Free Mavis Belfrage by Alasdair Gray Page A

They had talked hard to children all day so were partly resting their voices, partly easing them back into adult conversation. As the teacher approached he heard a bearded man called Plenderleith say, “and he never starts anything.”
    â€œMhm,” said Jean, a young woman who was pleasantly vivacious most of the day but not at quarter to five on Friday afternoons. Nearby her husband Tom swiftly, steadily corrected a stack of exercise books, underlining words, scribbling marginal comments and marks out of twenty. The teacher ordered a coffee, brooded for a while then asked Plenderleith, “Who were you talking about when I came in?”
    â€œJack Golspie.”
    â€œWhy did you say he never starts anything?”
    â€œIt’s true. He waits until someone else suggests something then hangs about looking pathetic until he’s included.”
    â€œMind you it isn’t easy to start something, is it? When did you last do it?”
    â€œI don’t remember. I don’t care. I was just telling Jean why Jack Golspie bored me.”
    A waitress brought coffee. The teacher drank most of it before saying gloomily, “He bores me too.”
    Tom Forbes marked his last essay, put the exercisebooks in a briefcase and sat back with a sigh of relief. “It beats me how you can do that first thing after school on Friday,” said the teacher on his gloomy note. “Last thing on Sunday evening is as soon as I can manage.”
    â€œFrom now onward no memory of schoolwork will disturb the evening’s joy,” said Tom, yawning slightly.
    â€œIt’s our wedding anniversary,” Jean explained.
    â€œCongratulations!” said the teacher, truly pleased. “The first?”
    â€œThe first.”
    â€œSplendid. How will you celebrate?”
    â€œA dinner for two in the Rogano first,” said Tom, “then a party.”
    â€œDefinitely a party,” said Jean. The teacher looked hopefully from one to the other but they were exchanging smiles in a way which excluded him. He lapsed into mild depression again.
    Suddenly Plenderleith muttered, “Hell.”
    They looked at him.
    â€œTony McCrimmon,” he added.
    â€œHas he seen us?” asked Jean looking down at her cup. “No doubt of it,” said Plenderleith grimly. “Here he comes, flaunting his regalia.”
    The teacher saw a big black-moustached man with close-cropped hair approach. His bulk was emphasized by a thick overcoat with square shoulders from which shiny camera cases hung on straps.
    â€œHullo hullo hullo! Still here in the customary corner?” he said, sitting with them. “I was passing the old Delta tearoom and thought, five o’clock on Friday! Why not drop in and see if the old gang are in the customarycorner? So in I come and here you are.”
    â€œThat’s nice of you, Tony,” said Jean gently.
    â€œI think I know you. Or do I?” McCrimmon asked the teacher who found the question confusing.
    â€œYou don’t,” Tom told McCrimmon jovially. “You went to London months before he joined us. But he’s bound to know you. Who hasn’t heard the name of Tony McCrimmon?”
    The teacher, embarrassed, said, “Yes, I’m sure I’ve heard it but I can’t exactly remember where or why.”
    â€œAhaw! Such is fame. I’m better known in Fleet Street and Soho than I’ll ever be in my native land. Waitress, a coffee! Very hot, very black, very strong.”
    â€œYou’re a journalist?” asked the teacher, interested.
    â€œYou’re getting warm, son. Yes, I wield the old plume from time to time but my forte is the pictorial genre. You may have seen something of mine in the
Sunday Times
colour supplement a wee while ago:
Britain’s Forgotten Royalty
. My work.”
    â€œAll of it, Tony?” Jean softly asked.
    â€œThe pictures. The idea was mine too but the writer got the credit for it. That