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.

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RIP Aunt Augusta

Tags

Black Widow Spider, Bonnie Prince Charlie, bun fight, encomium, Eulogy, Existentialist, Hegel, John Fowles, Land Girl, Life of Pi, Lyme Regis, Meryl Streep, Richard Parker, Simples, Sliding Doors, Snodland, St Birinus, Steelite, The Cobb, The French Lietenant's Woman, Tupperware, Venus Flytrap, Wyvern Mote, Yann Martel

Augustus Snodbury rose to his feet in the Recreation Room of

Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  He was about

to deliver the meconium, nay encomium to his ‘Aunt’ Augusta.

Her commital was over and everyone had gathered for the

‘bun fight’, or, to clarify the matter, the sausage rolls and cups

of builders’ tea, stewing in institutional Steelite crockery.

Murgatroyd Syylk had donated the sausage-meat from his best

two porkers, but it had not seemed appropriate for him to slay

The Emperor, since, before the re-sexing of the animal had

taken place, it had been named after the venerable lady herself.

There hadn’t been sufficient time for Gus to read his eulogy-cum-

end of life report at the crematorium, as the coffins had been

stacking up like planes at Heathrow.

It had been agreed that he would present the paeon back at

the nursing home.

Thankfully he and Dru were still on half term.  The old girl had

been remarkably considerate in her timing of clog popping.  The

mourners really only amounted to two: Drusilla and his good

self.

Berenice, Augusta’s younger sister had pre-deceased her and

was buried in Venezuela, leaving a son, Hugo de Sousa, who

unfortunately was not in a position to leave the country.

That meant that it was only themselves and the staff and

residents of the home who had to be counted for catering

purposes.

Gus had rehearsed and re-composed his tribute over and over

as Dru drove down to Kent.  He thought he would write an

introduction, followed by the development of a thesis and

antithetical redress, in the manner of a discursive essay.

Perhaps he could throw in a couple of anecdotes- the episode

of her involvement in the missing Bonnie Prince Charlie chalice;

some wartime Land Girl reminiscences; some of her pithier

comments and so on?  Then he should sum everything up and

make an evaluation of her life.  Simples, as that annoying

furry animal says.

No, that sounded pompous.  Who did he think he was- the

Recording Angel?  Title of speech?  ‘Augusta Snodbury- kindly

maiden aunt versus Alpha female?‘  Ambivalence was surely

of the essence.  Quintessence, even.

He thought about the woman behind the mask of nonagenarian

vulnerability.  They had been asked to instal a surveillance

camera in her room, after she had made accusations about

a male resident whom she alleged had tried to climb into her

bed.

She should be so lucky! was the only comment from a lady in

the adjoining room, when she had been interviewed as a

potential witness.

The cameras had shown evidence of shocking abuse, albeit

only of a verbal nature.  They could never have believed that Aunt

Augusta was capable of such bullying behaviour to a young carer,

whose only crime was to have reduced the amount of gin in her

charge’s tonic.

His ‘aunt’ reminded him of a Black Widow Spider; a Venus Flytrap…

something female and venomous.  That was the antithesis.

The thesis was that she had supervised his education and been

in loco parentis, when his supposed mother, her sister Berenice,

had vamooshed to Venezuela, renaging on her paid agreement

with Lady Wivern: to wit that she, Berenice, should state that

the child was hers, the product of a liaison with Anthony Revelly.

This was a credible version of events, as Berenice had had a fling

with the tutor at Wyvern Mote, from 1945-7.  However, Anthony and

Aurelia, Lady W, had commenced their affair thereafter.  Although Lady

W was a widow, and technically a free agent, she did not want to

complicate matters for her two legitimate sons, Lionel and Peregrine.

Therefore, a deal had been struck. A monetary one.

And so it was that Augustus had been enrolled at St Birinus’ Prep

School, at a very tender and impressionable age, by his ‘Aunt’

Augusta.

Had she latterly discerned that he had discovered the truth?

