Part Two:.......A Meeting

His first sight of the old man made him him start in surprise. Josef, seeing the look of alarm on Buster's face, raised his arm in greeting and reassurance and nodding to towarfds the trees, and their small inhabitants, quoted an apposite Polish proverb. Then, remembering himself, he provided a halting translation.

When the penny finally dropped, Buster grinned broadly. Eager to make a new friend in a strange city he lunged forward and grippesd the old man's hand, pumping it vigorously. Josef winced and tried as diplomatically as he could to free himself from the little man's over eager grip.

The old landlord's new acqaintance jabbered excitedly as he picked up his suitcase, giving a blow by blow of the course that his life and travels had taken over the last few days. In a deluge of words he attempted to describe his first impressions of the city he had seen for the first time a mere hour ago and only when the flood of words subsided did he stop for a breath before mentioning how hungry he was and how tired and his worries about where he would lay his head tonight.

Buster, feeling that it was a requirement of making a new acqauintance, now took it upon himself to recite his entire life story from the moment of his birth to this very minute. Josef's mind, however, was preoccupied with certain pressing questions -chief among them being "what on earth was he supposed to do now?"

He was starting to feel responsible for this little clown. Josef did not mean this unkindly but you had to be careful these days didn't you? The government was always telling you to be careful. They were always telling you not to let strangers into your home and to keep an eye on your belongings and be safe and don't take chances. Yet here he was, out of kindness and common humanity getting ready to open his door to this strange creature who, by the looks of things, might not even be of this world.

He was just pondering the possibility of absolving himself decently from the obligations of hospitality when he happened to glance over at his new companion to find that he was not there any more. He thought, for a split second, that he might have imagined the encounter and that perhaps he was not feeling as well as he had thought but, eventually turning round, he saw his little clown, some distance back, hunkered down and trying to cvoax yet another furry tree dweller toward the gift sitting in the palm of his outstretched hand. After a tense moment the creature collected its prize and darted off. Josef clapped. Buster beamed.

Josef was now as sure of Buster as Buster was of Josef. A new friend. A wonderful thing even at this late hour. Surely, thought Josef, a gift from God.

As they walked toward Princes Street together, the old man thought with pleasure of the opportunity to bestow hospitality on this new friend and blessed stranger and he hoped for the sound of laughter to chase away the silence of his room.



In the front room of Josef Straczyunski's boarding house on the very northern edge of the New Town Buster waited as patiently as his grumbling stomach would allow while the old man prepared a tray of cakes, biscuits and tea for them both.

The room had served as Josef's living quarters for decades and now the old man did not venture out of it any more than he could help and so it was no surprise that the place bulged with the accumulated clutter of a long life.

Buster approved, though. He felt that he was in the presence of a very wise and learned man for surely only learned men were allowed to leave books and papers scattered around as they pleased. Learned men had more important things to do than tidy up after themselves.

He tried to take his mind off his rumbling stomach by making a deeper study of the room while he waited for his tea and biscuits. The curtains were of a heavy maroon material with a motif picked out in gold brocade which had faded badly through the years. Like the the threadbare carpet, these curtains had been expensive but now, like their owner, they were seeing out their last days.

The furniture was all, with the excveption of the coffee table, which was newish and cheap looking, old, dark and heavy and Buster felt a sudden stab of pity for the old man. It was a cosy room certainly but he suspected his new friend spent too much time in itnand he doubted that maany visitors came knocking at the door. People only seemed copmfortable with new bright things these days and they did not have too much time for old men who talked too slowly of long ago things.

Not a moment too soon a tray was set down, tea was poured and Buster was happily working his way through a very large slab of Dundee Cake.

While he did so, the old man seemed to have read his guest's mind for with a sweep of his arm, he said, "See I have friends with me all the time. Never alone."

Buster looked around the room, uncomprehendingly.

"See. See.", Josef persisted. He jabbed a bony finger here and there around the room.

Still his guest did not catch on.

"Look. Look", Josef implored, more in amusement than irritation.

Only then was Buster fully aware of them. On practically every surface in the room there was a framed photograph of some individual or group of people. He could not think how he had missed them so far.

Josef explained that they were friends from the old country who watched over him all the time so there was no need to worry on his account.

By now the old man had switched on a lamp whose glow made the room feel like a happier place and the two new friends sipped their tea and talked about friendships and places they had seen and likes and dislikes and the blessed inconsequentialities of every day life until Buster seeing that Josef was having trouble keeping his eyes open, diplomatically bade his new friend and landlord goodnight.



Buster liked the lemon coloured walls ion the bathroom. They were bright and, apart from the Tiffany lamp in the old man's room, they were, by far, the most cheerful thing in this strange house.

The steam was so thick now you could cut it with a knife. The cares of the world and the weariness of travel were very far away now. The little man sighed with unadulterated contentment and stroked the great white mound of his belly in slow, circular movements and in his state of bliss he was starting to nof off when he heard the door handle being tried.

"Sorry", said a nervous female voice. There was the sound of slippered feet retreating along the corridor. Buster had tried to say something but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a yawn.

