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I shake my head, wondering why I mentioned it. I retreat to looking at the music list.
Craig knocks back his beer and reaches in his holdall. The bus starts up and the low lights above the centre aisle flicker on.
He pulls himself up clutching two cans of Foster’s. ‘Fancy a beer?’
I shouldn’t accept, but my brain has already sent signals to my hand to reach out, alerted my smile muscles and instructed my mouth to say, ‘Cheers, thanks.’
Craig switches on his reading light and spreads his newspaper. The fucking Sun, wouldn’t you just know? There’s a picture of some celebrity redhead looking soulful at her reflection in a shiny car.
‘No mention of that other redhead up in court just now.’ Craig grins up at me. ‘Rebekah Brooks? Phone hacking?’
‘It’s hardly going to be headlining the Sun! As in Murdoch owns…?’
‘Hypocritical bastards, the lot of them,’
‘So why read it?’ I mutter, choosing Skepta’s Doin’ It Againfrom my music list.
‘Give you three guesses,’ Craig chuckles, opening the paper.
Fuck that! I jig my knee to Skepta kicking in with Rescue Me. Craig gives me the thumbs up then gets back to his tit studies. I swig my beer and turn the volume up.
But the music doesn’t stop me fast-tracking to same-old how-pathetic-are-you-running-away-to-find-long-lost-daddy-don’t-even-know-if-he’s-there?
Google him, fuckwit, the little voice says. For once it wins and I search Don McCalstry Lochgillan on the internet.
What I get is Donald McCalstry, an 1820 Lochgillan post runner; Donald McCalstry, car dealer 59 miles from Lochgillan; and a Wikipedia entry on McCalstry of Lochgillan,with an estate of over 50,000 acres. There’s a pipe tune called Lament for Captain Donald McCalstry, and I feel a bubble of excitement rising at the thought that I might literally be related to McCalstry of Lochgillan. Personalised pipe tune and everything? I pause a minute to allow it.
Craig seizes the moment to get in my face, indicating to take my earphones out. ‘Eh, hope you’ve brought your passport, laddie?’ He stabs a finger at a piece of news: Slippery Salmond: Labour Dirty Tricks Accusation.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, pleased I’ve understood what he’s on about. ‘I’ve got a few months before the referendum, haven’t I?’
‘Only got themselves to blame,’ Craig continues.
‘Who, the Murdochs?’
‘Bloody New Labour, bloody Tony Blair. If they hadn’t been so busy lining their banker friends’ pockets, sending the boys to get blown up in Iraq, and paid a bit more heed to Scottish working folk, that shark of a Salmond would never have brought us to this vote for some cast-adrift Republic of Haggis.’
‘So, you’ll be voting No, then?’ I try to take it all in. Not exactly kept up with the Scottish debates so far.
‘Aye, I’ll be a bloody Labour loyalist for the good it’ll do.’ He shakes his head and turns to the sports’ page.
I shove my earphones in and catch a funny thought that Mum says pretty much the same stuff about Labour, and how you should vote for them anyway. Hey, I’ve found her soul mate.
I get back to Google and look a bit deeper. Skepta starts on Bad Boy.
I see it halfway down page two. Don McCalstry’s Highland Motorcycle Museum. One mile outside Lochgillan. Fucking hell, can it literally be that easy?
My stomach clenches as I press on the link. Sepia pictures of old bikes in Highland settings scrolling across the top. And the intro blurb.
‘This rough and ready collection of British made motorcycles includes many that are fully functional: some have run in classic and vintage bike events. The rest could be described as works in progress, with the workshop in full view.
The museum is a piece of social history. Bikes are displayed in tableaux reflecting the age they were made in. From the soldier and his WAF girlfriend on a 1940s Matchless G3/L; the family seaside outing in a 1950s Panther sidecar outfit; to a shiny 1960s Triton outside an Inverness milk-bar.’
Oh My God. OH MY ACTUAL GOOOOOD! I lean back in my seat, heart pounding so loud I’m worried Craig will notice. But he’s fallen asleep, page three girl spread over his knees. I switch off the music to try to take it all in.
There are probably dozens of Don McCalstrys in Lochgillan alone. But it’s got to be… if only there was a job in that… somehow, he’s found a way to fund his dream. But he could pretty much as easily be the car dealer? I imagine making a complete tit of myself declaring to the wrong Scottish biker that I’m his long-lost son. I scan the website for a photo of him. There isn’t one.
It must be him. At least go and be sure. As in ask a few questions about how he got to open the museum; see if he knows Sheffield? I drift into this scenario: his shock and surprise when I break it to him, moving swiftly to a whisky drenched welcome with tales of the ancient clan.
