Debatable Lands

Tags

barmkin, bastle, black market, Bonnie Prince Charlie, border control, Brexit, debatable lands, donkey sanctuary, Easter bonnet, First Minister, haggis, Independence, Lent, Northumberland, Palm Sunday, Pele Tower, Presbyterian, re-moaners, reiver

(image: fortified tower by mattbuck)

[This is a continuation of my Augustus Snodbury saga…]

Diana Fotheringay- Syylk was sitting at her scrubbed pine table in

the kitchen of her pele tower.  She was writing to the church warden,

to apologise for the mule-ish behaviour of the Palm Sunday rescue donkey,

which had slipped its rein in the procession through the graveyard and had

made a dash for the appetising trimmings on Mrs Digby’s Easter bonnet.  This

had not tightened the bonds of fellowship, even though the nibbled headgear

had been sported by one who had contributed to the donkey sanctuary in the

past.  No, she- Diana- felt responsible for introducing such innovative practices

to a staunchly Presbyterian congregation.  She couldn’t help thinking that the

bonnet was a little premature and should have been left until well after Lent,

even if its wearer was the church warden.

Diana would always be a stranger here – a Sassenach.  Murgatroyd might

have saved a prime example of architectural heritage for the nation through

his restoration project, but neither she, nor her husband were of reiver stock.

Oddly enough, her erstwhile lover and the father of her beloved daughter, Dru,

was of that lineage, so she supposed Dru could trace her roots to the ‘Debatable

Lands’ too.

She raised her head and addressed her housekeeper, Mrs Connolly, who was

peeling a turnip (or was it a swede?  The two vegetables had lexical differences

depending on which side of the border they were being consumed.  Another

grave divergence.  I kid you not.)

Mrs C, what do you think Theresa May signified by ‘Brexit means Brexit?’

Ach, jist something like I meant when Ah tell’t ma wee yin ‘Bed means bed!’

Mind ye, Ah usually backed it up wae a swift toe tae the….

Please, Mrs C!

But Diana chuckled inwardly.

She was trying to sort everything out for Gus and Virginia’s visit.  Dru and

Nigel would also be arriving for their end-of-term Easter break.

It had not been a year since she and Murgatroyd had renewed their wedding

vows. What an event it had been, with Dru and Nigel AND Virginia and Gus

tying the tartan knot, in a combined nuptial service. Ah, so much had

happened in a short space of time.

Virginia had offered to put her own house on the market.  It had been her

previous marital residence.  She was worried that house prices might fall,

or the £ might plummet.  She and Gus were ‘Re-moaners’ and proud of it.

They were contemplating re-locating to the Borders, now that they had both

retired from St Birinus Middle.  The problem was that they did not know on

which side of the border to settle.  For this reason, the Debateable Lands

attracted them, in order to hedge their bets.

Dru and Nigel both had accommodation at their respective boarding schools,

but they had been keen to renovate some outbuildings in the pele complex, as

a way of getting themselves on the housing ladder.

Diana was keen on this, as she felt Dru would only conceive when she was away

from the stresses and strains of teaching.  Grand-children were on Diana’s

agenda and she liked the idea of them being on site.  If things became too

riotous, she could always retreat to her fortified bastle and barricade herself

in.

The problem was that the Scottish/ English border ran straight through their

barmkin.

Should’ Sturge’ effect Independence, then to which Csarina should they render?

Would Murgatroyd be evicted from half his property and have to remain in one

half of his complex?

Diana had an idea.

Mrs C, what if we were to transfer all the property to you – you know, put it

in your name?  If we only had permission as foreign residents to live in

the country for a proportion of the year, we could move the furniture

to the other side of the room; stay over there and you could call us your guests.

Nae borra!  Mrs C nodded enthusiastically.  Ah dinna ken whit that wee ny-

eh, that First Meenister is goin’ oan aboot.  Her granny came fae

Northumberland, so she’s practically a migrant hersel’.  An’ some o’ her pals

look like aliens tae, if Ah say so mahsel’.

Onywise, when Dru has her wean, we can put the whole shebang into its name. 

It’ll be born here, Ah take it?  Ach, Ah hope it’s a wee boy: a proper Bonnie

Charlie.

