Seafield Sanctuary

Brian Dunt spent far too much time hanging around graveyards, but they held a fascination for him. They also offered him a sense of peace and serenity that he could not seem to find in any other arena of life if you’ll excuse the inadvertent pun.

At school, he had been treated as no better than a punch bag, and now at work – although they couldn’t actually hit him – they sniggered at him and denied him keys to important cupboards.

For Brian, the cemetery offered him an avenue of placidity and, within its outlay, of trees. An avenue of beech trees served as its centre aisle and often, in the summer months, the sun dappled through the rich verdancy on to the very bench he chose to sit on opposite his mentor and very great friend, Arthur Zebedee Brake.

Of course, he hadn’t known Arthur in any way other than this present relationship. He, Brian Dunt, born April First 1968: he, Arthur, died July 26^th 1963. They’d missed each other by a mere five years or so but, well, it may as well have been a lifetime!

When the weather was clement a gentle breeze whispered its way around the headstones and rustled the ancient stems left by folk that, for all we knew, were now gone themselves. Maybe they even shared the grave where they’d placed the once-vibrant blooms. Graveyards are full of such metaphors.

Brian Dunt ruminates as he sits in the soothing shade.

Arthur asked me the other day if he was buried anywhere near The Links. I told him he was right next to them and he was well pleased by this, even gave a little sigh of satisfaction as if this was a puzzle he’d needed answering for quite some time. How are The Hibs doing, he’d asked. Still Turnbull, Bobby Johnson, Ormond and all of those? I had to tell him naw, that was all long gone, though they’d finally managed a Scottish Cup in 2016. At this, he fair roared. Neever, he shouted in disbelief. Aye three-two against Rangers at Hampden. This seemed to make him even more delighted. Never could stand those bastards, he rumbled from beneath the soil.

I ask him about his middle name. Mother. Religious nutter. I ask him how he died and there is silence. He will tell me, though, that he worked in a local brewery. Well, Younger’s in Abbeyhill. Tram up Easter Road. Still got the trams. Naw, nae mair trams, Arthur. Unless you count the big fancy wan cost millions runs along Princes Street.

In all this time he asks Brian Dunt nothing about his own life.

Some folk are just self, self, self.

These days Brian talks Mrs Euphemia McLaughlin who died aged 83 in 1924. At least she asks if he’s married.