Between Ourselves Read online

  DONALD SMITH was born in Glasgow to an Irish mother. Brought up in Glasgow and Stirling, he began work in Edinburgh as a theatre stage manager, becoming Director of the Netherbow Arts Centre in 1983. Donald has written, directed or produced over fifty plays, and is a founding Director of the National Theatre of Scotland.

  Influenced by Hamish Henderson, Donald was also the moving spirit behind the new Scottish Storytelling Centre of which he is the first Director. One of Scotland’s leading storytellers, he has produced a series of books on Scottish narrative, including Storytelling Scotland: A Nation in Narrative, Celtic Travellers, and a poetry collection, A Long Stride Shortens the Road: Poems of Scotland. The English Spy, his first novel, is set in the closes, courts and wynds of Edinburgh, the first UNESCO City of Literature.

  Donald Smith’s study of Robert Burns and religion God, the Poet and the Devil, is also published this year, the 250th anniversary of the birth of Burns.

  Between Ourselves

  DONALD SMITH

  First published 2009

  eBook edition 2013

  ISBN (print): 978-1-906307-92-9

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-04-5

  The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

  The publisher acknowledges subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards the publication of this book.

  © Donald Smith 2009

  Table of Contents

  Author Bio

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quotes

  Author’s Preface

  Edinburgh - December 1829

  Edinburgh - October 1787 to New Year 1788 - The Journal

  Edinburgh - January 1788 - A History of Myself

  Edinburgh - January 1788 - An Account of the Life of Nancy MacLehose

  Edinburgh - January to March 1788 - The Journal

  Edinburgh - Fourth Day of November 1788 - Deposition of the Last Wishes of Jenny Clow, Formerly a Serving Maid

  To Edinburgh, in darkness and in light

  What an antithetical mind! – tenderness, roughness – delicacy, coarseness – sentiment, sensuality – soaring and grovelling – dirt and deity – all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!

  George Gordon, Lord Byron, on reading some ‘unpublished and never to be published’ letters of Robert Burns

  I paint the way some people write their autobiography. The paintings, finished or not, are the pages of my journal and, as such, they are valid. The future will choose the pages it prefers. It’s not up to me to make the choice.

  Pablo Picasso, quoted by Françoise Gilat

  One song of Burns is worth more to you than all I could think of for a whole year in his native country. His misery is a dead weight on the nimbleness of one’s pen… he talked with Bitches… he drank with Blackguards, he was miserable. We can see horribly clear in the works of such a Man his whole life, as if we were God’s spies.

  John Keats

  Author’s Preface

  WE KNOW A lot about Robert Burns. But who was he behind the masks, the depressions and the verbal fireworks?

  A lot of people, including several who feature as characters in this novel, burned their correspondence from the poet, even demanding back their own letters after his death. The closer you were the more likely you were to destroy the evidence. We know that Agnes McLehose – the much misrepresented ‘Clarinda’ – doctored her intimate communications with ‘Sylvander’. Burns’ brother Gilbert was very tight-lipped when the first official biographer Dr Currie came calling. Already the mythology of Scotland’s national poet was taking hold – a flawed icon but an icon nonetheless.

  I have taken one intense period of Burns’ life – six months in Edinburgh – as the focus of my story. Day by day, these months became the defining pivot between the Ayrshire years and the short-lived maturity in Dumfries. There is nothing here that contradicts the researchers, yet for a novelist there are significant and creative gaps. What was the balance of the relationships with Peggy Chalmers and Jean Armour, with Clarinda and Jenny Clow? Were there others? And who did Burns fraternise with in the city’s lowlife haunts apart from his bosom cronies William Smellie and Bob Ainslie?

  The women are at the heart of Burns’ Edinburgh crisis. Why has Agnes McLehose been variously labelled flirt and prude, Calvinist and cocktease? What lay behind Jenny’s stubborn refusal to give up her son to his father, even on her deathbed? I cannot pretend to fully recover these lost voices, but I have tried to listen to their accents and draw out their underlying experiences.