If there is ony Border Control, we will make a killin’, sellin’ haggis, shortbread

and whisky oan the Black Merkit. if they come to inspect, or patrol oor border,

we’ll jist drag the boxes ower tae the far side o’ the room.

But no one down south likes haggis, Mrs C…

It’ll be a different story efter Brexit, ye’ll see!  pontificated Mrs C.  They’ll a’ be

starvin’ ower there. 

And her eyes swivelled significantly, as she directed her stare to the other

side of the kitchen.

Mebbe we can dae a trade in barrels o’ pickled herrin’ tae.

Scything

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Alan Bates, Andrew Marvell, Antiques Roadshow, Babylon, barmkin, Ben Batt, Corydon, Damon the Mower, Deep Heat, Downton Abbey, eclogues, Farmers' Markets, Fiona Bruce, Four Horsemen of Apocalypse, Green-Winged orchid, Grim reaper, Hayter, Highgrove, Lammas, meadow management, Mower to the Glow-Worms, Mr D'Arcy, One Man Went to Mow, pastoral, Pele Tower, Ph.D, Pig-gate, Poldark, Schroeckenfux, scything, snath, Stag's Breath liqueur, The Go-Between, troubador, Voltarol, wu wei

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk was administering embrocations

and a little tlc to a recumbent Murgatroyd, who is, as some

of you will recall, the owner of a Borders Pele tower.

Privately, Diana thought that he had been over-doing things

and Voltarol was not really having a great deal of an effect on

his lumbar aches and pains.

It had not helped when he had lugged plastic crates round the

local Farmers’ Markets, selling his Empress Bangers and porcine

medallions.

Yes, Dear Reader, Pig-gate had already struck, before the

Cameronian variety hit the news.

(Photo:Alpha from Melbourne)

Once he had cleared out the pig-pen area he decided to

re-seed it, to please Diana, who had been upset when their

gardening firm had rotovated the wrong field and inadvertently

destroyed their recently established Highgrove-style wildflower

meadow and a group of what she took to be Green-Winged Orchids.

(Photo by Didier Desouens)

From then on, Murgatroyd had decided to do away with mechanical

Hayters and, Diana, having been inspired by Aidan Turner, like so

many females d’un certain age, had booked him in – Murgatroyd, that

is – for a Lammas weekend scything course in Brighton, where he was

going to learn the sociology of the bar peen.

His back-ache had been exacerbated by carrying the large A4 pack of

information he had been given at the start of the course.  Someone had

probably gained a Ph.D in Rural Studies from producing it.

That meant she could watch the boxed set of Poldark in peace, while

he practised with his new, Austrian light-weight, zero-carbon

Schroeckenfux.

However, her pastoral idyll had been disturbed by Murgatroyd’s

complaints, not in the manner of a Corydon, or passionate troubador,

but more in line with the average husband who experiences muscular

twitches, or sciatica.  He was recumbent and had hung his instrument on

the equivalent of a willow tree, while he lamented his estate, as if he

had been exiled from Babylon.  He felt as if one of the Four Horsemen

of the Apocalypse had wounded him – perhaps that skinny one with the

hoodie and the big scythe.

He groaned.

We’ve run out of  ‘Voltarol’.  You’ll just have to use the ‘Deep Heat’ until

the shops open tomorrow and  I go down to the pharmacy, Diana

informed him, noting that The Go-Between was on later that evening.

What a pity she didn’t have a little gopher, like Leo, to pop upstairs

with the tube of emollient.  She was fed up running up and down stairs

pandering to the invalid.

Having taken him a Stag’s Breath liqueur and having poured a generous

shot for herself, she settled down with the remote in a comfy armchair, in

the barmkin.

This had better be good, for she had enjoyed the Alan Bates version.

For some subliminal reason, she hummed One Man Went to Mow, Went to

Mow a Meadow…

It wasn’t too long before she found herself re-winding to check the length

of the snath handle Batt was implementing.  Impressive-and that was just

his wu wei.

Meanwhile Murgatroyd was looking at a John Deere catalogue while Ben

Batt cut a swathe through Downton‘s viewing audience and no one could

remember what Fiona Bruce had been rabbiting on about on The Antiques

Roadshow.  For, there was an attempt to high-jack a Mr D’Arcy moment for

posterity.