The sercond knock came a full fifteen minutes later and Buster woke to find that the water had gone cold. Without realising what had woken him he reached for the hot water tap.

"For heaven's sake!", the voice was several notches more tightly strung this time.

"How much longer are you going to be?"

In a vain attempt to keep the world at bay a little longer and to avoid conflict, which he disliked even more than small portions, Buster turned the hot water tap on full in the hope that the sound of gushing water would drown out this rude intrusion upon his reverie.

He almost scalded himself in the process but the ruse worked. Whoever it was beat another retreat, leaving Buster to complete his ablutions to his own satisfaction. In his own good time he left the bathroom and started up the stairs to his attic room.

"Excuse me!!!!"

If the voice was highly strung before, it was bordering on the hysterical by now.
The new house guest stopped dead in his tracks before peering timidly over the bannister to the landing below where he could see a statuesque woman in her forties glowering up at him. Her mouth, now taut ands angry, seemed to have been superimposed ongtto what were, otherwise rather, pleasant features. Such details, however, were lost on Buster.

"I don't know who you are" said the angry mouth, "but in this house we try to show each other a little consideration."

On reflection, Miss Laird would have had to admit that there was no real basis for this claim but, then again, you had to say that sort of thing in this sort of situation, didn't you? You had to shore up your position with all the moral authority
that you could muster

"You've been in that blessed bathroom for an absolute age. There ARE other people in this house, you know or didn't you think of them".

All that Miss Laird could see were a pair of bulging eyes and a mouth that seemed to open and close with the regularity of a pet Goldfish. Where, she wondered, did the old man find these characters.

She suddenly felt the anger slip away from her. She was tired and it was too much like hard work to hang on to it. She waved Buster away with a "be more considerate next time, won't you" and then she shut the bathroom door behind her.



Buster was duly contrite as he climbed into his bed. The lady had been right. He had been just thinking of himself. He tried not to and much of the time he could be as considerate as the next person but sometimes....well he just forgot! He would have to do better he knew that and resolved to start being more thoughtful to others from tommorrow.

All the same, he had a feeling that it was not just him hogging the bathroom that bothered the lady. Behind the loud voice and that angry mouth Buster had sensed sadness and he sensed it elsewhere in this house.It hung in the air like a black cloud that refused to move to another part of the sky.

Buster looked at the little rosebuds on the wallpaper all around him and fancied that they sensed the sadness to and that that was why they would never come into bloom.

He knew that, if he let it, this cloud, or whatever it was would seep into his bones and then he might become part of the sadness so he said his usual bedtime prayer and felt better and knew he could sleep now without fear.

As his eyes grew heavy, as a way of chasing the black cloud to where it could do no harm, he turned his thoughts once more to his long ago and happy past. Familiar faces smiled down at him now. Familiar arms stretched out to him and the old, beloved voices sang him to sleep as they did every night.

Part One: FRIDAY.........AND A NEW ARRIVAL

Until then, April had not been kind to Edinburgh. The weather had been squally, wet and cold and a perpetual air of greyness had hung over the City like some sadness that refused to be forgotten.

Then, on the second Friday of the month everything changed. In the morning a series of light showers blew across the city and out over the North Sea and shortly after lunchtime the sun started to grow in strength and billowy, cotton wool clouds sailed at a brisk pace across what was now an otherwise blue sky.

Light and colour now animated Auld Reekie. Church spires glinted, the polished domes of the public buildings gleamed and the shop windows along Princes Street shone as if they were intent on drawing attention to the wonders of the goods displayed inside and the grass in the Gardens on the other side of the road positively glowed in the belated Spring sunshine.

The people making their way home from work looked as shocked and dazed as small animals pulled abruptly from their winter hibernation. They sat with friends in coffee shops or stood impatiently at bus stops, fervently hoping that this fine day marked the end of a very hard Edinburgh winter. A few adventurous souls even dared to think further ahead to warm, carefree days and mild summer evenings when they would have no need to brace themselves against those cutting winds that swept in from the North Sea and often made Edinburgh feel like some annexe to the North Pole.



There was, however, one soul, just now arriving in the City, who had no notion of how cold it could be. He had seen the blue sky and the fleecy clouds and the sunshine from a distance and, as we all know, distance lends enchantment. Buster, being a simple soul who always wanted to believe the best of people and places, thought that the place that lay beneath that sky must, somehow, be enchanted. You and I may laugh, cynical beings that we are, but Buster was always ready to embrace new wonders.



He was the first one off the train when it arrived in the station and, breathless with excitement, he scrambled down on to the platform, picked up his battered suitcase and headed off in the direction of the main concourse.

Once there, he stopped dead in his tracks, sweating and confused. At a loss as to what to do now, he stood watching the destinations change on the notice board while passers by gave the little man with the bulging eyes a wide berth. He was oblivious to their stares though as the notice board seemed to be having a hypnotic effect on him. Then, just above his head, a tannoy bellowed out loud and metallic.

