engagements with finances

Joe McCash, our Leader, was keenly interested in his finances, as will be evident to anyone who has followed his exploits in these Old and Idle posts. He was, I suppose, the wealthiest of us, and conserved this wealth by, for instance, eating the snacks that others had brought for a day on the hill. Which had to be forgiven in the owner of the wheels, the planner of memorable expeditions: he was our Enabler and it was only prudent for us to make sure that his energy levels never sank low.

The first ice climb that we did together was in Glencoe, and he had manufactured the pitons we would need for the climb. Explaining briefly to me that my duty was to take out the pitons as I followed him up the ice, he added the rationale: ”I spent a lot of time and money making these out of electrical conduit pipe so I don’t want to lose them.”

It was a pleasure to be there on a windless day of winter sunshine, on a climb difficult enough to command attention but without stress. I may have hummed a little tune as I belayed the leader and waited my turn.

My turn came, and a problem emerged: I couldn’t pull the pitons straight out of the ice, but had to bend them slightly to get a grip; and when I bent them they broke. I imagined the Leader, way up there, falling off and hurtling down . . . and being held by these pitons? When I, a not particularly strong person, had easily bent and broken them?

What to do? Tell him his pitons were about as strong as porridge? What use would that be? All he could do anyway was finish the climb. If he knew the pitons were made of porridge he might get unnerved and come wheeching past me like a ripe plum, plucking me to my doom. He was near the top, the angle was easing, I dug the axe as far into the ice as I could, fed a loop of rope around it and paid close attention to how things were going up above.

Things up there were going fine: the axe rose and fell in merry rhythm as the great one powered up the ice as though in near-zero gravity, little bursts of wordless song floating out as the mountain fell away beneath him. He was a happy bunny.

My turn again, and as I arrived at the top Joe held out a hand; “Pitons?” I gave him the collection of porridge, and there was a moment of stunned silence before a thundering “Strewth!”

“Well I just gave them a wee tug and they broke.”

“Strewth!” – a milder tone as he came to a realisation of what this meant about the holding power of the porridge if he had come off the climb.

“Strewth!” a note of annoyance creeping back in, “they cost me sixpence. Each!”

Sixpence in metric money would be 2.5p.

*   *   *

The weeks and the months passed, and into the Leader’s mind came a thought, that it was time to get married. He broached the subject with me, one evening in my pad, by letting me look through his savings account. I had never before had the experience of contemplating such a wad of loot all in one place. It was a solemn moment, for you could actually buy a house with that lot. Without a mortgage. Words adequate to express my reverence failed me.

“Crivvens!” I said.

“Let’s see yours,” said the affluent one, with something between a smirk and a sneer.

Over to the desk drawer I went, extracted my current account bank book and held it out. As he trawled through its pitiable contents it must have been clear to him that by the end of every month the balance was near to zero. At that moment it was £1 12s 3d -  £1.60 (rounded down) in metric money. But never in the red, mind you. Not once.

After a bit of predictable strewthery, he moved the discussion onwards. I say “discussion” but it was more of a Terms and Conditions, and I noticed that there was no waiting about to see whether I was going to say Yes or No.

“A ring,” he continued, “is a senseless bit of flummery, you wouldn’t want that. I thought a fridge would be better . . .”

I sensed that I was nodding, as though in agreement.

“. . . but you don’t have anywhere here to put it, so I thought I’d get premium bonds in your name, but I’d keep them in case“  - a slight hesitation - “well, you’d probably go and spend them, you’re not very good with money, are you?”

So. It was all sewn up, was it? I was going to have to do some serious thinking. Best say nothing meantime. Indeed I was too surprised and stunned to think of anything to say.

Briefly listing the peaks he had in mind for sewing up the next weekend, he disappeared into the night, headed for his own pad.

Well now. Lots of things to think about, for example:

I was 28; maybe it was time to consider marriage?

this wasn’t Romance, not remotely

but Romance brought only disillusionment and grief

what would be my job situation (thus independence)?

what did I feel about him, no, really? joking aside?