Later, in bed – the spare bed – Diana could not clear snatches of eclogues

from her overactive mind.  She kept thinking of Andrew Marvell poems, such

as Damon the Mower, The Mower to the Glow-worms and Mowing Song.

Snippets of the verses repeated themselves:

Sharp like his scythe his sorrow was,

And withered like his hopes the grass.

and

How happy might I still have mowed,

Had not Love here his thistles sowed.

…there among the grass fell down,

By his own scythe, the Mower mown…

T ‘is death alone that this must do:

For Death thou art a Mower too.

Well, she reflected, Life is too short for meadow

management. I think we will just pave it over again

and get some pots with pelargoniums.  I’ll go to the

Garden Centre after I’ve been to the chemist’s.

And she decided that Alan Bates had, after all,

been more satisfactory.

Coming!

Ice Bucket Challenge

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barmkin, Better Together, Cunning Little Vixen, First Minister, Flower o' Scotland, Flower O'Scotland, Ice Bucket Challenge, Kelvingrove, mote and beam, Oh Scotland, Pele Tower, Purgatory, Sassenach, Scotland, Scottish Play, Snodland, snowploughing, sporran, Trident, Wee Eck, Wyvern Mote

Murgatroyd and Diana settled down in the barmkin to watch The Debate.

Murgatroyd sensed that there were many diasporan Scots- was that the

same etymological root as ‘sporran‘?- who felt somewhat aggrieved that a

Sassenach such as himself could vote on their country’s future, so he

wanted to be fully informed and astute in his response.  He had tried to

follow some of the arguments on his tablet, but found that he kept

re-playing The First Minister’s Ice Bucket Challenge instead.  He liked it

when Wee Eck said, Dae it again!  No doubt that would be his cry if the

result in September didn’t please him.

Mrs Connolly came in with a tray of salmon sandwiches.  Murgatroyd

felt ashamed that he had ever suspected her good self, or her son, of

theft.  Forced bonhomie led him to ask her how she intended to vote.

Oh, Scotland!  Scotland! she quoted.

Again, Murgatroyd was impressed by the standard of the natives’

education.

..nation miserable

with an untitled tyrant,

when shall you see your wholesome days again?

He thought that this might be from that Flower O’ Scotland song. He

hummed a few bars to show solidarity.

No, Mr Syylk!  It is your own National Bard.  The Scottish Play.

She went on:

Alas, poor country!

Almost afraid to know itself.  It cannot be called our mother, but our grave;

where nothing is, but who knows nothing..

I didn’t think Alistair did too badly, Murgatroyd remarked, trying to be

impartial and failing.

If that’s the best they can do, Mr Syylk, I intend to emigrate, like past

millions.

Fare thee well!

These evils thou repeatest on thyself

have banished me from Scotland.

Yet my poor country

shall have more vices than it had before,

more suffer and more sundry ways

by him that shall succeed.

Surely not, Mrs Connolly.  Murgatroyd was at a loss to reply to such

moving rhetoric.  Maybe she should have been representing the

‘Better Together‘ campaign at Kelvingrove.

Diana just thanked her and took two generous-sized sandwiches

from the tray. Mad!  All of them.

But, it was only a few weeks since Diana would have thought a barmkin

was some kind of Scottish oatcake.  It was amazing how she had been able

to see Murgatroyd more clearly, the scales having dropped from her

over-prejudicial eyes.  What was all that about motes and beams?  Maybe

her stay in The Tibetan Centre had helped her to move on.

They were going to have a trial reconciliation. (Sonia had said that she

had seen it coming.)  She always said that.

Anyway, it seemed fortuitous that Dru had accompanied Great-Aunt

Augusta back to Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  That

meant Nigel was able to give Sonia a lift home in the hired van.  Dru had

decided to leave her harp at the Pele Tower, so there was room for

Sonia’s luggage.  In fact there was plenty of room for a dismantled Trident,

if Alex and Co had wanted to send it down south.

Nigel’s concentration was being hampered by Sonia’s inquisition on his

relationship with Dru.  How could anyone be more intrusive than his own

mother?

Diana and Gus were already back at school, fielding disgruntled parents

and snowploughing their enquiries, to grit the path for the incoming

Headmaster.  The term stretched before them like a path through

Purgatory.

