Pilgrimage
The
four of them met at the Diggers as it was the closest pub to the churchyard.
The plan was to have a pint then walk to Ali’s grave, then across town to where
Drew was buried, conveniently close to the Artisan Bar. They had a bottle
of Yamikaze 12 year Old Japanese Malt to sprinkle on the ground at each site.
“There’s
floaters in it, though”
“They’ll
no mind” said Stevie, “they’re deid after all.”
They
walked down the hill. It was a bright spring afternoon.
“Remember
Kenny Morgan? He died young.”
“He
drank, didn’t he?”
“Aye
Paraquat” said Stevie, limping into the graveyard. Stevie suffered from some
ailment which kept him intermittently short of breath. 14 pints of Guinness a
day didn’t help.
Time
wore on. The sun was blazing and the distance between the graveyards
seemed considerably more than a mile and a half. They had to stop quite a few
times to let Stevie, by this time very red in the face, catch up.
They
couldn’t find Drew in the second cemetery.
“Christ
You cannae even track him down now. He still owes me a tenner you know.”
It
was a vast necropolis, apparently packed with men called Andrew who’d died
before their time. The party split up, reformed, this time with no sign of
Stevie.
Finally
they gave up and drank what was left of the Yamikaze. It did have floaters. As
the shadows lengthened, they set off to the Artisan, then after a few pints,
back towards town.
“Where
do you think Stevie got to?”
They
were passing Greyfriars.
“That’s
where his grannie’s buried isn’t it?”
They
all nodded, noting its convenient proximity to Sandy Bell’s.
* * *
Hugh Macmillan lives in Penpont, Dumfries and Galloway. 'Thin Slice of Moon' new and selected Poems just published.
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