"16.44 for Aberdeen calling at Haymarket, Inverkeithing, Aberdour.........." He read all the names leading up to that great northern city from the board, rolling them round his mouth with the same pleasure tat he derived from sucking a boiled sweet. "........Kinghorn, Kirkcaldy, Markinch. After a while he grew tired of the novelty of strange sounding names and turned to ask directions from someone.

A passing businesswoman, alarmed by his anxious, bulging eyes brushed him aside with her briefcase and carried on her way without breaking her stride.

He then approached a South American tourist who did seem willing to help but did not have so much as six words of English to his name.

Then it was the turn of two youths wearing football shirts but they only laughed at him and swore loudly as they passed by.

The minutes on the big station clock ticked relentlessly by and the little man began to feel the sting of panic in the pit of his stomach. Every rejection only served to fuel his anxiousness and sense of confusion and he began to fear that he might never get past the station exit.

As he turned this way and that, bug eyed at the sound of every approaching footstep, a collective buzz seemed to pass through the station concourse like some invisible electric current and travellers, according to their nature, felt varying degrees of pity, embarrassment or irritation but none of them stopped to help.

Eventually, a policeman approached. At the sound of the officer's voice behind him, Buster wheeled round and immediately launched into a rambling, almost hysterical, attempt, to explain his predicament but when he realised who he was talking to he fell immediately silent, lowered his head and stared for a long moment at bhis cracked leather boots. Buster did not like uniforms. Uniforms, in his experience, usually meant a ticking off, a "moving on" or worse.

P.C. Ernie Blyth examined this "specimen" for a moment while he pondered the best course of action. He had always thought that there was definitely "something in the air" where railway stations were concerned. If you stood in one place long enough every derict, crank or plain nutcase would end up in your lap. There was nothing surer.

P.C. Blyth wondered just what category this wee bauchle fell into. For his part Buster affected the usual ingratiating smile that he employed in these circumstances and when that failed to have any effect on the officer's stony countenance he simply stared down at his boots again.

Blyth had made his diagnosis by now. "Nutcase, pure and simple!" In fact, he was sure that this wee craitur had escaped from some institution or another.In any event he was bound to be on someone's list.

On the other hand, Blyth rationalised, he was not the world's keeper..........and the paperwork......... and, besides, you could not take a citizen into custody just because they were fat, ugly and stupid. And he seemed a harmless enough wee bugger anyway but finally, by way of paying lip service to procedure, the constable asked Buster to show some proof of means of support.

Buster thought for a moment before fishing out a Building Society Passbook from an inside pocket. P.C. examined the current balance with barely concealed envy before brushing the "wee bauchle" and his Passbook away.



Less than five minutes later Buster was standing at the eastern end of Princes St Gardens. His long journey and the panic at the train station were only memories now and so he raised his face to the Spring sky and said a silent thank you to his Maker for a safe arrival. Then, remembering his purpose, he opened the cardboard suitcase an searched for for the "gifts".



It was the start of a fine April evening and the old man felt better than he could remember feeling in a very long time. Mind you he had had to struggle to feel better but, when the Great Mother Nature was making such an effort what with all the greenery and the little creatures running about hither and thither, it would have been churlish not to at least try and feel well.

He sat down on his favourite bench, opened the flask of strong coffee and surveyed the Gardens as he sipped at the hot liquid as a bird sips from a bird bath. He remembered what Spring had meant to him when he was young. He remembered the wonder of possibilities renewed after the long, dead days of winter and the way that Spring breezes always seemed to tease you with glimpses of fine days ahead and holidays and girls in summer dresses. At his age he would have thought that things like that should not matter any more but oh........how they did. Why did the Spring sun tantalise him by bringing life back into his tired old body, he wondered. What was the use of it Would it not be better employed expending its energy elsewhere? Another sip of coffee.......but, then again, the wonder of possibility tugged at his sleeve.



There were two of the creatures, one of which was now on the ground a few feet away. It thrust out its head and neck as it studied the little man in half mast trousers and shabby raincoat. It sniffed the air. It turned its head to one side as if waiting for an assurance of safety from some guardian spirit in the Spring breeze. It edged closer, sniffing and twitching. As Buster wheezily crooned encouragement it came closer and closer still. When the squirrel was no more than a foot away from him it froze, like a gun dog in a sporting print.

Buster was about to offer more encouragement but then thought better of it, being content to stifle his wheezing lest the little creature lose its nerve at the last moment.

Then, with a lightning dart mthe squirrel claimefd its trophy from Buster's outstretched hand and ran off to a safe distance from where it sat on its hind legs attacking the nut with manic concentration.

Buster was hoping that it would come for another treat but, for no good reason that he could see, the creature turned tail, scampered across the grass and up the furthest away of two sycamore trees.

After a moments pause he waddled over to the nearest of the two trees. From a branch eight feet from the ground a second squirrel glared down at him. Like its mate before, it inched forward but this time with an air of menace. It chattered hysterically as Buster fished in his pocket for more nuts.

Buster held out two of the nuts in the palm of his hand and stood as stull as he could but this time the waves of hostility from the small inhabitant of the tree meant that even a patient soul like Buster was bound to admit defeat. He shrugged his shoulders in resignation and with no ill will whatsoever walked back to collect his case.