It was the flat crump of the cannon that woke Cadmium Redman. He squinted under the steady bloodshot gaze of sun on this winter dawn. As the report rolled around the horseshoe of hills surrounding the harbour, he noticed a puff of white drifting over the grey sea. Focussing, he made out the source of the smoke. The silhouette of a three masted sailing ship moved slowly into the bay. Turning his head, he saw that Lassie wi-the-Yellow-Coatie was curled like a prawn beside him. With some difficulty he pulled himself upright from the patch of straw bulwarked by packing cases stacked on the dock, his makeshift bed. His legs were stiff from the chill. But the sun would be up and the air warm when it was ‘time’.
Leaning down to Lassie, Cadmium shook her, she rolled onto her back, groaned and exhaled sour whisky fumes. He wrinkled his nostrils and scowled.
“Wake Lass, it`s time; the Hector approaches the quay.”
“Och Cadmium, kin I no lie a wee?” She snuggled into the cosy warmth of her plaid. “Ye ken as well as I the damn thing never arrives.”
“Ye`ll keep a civil tongue in your head woman,” thundered Cadmium. “Ceilidh last nicht or not, the good Lord didnae mak the dawn for ye tae lie abed idle.”
Lassie pulled her plaid around her head and exhaled in a long hiss, but she started to sit up, as he bid.
“We have tae find the rest of our godless crew; they’ve got a lot rowdier since Reverend Walker returned hame tae Edinburgh. Och, their sinfulness knows no bounds.”
As a kirk elder, he felt it was his job to be a nemesis for the ungodly. Looking around the dock, he saw that the usual hooligans, Bratachbeardie, Auldgudeman, Pinkie and Viridian, were missing and abroad.
“Come Lassie, we must gather the lost sheep. You look along the shore, I`ll check their usual haunts.” Cadmium placed his hat on his head, adjusted it by his reflection in the glass, and climbed down the golden rope ladder into the gallery. Behind him Lassie stuck out her tongue and pulled a face. As he strode along the polished wooden floor, his footfalls echoed like slow drumbeats in the cavernous room. He did not have to go far.
The initial distant discord that he barely heard above the slow tattoo of his boots thumping on the floor, soon resolved into swearing and the crash of breakage. Looking up to The Battle of Bannockburn, he observed a rowdy young man in a viridian green jacket hurling empty beer bottles. They crashed into a blizzard of porcelain splinters against the armour of the English Knights.
“Cmon ya Sassenachs! Call ma lass a comely wench? I`ll wench you, ah will”
“Forsooth, bold knight, we mean no affront to her honour,” King Edward II, ducked as an ale bottle bounced off his whinnying, coat-of-arms-bedecked steed. Meanwhile, Pinkie was still drinking and flouting her boobs at the line of Scottish infantrymen. they had downed their pikes and were busy raising bottles.
Cadmium roared up at them “Viridian Gatepost, Pinkie Greetingface! Cut that out immediately and get down here; it`s almost time.”
Viridian peered over the frame and scowled but started to climb down the gilt embossed moulding and onto the golden rope ladder that dropped to the floor. Surreptitiously, Pinkie kissed a leather-jerkin-clad pikeman, gathered up her skirts and scrambled after him.
Cadmium strode on down the hall. A tell-tale golden streak swayed from Glencoe. Stopping below the lofty grey mountains that made up the Three Sisters, he roared up “Auldgudeman! Auldgudeman!” There was silence, silence apart from the melancholic lowing of the wind that swirled rain-swollen clouds around the jagged, frost shattered peaks “Oh for heaven`s sake…Sorry, forgive me Lord, no offence intended.” Cadmium huffed and began to climb the ladder which swayed like a ripe wheat stalk in a late summer breeze. Passing through the glass, he stepped onto the boggy moorland. The mud oozed over his battered boots; he cursed silently and scanned the landscape for his quarry.
An old, downcast man with grey mutton chops jutting below a battered Tam O` Shanter bunnet was seated on a rock. He had pulled his green plaid around his body to keep out the wind. Riding breeches were just visible under the hem of the plaid. He was unaware of Cadmium`s panting presence, and crooned an old ballad to a curious stag that tilted its antlers quizzically. “Hush, hush…time to be slee-ping, hush, hush. Dreams come a-creep-ing”.