Gus was annoyed as he had been sent a postcard from Wyvern Mote,

from Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe, commenting on the wonderful concert

and praising Dru’s musicianship.  Snod knew, with that unerring classroom

intuition developed over decades, that the missive meant that Dru had

taken him there.  He had seen them, tete-a-tete, during the interval, no

doubt arranging to meet up after Dru had dropped Aunt Augusta back at

the care home.  Musicianship?!  Hah!  Cunning Little Vixen!

Gus did not approve of her having led Nigel on.  His own past

experiences returned to haunt him.  He had seen the look in

Nigel’s eyes as he sang some of the more romantic ballads. Poor

fellow!  His vocal timbre was developing, but his charisma was,

like the proverbial gas, at a peep.

Furthermore, there was an issue which now loomed larger than the

outcome of a referendum: if Dru were to strike up a liaison with

Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe and it should become permanent, then-

Heavens forfend!!-he might end up step-grandfather to that bolshie

Juniper and her odious younger sibling, the biggest bete-noire of St

Birinus’ Middle.

He would like to empty a bucket of something else over that

particular parental head.

 

The World Is Not Enough

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arras, azure chapeau, barmkin, Blackadder, break a leg!, campaned, Commonwealth Games, crewel work, eBay, Esau, Fountainbridge, Green Room, helm affronte, heraldry, Ian Fleming, interior design, Kevin McCloud, King Over The Water, latex allergy, Moneypenny, Mrs Dalloway, nonsufficit orbis, Pierce Brosnan, policies, Polonius, poniard, Revenge Tragedy, Salmond, Samuel Johnson, Scotch Terrier, Scottish baronetcies, Sean Connery, stream-of-consciousness, Wee Eck, women bishops

Murgatroyd peered from behind the crewel worked arras, like a tetchy

Polonius.  No matter that he had found the reproduction fabric on Ebay,

it gave the desired effect and Kevin McCloud could stick that in his

chanter and play it, if he possessed such an instrument.  He only hoped

that the presenter would not appear at the concert with a camera crew,

and the verbal equivalent of a poniard, in the shape of a character in a

Revenge Tragedy, avenging  the contravention of ‘Good Taste‘ in interior

design.  But, unless Kev had been in the area and read one of the local

flyers, it seemed unlikely.

All the seats had been laid out in the erstwhile barmkin by a team as

efficient as those in The Commonwealth Games, minus the daft

choreography and the neon costumes.

Time was getting on and no one had turned up, except for Sonia and

Diana.  Only five tickets had been sold to date.

Och, dinna fash yersel’, soothed his cleaner.  They’ll a’ troop in at the

last meenit.  It’s jist their way.  They dinna want tae spend ony money

in case they shuffle off their mortal coil afore the night.  They’ll buy their

tickets on the door.

I do so hope you’re right, replied the Master of Ceremonies.

Away and sit doon, man.  Yer makin’ me nervous.  I’ll lead them in.

Ah dinna need ony o’ they wee Scottie dugs either.  Ah’ll dae the

job masel’.  Hey, did ye see the Manx team?  They should ha’ got

wan o’ the three-legged dugs fur them!

Yes, Mrs Dalloway, I mean Connolly.  You carry on.  Murgatroyd

interrupted her stream-of-consciousness.

Actually, things had gone rather well in the afternoon.  He had insisted

on collecting Sonia and Diana from The Tibetan Centre and he and

Diana had had their ‘little chat‘, without acrimony, during a tour of his

policies.

With a re-adjustment of the sleeping arrangements, space had been

found to accommodate them.  Nigel and Dru and Snod and Virginia

had not been sharing anyway, so Diana and Sonia were to join Dru, who

kindly agreed to couch herself on a borrowed futon and Nigel moved into

the master bedroom with Murgatroyd and graciously said that he did not

mind kipping on the semi-perished Li-lo that the cleaner said had

belonged to her grandson, who was now fifty.  He didn’t think it would

set off his latex allergy.

This left Snod in splendid isolation, which was his preferred option;

Virginia was also ‘toute seule.’  She did not intend to imitate The Grey Lady

and wander around at night.  There were far too many creaky floorboards.

She commented that Nigel looked amazing in his kilt.  He wasn’t quite sure

if this was a compliment, but decided to accept it as such.

A snifter to settle those nerves? Murgatroyd offered Nigel.

No, thank you, replied our songster.  It can wreak havoc with the vocal

chords.  He gabbled from jittery nerves.

