Rick Wilson’s The Man Who Would Be Elvis, part 1: What was The King doing in Dad’s wardrobe?

There didn’t seem much left of his having-been. Once a proud red-haired Scottish bagpiper, Angus had become grey and economical towards the end. Too economical to cover his own funeral? It was looking like that, with no insurance to be found among the scraps by the pillow that still bore an

imprint of his head.

The son and heir was not expecting much. So far, he’d inherited only the freckled face, ginger hair and Shep, an ex-police dog. However...

There was a locked wardrobe in the one-bed unit Roddy Kirkwood’s dad had occupied in this rambling Edinburgh care home for over two years. What secrets might that hold?

Elsie (Mama) McPhee, the home’s feisty manager, smiled as she delved into an apron pocket and handed over the key. A smile that said: you’ll be lucky.

He turned the sticky key and pushed the door inwards – to hear an agonised squeal. They looked at each other in alarm. “What the...?” he said. She just shook a quizzical head.

The door was pulled back fully open, and there on the low ledge was a set of bagpipes in all its glory. “Wow!” he gasped, lifting out the whole tentacled production. He laid it on the floor, and stood for a moment in wide-eyed admiration, before plunging back in.

He gasped again as he pulled aside a raincoat to reveal a full-bodied Highland outfit as worn by the family’s grand piper: red tartan kilt and plaid, doublet, crossbelts, sporran. Which was covering up something shimmering. That looked interesting too, but first he had to clear the low shelf. He couldn’t believe his hazel eyes as they took in the pile of LPs. Which included pipe bands, Kenneth McKellar, and... what was this? The name “Elvis” bounced out with the uncovering of at least a dozen album sleeves, from Love Songs by Elvis to The Essential Presley.

“My God,” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” asked Elsie anxiously.

“It’s all Elvis stuff. I didn’t know... did you?”

“That your dad was an Elvis fan? No, I didn’t, though he once played us Love Me Tender on his pipes on one of our musical evenings. I found that odd.”

Roddy started brushing himself down. “Odd? Pretty f***ing amazing,” swore the otherwise angelic man of lower middle-class standards.

“What did you say?” Elsie’s smile turned to jaw-dropped shock. “Er...”

Roddy thought quickly. “I said the King was amazing.”

“I thought you said... sorry if I misjudged you.”

“That’s all right, Mama.”

Where had he heard those words before? He felt a curl creep into his top lip. Had the Elvis bug been bequeathed to him?

Now Elsie had her white-haired head stuck right in the wardrobe. “What on earth?!” she started. “Tell me,” said Roddy, consciously looking away. “Nothing would surprise me now.”

Elsie was clutching a heavy garment in one hand. It was pure white, heavily sequinned, with a high collar, a big-buckled bejewelled belt, and flared trousers.

“You’re going to love this one,” she said; then she laughed explosively as she saw Roddy remove the hand covering his eyes to take full view of the garment.

“Jeez!” he exclaimed. “It’s a full-on Elvis outfit. Now I’ve seen it all.”

Back home, at their neat two-bed bungalow with garden, garage and endless mortgage within in walking distance of Portobello beach, he heaved the great white suit out from the little Polo’s back seat and hoisted it to the back-wall rack, covering it with garden overalls. The piper’s outfit he left in the car, while he entered the house with a pizza peace offering.

“You know I’m on a gluten-free diet,” said Fiona with disdain. “And I’m late for work. You’ll have to run me over.”

He had often thought of running her over but had never had such a straight invitation. Which was a joke to himself of course; he loved her really...

But she was no bland blonde. Never had been, but was still the world’s sweetest woman beneath some layers of frustration. These included her endless nursing of others’ health, and her constant feeling she could have much better than a crashed ex-ambulance medic.

They seemed to face an unexpected wild card expense almost daily. And Roddy could tell one had turned up today. What was it?

“The loo. It’s blocked. Not looking at anyone in particular...”

“But we just got a new cistern along with the new system.”

“It’s probably not big enough to do the heavy-duty work we, you, require of it. The big one was okay. Why did we change it?”

“Oh, sh...”

“Aptly put.”

He tried one failed flush then found himself pleading: “Little cistern won’t you do what our big cistern done?”

“Pardon?” said Fiona.

“Nothing,” said Roddy. “An old song just popped into my head.”

“Your brain needs more urgent plumbing than the poo pot.”

“Anything else troubling you?”

A sigh, hands on hips. “Where should I start? Council tax? Electricity bills? Petrol costs?”

“The price of Dad’s funeral.” Roddy sneaked in tentatively.

All that came out of Fiona’s open mouth was a long, loud, drawn-out groan.

“Okay,” said Roddy, gesturing like an orchestra conductor. “I get it. We need money. Pronto.”

“Doh,” she responded, lifting her coat’s frayed hem for inspection.

Tomorrow: A talent discovered.

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

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