Maybe he should expatiate and wax philosophical about alternative

narratives?  Why shouldn’t he present varying outlines?  After all,

John Fowles had done so at the end of his novel, The French

Lieutenant’s Woman. (Gus blushed as he recalled how he had really

fancied Meryl Streep.  He used to go down to Lyme Regis and hang

about The Cobb, until one blustery day, he had nearly been swept

out to sea.  That had taught him the valuable distinction between

Art and life)

Yes, he could construct an Existentialist Sliding Doors type of

scenario.  Like that boy, Pi, from the eponymous Life of, he could

persuade the inmates to choose whatever biographical version they

preferred.  How very Post-Modern!  He hadn’t seen himself in that

light before.

I mean, he mused,  am I Augustus Snodbury, the bona fide nephew

of the deceased? Or am I -say–a ‘Richard Parker’-type of clerical error?

Certainly, I am not using my real name.  What constitutes identity?

As Yann Martel said: ‘I live in a society of ‘unpalatable realities, but

realities I prefer to face.’  So, maybe I should face them down now.

After he had uttered the bombshell that Augusta was not actually

his aunt, but that Revelly was his father, Matron’s jaw dropped at

the revelation.  She had only recently taken delivery of Revelly’s

urn which was taking up an inordinate amount of space on the

mantelpiece in her office, along with other unclaimed remains of

yesterday and yester-year.

Gus concluded: I make no apologies for quoting Martel a final

time- ‘Life is a story…You can choose YOUR story.’

It could be argued that I became the man I am today as a result

of a synthesis.  (He was pleased at this Hegelian transition.)

Unfortunately no one else noticed the logic of his coda, as

they were mostly asleep, except for one old chap who was

hoovering up the remaindered sausage rolls that Gus had

been hoping he could ask to be reserved in a doggy bag for

his return journey.)

C’est la vie, was all that Dru could comment.  He thought that

was a trifle unsympathetic.  But ‘trifle’: yes, Matron did put some

of the leftover pudding into a Tupperware bowl for him.

It would be strange not to be coming back to Kent.

They went out to the car park, carrying two clinking bags

containing bottles of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.

Both were filled with empties.  They would have to find a bottle

bank en route to the motorway.

Did I do her justice? Snod asked as Dru pulled out of the

grounds.  He wiped a greasy palm on his best suit

trousers. I missed out all the stuff about when she

was Hamish Diecast’s Muse on that island in The Inner

Hebrides.  Did I dwell overly on her failings?

Let the enigma be.  Perhaps all our lives are illusory. 

We could all have been otherwise. All that remains of

us is love, Dru replied.  I think you conveyed that

sentiment.  Let them choose the better story and…

For Pete’s sake, don’t eat trifle in my car!  She braked

suddenly, on seeing a re- cycling bank, and the custard

landed in his lap.

He could hear Aunt Augusta cackling: Serves you right! 

Entropy! Entropy!

Tags

Acorn Antiques, Bonnie Prince Charlie, chevet, Cluedo, commode, communion chalice, conceptual art, double bass, entropy, EPNS, Festival Fringe, Glasgow School of Art, lang pack, laws of physics, Lee Hall, monteith, Mrs Overall, poisoned dwarf, Rebus, Steradent, Taggart

Murgatroyd could have screamed, Infamy!  Infamy!  Someone’s had it in for

me!  Instead he muttered, Entropy!  Entropy!

He had always been a glass half empty kind of guy.  He had concluded

that the Earth and planets in general tended towards a state of disorder.

That was why he was such a control freak.  Single-handedly he

attempted mastery of the Universe.  That had been the main issue

between himself and Diana when they had been man and wife.

His embracing of one of the fundamental laws of physics only served to

encourage his concentration on the total absence of the glass itself, and

not just half its contents.

Of course, it wasn’t a glass that was missing, but the very chalice from

which Bonnie Prince Charlie had received his final communion before he

ventured over the Scottish/ English border.

Murgatroyd had tried to dismiss the niggling suspicion that his cleaner’s

grandson had something to do with its disappearance.  After all, had the

dodgy relative not made an unusual request to leave his double bass in

the kitchen for a day or so?  The explanation had been that he was going

to play in a Festival Fringe gig the following weekend and didn’t want to

‘humph it around’ till then.

