The Old Man and the Magpie

THE OLD MAN AND THE MAGPIE

Back then we didn’t have Google Maps or any other kind of technology to find our way around. We relied on paper maps which were not always reliable. That was the case on the day I met the odd duo.

It happened in the summer of 1976 when the country sweltered in a heatwave. I think it was in the beginning of July as I usually went on holiday midway through it.

The heat also took its toll on the van-a nineteen fifties green Bedford. It crawled up the mountainside, wheezing like a sixty-a-day chain smoker. Where the mountain plateaued, I came across a signpost that said MU. The rest of the name hung below it, still attached by a shard of twisted metal. It was rusted and scraped as if somebody had tried to erase it. I assumed it said Muldoon.

The creaking noise the sign made as it swung in the breeze set my teeth on edge. It sounded like the opening scene of a thousand horror films. I was the poor fool who would be first to be killed off.

Up ahead, the houses lay in ruins except the one that overlooked the hamlet. It had a grey-granite facade. A ribbon of smoke gyrated above a limp chimney pot.

I drove past the sign to a grassy verge shaded by poplar trees. The bowed wall behind them fringed a precipice. In the middle of the verge stood two tables a few feet apart, their tops fashioned from treadmills, each one supported by a single stone pillar.

I stood on the wall, surveying the golden-yellow pastures in the valley below. The unusual colour was caused by the recent drought–a rare, if not unheard of, phenomenon in the Highlands. It usually rained all year round. Hypnotised by the scene before me, I was unaware of time passing. It was only when my eyes started drooping that I realised I had better make the delivery or else I’d end up falling asleep.

Turning, I saw an old man sitting on the wall a few yards away. A tattered straw hat sat upon a small head. The brim came down to his eyebrows and earlobes. He wore a baggy t-shirt made for a much bigger man. His khaki shorts ballooned around the upper thighs, stretching past his knees. The rucksack trapped between his bony legs was weather-beaten and frayed.

He had been searching for something in his rucksack when he noticed me. His brown leathery face scrunched up in a smile.

“How's it going?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“It's a right scorcher today.” He swept a skinny arm across his forehead and motioned at the van. “What are you delivering?”

“An oven for a bakery.”

He blew out a sigh. “No bakeries round here, mate. Sure you've got the right place?”

“Aye. The chit said Muldoon.”

“This is Mulkirk. Muldoon is the village you just passed on the way up. Council’s been saying for years they’ll fix that sign. Never seem to get round to it.”

“Aw, man! You've got to be kidding me.” I was nervous about descending as the brakes were a bit dodgy. I thanked him and moved off.

Before I got to the van, he said, “Want to see a show?”

Time was pressing. If I didn’t get this oven delivered soon, the office would be shut. That meant parking the van on my street. It would be taken for a joyride by the time my back was turned.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I'm in a bit of hurry.”

“It'll only be two minutes. Trust me. It’ll be worth it.”

Sensing something interesting would happen on an otherwise boring day, I agreed.

“Just let me set up the stage first,” he said. “Won’t take a second.”

From the left pocket of the rucksack, he produced an empty tin, a torn lump of baguette, and a piece of cardboard. He placed them beside each other on the table.

“Now for the star of the show.” He tore off a piece of bread, holding it near his pocket. A scrawny magpie popped its head out, snapping at the bread. But the old man pulled it away before the bird could get at it. He grabbed the bird, wincing as it repeatedly pecked his hand, and placed it on the table between the cardboard and the tin. Its wing hung limply as if broken.

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“Mulkirk. Saw him on the window ledge of an abandoned house. He was engrossed in something. So he couldn't see the cat slinking behind him. The cat pounced on him. Aristotle tried to fly off. But the cat sank its teeth into his wing. I yanked on the cat's tail. It scratched the hell out of my hands. Had to go to the doctor’s. But it was worth it to save Aristotle. Been mates ever since.”

“Interesting story.”