  The reader also becomes party to these private communications. How do we tell the story of our own lives – selectively, confidingly, misleadingly? There are letters or emails, social masks and conventions. I am not making any judgements, least of all about Robert Burns, but I would like you to be on the inside of these relationships. In the end we all have to decide for ourselves.

  EDINBURGH

  December 1829

  SARAH WAS STRAINING at the door to catch even a fragment of the conversation inside. But the voices were murmuring confidentially. The mistress received plenty of respectable callers, but a visit from Jean Armour, the widow of Robert Burns, was out of the ordinary, especially given the circumstances…

  The sturdy old lady had arrived out of breath after walking all the way from the Glasgow coach stop in the Grassmarket. It was more than an hour since Sarah had taken in the tea, and been dismissed without pouring. Jean Armour was still a handsome figure, if a little stout.

  In the cosy parlour discussion was drawing to a close.

  ‘He wis guid-hearted in his ain nature, hoosoever he driftit times intae foolishness.’

  ‘I believe that also. Robert’s virtues will outshine his faults as long as he has true friends to defend him.’

  ‘Aye an folk play fair.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Sae we’re agreed. There’s things aboot Rab naebody else need ken.’

  ‘Apart from us.’ Nancy’s eyes moved from the brown paper package between them to the wine glasses on the dresser which had been Burns’ last gift.

  ‘It’s been my wish since I turned up the box twa months syne. I culdna read it aa ower again. He wis bye wi it.’

  ‘But you felt I had to be consulted.’

  ‘That was it. Forbye we had never met. Is that no strange?’

  Nancy leaned forward to put her dainty wrinkled hands on the countrywoman’s knees, and looked into her eyes.

  ‘You know, Jean, how much this still means to me.’

  ‘Aye, I think ah dae. He’s no easy forgotten.’

  Nancy reached down and pushed forward the package. Jean stood up heavily and lifted it onto the hearth. Stooping down she opened up the wrapping to reveal a scuffed journal bound in black leather and three bundles of manuscripts tied with faded ribbons.

  For a moment they looked at the worn relics. Every inch seemed covered with writing. Bending again, Jean handed one bundle to Nancy and took one herself, and with a last glance at each other they sent the two bundles into the coals. Quickly flames began to lick round the edges, then the top pages curled, blazed and blackened. As the fire sprang to work Nancy threw on the last bundle and they watched it burn. Finally Jean had the journal in her strong hands. She opened it wide and tore out a handful of pages. In it went, than another and another until the end boards themselves lay on top of the bier.

  Ten minutes later when Sarah finally opened the door unsummoned to collect the tea things, the two old ladies were sound asleep beside a dying fire. A brown paper wrapper was loose on the rug and a thick wadge of paper with singed edges lay on top of the smouldering coals.


  EDINBURGH

  October 1787 to New Year 1788

  THE JOURNAL

  LAST STAY IN Edinburgh but not for long; hardly worth the notice.

  But this sheaf of paper begun so many months ago is an accumulation of empty sheets, a harvest of nothings. I intended the observation of men and manners, reflection and self-knowledge, fields of science and some sheltered glades of poetry. Now the days and weeks stare back at me like featureless faces.

  What is it about this place that gnaws the guts and nips my head? Why at ease with Scotland and out of sorts in Edinburgh?

  Even arriving with acclaim already in my pocket, I spent the first week on a straw pallet with a sour belly. A sore mind turned in on itself. Now I am here marking time. How to arrive in Edinburgh?

  Notwithstanding, my lodgings have moved upwards. Then I shared a bed with Richmond, barely raised above the stinking High Street causeway. Carts carting, criers crying, pisspots pouring and floozies fleering. The landlady demanded an extra eightpence since her mattress was burdened by two bodies in turn. What if it had been simultaneous?