The local ‘polis‘ had found this highly significant and had quoted the rural myth

associated with Lee Hall, to wit: that a pedlar had once persuaded servants

who had been instructed that no one should be permitted to stay overnight

in their master’s absence, to store a ‘lang pack‘, as a compromise, in

the kitchen, since they refused to shelter him and it was too heavy to

transport further.  He promised to collect it in the morning.

At nightfall, the servants retired and a man emerged from the parcel

and unbarred the door, blew on a silver whistle and admitted some

thieves who had been waiting for the signal.

The ‘polis’ had considered himself an admix of Rebus and Taggart and was

feeling as smug as someone who had just won at Cluedo, without cheating.

Diana had undermined his confidence by pointing out that not even a

poisoned dwarf such as Mrs Connolly’s grandson could have survived in a

three quarter-sized case without air holes.

Drusilla underscored her point, namely that Juniper, though an enfant

terrible, was perfectly honest and, if she had borrowed the aforementioned

object for a piece of conceptual art, would have replaced it before she left.

Dru said that she was writing a character reference for Juniper’s admission

to Glasgow School of Art, and, as her House-mistress, could vouch for her

honesty and probity of character.

In fact, she avowed, at times she is too honest.

As for Juniper’s father, Maxwell,  Dru had been talking to him throughout the

interval, so she knew that he had not been wandering through the house.

He had been flattering her, but joked about the interval being ‘the best bit.’

He hastened to assure her that it was not because he was not enjoying the

concert, but that he was particularly relishing their little tete-a-tete.

Nigel had interrupted to tell her that they had three minutes till the second

half.  He thought Maxwell was the smarmiest man he had had the misfortune

to encounter and was desirous of breaking up their little love-in.

Well, as you’ve said, mused Snod, Mrs Connolly was doing her impression of

Mrs Overall in Acorn Antiques, handing round haggis canapes and so on.

She would have noticed any of the audience wandering about.  The portaloos

were in the courtyard and the signage was clear, so no one should have been

in here.  They had no business to stray.

Sonia added: And I am sure that the chalice was in its niche when we went

to bed. Remember- you were showing it to us when we had the punch from the

monteith?  She addressed this to Murgatroyd who was fiddling with his

cravat in a distracted fashion.  Then you put it away and we all went

upstairs. Mind you, I had a feeling that something was going to happen.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I was on the stairwell and

I could have sworn that something cold touched my face.

Mmm, agreed Diana, though privately annoyed that Sonia always claimed to

have known about things after the event.  But any thief would have taken the

monteith.  It would have seemed more blatantly valuable than the chalice.

The confab was continuing when Aunt Augusta came down the steps into the

barmkin, balancing herself on a stick with a horn handle.  She eased herself

onto a high-backed, tartan-upholstered wing armchair.

Why are you all looking so serious? she demanded. It was a lovely concert,

though I didn’t hear much of it.  Now I can die happy.

Don’t worry, darling, soothed Dru.  There might have been a little robbery, 

but no one has been hurt.  You didn’t hear anything, did you?  She

immediately realised how silly that question had been.

I thought I heard some bagpipes in the early hours, Aunt Augusta said

thoughtfully. When I got up to visit the commode, I thought someone

pushed me, but it was only that grey lady –

Grey lady?! they chorused.

-the one I spoke to on the stairs on the way up to bed.  I asked her if she

had anything that I could put my dentures in and she brought this up later

and left it on the bedside table.  She didn’t even say goodnight when I

thanked her. Not a word. Left it on the bedside table, she did.

Chevet, darling, groaned Murgatroyd.  It’s a chevet.  He could only hope

that the old dear hadn’t used the Japanese lacquer commode, which was

purely decorative and had cost him a king’s ransom in a London auction.

Well, whatever it’s called.  She brought that little goblet thing to me and jolly

useful it was too. I hope my Steradent hasn’t tarnished the silver.

It’s probably just that cheap EPNS stuff, though.

