jumpers sharing a flask of tea with two laughing traffic wardens beside a blazing brazier. There’s an Angus angle to this image, because the way he’s taken it draws the observer’s eye away from the people and towards the brazier. The thing that catches the attention is a piece of burning timber stamped with the words THIS SIDE UP .
In the afternoon Mike goes for a walk around the town, wandering in and out of second-hand bookshops, pleased to be back but thankful he’ll soon be leaving. Edinburgh is hardly overwhelming, it isn’t that kind of city, but already he misses the Highlands – the sense of space, the mountains, the water, the absence of people. What is it, this desire in him for retreat? There’s Murdo, of course. Does he miss him? He does, and this makes him fearful.
In a café in the Grassmarket he orders a coffee. The place is quiet, a couple of women in one corner, a guy reading the
Scotsman
in another. He sits in the window and watches people passing by. Edinburgh in March: so long as there isn’t a rugby international, it’s one of the quietest months, with hardly any tourists. The man reading the paper looks pretty ragged: he’s unshaven, keeps sniffing. An old fellow, mid-sixties maybe. Mike has to check himself for thinking that. Old? The guy’s probably only ten years older than he is. Bang. One minute you’re a student, the next you’re a pensioner.
When he gets back in the early evening Jean is up and about, has applied make-up and put on some clean clothes, and looks altogether more like herself. She’s hungry too, and recommends an Indian restaurant ten minutes’ walk away for a carry-out. ‘We’ll phone in an order,’ she says, scrabbling about for a menu, ‘but you’ll
have to go and collect it. They tried to deliver once but you know what it’s like finding this place if you’ve never been.’
An hour or so later they’re pushing the cartons and plates aside and sitting back in their seats at the kitchen table. Jean’s at first keen appetite deserted her after a few minutes and Mike has tried to compensate but can eat no more. She tips the remains, curry and rice together, into one carton and sticks it in the fridge. ‘I’ll have it for breakfast.’ Then they retreat to the front room, light the gas fire, and open the first bottle of whisky.
He has brought the picture proofs of the book and they spend some time passing these between them. He is anxious to know what she thinks of his selection.
The first proof is of one of Angus’s signature photographs:
Funeral of Sir Harry Lauder, Hamilton, 4 March 1950
. In it, a line of bareheaded men and headscarved women stretches along the street. They’re all looking away, following the route of the cortège, except for one small boy among them, who stares directly into the camera. He seems oblivious to the sense of occasion, the fact that he’s at the funeral of a ‘great man’. A cheeky happiness lights up his face. ‘Wonderful,’ Jean says.
Then for a while she says nothing as she turns the loose sheets. There are two photos taken at Arbroath Abbey in April 1951. She looks at them both carefully and he watches her doing it. She glances across at him.
‘I’m surprised more of these aren’t familiar to me,’ she says defiantly.
‘But those two are.’
She ignores this. ‘It’s a terrible title, by the way. Was that your idea?’
‘It was the only title, realistically. It’s the phrase everybody recognises. Angus’s unique take.’
She goes through some more images, stopping at
Elvis Presley, Prestwick, 3 March 1960
. This is one of the few pictures Angus liked to talk about. He was in Glasgow when he heard a rumour that somebody special was going to be landing on Scottish soil. Elvis had finished his military service in Germany and was heading home to the USA, and these flights often stopped to refuel at Prestwick. So Angus rushed down there along with a number of other pressmen.
The news had leaked
In the afternoon Mike goes for a walk around the town, wandering in and out of second-hand bookshops, pleased to be back but thankful he’ll soon be leaving. Edinburgh is hardly overwhelming, it isn’t that kind of city, but already he misses the Highlands – the sense of space, the mountains, the water, the absence of people. What is it, this desire in him for retreat? There’s Murdo, of course. Does he miss him? He does, and this makes him fearful.
In a café in the Grassmarket he orders a coffee. The place is quiet, a couple of women in one corner, a guy reading the
Scotsman
in another. He sits in the window and watches people passing by. Edinburgh in March: so long as there isn’t a rugby international, it’s one of the quietest months, with hardly any tourists. The man reading the paper looks pretty ragged: he’s unshaven, keeps sniffing. An old fellow, mid-sixties maybe. Mike has to check himself for thinking that. Old? The guy’s probably only ten years older than he is. Bang. One minute you’re a student, the next you’re a pensioner.
When he gets back in the early evening Jean is up and about, has applied make-up and put on some clean clothes, and looks altogether more like herself. She’s hungry too, and recommends an Indian restaurant ten minutes’ walk away for a carry-out. ‘We’ll phone in an order,’ she says, scrabbling about for a menu, ‘but you’ll
have to go and collect it. They tried to deliver once but you know what it’s like finding this place if you’ve never been.’
An hour or so later they’re pushing the cartons and plates aside and sitting back in their seats at the kitchen table. Jean’s at first keen appetite deserted her after a few minutes and Mike has tried to compensate but can eat no more. She tips the remains, curry and rice together, into one carton and sticks it in the fridge. ‘I’ll have it for breakfast.’ Then they retreat to the front room, light the gas fire, and open the first bottle of whisky.
He has brought the picture proofs of the book and they spend some time passing these between them. He is anxious to know what she thinks of his selection.
The first proof is of one of Angus’s signature photographs:
Funeral of Sir Harry Lauder, Hamilton, 4 March 1950
. In it, a line of bareheaded men and headscarved women stretches along the street. They’re all looking away, following the route of the cortège, except for one small boy among them, who stares directly into the camera. He seems oblivious to the sense of occasion, the fact that he’s at the funeral of a ‘great man’. A cheeky happiness lights up his face. ‘Wonderful,’ Jean says.
Then for a while she says nothing as she turns the loose sheets. There are two photos taken at Arbroath Abbey in April 1951. She looks at them both carefully and he watches her doing it. She glances across at him.
‘I’m surprised more of these aren’t familiar to me,’ she says defiantly.
‘But those two are.’
She ignores this. ‘It’s a terrible title, by the way. Was that your idea?’
‘It was the only title, realistically. It’s the phrase everybody recognises. Angus’s unique take.’
She goes through some more images, stopping at
Elvis Presley, Prestwick, 3 March 1960
. This is one of the few pictures Angus liked to talk about. He was in Glasgow when he heard a rumour that somebody special was going to be landing on Scottish soil. Elvis had finished his military service in Germany and was heading home to the USA, and these flights often stopped to refuel at Prestwick. So Angus rushed down there along with a number of other pressmen.
The news had leaked
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