  Today I lord it in Newton, Edinburgh. My attic lair soars above St James Square, where the Old Town odours of gardez-loo are chased swiftly through gracious squares and out to sea by a stiff breeze. A sturdy timber bed, trig dresser with glass and two sash windows, one townward and one looking clear across to Fife. Auld Reikie is still in Scotland. This room might offer fresh perspective, given time and leisure.

  Little Jean, the lassie of the house, comes tripping up to ask if I will take tea, and if I will hear her at the pianoforte. Both, of course, my lady, for neither can be refused. Nor should be. I must write a song for that sweet high voice. A song requites nature’s promise to her bard.

  To bed with a miserable cold. Head oozing, throat rasping, and that old familiar tightening. Will these tearing stounds of pain gripe me again? A hellish deathman swinging at my vitals with a rusty scythe. One drooking at the plough or an ill-considered journey can lay the honest farmer on his back, at the mercy of his tormentors.

  My weakness brings Betty from the kitchen hearth with a mustard poultice, steaming infusions and soothing toddies. An old countrywoman normally cooped below decks, she ascends with bulging eyes and wagging chins like an officious turkey. Loosing my shirt and breeches, she kneads at chest and belly, strong fingers teasing out swellings and inflammation.

  I surrender myself to firm handling. Easeful relief, then pleasure. As my mind empties I inhale these pungent odours and let the muscles breathe out. For a moment I am a babe again in Betty Davidson’s sunburnt hands. Or a corpse to be anointed before wrapping in a shroud.

  When I revived, Betty of St James Square had departed with all her cloths and steaming bowls.

  Wrote a letter to Miller promising to come and see his farm as soon as I am better. Is this the offer which cannot be refused?

  Much easier. But if I lie low Betty may climb again to minister to the poet, his body sliding back beneath snaw white linen. Birth, death and all the inbetweens rolled into one seamless consummation. Not today.

  Comfortably on the pot for the first time in Edinburgh.

  My desire for Peggy Chalmers is unlike anything I have felt before. With a mind as bright as her frame, Peggy is fresh and finely moulded. I want Peggy Chalmers who is my equal in every way. But she is denied me as if prison bars were fixed between us from head to foot. Without these she would rush into my arms. Our eyes spoke everything her tongue denied. And then she looked away.

  It cannot be, her body cried. Why not? Why should the blind tyranny of social laws prevail? Are we not born to natural freedom? Or to harsh necessity. So I am banished back to books and rhymes, mocked by my first resolution on coming to the capital.

  ‘I am determined to make these pages my confidante.’ As well I might since no-one else attends my inmost feelings. Intimacy declined, the poet should consult his own entrails.

  ‘I will sketch every character who catches my notice with unshrinking justice.’ Some I can still bring to the bar; they know who they are. ‘Likewise my own story, my amours, my rambles.’

  Well, circulating libraries may be supplied – the smiles and frowns of fortune on my bardship. Scotia mother of my dreams, should we be shamed by what we are at birth?

  ‘My poesy and fragments that never see the light of day will be inserted.’ Last year’s resolution. I could renew that pact, given sufficient leisure. Or is it boredom. Four shillings for the book with black endboards. So little can hardly have purchased so much friendship since confidences went to market. Honesty for sale! I’m in Edinburgh now, God help me. A glass of wine with soup may do no harm.

  This is the drawing up of accounts. Then I can settle this business for once and all. I pull my chair up to the little table by the window.

  The clouds are chasing each other over Calton Hill.

  A package has arrived for me. A book, they say, passing it up by floors. A book for Mr Burns; its for the poet. The package sits in the centre of my table.

  Pride of place, sirs, for The Scots Musical Museum, Volume One. Good old Jamie Johnson. A poor craftsman he may be but between these covers is the authentic spirit of Scotland. And two of my songs – ‘Green Grow the Rashes’ and ‘Young Peggy Blooms my Bonniest Lass’. Not the last Peggy, I swear. And I found him a rounded version of ‘Bonnie Dundee’, both verses. Though I still twinge when patching lines and stanzas to mend the shattered wrecks of these venerable compositions.

