Bonny in Black

(Contains speech in Scottish dialect)

It was his mother who started it. "Strushle Jock" she'd call him, to
shame him into buttoning his shirt properly or chide him for wearing
his trousers at half-mast. Not that it changed anything; John
Allardyce's mind was forever elsewhere. If his mother needed a rabbit
for the pot, he could catch one with his bare hands and if eggs were
scarce he knew the nesting places of partridge, grouse, peewit or
capercaillie. From an early age he could carve animal likenesses from
kindling wood. Vanity was alien to him

When his classmates at Aberkinnie School picked up on it, the nickname
became personal, but the more the scruffy youngster fought against it,
the more the label stuck. At fifteen, when the pain of loneliness
really hurt, he tried hard to change his appearance - but the die was
already cast.

At sixteen, with tractors and farm machinery making horses and farm
labourers redundant, John's father found him a live-in apprenticeship
in the village of Craigellachie, sixty miles away. During the train
journey his self-esteem was so low that when crossing the River Spey,
he wondered if drowning would be quick and painless.

It took him less than a week to come to terms with the miracle - that
he'd left Strushle Jock back in Aberkinnie. Bill Stuart, the owner of
Spey Valley Cooperage, welcomed a shy young lad, taking him under his
wing and treating him like family, while teaching him the art of making
and repairing whisky barrels for local distilleries. In time, though
his wife frowned on it, Bill also shared with him his appreciation of
the flavour and comforting effect of a good malt whisky. Later he
demonstrated how an empty hogshead straight from the blender's
warehouse, could magically generate a gallon of whisky or more from its
staves if left in the sun for a day. John repaid his employer's trust
with diligence and hard work.

As the years flew by, he visited his parents only as duty demanded,
studiously avoiding Aberkinnie where the dour Strushle Jock had been
moulded. Yearly he would help with the harvest at the Home Farm where
his father worked and on such occasions he'd silently identify with the
farmer's daughter Mary, especially when her older brothers rebuked her.
"Glaikit Mary" they had called her at school and preoccupied as he had
been then with his own problems, he'd notice how she always blushed and
panicked got things wrong.

Although he made no close friends outside Bill's family and
acquaintances, John became respected in Craigellachie as a keen
fisherman and a darts team regular at the nearby Fiddochside Inn. If
his boss wondered about the lad's background or his desperate shyness
with girls, he was never disposed to embarrass him over it.

When Mary's father was crushed to death on the hill under his new
tractor, John bought a black mohair suit for the funeral. After the
ceremony he waited near the churchyard gate, just far enough away to be
ignored, or near enough to respond to an enquiring glance. "I, eh...I'm
real sorry Mary...aboot your father. It's hard to believe..."

"Aye...thanks...it was a terrible shock."

Their eye contact was lasting and meaningful.

"Well...I jist wanted to ask..."

"Whit? Whit is it Jock? They're waitin' for me."

He scowled. "I dinna like Jock. It's John - my name's John."

"John's fine wi' me - but I have to go." She placed her gloved hand on
his shoulder, glancing back at her brothers, towering protectively over
their distraught mother. "Look, I ken I shouldna be saying this at my
father's funeral, but there's a dance at the Drill Hall in a fortnight.
Will ye be hame that weekend?"

"Aye," he answered absently. "Ye ken Mary, you look right bonny in
black."

"Aye, and you look bonny in black yersel', lad.'"

As the weekend of the Aberkinnie Harvest Festival neared, John was
scared. He knew deep down he had to go; something in Mary's look had
told him so, but tormentors from his school days haunted his dreams,
daring him to show how the years had changed him - or not. On a good
day he knew he could handle it, but most days he recoiled from the
thought.

Bill Stuart kept a well-stocked cabinet of Speyside Whiskies, gifted
by visiting distillers. On special occasions, or when Mrs. Stuart
visited her sister, he and John would break open a prized malt over a
serious game of chess, which would often be abandoned unfinished in
favour of a sing song. If Bill suspected his stocks were dwindling
fast, he didn't broach the subject, maybe mindful that his lodger was
of an age where learning came mostly through making mistakes.

