the meekness of his daughter’s reply.

‘Yes, Dad. Sorry.’

There was a click and a moment that might have been silence, were it not for the wind racing across the hill. Then James said, ‘What did she tell you?’

This time Murray told the truth.

‘Nothing at all, except that she was concerned I might expose some disagreement you had with Fergus and dent your reputation. She was warning me off.’

‘My reputation has nothing to fear from Fergus.’ James sighed and Murray got a feeling that an opportunity had been lost. ‘How well do you know Professor Fergus Baine?’

‘Not well at all. He’s only been part of the department for three years. He came here from down south, met and married Rachel in what Mills and Boon would describe as a whirlwind romance.’ Murray tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘Last year he was appointed head of English literature.’

‘Have you read any of his books?’

‘I glanced through his last couple.’

‘Of course, it’s only politic to at least take a glance at your colleagues’ work, even if you can’t stand them.’

‘What makes you think I can’t. .’

‘Don’t bother to bullshit me, Murray.’ The Americanism sounded strange in the professor’s mouth. ‘You’ve got as much love for him as I have. Admit it.’

Murray said, ‘We’ve never really seen eye to eye.’

The older man’s laugh sounded exasperated.

‘I imagine that is as much of an admission as I’m ever going to get. Did you know he published a slim volume of verse years ago?’

‘No.’

‘No reason why you should. It sank, pretty much without trace. It’s out of print now, but I think you’d find it well worth reading. Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll send you a copy.’