Rick Wilson’s The Man Who Would Be Elvis, part 2: Pipes to the amazing tune of...

An idea! Maybe the selling of Dad’s bagpipes could pay for the funeral. Roddy sets off to find out.

Bagpipes

“How much are we talking?” asked Roddy, his sweat-wet fingers slipping off the pipes’ black-bag packaging held tightly to his body.

He was at the famous bagpipe-maker William Sinclair, established in 1906 on an elegant corner of Madeira Street. The original William was no more, but Ewan, now holding the fort, would know bagpipe values. And if Angus’s was a good set there might be enough in it to top up a £2000 yield from the car; to reach the £3000 funeral fee.

“Well,”said Ewan, “it depends on age, the maker’s name, quality, condition, all that sort of stuff. But the value can go impressively high.”

“How impressively?”

Ewan chuckled at Roddy’s agitation and couldn’t resist saying: “I have a set – bequeathed to me by my grandad – made by the legendary MacDougal of Breadalbane. It’s now worth £10,000.”

The plastic bag fell to the ground with a clatter, as Roddy’s bottom lip fell with an odd squeak. Tenderly, as if picking up a baby, the expert gathered the whole concoction, and held them out for examination.

“Quality,” he said. “There’s wonderful finesse to the turning of the drones’ wood. It could be made by...”

“Someone special?”

“I suspect it’s a Peter Henderson job and you don’t get more special than that. Especially if it can be dated to the peak time of the man himself working in Glasgow between 1888 and 1875.”

Ewan up-ended the set to show its silver mountings. “Indeed, there’s no doubt about it. Look here.”

There was the distinctive Glasgow hallmark, lion rampant, thistle and date – 1870 – along with the initials PH.

“That’s good then?” asked Roddy shakily.

“Good? You’ve struck gold.”

“Gold?” He wiped the excitement from his brow. “How much gold would you say?”

“Ballpark maybe £5,500.”

Roddy gripped the edge of the counter to stop himself slipping to the floor, as Ewan added… “For which I might break our no-buy rule. If you want a quick deal, I’d offer you £5,000 today, leaving some leeway for profit.”

This was a no-brainer. Roddy extended a hand for shaking, but Ewan held back. “Of course, it all depends how it sounds. Let me test it.”

He rubbed a wipe over the mouthpiece and went into the back shop to find better accoustics. Roddy listened from the front shop, finding it still too close to tolerate the usual preparatory squealing. And to his surprise, Flower of Scotland didn’t sound much better.

A disappointed Ewan re-emerged saying, “There’s something wrong. Could be a blockage.”

He laid the set on the counter again and started examining the drones. The bass one didn’t look right. Where there should have been darkness there was white. Was that paper in there? He found a pin and started poking delicately into the pipe. Yes, it was rolled-up paper. He unrolled it a little, noting there was hand-writing on it. Also the name of an addressee.

“It’s for you,” he said, handing it over to Roddy, who unrolled it more before reading with widening eyes...

Hello Roddy

I knew you’d get here. You were always a clever lad. These pipes are my pride and joy, worth a lot, so they should pay for my fond farewell. Thank-you for being a great son. In the words of the song, Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have. But you were always on my mind.

Your Loving Daddy

Angus

Stunned and relieved at his father’s last gesture, Roddy could only ask Ewan dazedly: “Is the blockage cleared now?”

“Reckon so,” said Ewan. His big smile said it all.

“Deal on?” queried Roddy, still a touch insecure.

“Deal on,” said Ewan. “I’ll see the money is transferred today.”

Roddy hadn’t done that back-heel kicking thing since boyhood. But now he did it again, as he returned to the car he wouldn’t have to sell after all.

At the rain-wet funeral, in the shelter of a copse on a Borders hill, Roddy paid Angus a final tribute, singing Take My Hand Precious Lord in Presley style. After which, Mama Elsie of the care home grabbed him.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” she said. “Just like Elvis. I couldn’t tell the difference. Please come and entertain us at The Haven? As Elvis. Maybe once a week. Just for fun. Well, maybe for more than fun. How about £60...?"

“I’ll think about it,” he said tentatively.

But he was not to know it would become a lifeline. That he would soon lose his job as a superstore department manager. And that he wouldn’t have the nerve to tell Fiona. Not for a while anyway, until something happened...

Tomorrow: Roddy’s big break

The Man Who Would Be Elvis by Rick Wilson, published by [email protected], is available from Amazon at £6.99 here

A message from the Editor:

Thank you for reading this article. We're more reliant on your support than ever as the shift in consumer habits brought about by coronavirus impacts our advertisers.

If you haven't already, please consider supporting our trusted, fact-checked journalism by taking out a digital subscription