On the fateful Saturday evening John arrived early. With half an hour
to wait for Mary's bus, he strolled up and down Aberkinnie's deserted
High Street, glancing at shop window displays, which had changed little
over the five or so years since he last saw them. The walk from his
parent's cottage had sharpened his mind; he felt good.

"I'm real proud o' you son," his father had told him the night before
- for the first time ever. "You're a big improvement on the scruffy
little bugger you used to be." Then he'd poured another measure of the
twelve-year-old Glenfarclas his son had brought. "Aye and a cooper's
niver short o' a dram or two, either."

"I was thinkin' I might go tae the harvest dance."

"Aye, an' it's nae afore time. Wi' that suit on you'll hae a' the
lasses chasin' efter ye. I was tellin' Mary up at the ferm she should
get oot mair. But they're a dour pair, the brithers - treat 'er like
dirt ye ken? An' they dinna treat their mither ony better."

Reaching the square, John looked at his watch then walked smartly
downstairs to the public lavatories. Whisky no longer caused him to
throw up or do daft things; indeed he'd long since learned to judge his
own tolerance level. In a cubicle he took a measured swig of full
strength Scotch from the half-flask he carried in an inside pocket. He
gasped and breathed deeply, a smile forming on his ruddy features, then
flushed the toilet before ascending the steps sucking a super strong
mint.

The bus disgorged an assortment of incoming revellers. Girls flaunted
their figures, decked in tight-fitting fashions, while young men
fidgeted in too tight collars and suits that saw the light of day maybe
twice a year. Some trotted lively towards the sound of dance music,
while younger ones studied the tarmac, embarrassed at being escorted by
their parents. As the stragglers disembarked, John was resigning
himself to disappointment when he heard the shout. "Look lads, it's
that scruffy bugger, Strushle Jock - in a new suit by God!"

Probably a year or two older than John, the speaker's name escaped
him, but the smirk was familiar. Speechless with anger he returned the
stare, but more intensely. His hands grabbed for the throat, squeezing
hard, forcing the young man against the bus shelter wall. He was
relishing the power of his physical strength as much as the look of
abject fear on his tormentor's face. He raised his right fist, memories
of years of mental torture crowding his mind. "John - my name's
John!"

"Aye..."

He tightened his grip. "Say it you bastard - loud this time!"

"John! John! For God's sake I'm chokin...'"

The anger left him as quickly as it came, but the self-belief stayed
with him. He loosened his grip, straightened his tie and made eye
contact with the others, testing their resolve. As he slowly and smugly
turned away, he realised he no longer had any destination in
mind.

"This is a fine way to greet a lass!" The relief he felt was as
exhilarating as his newfound confidence.

It was the dress she'd worn at the funeral, this time enhanced by a
light pink shoulder scarf and a red carnation attached to the
square-cut neckline. "Bloody hell, Mary," he whispered, shaking his
head and smiling, "Bloody hell!"

"Well, if that's a' you can say..."

His grin was as broad as the street. "No...no...I'll think o'
something." Her complexion shone as she blushed and smiled, her neatly
combed shoulder length black hair accentuating her pretty features.
Remembering their schooldays, he marvelled at the transformation. "You
look...great - lovely in fact. Black suits you."

"You look gie smart yoursel' John. I couldna get dressed 'till my
brithers went oot. They act like I'm a ten year old quine."

"C'mon," he said, taking her arm and leading her down the lane towards
the swing park. "There'll be plenty o' time for dancin' later."

John walked even taller when they eventually arrived at the Drill Hall
just after dusk. He'd shared the whisky with Mary and they'd talked
about the years between and the pain of being branded when you're
young. As they'd kissed on the swings and later when groping and
fumbling behind the bushes, although uninhibited in their mutual
desire, their combined ignorance of the sex act brought only the
frustration of premature climax. But they'd laughed contentedly, their
intimate knowledge of each other signalling a bond that united them for
life.