What I felt was a mixture of irritation and respect, proportioned about 60 : 40. Was that a basis for living with a person? Well, probably millions of tolerably good marriages had been based on just that mixture. With time, perhaps the proportions would change. For better or worse, though?

Since no response had apparently been needed, why not just carry on as usual and see what happened?

So for a while life went on as usual, divided into the working week – a largely grey flat desert – and the weekend, where the joys and frights of real life happened.

But occasionally there would come a hint of the different life in store: he met my parents (“oh dear, you don’t want to get married,“ they said, even while approving of his profession and wealth – for he showed them his savings account); he thought it would have to be a church wedding because that would be what his mother (long defunct) would have wanted. Blimey.

This was beginning to be heavy, concepts like Responsibility and Conformity were looming, a sense of being herded towards a menacing impenetrable fog. Could this be the landscape of Growing Up? I didn’t feel equipped for it. Surely that was the message of my pitiable bank balance?

Came a hint of exclusion from the erstwhile camaraderie of the mountain, where no-one knew or cared how much you earned or what you did for a living, or whether you were a noted barrister or criminal (as some were); the only thing that mattered was that you were there because that was, for the moment, where you wanted to be.

Tommy, newly arrived in the area, became part of the loose association of weekend climbers, and we became friendly. He was kind, generous, undemanding, humorous; “What are you for?” he once asked me. I had no idea; I didn’t even understand what he meant. “Dunno,” I said, “what are you for?” “To have sons to carry on the name.” Awed by such an alien concept, I cherished the enlightenment (endarkenment?) of his ideas, odd though they seemed.

At the end of a day on the Buachaille, a few of us, including Joe and Tommy, were in the Kingshouse Hotel reviewing the day’s events over a pint; much wild exaggeration and laughter, for it had been a good day. I found that I was blocked into a corner by Joe’s back; no pint for me, no chat, no laughter. No matter how I nudged, even shoved, the huge blocking form hemmed me in, I couldn’t get out and join in. Just as I was relapsing into a major sulk, a head appeared at floor level, followed by a body with an arm holding two pints, Tommy to the rescue. He handed me a pint, wriggled upright, dusted himself off and remarked “You can’t marry him, you know.”

No, he was right, I couldn’t. The doubts vanished, the fog cleared. It was nothing to do with what kind of person Joe was, it was that I wasn’t fit for that responsibility and conformity and grown-upness.

In due course I visited Joe in his pad, and told him. “Strewth!” he said, but without, so far as I could see, any great grief.

-     “So what about the premium bonds?” with hardly a pause.

-     “You’ll need to give me them so I can cash them.”

-     Major hesitation.

-     “Don’t worry, you’ll get the money.”

-     “Phew!”

Glen Derry, Cairngorms

A bit later, it was to be the Cairngorms for the weekend. I went up there on the Friday, in advance of the others, who arrived early on the Saturday. This was to be money hand-over day, and Joe was visibly fretting and anxious.

“What I’ve done,” said I, “is put the money in twelve hiding-places. When you find a place, you’ll find a clue to the next place. With luck and imagination, you could have it all by Sunday evening.”

“Strewth! That’ll totally b*gg*r my programme for the weekend.”

“And here,“ I went on smoothly, handling him a folded piece of paper, “is your first clue.”

He unfolded the paper; it read:

just

kidding

And while he was taking that on board, I fished out a wad of notes from my pocket and handed them to him.

It was a wee bit of cruelty, revenge for something, but at this distance I’m no longer sure what.

Carn Mor Dearg arete

Some years passed. I married and had children; he married a nice kind girl, and I hope they were happy in the time they had, because one windy April, he fell off the ridge leading to the top of Ben Nevis, which had been the death of so many of our old companions, and died doing the thing he must still have loved. In retrospect, irritation gave way to admiration and envy.

The next time I saw my parents, I told them what had happened.

“Oh dear, “said my mother, in the hearing of my spouse, “you could have been a widow and had all that money.”