And she took the missing chalice out of her capacious handbag, with a

flourish.

Somebody take this from me, she ordered.  I can’t reach to put it back.

I shrank in 1993.

And she grinned- very pleased with herself- but was totally unaware

that she had forgotten to replace her dentures.

Oh, Aunt Augusta! they all cried.

If only their collective intelligence had been harnessed, they might have

explored more possibilities and might have overcome the entropy that

had threatened to de-stabilise the shared sensation of success of the

musical evening.

Clearly a longer course of meditation at The Tibetan Centre would be

no bad thing in the future.

Meanwhile, who was going to accompany Aunt Augusta in the taxi, all the

way to Snodland?  She couldn’t possibly travel on her own, though she

had miraculously arrived safely on the northward journey.

Drusilla knew that the lot would fall on her.  Oh joy!

Nigel would have to drive the hired van back on his own.  It

must be admitted that he had his uses, even if he had a tendency to

come in too early.

 

Surprise Guests

Tags

Bonnie Prince Charlie, Burns' Night, Caligula, Commonwealth Games, D-day celebrations 2014, emoticons, Eskdale Hotel. Langholm, Glasgow School of Art, Henry Moore's King and Queen, incontinence pads, Kagyu Samye Ling, Land Girl, portable catheter, Sauchiehall Street, Snodland, Tibetan Centre, Usain Bolt, whippersnapper, Willow Tea Rooms

It’s gone!  It’s gone!  Murgatroyd’s face was ashen.

Calm down, dear!  Diana took control.  She was used to his

histrionics.

But it was here last night when we had the post-concert

drinkies.  And the glass hasn’t been smashed.  We didn’t hear

the alarm. I don’t understand it.

The niche where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s chalice had been

displayed was now empty.

What a shame!  The concert had been a triumph and there had

been some surprise visitors.  One, in particular, had caused

consternation and a re-shuffling of the sleeping arrangements.

Aunt Augusta had shown up in a taxi, gleefully proclaiming, Have

portable catheter.  Can travel!

The taxi driver sheepishly unloaded the packs of incontinence pads

from the boot and waived the tip of an obsolete half crown.

When reprimanded about the staff at Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry being frantic with worry, the rogue aunt merely

shrugged and said: That old chap escaped for the D-day celebrations

in Normandy, so, as a Land Girl, I wasn’t going to be trumped by some

whippersnapper of a male.  You can phone and tell them I’ll return

after I have heard my great-niece in concert.  I’ll be back on Wednesday

as it’s the day I have my corns done.  Tell them not to strike a medal; I

have enough of them at my age.

The other unexpected members of the audience were Maxwell

Boothroyd-Smythe and his delinquent, but artistically-talented daughter,

Juniper.  Thankfully her pesky little brother had been taken to some kind

of trendy boot-camp by his mother.

Juniper had been photographing the burnt-out Glasgow School of Art, where

she had been promised a place if her predicted grades were achieved.  Her

father found that checking out possible accommodation for the Autumn term

was nigh-on impossible, as The Commonwealth Games‘ crowds in Sauchiehall

Street were overwhelming.  The chance of having a cup of tea in The Willow

Tearooms was as slight as Usain Bolt failing to win a gold medal.

Finding the city too crowded, they had set off for The Borders, hoping to see

Henry Moore’s King and Queen sculpture and to visit the Kagyu Samye Ling

Tibetan Centre which Juniper had been harping on about for months.  Goodness

knew, her father had been seeking inner peace for some time.  So, he agreed.

They had been eating a bar snack in The Eskdale Hotel, Langholm, when

Juniper’s observant eye focused on a flyer advertising a clarsach concert.

Dad!  Let’s go to that!  It’s that form teacher of mine.  She’s playing at some

kind of a tower house near here.  That nerdy guy who’s John’s form teacher-

the one they all call Caligula- is singing.  It should be a laugh.

When is it?

Tonight.

But won’t you put them off?

No, Miss Fotheringay is well-used to me surprising her.

Maxwell studied the mini-poster.  He recognised the woman.  She had scrubbed

up quite well.  Probably Photo-shopped.  Yes, he had danced Strip the Willow

with her at the PTA Burns’ Night.