The whole building seemed to be pulsating in time to the music. The
country dancing they'd learned at school should have come easy, but the
combination of a slippery floor and alcohol intake caused them to
slither around helplessly, gripping each other for support, all the
while giggling uncontrollably. It was as they embraced, moving their
feet imperceptibly to the strains of a slow waltz, that Mary remembered
her promise. "I have to catch the last bus."

"Aye. I was forgettin'. I have tae go tae the toilet."

In the scratched and pitted mirror above the urinal, John saw a man -
a real man: a man who, in one never-to-be-forgotten night, had
confirmed his new identity and taken one gigantic step into adulthood.
He leaned forward to confirm the contented smile he'd been wearing all
evening.

"Tak' a good look Jock - ye'll nae look sae braw in the
mornin'."

Above noise of the band playing a rousing reel and somebody being sick
in one the cubicles, John recognised the harsh voice of Tam, the elder
of Mary's brothers. He zipped up his trousers, turning as he did so,
feeling annoyance more than fear. "I have tae go," he said,
side-stepping the burly farmer, "Mary's waitin'..."

His found his way barred by Angus, the other sibling. "Aye, I thought
she was schemin' tae meet somebody on the quiet. Mary's nae for the
likes o' you, lad."

Tam was quick for a man of his size, pinning John's arms to his side
in a vice-like bear hug. He saw Angus's punch coming, almost in slow
motion, but could do nothing to deflect the impact. He was on his knees
watching the blood from his nose mingle with the urine on the tiled
floor when the first kick to the solar plexus rendered him
helpless.

In the days that followed his late return, Bill Stuart tried to
motivate his sullen lodger, who showed little interest in his work, his
normal pastimes, or even his personal hygiene. Letters from home were
thrown away unopened. And he was drinking more than was good for a man
who seemed to be in bad physical condition. On the one occasion he went
out with the rod, Bill followed at a distance and was dismayed to find
him sitting near the river bend by the old railway tunnel. The rod,
still in its cover, lay on his lap, while he sipped slowly from a half
bottle, staring transfixed into the bottomless whirlpool a few feet
below.

Next day Bill stayed behind after breakfast, retrieved a letter from
the bin and read it. He placed a call to the Home Farm, Aberkinnie.
Mary arrived on the Saturday, carrying a suitcase.

The wedding was a hastily arranged affair at Elgin Registry Office.
Besides Bill and his wife and John's parents, only Mary's mother
attended.

When he was twenty-one, Glenlomas Distillery, Bill's biggest customer,
accepted John's application for employment as distillery cooper, at
tradesman's rates and a two-bedroom bungalow rent free. There was
little that the couple had hoped for that hadn't come to fruition - in
a magically short space of time. Within a year Mary gave birth to their
daughter Jenny,

Although Glenlomas employed only one cooper, John was seldom called
upon to demonstrate the skills of his craft. Much of the day was spent
patrolling cold and damp, bonded warehouses where the whisky was stored
to mature, tapping each hogshead, butt or American barrel individually
to detect leakage. The job was lonely, with only rats and mice for
company. "I miss the open air," he told Mary, "and the satisfaction of
making a sound barrel - jist like you must be missin' the ferm."

"I never notice," she'd reply. "Jenny keeps me busy. Times I miss my
mither, but I can never forgive my brithers, so that's that."

John thought himself a connoisseur, a man who appreciated the bouquet
and flavour of a whisky matured in an old Sherry cask for twelve or
more years. And a distillery cooper has daily access to the best. Most
of the stock belonged to large blending establishments in the cities,
but some individual quarter casks or firkins had been purchased to
honour the birth of a son and heir, the owner intending to pay duty and
take the cask home to toast his twenty-first birthday. In twenty-one
years people die, fortunes change, dreams are shattered; foundations
laid sometimes lie neglected. Sometimes John would conjure up a picture
of skulduggery in high places to explain such unclaimed property, while
taking a sample to make sure the contents hadn't gone woody and unfit
for drinking.

