Boswell's Bus Pass Read online

  Having chosen to stay hungry we stepped outside into the Canongate. Despite the superficial veneer of the tacky, the kitsch and the downright tawdry, Edinburgh’s Royal Mile remains special. Boswell too must have been pleased to emerge with Johnson on his arm and the night ahead of them. Now, as then, the tunnel-like closes lose their sharp edges in the dark and spiral into a dark nothingness redolent of past sorrows and the barely imaginable hardships of communal life and death in the squalid tenements. The fact that the old town rebuilt itself on the collapsed foundations of earlier plague-marked dwellings conjures an image half Bosch, half Babel: lives squashed flat, generations concertinad together, random blackened limbs protruding from a grotesque pack of cards.

  Even from a perspective of 250 years it is difficult to conceive that Johnson had the effrontery to confide in Mrs Thrale that ‘Most of their buildings are very mean, and the whole town bears some resemblance to the old part of Birmingham.’ What a truly dreadful thing to say.

  Other eighteenth century travellers reacted differently. Defoe ranked the High Street as ‘almost the largest, longest, and finest street in the world. The buildings compared favourably with those in England.’

  Boswell, swelling with smug pride, walked arm in arm with Johnson up the High Street ‘… it was a dusky night; I could not prevent his being assailed by the evening effluvia of Edinburgh … As we marched slowly along, he grumbled in my ear, “I smell you in the dark.’’’

  Although David was loath to let me take his arm we did wonder what Edinburgh smells of now. Mercifully the natives no longer empty their crocks of effluent onto the heads of innocent passersby.

  Ask people who have lived in the city all their days and they will identify the prevailing odour of beer. But it must be a folk memory as the brewers have long gone with the exception of the Caledonian Brewery in Slateford. How about the smells of kebabs, curries and chips; the remnants dropped or vomited into gutters by the marauding armies of stag parties; macho men secretly relishing their role as fairies in tutus or dressed as chickens with identical tee shirts? How about the reek of a thousand fags exhaled in giddy patterns outside the bars by punters flushed into the night courtesy of a shared and companionable addiction; their smoke mingling with the sweet tang of less legal substances? And let us not forget the diesel fumes leaked by open-topped masochistic tourist buses and the taxis which indiscriminately promise a good time in the Edinburgh Dungeon.

  The latest addition to the ubiquitous urban synaesthesia is the overwhelmingly cloying stench of perfumed soap from the Lush chain of shops; their employees the modern equivalents of offal sellers or fish gutters, whose very skin is progressively and indelibly tainted with the stuff of their daily lives. For me the uniquely Edinburgh smell, and one which may also have penetrated Dr Johnson’s nostrils beneath the effluvia, is the sharp rind of the north sea air pushing its way up Frederick and Hanover Streets, tugging scavenging banshee gulls in its wake.

  The tossers of effluent-laden crocks deserve more attention. In the absence of water pipes, drain pipes, cess pools or closed sewers it was incumbent on the occupants of the tenements to carry ‘their impurities’ slurping in large tubs down the common stairs at an agreed time. Tub thumping was discouraged. Burt in his Letters from a Gentleman describes how, on the stroke of ten, the assembled company in a tavern put down their goblets of claret and lit pieces of paper then threw them on the table in a doomed attempt at fumigation, presumably having chosen to burn together rather than be nauseated to death. Given that some of the lands were thirteen stories high the tub carriers must have combined great strength with stench.

  A small army of paid urchins would then open the infrequent reservoirs in the streets and then go with the flow. All very well and commendably efficient but if your tub-carrying lackey was having an evening off the temptation to hurl the contents out of the window often proved irresistible. The thought of your only wig catching soft stools which had been gathering momentum for the preceding two hundred feet is not an agreeable one. In an attempt to preempt this particular horror the worthy magistrates of Edinburgh tried to insist that all windows be fitted with iron bars or ‘stencheling’. This in turn led to the locals stifling to death in the warm weather.