Sir, when I was browsing in your library this afternoon, I came across a

fascinating tome on heraldry.  It mentioned all sorts of names, such as

Moneypenny and Blackadder…

Ah, yes.  That was the kind of source Ian Fleming used to come up with

mottoes such as ‘Nonsufficit Orbis’ for James Bond.

Virginia’s eyes misted over.  There was only one James Bond for me..

Sean Connery, agreed Sonia.  Born not too far from here, in

Fountainbridge..

No, Pierce Brosnan, corrected Virginia.  It was the naval

commander’s uniform. Classic.

Nigel continued, unabashed: It confirmed what we discussed about

Scottish baronetcies and the female line.  It also said that The Lord

Lyon only governs on matters heraldic and could not enforce any

objection to you- here he nodded towards Snod, respectfully–

wearing the azure chapeau for formal occasions connected with the

baronetcy.  Like for this concert, he finished proudly.

Stuff and nonsense! replied Snod gruffly, thus earning two sharpish

kicks: one from Virginia’s stiletto and another from his daughter’s heel.

Sir, Nigel turned to a sceptical Snod, as heir to an ancient baronial family

who is no longer the owner of the estate, one is still permitted these

privileges.  You could settle for a pennon..

Pennon?  Murgatroyd was becoming confused with poniards.

…a small swallow-tailed flag.  Or  a feudal steel tilting helm, garnished in

gold, shown affronte..

Pull the other one, Milford-Haven.  It is campaned.

Campaned?

In heraldic terms, it has bells on it! But now I am becoming affronted,

snorted Gus.  As Samuel Johnson said, and I paraphrase, ‘Just because

someone can do something, it doesn’t follow that they should.’

Murgatroyd chipped in:  Oh yes.  I like the good doctor’s quote about

female preachers and dogs walking on hind legs.  Most apposite.

And now we have women bishops, groaned Snod.  What is the world

coming to?  Tell you what, old boy- here he addressed Murgatroyd-

fill me up with some of that nectar and I will forget this inane

conversation.  Like Esau, I’m prepared to sell my inheritance for a mess

of porridge at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Be a good boy now, added Virginia, and I will buy you a spurtle.  And,

by the way, it was pottage.  A quite different thing.  Lentils, I believe.

It was Dru’s turn to be outraged, but she hid it well.  Diana was simply

amused.

Stop stirring, children, reprimanded Sonia.

Yes, conciliated mein host.  Let’s drink a time-honoured

toast to The King Over the Water- and I don’t mean Wee Eck.

Oh yes, said Dru.  I read that Salmond has lost two stones and

a bystander told him that women would be hitting onto him.

Not in a flattering way, surely? sniped Sonia.

Come away doon, all o’ youse!  The hall’s fillin’ up!

Mrs Connolly, the cleaner had been right.  The canny audience had

bought their tickets on the door.

Break a leg, said Sonia before descending the staircase.  Hopefully,

she wouldn’t.

Nigel and Dru exchanged glances and did their deep breathing in

unison.

They would be summoned from The (makeshift) Green Room.

 

 

 

‘No’ to Norovirus

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barmkin, Bodhisattva, dengue, Eliza Doolittle, enhanced cleaning, Eskdale Hotel, Euston, horse leech's daughter, insurance compensation, Kagyu Samye Ling, lama, Langholm, Lockerbie, midge repellent, Mindfulness, Norovirus, Pan Am disaster, Pele Tower, salmonella, Shedra Studies, Tibetan Centre

So we just took a taxi back here from Southampton, explained Sonia. 

I had a premonition that we would catch something nasty.  We didn’t

fancy cruising round The Med in the company of heavers afflicted with

salmonella or suchlike.

Diana chipped in: They claimed the ship had been undergoing enhanced

cleaning, but we didn’t want to take the risk.

Oh, said Dru.  But will you get insurance compensation?

Not b ***-likely, as Eliza Doolittle would have said. If you opt out

because of fear of illness, it’s not the same thing as contracting an

actual malaise, admitted Sonia.  You might be offered a re-scheduled

voyage, but I doubt it would be one we’d be interested in.

So, what are your plans for the rest of the summer?

Dru queried.  Have you got your luggage, or was it

loaded?

