52 pages, Kindle edition
Review
by Pat Black
Think
Loch Ness Monster. Think Ben Nevis. Think Edinburgh Castle and William Wallace.
Think Rabbie Burns hastily pulling up his britches. Alright, you’re in the
Scotch Zone.
Now,
up there in your mental flipbook alongside those landmarks, icons, ciphers and
memes for Scotland might be the Forth Bridge – that spectacular piece of
engineering spanning the River Forth between Fife and Edinburgh, for my money
the greatest bridge ever built. The act of painting it to combat corrosion has
become a metaphor for a hopeless, never-ending task, a modern day version of
the Sisyphean myth. They have in fact invented a paint which has called a halt
to this chore for another 25 years; but as recently as late 2011, you still had
men clinging to gantries on the side of the structure, 365 days a year,
applying slap to the old bird.
You
can see this grand structure and its more rough-n’-ready sibling, the Forth
Road Bridge, from South Queensferry, where Brendan Gisby worked as a barman
during his teenage years in the late 1960s and early 1970s in between school
and family life. Lost Between The Bridges is a collection of short stories
inspired by his this time. Although Gisby refers to them as “lost” years, he
also appreciates that they were formative, rich with characters, incidents,
joys and tragedies. There can be no more fertile ground for a storyteller.
This
short collection begins with “The Barman”, looking at the narrator’s first
application for a job at a plush motel on the shores of South Queensferry. He’s
underage, but it was far easier to bluff it back then. The young barman quickly
finds his feet, learning the alchemy of cocktail-making as well as getting
handy at splitting up bar fights. However, our wonder years are about learning
life’s harsh realities as well as their joys, and quite often, when you’re at
the bottom, this includes being harassed by quite awful people in middle
management. Not flying as high as they’d wish, and taking it out on anyone they
see as beneath them. Mr Thom, the undermanager of the motel, fits that
description, but his story has – literally – a lovely pay-off.
“The
Cowboy” was probably my favourite tale here, and it recalls the bard’s words
about seeing ourselves as others see us. Our barman has a chat with a young
customer who has just been let out of Borstal, an establishment in Polmont
forming part of a UK-wide chain of sunshine and lemonade holiday camps for
young offenders. The lad has just seen a film, and he says that the barman
reminds him of one of the characters in it. The film is Midnight Cowboy, and
the barman, his ego tickled, imagines himself as the Virginian, or Clint
Eastwood, or Matt Dillon, or John Wayne, posing in the mirror behind the
gantry, doffing an imaginary Stetson and firing a gun. And then another
customer gives him a more detailed review of the movie.
This
reminded me of a funny story I overheard from an old boy in a barber’s talking
about how he bought some knocked-off DVDs in the pub. He was particularly drawn
to one of them on account of the two cowpokes depicted on the badly-printed box
cover, both in Stetson hats. And so he sat down to watch a good old fashioned
western, only to be confronted with the majesty of Brokeback Mountain.
“The
Boxer” is a straightforward revenge tale, and none too subtle either as the
title implies. A lot of work goes into making the antagonist in the story seem
villainous and completely unsympathetic before his confrontation with the
narrator during his stag party. And to be fair, he doesn’t seem like the
jolliest trooper in the platoon. This one’s beauty was in capturing the sweaty,
bullish, unpleasant atmosphere that can result in a bunch of blokes being
cooped together in a place where the drink flows too easily. When a full-scale
brawl breaks out, Gisby has a wonderful line about “newly-angered men” trying
to settle “a lifetime of old scores and grudges” in an eruption of tables,
chairs and pint glasses. How easy it is for these ancient traumas and
intransigencies to surface once drink has been taken.
“When
the World Changed” is a sketch, a homage to one of the peaks of human
achievement in the summer of 1969. The young narrator finishes his shift in the
bright morning sunshine, basking in the epiphany of having watched along with
the rest of the world as a man set foot on that silvery ball in the night sky.
“The
Survivor” looks at a down-at-heel room-mate the narrator gains during his time
at the bar, a man whose heavy drinking is tolerated by management, even if he’s
draining pints on the job. The story of how this man came to be such a wreck is
revealed in full, and there’s a compassionate look at the world of the
alcoholic. No matter how they got there, and no matter how monstrous they
become, these people can have very sad stories.
Lastly,
it’s “The Ballad of Billy G”. Time is as important as place in this one, with
the 1960s giving way to 1970, Woodstock morphing into Altamont and the flowers
in the hair becoming brittle and withered. The narrator shares a walk home with
the boy in the title, a formerly dapper man-about-town turned into a gaunt
wreck owing to the influence of ever-heavier drugs and ever-dodgier people.
This lad idolises Hendrix and Joplin, but it turns out 1970 didn’t end so well
for them, either.
Lost
Between The Bridges manages the difficult trick of being affectionate about the
past without soft-soaping it, or developing that old Scottish affliction,
nostalgia. Those teenage years are the ones where you can easily lose yourself.
Perhaps, like Gisby, you can look back on those days and smile… but only if
you’re lucky.
Now
that a new crossing is being constructed across the Forth, and with Scots soon
being asked to consider full independence, I wonder if there are new tales
inspired by the area to come from Gisby’s pen?
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