The long copper tube sealed at one end and capped at the other, was a
going-away present from Bill. Two inches thick and twelve inches long,
it slipped neatly through the bunghole of a cask and could be concealed
inside the trouser leg, attached to the belt. As well as management and
the Customs &; Excise Officer, it was traditional that the cooper
took a discretionary dram home occasionally and John's well-stocked
cupboard soon rivalled the distillery sample room for its versatility.
"A good servant but a bad master," Bill had told him after his last
binge, and for a while John tried to drink only in company and in
moderation, but not for long.

He was bright enough to recognise a familiar pattern emerging. He
became disinterested in everything around him, retreating into his
shell, even washing and shaving only when Mary nagged him to, until one
day she used a name that awakened the pain of the past. "Strushle
Jock," she called him. When his best friend visited Glenlomas on
business, John sought a word with him in private.

"I canna get through the day or even the night withoot it noo," he
confessed. The public bar at the local Delnashaugh Hotel was empty;
they'd given up on the game of darts, concentrating instead on John's
concerns. "I remember whit you said, but I canna fight it. I hide
bottles on top o' the wardrobe, under the sink, oot in the shed,
onywhere I can drink in secret. I hate mysel' for daein' it - but I
canna stop."

Bill observed his young prot?g? closely, before answering. "I've seen
some strong men lose that battle, lad. It's a mystery how some can cope
wi' it and some can't. It'll nae be easy, but you'll have to leave your
trade an' tak' anither job."

John's shoulders dropped and he drained his glass. "Oh aye, and whit
then? Whisky's the only thing that...that maks a man o' me."

"It's easy tae think that, but believe me lad, you're a better man
withoot it."

John thought for a while, before walking to the bar and pointing to
the bottle of Macallan. "Twa doubles please."

If Bill had noticed any casualness about John's driving, he would
refrain from puncturing his pride. On their journey home the tiny
windscreen wipers of the old Ford Popular were proving no match for the
torrential rain, yet John kept pressure on the accelerator oblivious to
the skidding and wobbling of the box-shaped vehicle as he negotiated
the bends.

After they'd sung about the tenth verse and chorus of The Ball o'
Kirriemuir, John reached over and squeezed his friend's shoulder.
"Listen to this Bill, I made it up the ither day...the brewer's
daughter, she was there..." He realised they were travelling too fast
when he saw the Glenlomach turning looming up only a few yards away.
But the message to turn sharply reached his brain before the instinct
to slow down.

Hamish Mackie, the local policeman, having paid his weekly visit to
the distillery on whatever pretext, was cycling home. Reaching the main
road, he lingered for a while in the bus shelter, waiting for the rain
to ease, and relishing the euphoria of two large drams of Glenlomach
coursing through his veins, soothing his mind and body. He recognised
the approaching car; there were only two black Ford Populars in the
district and the minister never drove that fast. But surely he should
be slowing... One second the car looked to be tearing past and the next
it was jerking violently, then spinning out of control before slamming
into a telegraph pole backwards. It reared up like a can-can dancer's
skirts, displaying a rusty underbelly before crashing back down on all
fours.

The constable walked forward cautiously. Close up, the front of the
car looked immaculate; he could hear the engine ticking over gently as
he leaned on the bonnet, staring through the windscreen, which was
still intact. He blinked and shook his head then looked again, but
could see no occupants. As he stepped gingerly towards the driver's
door, the full horror of the accident was plain to see. The car was now
wedge-shaped, the bodywork flattened from the top of the windscreen
right down to the boot. The door offered no resistance, but he stared
in amazement at the position of the two bodies inside. The tubular
metal bucket seats had folded right back with the impact. Both heads
lay snugly on the rear seat, with the crushed roof only inches from
their faces. Both faces appeared to be smiling. "Are you a'right?"
seemed a daft thing to say, but he said it.