Okay.  Okay.  But I’m not phoning ahead for tickets.  We might get lost. 

Probably hardly anyone will turn up, so we can buy tickets on the door.

I knew there was something going on between those two, whooped his

daughter.

Juniper was already texting her friend Tiger-Lily, using a full range of

emoticons.

 

 

Murgatroyd’s Will

Tags

Bastille, bastle, Bonnie Prince Charlie, buchts, cheesemaking, Drambuie, eanlings, ewes' milk cheese, fanks, idiolect, Lanark Blue, lintel, National Archives, reiving, sasines, Scottish baronetcies, transitive verb

No, it’s not a bastle, pontificated Murgatroyd.  Pele towers are bigger,

en generale.  He always attempted to flavour his pronouncements

with a Gallic soupcon whenever he could.

Riveting, said Virginia, crossing one slim ankle over an equally

attractive silk-enhanced foot.  And is this mot ‘bastle’ from the meme

root as ‘Bastille’?

Vous avez – tu as- raison, mon ange.  Murgatroyd flicked an anxious

glance towards Snod, in order to check that his use of the familiar

was ‘juste‘

And the ‘buchts’ you mentioned- qu’est que c’est?  Virginia was having

fun.

Snod blew his nose into his handkerchief to mask his amusement.

Virginia noted that she would have to teach him about the paper

variety.

Ah, mon tresor, those were U-shaped open-ended pens, made of turf,

where they milked the sheep.  They differed from the later multi-purpose

fanks.

Nigel gasped. His natural history was somewhat lacking in depth and

‘fanks‘ sounded like a lazy phonetic approximation of an expression of

gratitude which he was wont to attempt to eradicate in the idiolect of

eanlings such as Boothroyd-Smythe.

Murgatroyd continued,  Yes, I too have a cunning plan to produce

a version of ewes’ cheese, similar to ‘Lanark Blue.’  I intend to go on

a course in The Netherlands which should teach me all there is to

know concernant le sujet de fromage.  But, that is a post-Restoration

project.

Forgive me, but I have un dernier question, s’il vous……

S’il te, corrected Murgatroyd.  We are chez amis.  Continue..

Snod spluttered heavily and had to leave the room.  Thank

goodness the privies were now indoors.

The declivity downstairs?

Ah, it was a drain for the cattle effluent.  They were brought

indoors during the reiving raids.

And the people went upstairs?  Nigel asked.

Eh bien, there weren’t any stairs originally.  The last man to

secure the entrance shinned up some kind of rope ladder to join

his family.  The stair we have is a later modification.  He couldn’t

think of an idiomatic equivalent for the verb ‘to shin‘. ‘Sin‘-maybe.

‘Peccare‘– no that was Latin, he thought.

I noticed initials over the door, Nigel added.

Authentique, n’est-ce-pas?  Patrimonial.  I managed to persuade a

local farmer to let me have the masonry back, in exchange for a

big dram. It was only propping up a cattle trough.  The lintel stone,

not the bottle!

‘ET?’ mused Nigel.

Enoch Tindall, explained Murgatroyd.  I looked him up on-line-

you know- The National Archives at Kew and Edinburgh.  Sasines

and all that.  Tindall was quite a common name around these

airts and pairts.

What language is he speaking now?  Nigel was confused.

Tindall! Drusilla’s jaw dropped.  That was my great-grandmother’s

maiden name.  She came from a family who had sold off a ruined

pele tower.

Gus came in at this juncture- a habit which he had perfected over

years: entering a classroom at the most significant moment.

‘Sold off’ is the vital transitive verb, he commented.  I am sure that if

this is the property, Murgatroyd is now the legal owner.  The irony is that

Drusilla would have inherited it through me.  Scottish baronetcies could be

handed down through the female lines, irrespective of gender.  Aurelia, my

mother, was the link and not Lord Wivern.