He doesn`t understand, maybe he`s too old take it in, thought Cadmium. Gently he shook the old man`s arm. “Nay, that time is past Auldgudeman. We’re no in Lochaber anymore, we’re in the Dear Green Place now.” Auldgudeman looked up from his reverie “Glasdhu, Cadmium? Och, yes, of course! Dear me, I`m sitting here and work to be done.”
Cadmium noted the glistening over the pale blue of the old man`s eyes “Aye, soon it will be time, ye`ll mak your way tae the dock?” gently he patted the white gnarled hand.
“Aye Cadmium, I will that.”
“Good man – and mind and bury the usquebaugh bottle in the bog.” The old man nodded.
Cadmium climbed down. He thought, One still to find. The usual place? Why not? Stepping up his pace, he set off for Rubens place. He had rounded the east side of the building and into the red- golden wash of light from the winter sun, when a shrill hooter announced the morning shift`s arrival at the flour mill. Lord, save us he thought; the time was almost upon them, he would never reach Rubens and return to the dock in time!
Just then a thud and clamour issued from the small room on his right. Cadmium rushed into the doorway and smiled wryly. Flat on his back was a white wiry-bearded man with a lecherous smirk creasing his flushed and freshly slapped cheeks.
“An yew stay out you dirty oold man.” A woman`s voice echoed down from above.
“The Man in Armour is our ami and we will have him kill yew if yew come here again.” There was no ladder to pull up. Francine`s tutu oscillated wildly as she stamped back into her studio. Cadmium kicked the prostrate lothario firmly but gently.
“Get up Bratach. Bothering the dancers again, were we? Ye never learn do you?” The aging reprobate rose and leered; eyes like peepholes drilled in a public toilet door. He scuttled, half-crouched, back down the gallery. Cadmium let out a sigh of relief like that of a steam locomotive stopped at Kelvinbridge station; he paused for a moment then hurried away.
As Cadmium hauled the golden ladder back onto the dock, he fired off instructions.
“Are the empties out of sight?”
“Viridian dinnae stagger man; lean on the gate post if ye are unsteady”
“Pinkie cover your mouth if you are spewing up.”
“Bratach, lean on your cromack man if ye cannae stand. Yer lame leg didnae stop ye climbing up to the dancers did it?”
A low plaintive voice whined a reply.
“No, I`m not interested, Bratach.”
As they milled around in painful post-revelry confusion, a thundering came from the west, like a herd of elephants tramping the polished hardwood boards below. Standing and facing the clan, Cadmium intoned “It is time.”
“Oh for … where is the Gudeman? Get him on the pony and over there, aye – just in front of and hiding Pinky boking.”
“Are we off… to Nova Scotia?” came the hesitant query of the Gudeman.
“Naw nae such luck! Nae wee holiday stuffing oorsels wi maple syrup pancakes. We `re stuck here knocking oor pan in”. The answer came from a different voice; one still slurred by beer but sharpened with sarcasm.
An exasperated Cadmium roared in reply. “Viridian, maybe you were happier starving and picking bladder wrack on that icy coast?”
“And by the way… due to multiple complaints of ungodly behaviour,” Cadmium shivered in distaste. “Nay, UNNATURAL behaviour,” Cadmium paused for effect, “any journeys outside the Scottish Gallery are forthwith, forbidden.”
Above the grumbling, came a louder but unconvincing rabble of threats as the fishermen bundled the Gudeman onto the white pony`s back, shoved it into place and retreated.
“Dinnae push me ye drunken shites,” neighed the pony.
“Wheesht! and enough of that keelie talk,” said Cadmium, the sweat beginning to break on his brow.
“Aye that`s guid; aye there,” he motioned.
“No, ye don`t have a `sair heid`, you are gazing out to the boat Greensleeves.” He turned round to Lassie.
“Lassie! Look sad, pensive — that`s good.” As he bent forward to hitch the bowline to the dock, huge shadows passed across his bright red shirt.
“Places…and…. hold till closing time.” he hissed.
And so, the Glasgow public come to the Kelvingrove Art Galleries to view Faed’s The Last of the Clan.
Time after time.
***
………….And you can see them too:
By Roddie McKenzie