"I'll phone for an ambulance," Hamish suggested, after he'd helped
them into the shelter. Both were trembling a little but seemed to be
able to move about, albeit slowly.

"No, there's nae need," said John, then turning to his friend, "whit
do you say Bill?"

"We'll be a'right."

The policeman made to open the top pocket of his uniform, then looked
back at the distillery and changed his mind. "Will ye be able to drive
it?"

"Aye," said John, "nae bother Hamish."

"Ye can never be too careful in treacherous conditions like this," he
said, mounting his bicycle again with a half grin on his face.

"You're right there."

He moved painfully into the backless diver's seat. "Jump in Bill, I'll
tak' ye back tae your car."

"I dinna think so lad. I'll wait for a bus an' pick it up
tomorrow."

When he got home he drove the damaged car round the back of the house
and threw a sheet over it, before staggering indoors and into bed. As
the intoxication wore off, shock and pain replaced it. At midnight Mary
phoned for an ambulance.

Jenny started primary school when her father was still in hospital.
They kept him in for a week, X-rayed his back, and gave him painkillers
for the broken ribs and bruising and tablets to help him sleep. The
medication dulled his senses, allowing him to focus on other things
besides his craving. In lucid moments he remembered the good times and
the love he felt for his wife and daughter. Some nights he cried
himself to sleep in shame over his selfishness.

At home he made a fuss of young Jenny, while Mary fed him home made
broth and laughed as he struggled to walk again unaided. They came to
visit and wish him well, the manager, the brewer, the mashmen, the
stillmen, and the maltmen - all his workmates. He felt proud that he
could now pour them a dram without resorting to one himself. Then the
excise officer brought him the two things he needed least - a bottle of
mature Glenlomach and the influenza virus.

An Edinburgh man, Donald Chisholm habitually wore a suit and had that
civil servant's air of authority, which, in John and Mary's psyche,
entitled him to the same respect as a minister or a doctor. "Bring two
glasses Mary," he instructed as he shook John's hand.

"I'm nae sure John should be drinkin' - whit wi' the medicine an' a',"
she ventured.

"Nonsense lass! Whisky's a cure for all ills; I could do with one
myself - I feel as if I'm coming down with the flu'."

"Aye, but I've managed tae stay off it a' week," John added, as Mary
complied with the request.

"No wonder you're looking so peely-wally." He poured two generous
measures. "Get it down you lad - you'll be back to work in no
time."

He recovered from the slip and stayed dry for three days, although the
strain made him edgy and bitter, but when the flu' symptoms hit him, he
mixed a hot lemon drink with sugar - then added some whisky. Mary
looked on helplessly as he distanced himself from her, moping about the
house, refusing her every offer of help or even sympathy. Medicines
were left unopened as he dosed himself on toddies that were mostly
straight whisky. When bronchitis set in, he took to keeping a bottle
under the bed, reaching for it regularly and automatically as his sleep
pattern changed. During the third week Mary asked Doctor Grant to drop
by. "I canna tak' much mair o' it, Doctor. It's like the lad I merried
has left me, an' I'm nae strong enough tae manage withoot him."

"It could be depression. It's common enough after an illness..."

"No, I ken whit it is - it's the whisky! Everybody roon' here likes a
drink, I ken that. God knows we've had some rare parties an' I like a
drop mysel, but noo he jist canna leave it alane."

"I see. Well all spirits are depressants; that would explain the mood
swings. Does he become violent?"

"No Doctor, we never fight. I'm thinkin' it might be better if we did.
Surely there's something..."

"I can prescribe tablets that'll make him sick every time he drank -
but I don't think he'd take them. He needs to dry out - get the poisons
out of his system."

Mary leaned over and squeezed her husband's hand on the eiderdown.
"Hear that John? You can get treatment..."