Attendez, mes enfants!  Murgatroyd leapt up, spilling some whisky onto

his Nicholas Fairbairn-inspired trews.  He extracted some vellum tied in

faded tartan ribbon from his court cupboard and placed them in Drusilla’s

lap.  Witness that this day I bequeath everything to my daughter in spirit,

if not in biology.  The lineage shall be respected.  Soyez sans crainte!

Crainte?  Nigel’s GCSE did not enable him to follow.

‘Peur’ for the likes of you, Snod rebuffed him, addressing the Junior Master

as if he was going to be de-moted to the ‘B’ stream.

Virginia kicked his shin quite sharply.  Dru kicked the other, with equivalent

force.

Let’s drink to it!  Murgatroyd opened the glass pane over the wall niche

and took out the chalice which had belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie.

He filled it from a bottle of Drambuie, swallowed the contents in

one and shouted:

Risk, Rebellion, Passion and Mystery!  The Spirit Lives On!

And then, glancing at the upturned and somewhat astonished faces of his

guests, he realised that he had omitted to ‘top up‘- to use another transitive

verb- their glasses.

 

Resume

Tags

Bonnie Prince Charlie, Bosphorous, clarsach, communion chalice, Head Teachers' Conference, hypogonadism, Inklings, lacrosse, Land Girl, lost Faberge egg, model railway club, National Trust, Pele Tower, seamed stockings, Simon Bolivar, Snodland, St Birinus, St Vitus

Candia: You think it would be useful?

Brassica: Well, a lot of people have come in on the action

mid-plot, so-yes- why not offer them a synopsis?

Candia:  Okay- they can skip it if they have been following

since Snod’s story took off.

Here it is, folks:

SYNOPSIS: Snod’s Law

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master and Acting Head of St Birinus’ Middle School

is ripe for retirement. He loves comfort food, the Model Railway Club and Latin.

He is a role model for Junior Masters, but a bête noire for other staff.

For his entire life, he has taken for granted that he was the product of a liaison

of socialite and erstwhile Land Girl, Berenice Snodbury and A N Other.

Berenice’s sister, Augusta, took on responsibility for the child when her sister

ran off to Venezuela, following romantic dreams inspired by her hero, Simon

Bolivar.

The original Augusta, the girls’ mother. had not set them a terribly orthodox

example, as she herself had run around the Bosphorous with an itinerant rug

seller.

Snod’s lonely, institutionalised existence is interrupted by a climactic revelation

that an affair which he conducted with the ‘lax’ (lacrosse) mistress of a

sister establishment many moons ago engendered a child. That ‘child’ is now

a Housemistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, the school

in which her mother originally taught. (In fact, Gus has unwittingly met his

daughter on a number of occasions, at joint educational functions.)

The reason that his relationship broke down was owing to a Hardyean

twist of fate. A missing communication which contained his marriage

proposal now re-surfaces during re-furbishment for a school let. Diana,

the retired lax mistress, is exposed as having been deceitful.

She married ‘on the re-bound’, foisting her child on Murgatroyd-Syylk,

picture dealer and restorer. The pair subsequently divorced and now

Syylk is completing a restoration project of a Pele Tower in the Borders.

Drusilla, the Housemistress, attempts to encourage her parents to meet.

Will their romance re-ignite? Initially, it is a damp squib.

On Berenice’s death, a mysterious package arrives at school. It contains

a signet ring which Augustus’ apparent half-brother was asked to send

over to England. It bears an insignia associated with Wyvern Mote, now a

National Trust property.

Drusilla and Gus visit Great-Aunt Augusta and take her out of Snodland

Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry for the day, partly to introduce her

to her great-niece, and partly to investigate Wyvern Mote. There they see

a photograph in the schoolroom of two of the original heirs, with their tutor,

Anthony Revelly. The facial resemblance is clear: Gus is his offspring; Revelly

his father, rather than Lord Wyvern.

Lady Wyvern had had the child by her sons’ tutor on the death of her

husband. The tutor was permitted to live in a grace-and-favour apartment

in the stable block, for life, when the property was handed over to The

National Trust.