It’s in the sitting room, supplied Sonia.  But we

haven’t thought that far ahead.  What are you up to?

Nigel and I are driving the hired van with the harp up

to Murgatroyd’s at the weekend.  The poor soul insisted

in going to Cornwall and placating his mother by painting

her skirting boards.  She’s never happy, though.  She’s like

the horse leech’s daughter, the Biblical one that continually

cried, ‘Give, give.’

How did he manage to escape? asked Diana.

By telling a white lie about having to help in the

transportation of some school equipment. 

Changing the subject, you do know that Gus is

coming up for a week or so with a friend, to support

the concert?  Dru looked directly at her mother.

Murgatroyd generously invited him.  He’s so laid back,

Mum.  You’d hardly recognise him.

Gus?

No, Murgatroyd.  I think he found the renovation

project isolating and has an idea of the pele tower

developing into some kind of spiritual sanctuary. 

He envisages it becoming a retreat from..

..cattle thieves, laughed Diana.

More like the pressures of modern life, corrected Dru.

He has an aura about him now- a kind of new-found peace.

He has been going to Kagyu Samye Ling rather a lot.

What is that? Sonia’s interest was aroused.

Oh, it’s a Tibetan centre in the Esk valley.  You can do all

sorts of courses there, such as Mindfulness,or Shedra Studies.

Now Sonia was really interested.

Murgatroyd says their principle is to be everyone’s friend.  They

encourage you to attempt the impossible, which is what he was

trying to do in his building scheme.  They talk  about bringing benefit

to others and say you should experience freedom within yourself.

If you learn to take time you can become non-judgemental.

Sounds basic life skills, Diana commented. You don’t need to be a

lama with one or two ‘l’ s to agree with those principles. It would be

interesting to see if he has implemented any of them.

Don’t be cynical, mum.  He did actually say that you would be welcome

to come and stay.  He has plenty of room and I know he wants a full

barmkin for the concert.

Barmkin? I’ll explain later.  Look, he obviously needs to have a confab

with you in a spirit of compassionate understanding about what happened

at the start of your marriage.  He’s entitled to that, I think. But he is

accepting of the whole situation and still regards me as his daughter,

if not his biological one.

I suppose one’s enemy can be one’s best teacher, conceded Diana.

Mum, he is not antagonistic, I assure you.  Sonia would be welcome too.

I’ve got a better idea, reflected Sonia.  Why don’t we stay at this Samye

Ling place?  They’re bound to have a guest- house.  Then we could take a

taxi over for the concert, since it’s not far from the pele tower.

Dru was already Googling away. Yes!  There’s a women only house. 

You book 24 hours in advance.  Vegetarian meals..  Take midge repellent. 

Sounds off-putting, but they don’t have dengue up there.

Do they offer any courses? asked Diana.

Thirty Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva is one.  Oh, you can fly to

Edinburgh from Southampton and take a train to Lockerbie..

..isn’t that where the dreadful Pan Am disaster took place? Sonia’s

expression darkened.

Yes, but that was a long time ago.  Or you could take the train

to Lockerbie from Euston. If the monastery’s full, there’s always

The Eskdale Hotel in Langholm.

Sorted, agreed Diana.

What’s a Bodhisattva again? asked Sonia.

I think we’re about to find out, replied Diana.

Grand Delusions

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barmkin, bawbee, clarsach, deipnosophist, Forth Bridge, Grand Designs, Hazlitt, insomniacs, Kelso, Kevin McCloud, Luther Table Talk, Mindfulness, Pele Tower, reiver, shards, spurtle, Tischgesprache, tokenism

Gus doesn’t think much of him, I’m afraid, confided Drusilla, fingering

the gold harp on a chain which the maligned one had given her.

Her step-father, Murgatroyd Syylk, tried to look dispassionate.

They were sitting on a tartan sofa in his barmkin, sipping whisky

and soda.  Murgatroyd was very precise, nay pedantic and precious,

about the distinction between the converted cattle enclosure and

the pele tower proper.  He had watched too many Grand Designs

programmes for his own good and felt that Kevin McCloud should have

shown more interest in his renovation and restoration project.  In fact,

he was lucky that someone hadn’t made a feature based on his own

architectural endeavours, which would probably have been aptly

entitled: Grand Delusions.