  We both noticed the amount of flesh being shown by hordes of young women wearing virtually nothing, despite the sub zero temperatures, as they embarked on their shared quest to find someone who would love them forever. David visibly cowered, fearful lest he was recognised by some girl whom he had last seen sulking and scowling at the back of his physics class. Boswell too must have flinched as he and his important guest sauntered up the High Street accosted no doubt by small armies of street-walkers. Most of them would have recognised the young arrogant lawyer who frequently enjoyed their company and boasted in his journals of his extraordinary sexual powers. Despite his down trodden wife waiting patiently at home with the children Boswell remained an unrepentant lecher all his days. On two occasions in the ten months prior to Johnson’s visit Boswell confessed to his wife that he had been with prostitutes after drinking heavily in the Old Town. His main concern was infection. Twice the ever pragmatic Margaret summoned Alexander Wood the family surgeon to minister to her husband.

  We can hazard a guess at the identity of the women who smirked knowingly as Boswell passed arm in arm with a bear of a man. 1775 saw the publication of Ranger’s Impartial List of the ladies of Pleasure in Edinburgh. Miss Betty Clarke may well have been in their number. ‘This Lady is about 21, of the middle size, red hair, and very good teeth. She is far from being disagreeable, if it were not for her sulky temper, which sometimes cools the keenest desire even in the height of their mutual embraces. (We hope also, she will take the above hint.) Notwithstanding, when she meets with a lover, she gives him the utmost satisfaction, as she understands the power of friction admirably well.’

  The High Street would also have been on Lady Agnew’s patch as she plied her trade from the Netherbow. ‘This drunken bundle of iniquity, is about 50 years of age, lusty and tall, and has followed the trade since she was about 13. One thing she can boast of, that she is the daughter of a late worthy Baronet, who was a brave General in the last war. Being a disgrace to her relations, who are some of the best in Scotland, they sent her to the north, where she continued her business for a long time. She regards neither decency nor decorum, and would as willingly lie with a chimney-sweep as with a lord. Her desires are so immoderate, that she would think nothing of a company of Grenadiers at one time. Take her all in all, she is an abandoned Piece.’

  Two women police officers bent towards the small ashen faced figure shivering beneath her blanket. Their attitude seemed compassionate, concerned. There was so much shaking going on beneath the blanket it was not impossible that a small child was also hidden under it. A series of red chalk messages spread out from her, each written in capital letters and neatly boxed. ‘Help me’ they all said. ‘Help me.’ One of the boxed pleas had bled into the doorway of a shop selling cosmetics and costume jewellery.

  Several doorways further along a more seasoned campaigner sat cross legged with coins in a cup. Occasionally he glanced at his mobile phone.

  At least this stance was relaxed and natural. Some of the Eastern European beggars in Edinburgh have adopted a kneeling posture, torsos bolt upright with legs at ninety degrees to the pavement like children in a Victorian orphanage forced to remember the superintendent in their prayers.

  We were distracted by a billboard leaning outside a newsagent’s with the resistible revelation DOG TIED TO TOILET IN PUB. There was something unsatisfactorily imprecise about the image. What sort of dog was it? A Great Dane jealously guarding the pan, a Chihuahua tucked behind the cistern? How was it tied up? Attached to the chain, thereby risking a hanging every time a drunk flushed? Was it a dog with an itch that sought relief by rubbing against the toilet brush? Perhaps it was Johnson’s metaphorical black dog which he frequently tried to abandon and from whose suffocating grip he yearned
to escape. Eventually he gave it an identity, hoping to befriend it and win it over. Did it travel northwards with him?

  Evidently the dog (a Labrador) had been led into Wetherspoons in George Street by a baseball-capped youth who was subsequently captured on CCTV leaving without it. The newspaper implied that the most suitable penalty for abandoning a dog in these circumstances was at least a public hanging followed by being drawn, quartered and deported to Australia. On balance though the lad had acted with a degree of commonsense and compassion. The animal would be found sooner rather than later and someone would contact Dog Rescue. Presumably the lad, reared to believe that Irvine Welsh was the only human being ever to have written a book was still suffering from PTSD after reading the utterly grotesque treatment meted out to the fictional dog in the truly revolting Trainspotting. Greyfriars Bobby eat your heart out.

  Johnson’s own attitude to dogs would not have endeared him to the Canine Defence League. In her Anecdotes Mrs Thrale describes how, when an acquaintance brought round his two mastiffs to show how well they could fight, Johnson hurled one of the dogs out of the window, presumably pour décourager l’autre. Apocryphal perhaps but scary nonetheless.