The patient coughed and opened his yellowish, bloodshot eyes. His lips
barely moved. "I ken you mean well Doctor, but I'll manish fine," he
mumbled. "I've got my appetite back...I'll be back at work on
Monday...I dinna drink while I'm workin'."

"Aye, we'll see," said Mary. "I'm ashamed to face the dustmen, wi' a'
them empty bottles in the bin."

That's all it would take to be in control again. He had a responsible
job that he'd proved he could cope with. Life would get back to normal.
It was bad enough being at death's door, without a wife that treated
you like a bairn and a bairn that treated you like a stranger.

Getting up was easy; the bottle under the bed was long since empty and
he craved another dram. When the fourth one hit the spot he realised
that shaving would be a risky job after days of neglect. Mary hadn't
bothered to get up, but that was fine. He stuffed the sandwiches in his
pocket, ignoring the thermos flask.

As he approached the cooper's shed, the brewer tooted and waved on his
way to the car park. He would see the manager and Exciseman later for
access to number one warehouse. Best to check the older stock first. He
felt a familiar nervous twinge in his stomach - funny how the effects
wore off so quickly these days. He listened to the billings sloshing
around inside as he rolled a hogshead in from the yard. The markings
told him it had previously contained ten-year-old Glenlivet. Maybe half
a gallon had seeped back from the staves. He removed the bung and
fetched a bucket.

On the first Monday of the school holidays John came home to an empty
house. Although devastated, the note didn't surprise him. "Dear John,
Jenny and me have gone to stay at my mothers. I hope you see the doctor
and get help. Mary." He sat for nearly an hour, staring at the message.
He phoned the doctor.

When the shakes and sweating started on his second dry day, he put it
down to lack of sleep and not eating properly. The hallucinations were
terrifying. At the end of his third day he had an epileptic fit which
seemed to last forever. When he finally made it to the nearest bottle,
he could think of only one way to get rid of the anxieties.

OoooOOOOoooo

At Aberkinnie Home Farm, Mary was helping her mother with the washing
up. "He canna help it mither; he was a good man tae me 'till the
drinkin' got oot o' hand. Maybe he'll come tae his senses noo."

"It's a wonder there's anything left tae drink the way he's been
knockin' them back."

"Oh, he brings it hame an' planks it a' ower the hoose."

Tam looked up from his newspaper. "And you never thought to find them
an' pour them doon the sink? Your as bad as him, you daft
limmer."

"Mind your ane business, Angus! You dinna ken whit you're speaking
aboot."

"That's whit you said the last time, but as lang as you're under our
roof lass, it is our business and we'll do what we think's best."

ooooOOOOoooo

In his stupor, John had been only vaguely aware of the crashing sounds
and other loud noises around him. At six in the morning he reached
under the bed for what was left in the dock sample bottle. At nine he
woke to another panic attack, his guilty mind racing through fearful
scenarios while his stomach churned. Trembling, he staggered to the
wardrobe, his arm sweeping the dusty top, vainly searching. In the
kitchen he realised the futility of looking under the sink when he saw
all the cleaning materials scattered on the floor. Still in his
underpants, he staggered to the garden shed, but the door was open and
the contents lay scattered on the lawn. Moaning and crying out, he
wandered from room to room retrieving every box and bottle of
medication.

ooooOOOOoooo

Mary brought her mother with her when she came back to Glenlomas.
Jenny played with her friends while they busied themselves tidying up
the bungalow. They brought John back the next day. Mary waited till
they'd gone before going to the bedroom to see him.

She caught her refection in the dressing table mirror and she was glad
she got dressed for the occasion. What was it he said again? Oh aye -
"You look right bonny in black."

He looked much better now - clean and smart for the first time in
months. Visitors would notice. In the black mohair suit as well - and
that canny smile. She leaned over the coffin and kissed him gently on
the lips. "You look right bonny yersel," she whispered.

She managed to make it to the bed before her grief erupted.