Why should you take any notice of what Gus thinks? Murgatroyd,

never abbreviated to Mug, challenged. By now he had been

informed of the truth of Dru’s parentage and he had taken it

very well, considering.  He decided that he still felt a strong

paternal interest in Dru and, in spite of her DNA, she had been

nurtured by him in her formative years.  Whatever the biological,

ramifications and their personal impacts, he still thought Snod a bit

of an old fool.  Clinking the ice in his crystal tumbler, he waved his

tumbler to emphasise the point.  Diana and he would have to have

an adult exchange in the near future.

I don’t know.  I’d just prefer Gus to respect Nigel.  I wish he

wouldn’t refer to him as no deipnosophist.

What on earth is that?

Someone who is not a conversationalist.. Table talk and all that.

Hazlitt, Martin Luther, Hitler’s Tischgesprache, Oscar Wilde- you

know.. Gus has perfected the learned insult over many years in

the classroom.

Surely that is politically incorrect? commented Murgatroyd.  But a

partner should be your own choice.  You’re a grown woman now,

Dru.  Gus hasn’t exactly been Mr Successful in the love stakes.

Not that I’m one to talk. Judge not etc…  Anyway, would he have

wanted you to get hitched to any of that line up?

He probably thinks that since Nigel hasn’t been made Head

Teacher, he isn’t good enough for me.

But you weren’t offered the post either..

Here Dru flushed with embarrassment.

Don’t get me wrong-I think it is the best news ever.  Tokenism

is so muddle-headed.  Of course you were both worthy in your

own ways, but why be ground down by all that responsibility?

Your father saw through it all and didn’t apply for the job.

No, but they’ve created a new post for him as Deputy Headmaster.

He doesn’t have to do much, but it will boost his pension and it is

their way of thanking him for all he has done over the years.

Not exactly a golden handshake! And where’s the watch?

You should both enjoy your lives.  You could develop your artistic

abilities.  There’s no reason why you and Nigel couldn’t put together

a programme of music for harp and voice.  You could have a recital

here.  They’d flock over from Kelso in droves, especially if you

included the clarsach in the performance.

Well, it would be a lot more portable, but it tends to lull people to sleep.

Murgatroyd started to get carried away with another fantasy:

We could advertise it as a concert for insomniacs!  Put a twist on the

conventional and make shedloads of bawbees out of therapy seekers.

Music and Mindfulness!

Murgatroyd began to visualise a scheme for raising enough money to

finish the pointing on the tower and maybe even to raise the roof.

I expect the acoustic is very good, admitted Dru.  I suppose we could

practise in the school holidays.

Why don’t you all come up here?  Gus as well.  I expect he needs a rest

after last term.  Your mother could come too.  We’re all older and

wiser now and can behave like grown ups.  Presumably.

That’s very charitable, Dru said, but I think she is going on a cruise

with Sonia. It might be the House Party from Hell!  Nigel would probably

be keen, though.  From what he tells me, if he goes to see his mother

in Cornwall, he ends up for ever decorating, like the interminable

painting of The Forth Bridge.  Can’t remember if I mean Road or Rail.

Rail. Both.

So, now that your mother has sold her cottage, is she going to buy

something in Suttonford?  Murgatroyd struggled to appear

emotionally detached again.

No, she and Sonia have a mutually convenient thing going on.  Mum

helps her out with a few chores and keeps her company and she stays

at Royalist House rent-free for the foreseeable future.

What about Gus?

He’s being rather enigmatic at the moment.  I don’t know what he’s

up to, but he doesn’t do subterfuge very effectively.

Probably a woman involved then!  Murgatroyd knew the ropes.

I very much doubt it.  Though, come to mention it, I suddenly

saw moisturiser in his bathroom.

Changing the subject, we could hire a van and bring the harp here.

As you wish, said Murgatroyd with one of his characteristic flourishes,

which meant that he spilled some whisky.  You could bring your easel

and canvasses and Nigel could help me with some dry stone walling.

He’d probably prefer to help you to catalogue the pottery shards you

found in the excavations.  He’s not exactly a physical type.

Oh, we’ll get him to take his porridge like a man and we’ll soon make

a reiver out of him.

If you manage that, I’ll award you the Order of the Golden Spurtle!

laughed Dru.

She was beginning to see that she had mis-judged Murgatroyd.