  We wandered up towards the castle and looked around James Court where Boswell entertained not only Johnson but David Hume and on one occasion, Voltaire. Presumably they stayed clear of discussing Voltaire’s mistress whose favours Boswell had enjoyed as they travelled back from France. According to the plaque his home was burned down in 1828. Why Boswell didn’t introduce Johnson to Hume remains a mystery.

  O Dear Margaret,

  I must leave you note. I am like a desperate man. I leave note in your closet as I know only you make water there. It is private place where you find my words. My heart beat like a pigeon before it dies, I have so much to speak to you but you spend all moments with the master and the big doctor. I see you all days but not easy to talk with you. Sometime I catch you look and I know you too want to talk with Joseph and tell him all troubles. You have many troubles with big pig of man who drop his wax on floor.(1) I want to hit him in face when he say you cook dog meat. Even in Bohemia we not dream of eating the dog. Very rude man. (2) I think he kill us all with guns in drawer. And why he make you look after guns? You beautiful woman not soldier. Never in Bohemia army I see so many guns.(3) He talk to himself all time and make noises. I think he see devil and spirits. He think they want his soul.

  Another thing make Joseph angry. Because baby Veroni does not faint when she is held by the great doctor, the master he gives her more money than I Joseph Ritter will make in my life time. It is not good to give money like that just to show that he is a generous man. He is a foolish man who does not deserve you his wife.(4)

  I have not talk with you for days but I have story to tell about the big visitor which you like. I go with pig doctor to get him shave. The barber he shake a bit and he cut face of Johnson. Johnson go like mad man, he take barber razor and look like he cut barber throat. He chase him round shop. I make calm again I give barber money and wipe Johnson blood with towel. Joseph is peacemaker.(5)

  You know Bozzy make me wait hand and foot on him. Bring me this, bring me that, you know how he goes. I did not tell you what he made me do. When Mr Johnson arrives, he is most angry after the waiter at Boyds, he put his finger in his lemonade and then Johnson throws the drink out of the window. Bozzy he tells me, go to Boyds and beat the scoundrel with a stick. As you know Margaret, I am too a big man but I am gentle like a fly. I go to Boyds and the waiter he is my friend Tom. So I do not beat him. We have a drink together and Tom is cross with my Master and say he will stick his finger in his eye when he sees him next coming from the brothel. I sorry Margaret I know you do not like it when I make mention of the bad places he visits.

  I think I have done bad thing. When I was cleaning the doctors boots in the kitchen – Margaret as you know I have smelled many horrible smells when I went onto the field after the battle in Bohemia to take the weapons and swords from the dead people – but I never smell anythink like the doctor’s boots. As I clean the man from David Hume he comes in and is very rude. He looks down this nose at me because I am foreign. He gives me note from his master who wants to meet the doctor. I take it and put in the fire when he goes. I do not like him. Maybe this was a bad thing.(6)

  Now I have go away. My heart is in rupture. All bags packed. We cross water tomorrow. You know how I much hate water, it is for dead souls go to hell, not for living people. I hear Scotland that is not Edinburgh is wild, full of bad people who rob. Bohemia not like that. We have wolves and sometimes men with fangs but is nice country. I wish I not think of Bohemia, I miss my son.(7) I think I will not see him before he becomes a man. And I not see you, my beloved Margaret, a flower of beauty. I am broke in spirit. To spend day on day with the master and the big doctor in coach will be death to me. The master he need good punch and sometime my hand ache with wish to hit. He is all gush and scrape to Doctor. Now he call me to clean shoes, I must hurry to finish. My dear Margaret, as you sit and read this while making water think of me. I just want to tickle face again and make you laugh.(8) I write more from far away Scotland

  Your, soon to depart for long dark journey,

  Joseph.

  (1) This much is true. Johnson was well known for holding a burning candle upside down to maximise its light. This eccentric habit was not good for the carpets.

  (2) Joseph has completely failed to understand an innocent remark of Johnson’s. Boswell provides the context; ‘We gave him as good a diner as we could. Our Scotch moor-fowl or grouse were then abundant and quite in season; he had accused us of eating ox meat like dogs in Scotland, and so far as wisdom and wit can be aided by administering agreeable sensations to the palate, my wife took care that our great guest should not be deficient.’

