the streetlights couldn’t penetrate.
One of his favourite haunts had been an old church cemetery, not far from his home. The ancient graves were moss-covered and crumbling, in most parts overgrown, and the lettering that granted the dead their earthly immortality was worn thin by rain, wind and the passage of time. Hewould trace his fingers along the loops and lines of the words. Soon he taught himself to decipher the names of the dead by touch alone. He remembered each tomb and its eternal occupant; he spoke to them one by one as he made his nightly round of the cemetery.
One gravestone fascinated him more than any other. As he traced his fingers over the gothic lettering, he had discovered a symbol: a skull and crossbones. Underneath, he deciphered the name of a boy. John. He even managed to make out that the first letter of the surname began with an ‘M’. The thick briar that curled around the stone tore at his fingers, but he was determined to discover its secret. He knew the name belonged to a child, as he’d been able to uncover the part that confirmed the boy had been three years and four months old at the time of his death. He reckoned that the skull-and-crossbones motif must represent some dire illness or tragedy that had overcome the infant, though as he passed amongst the tombs he realised that dead children were by no means in the minority.
What fascinated him most about this grave though, was what was written further down the stone: another name. This time the script was clearer, less weathered, as the vegetation that had overgrown the base of the monument had protected the inscription. One cold night, when he had been bored, and most of the mysteries of the small graveyard were no longer secrets, he decided to pull away the grass and briars to read what lay underneath, expecting the usual platitudes of sympathy and regret.
It turned out that another child’s body lay in the grave. This boy had lived longer, surviving to the ripe old age of seven years and eight months. His name was James. With ashaking hand, which he couldn’t explain, he was able to trace the family surname from this undamaged portion of the stone.
As his dirty child’s forefinger traced out the letters, a chill penetrated his heart. The ‘M’ was clear – it was the first letter of the name Machie. His own name. For a long time he had sat on the damp grass over the grave, as though chained to the ground by spirits beneath.
Eventually, he had managed to pull himself free from the invisible bonds cast by the dead boys and return home. For many nights after, his dreams were only those of the dead brothers with his name.
It had taken his young brain some time to work out what the final sentence on the gravestone meant. Together at birth, united once more in death .
One night, sometime after, when the screams of the children who had died so long ago awoke him from his sleep in a Glasgow multi-storey, he realised: they were twins.
He never visited the graveyard again, though the ghosts of the Machie twins of so long ago stayed with him always.
14
Donald sipped at a glass of expensive red wine as he stood by the kitchen window in the dark. His wife was at another night class – this time ancient Greek. She had bought into his struggle for self-improvement completely, having already attempted conversational Italian, art history, classical studies and watercolour painting. But Donald wasn’t too sure of her heartfelt commitment to this personal renaissance. He knew she was much happier with the glass or two of wine that she and her friends enjoyed in the pub after class than with the journey of cerebral improvement on which they had jointly embarked. So what? They had made new friends, moved in a more elevated circle, and could now both talk with great assurance on a number of diverse topics over dinner – the crucible of his success. Well, that and the old, less refined requisites, necessary for the long climb up
One of his favourite haunts had been an old church cemetery, not far from his home. The ancient graves were moss-covered and crumbling, in most parts overgrown, and the lettering that granted the dead their earthly immortality was worn thin by rain, wind and the passage of time. Hewould trace his fingers along the loops and lines of the words. Soon he taught himself to decipher the names of the dead by touch alone. He remembered each tomb and its eternal occupant; he spoke to them one by one as he made his nightly round of the cemetery.
One gravestone fascinated him more than any other. As he traced his fingers over the gothic lettering, he had discovered a symbol: a skull and crossbones. Underneath, he deciphered the name of a boy. John. He even managed to make out that the first letter of the surname began with an ‘M’. The thick briar that curled around the stone tore at his fingers, but he was determined to discover its secret. He knew the name belonged to a child, as he’d been able to uncover the part that confirmed the boy had been three years and four months old at the time of his death. He reckoned that the skull-and-crossbones motif must represent some dire illness or tragedy that had overcome the infant, though as he passed amongst the tombs he realised that dead children were by no means in the minority.
What fascinated him most about this grave though, was what was written further down the stone: another name. This time the script was clearer, less weathered, as the vegetation that had overgrown the base of the monument had protected the inscription. One cold night, when he had been bored, and most of the mysteries of the small graveyard were no longer secrets, he decided to pull away the grass and briars to read what lay underneath, expecting the usual platitudes of sympathy and regret.
It turned out that another child’s body lay in the grave. This boy had lived longer, surviving to the ripe old age of seven years and eight months. His name was James. With ashaking hand, which he couldn’t explain, he was able to trace the family surname from this undamaged portion of the stone.
As his dirty child’s forefinger traced out the letters, a chill penetrated his heart. The ‘M’ was clear – it was the first letter of the name Machie. His own name. For a long time he had sat on the damp grass over the grave, as though chained to the ground by spirits beneath.
Eventually, he had managed to pull himself free from the invisible bonds cast by the dead boys and return home. For many nights after, his dreams were only those of the dead brothers with his name.
It had taken his young brain some time to work out what the final sentence on the gravestone meant. Together at birth, united once more in death .
One night, sometime after, when the screams of the children who had died so long ago awoke him from his sleep in a Glasgow multi-storey, he realised: they were twins.
He never visited the graveyard again, though the ghosts of the Machie twins of so long ago stayed with him always.
14
Donald sipped at a glass of expensive red wine as he stood by the kitchen window in the dark. His wife was at another night class – this time ancient Greek. She had bought into his struggle for self-improvement completely, having already attempted conversational Italian, art history, classical studies and watercolour painting. But Donald wasn’t too sure of her heartfelt commitment to this personal renaissance. He knew she was much happier with the glass or two of wine that she and her friends enjoyed in the pub after class than with the journey of cerebral improvement on which they had jointly embarked. So what? They had made new friends, moved in a more elevated circle, and could now both talk with great assurance on a number of diverse topics over dinner – the crucible of his success. Well, that and the old, less refined requisites, necessary for the long climb up
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