“It is that.” He turned over the piece of cardboard. The pencil-written text said:

Please help repair my broken wing.

“I don’t expect you’ll make much money here,” I said.

“We get by.”

“So what does the bird do?”

“Entertains people.” He pointed to a vehicle ascending the mountain. “Watch this.”

A red BMW raced towards us, trailing a dust cloud. It screeched to a halt a few feet away. A trendy man in his twenties got out of it and marched over to us.

“Hey, you two,” he said. “I'm looking for a village called Muldoon. The guy at the garage said it was around here. Any idea where it is?”

The old man grinned. “Throw some money in the tin. Aristotle will tell you.”

“You taking the mickey?”

“No.”

Trendy man checked his watch. “Look. I don’t have much time for this. Just tell me,” he snapped.

The old man rubbed his fingers together. “Only Aristotle knows. He is the wise one.”

“Aye, so you say. You’re just trying to fleece me. I’m giving you nothing.”

“No money, no answer.”

“You’re bonkers.” He looked at me. “You know where it is?”

I decided to play a role. “Only Aristotle knows.”

“Pair of nut jobs,” he said. He fell silent for a long moment. “Ach to hell with it. Look. Here’s a coin.” He plucked one out of his pocket and dropped it in the tin. “Tell me.”

Aristotle popped his head inside, clasped the two-pence coin between his beak, and tossed it to one side.

“Tuppence,” said the old man. “Don’t be so cheap.”

Trendy man's face turned to stone. “Cheap. You were lucky I even gave you that.” He brought his face closer to the old man's. “I'm just out of jail. Makes no odds to me if I go back inside. So you'd better tell me.”

I stepped forward to fight the guy. But the old man grabbed my wrist. “Stay, son,” he said. “I can handle him.” He let go.

The two men glared at each other for a long moment. Then Trendy Man dropped a fifty-pence piece in the tin. “For that price it better be detailed.”

Aristotle stood up, sat down, hopped around, then returned to his original position.

Trendy man shrugged. “What's happening?”

“Seems you’re out of luck. His mind’s gone blank.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s it. I’m going to ring the three of your necks.”

His threat fired me up. “Think so, Creep?” I tried to throw a punch, but the old man caught it, forcing my fist against my side. Even though his hand was tiny, he had incredible strength. I couldn’t budge my hand an inch. I surrendered and stepped back two paces.

The old man shoved his face into Trendy man’s. “Have you really been to jail?”

“Aye. Just out. But I'll probably be back again after I batter you two.” He threw me a glare. “And your skinny mate.”

I was boiling with rage. If the old man didn’t deal with him soon, then I would.

“When I was in Barlinnie Jail,” said the old man, “I met a tattoo artist.”

“You were in jail? For what? Raiding bins?” He burst out laughing.

“Murder.”

The laughter came to an abrupt halt. The old man continued.

“My cellmate was a librarian in the jail. A really passive kind of guy. But one day a halfwit started to get abusive with him. So the librarian told him there was a word on his back. He dared him to read it. But if he did, he’d stab him with a fork. Just like this one.” The old man pulled out a fork from his trouser pocket. The outside prongs were bent back, the inner two splayed. “I got the same tattoo done. Want to read it?”

Trendy Man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His left leg started shaking. “I take it you’re this man.”

“Or I could just be making it all up. Want to try me?”

Trendy Man's face flushed. He cleared his throat. “Don’t know why I’m wasting my time with you. I’ve got more important things to do.” He marched back to his car and drove off.

The old man turned to me. “Would you say he was entertained?”

“Terrified, more like. Hope you don’t mind me asking. But what’s written on your back?”

He drew my gaze to the fork. “You don’t want to know, son.”

I took the hint and said goodbye to him and Aristotle.

That was a long time ago. Now and again, I try to imagine what the word said. It could have been a girl’s name. Or maybe he was bluffing and that was all part of the entertainment.

Who knew?