  (3) We learn that Johnson travelled north heavily armed. ‘From an erroneous apprehension of violence Dr Johnson had provided a pair of pistols, some gunpowder, and a quantity of bullets; but upon being assured we should run no risk of meeting any robbers, he left his arms and ammunition in an open drawer, of which he gave my wife the charge.’

  (4) The episode is well documented. In Boswell’s words ‘Mr Johnson was pleased with my daughter Veronica, then a child of about four months old. She had the appearance of listening to him. His motions seemed to her to be intended for her amusement, and when he stopped, she fluttered and made a little infantine noise and a kind of signal for him to begin again. She would be held close to him, which was a proof from simple nature that his figure was not horrid. Her fondness for him endeared her still more to me, and I declared she should have five hundred pounds of additional fortune.’ Veronica did not however live to benefit from this additional legacy as she died aged 22.

  (5) This might well be true. ‘SUNDAY 15 AUGUST. I had a little of a headache. He had a barber to shave him. The first rasor was bad. He was very angry. “Sir, this is a digging.’’’

  (6) Finally a mystery has been solved. There has long been speculation over the fact that Boswell did not introduce his great friend, David Hume to Johnson. The conventional view is that Hume’s hatred of all things English would have made a conflagration inevitable. Now we know.

  (7) The only known reference to Joseph’s son occurs in Boswell’s journal entry for 19th October. Evidently the young Coll who had been their guide on Iona gave Boswell ‘six-and-sixpence’ with the suggestion that he purchase a cap for Joseph’s son.’

  (8) This somewhat strange reference is perhaps explained by the fact that in the only known image of Joseph, in Rowlandson’s cartoon of the party leaving James Court, he is shown sporting a splendid circus master’s moustache.

  STAGE TWO

  SETTING OUT

  A Hazardous Voyage to an Island – A Plague of Rats – An astonishing encounter with a Lost Tribe – A Vulgar Tale of a Horse – A Quest for Mutton – A Monologue from a Bitter Woman – Penance in the Rain – Words from a Spoilt Student

  Edinb
urgh – Inchkeith Island

  After spending four excruciating days in Edinburgh, hobnobbing with an array of toadying local dignitaries, hangers-on, and minor literary figures including a tame blind poet both men were restless to start on the journey. David and I were equally eager.

  The planning had gone well. A friend of a friend had a boat and was keen to support a project as outrageous as this. He did warn us that Inchkeith Island was rat infested and unhelpfully left us with a nightmare image of a seething brown landscape circled by waves heavy with dead rats. The dangers seemed sufficiently alarming for us to have second thoughts. We could take our pick: Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome (HPS), a deadly disease transmitted by infected rodents through urine, droppings or saliva; Murine Typhus carried by rat fleas; Rat-bite Fever contracted by the ingestion of food or water contaminated by rat faeces; Eosinophilic Meningitis, a particular favourite, transmitted by the rat lung worm.

  To compound the nature of the challenge he explained that unless we sought permission to land we could be summarily hanged from the abandoned fortifications for wanton trespass and, according to Scots Law, for the presumption of rat theft.

  It was with mixed feelings then that David and I, shivering on the pontoon at Granton harbour, absorbed the news that the trip had been abandoned because of force eight gales. Furthermore the boat was about to be taken out of the water for the winter. Match abandoned.

  Consumed with anti-climax we stared gloomily out of the bus window at the bleak urban skyline. Not since my parents had cancelled a holiday because of my bad behaviour had I felt such acute disappointment.

  Suddenly the perspective shifted; as frequently happens in old movies the screen that was the rain-dribbled window started to shimmer and we heard the strange watery music that inevitably announced a dream sequence …

  … David had dressed for the part, a cross between Long John Silver and Captain Birds Eye. His voluminous pockets contained a full-sized sextant, a telescope, a cat o’ nine tails and a cutlass. On being lowered onto the frail vessel he hurled the ship’s cat overboard and sneered as it mewled its way into the spume. He fixed the owner with his good eye and bade him cast off. He proceeded to strap me to the bowsprit obliging me to sing the theme tune from Titanic and ordered me to report any wailing that could be attributed to wanton sirens. With water and several small crustaceans already clinging to his coat he roared loudly and vomited copiously into the face of the gale.