Mavis Belfrage by Alasdair Gray Page A

attention like a soldier on parade he sang,
    â€œThe place was the Crimea, the year fifty-four
,
    When passions had unleashed the demon of war…”
    Most of the audience were rising to leave when he made his announcement but paused to hear the start of the song. It glorified the charge of the Light Brigade, in such melodramatic clichés that the teacher’s Marxist uncle had amused family gatherings by singing it with an appearance of solemnity. Nobody here seemed to understand the joke, no matter how rigidly the teacher stood and how loudly he sang in the dialect of an English officer, so he changed to a London cockney dialect. Halfway through the second verse his only audience was an old smiling man in an easy chair and the former singer. When the teacher faltered into silence the old man said, “Go on! You’re doing fine!”
    Nursing the glass of wine on her lap the singer said kindly, “Don’t worry son, it happens to all of us sometimes. It’s happened to me.”
    â€œSorry. I’m sorry,” said the teacher, “I’m very sorry.” He went to a sideboard and stood with hands in pockets staring at a framed print of van Gogh sunflowers. He would have liked to flee through the lobby and out of the house but dreaded coming face to face with another human being. Noticing Plenderleith beside him he muttered, “Sorry about that. I’m no use, you know.”
    â€œHave a nut,” said Plenderleith offering a dish of salted peanuts. The teacher took and nibbled some.
    â€œWhat are you no use at?” asked Plenderleith. The teacher brooded on this, sighed and said, “I envy Tony McCrimmon.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe enjoys life. He appreciates himself.”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe talks too loud.”
    â€œI know what you mean. Yes, he blusters and bullies and ignores people’s feelings but, well, I think he’s entitled to do that. He’s made something of himself. He’s a talented photographer.”
    â€œHe’s a rotten photographer.”
    â€œBut he works for the
Sunday Times
!”
    â€œA year ago they used one or two of his photographs, that’s all,” said Plenderleith between crunching on peanuts. “When he first landed in London he bluffed his way into one or two worthwhile commissions – they were never renewed. People soon saw through him. Of course he drinks like a fish, which doesn’t help. Have another nut.”
    The teacher stared at him blankly then nodded and hurried from the room.
    He found McCrimmon in the crowded living-room talking to a blonde girl in a very short black dress and fish-net stockings. He had backed her into a corner and was saying in exasperated tones, “I am not asking you to do it nude. You wouldn’t need to wear less than, shall we say, the briefest of brief bikinis!”
    â€œI’m not interested!” said the girl. “Get it into your head that I don’t want to talk about it, let alone do it!”
    â€œTony,” said the teacher.
    â€œBut there’s
money
in it,” cried McCrimmon, “big money! You’re the type they go for…”
    â€œExcuse us Tony,” said Jean walking round him and placing an arm on the girl’s shoulder. “Rita, there’s somebody over here who wants a private word with you. Sorry Tony.”
    She led the girl away.
    â€œMy God,” said McCrimmon turning and surveying the room with disgust, “what a party. Cheap food, no booze and the most frigid women I’ve met in my life.”
    â€œTony,” said the teacher.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI want to buy that film from you.”
    â€œWhat film?”
    â€œThe film in that camera –” (McCrimmon still wore his overcoat with the gear of his profession hung from the shoulders) “– the film with the photos of my granny and grampa in it.”
    â€œYou do