  Johnson, sir, I salute you. A glass please for Caledonia’s true bard and only Muse – the People! Is there no brimming glass to hand? Aye, sneer if you care, drawing rooms of Edinburgh. A curse on your whinstane hearts, you Edinburgh gentry. But wait, who is that preening in the shadows? The Edinburgh Edition of Robert Burns. Stand aside and listen to Nature’s Muse.

  Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass

  Her blush is like the morning

  The rosy dawn, the Spring grass,

  With early gems adorning.

  Pity I cannae sing, but needs must in the absence.

  ‘It all began, your Ladyship, with old fragments found among our Peasantry in the west. Poor forgotten things, I had no idea anybody cared for them. I who had once known so many had forgotten them.’

  Yes, indeed, heaven-taught ploughman.

  ‘The Poetic Genius of my country found me as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough – and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and pleasures of my natal soil in my native tongue. I tuned my wild artless notes as she instructed. And more—’

  There is more?

  ‘She whispered to me, come to the ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay your songs under my honoured protection. Now I obey her dictates and present to you, The Edinburgh Edition.’

  And then she farted.

  This is no time for petty reckonings. I must go and toast Johnson. Let Creech and his Edition wait tomorrow. Unhand me, Betty. The poet is whole again in all his parts.

  Word is out; the poet is back. One brief sojourn at Dowie’s and Mr Burns’ public begins to clamour for further appearances. Prepare to repel boarders. The lumbering apeman Smellie and sleek man-about-town Bob Ainslie will have at us.

  We form a trinity of sword, pen and pintle.

  As for my printer, the reckoning is nigh.

  Monies owed by William Creech bookseller to Robert Burns, Poet, for the Edinburgh Edition of his Works:

  500 subscription copies £125

  Balance Owing for Distribution to Subscribers £400

  Property of Poems £100

  Damn the bookseller’s discount. Restate as—

  Subscription copies £125.00

  Subscribers’ copies

  (less discount at one quarter) £300.00

  Property of Poems £105.00

  ______

  £530.00

  A tidy addition all of which Mr Creech has under his capacious belt, tightl
y fastened. More Leech than Creech. First call today.

  Must also draft and deliver notes for Johnson. Volume One demands its successor like a lusty child brothers and sisters. Let us deliver the new arrivals to Scotland’s glory.

  Interleaved notes in draft for James Johnson

  One. Set lines to tunes nearer than printed.

  Two. To ‘Here Awa, There Awa’ must be added this, the best verse in the song:

  Gin ye meet my love, kiss her an clap her,

  An gin ye meet my love, dinna think shame:

  Gin ye meet my love, kiss her an clap her,

  An show her the way to haud awa hame.

  There’s room on the printer’s plate.

  Three. For the tune of the Scotch queen, take the two first and the two last stanzas of ‘The Lament’ in Burns’ Poems.

  Four. ‘To Daunton Me’ – the chorus is set to the first part of the tune, which just suits it when played or sung over once. So to set:

  The blude red rose at Yule may blaw,

  The summer lilies bloom in snaw,

  The frost may freeze the deepest sea

  But an auld man shall never daunton me

  To daunton me, to daunton me

  An old man shall never daunton me.

  And auld Creech shall never daunton me. Let the piper be paid for his tunes. But for Jamie the lark, the throstle and the doo shall sound their woodnotes wild without restraint or hindrance.

  Blue devils.

  Ainslie put off for tonight. He may call in.

  Interleaved page of letter to James Hay, Librarian and Composer to the Duke of Gordon

  Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to acquaintance by the following request.

  An Engraver, James Johnson in Edinburgh has, not from mercenary views but from an honest Scotch enthusiasm, set about collecting all our native songs and setting them to music; particularly those that have never been set before. Clarke, the well known musician, presides over the musical arrangement; and Drs Beattie and Blacklock, Mr Tytler of Woodhouslee, and your humble servant to the utmost of his power, assist in collecting the old poetry, or sometimes to make a stanza or a fine air when it has no words.