Berenice, who had been a Land Girl in the vicinity, had been paid an

undisclosed sum to acknowledge the child as being her own. A good time

girl, Berenice had tired of the responsibility, eventually absconding and

leaving her sister to arrange his schooling at St Birinus. Augusta had

once been Head Girl of St Vitus’, so knew of the boys’ prep school

establishment and its reputation.

Now Hugo, in Venezuela, has to be disabused of his belief in his

relationship to Gus.  They decide to leave Aunt Augusta in the dark.

The latter gave her ‘great-niece’ a present of what resembles one

of the famous missing Faberge eggs.  It turns out to be a fake and

yet, Dru’s visit to her step-father in the Pele Tower makes up for her

disappointment, as she is promised a communion chalice which Bonnie

Prince Charlie used before his fateful final ride south, on Syylk’s decease.

(The Pele Tower turns out to have been in Lady Wyvern’s family in the

past, so there is a neat circularity about Drusilla’s future inheritance of

the restored property, as Murgatroyd’s sole heiress.

The Head Teacher of St Birinus’ had an unfortunate ‘turn’ at the Christmas

Eve Midnight Service and was diagnosed with hypogonadism. His mid-life

crisis leads to him taking time off in order to make a motorcycle trip across

The Sahara, much to his wife’s relief. Unfortunately, Gus has to ‘stand in’,

but when his previous boss decides to abdicate, he does not apply for the

permanent post. Nevertheless, a position of Deputy Head is created for him,

in order to boost his pension. Poskett, Milford-Haven and Drusilla Fotheringay-

Syylk apply for the Headship, but are unsuccessful. Will the latter two decide

to throw over their careers and try to make a musical success of their lives

together?

Drusilla has shone in various musical concerts, by playing her harp for both

schools. She has been the focus of attention from Nigel Milford-Haven, the

rather wimpish Junior Master who is beginning to sing solo tenor in some

school productions and Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster. She seems to favour

Nigel, since she has asked him to come to the Borders with her in the school

holidays, to stage a concert for clarsach and voice.

She hopes to raise money for Murgatroyd’s roof repairs. Nigel is nervous, as

his mother usually draws on his decorating expertise in the school holidays

and she is not going to be too pleased at his bid for independence.

Meanwhile ‘Snod’ has settled into a friendly relationship with Diana, the mother

of his child, who has sold her cottage and moved back to the Suttonford area,

in which both schools are situated. However, his attention has been attracted

to Virginia Fisher-Giles, the widowed seamed-stocking-wearing PA. An invitation

for coffee chez elle after she has run him to a Head Teachers’ Conference

turns out to be more intimate than either anticipated.

Will he succumb to a projection of future domesticity with Virginia? Will he

resurrect the corpse of his relationship with Diana, or will he continue his

‘Inkling’ existence of bachelor bliss?

The lure of retirement is like an ever-receding pot of gold. He has a year

or two to serve as Deputy Head under the new regime. Will he be able to

preserve the old ways, or will the introduction of a new system create a

tsunami of bureaucracy that will threaten to engulf him?

Gardy Loo!

Tags

affrontee gules, Alex Salmond, Auchentoshan, Bannockburn House, bauchle, beeswax, Bohemia, Bonnie Prince Charlie, chamber candlestick, chatelaine, Clementina Walkinshaw, dexter and sinister, Faberge egg, Game of Thrones, Gardy Loo!, King of Cumbria, lion sejant, Lost Middlelands, manflu, mizmaze, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, Pele Tower, reivers, Rory Stewart, The National Trust, The Proclaimers, The Young Pretender, Tindall, Tyndale, Walter Scott, Wyvern Mote

Drusilla and Murgatroyd sipped their Auchentoshans simultaneously

and gazed at the faux Faberge egg sitting on the coffee table.

Sorry to have disappointed you, said Murgatroyd.  It isn’t one of the missing

ones.  Bless Aunt Augusta.  She was trying to bestow something on you,

but it is practically worthless.

The Tindall Jewell, on the other hand is priceless. I wonder if it had any

connection to either of the Tyndales who turned down the throne of

Bohemia?  I must do some research.  But I suppose it is earlier than

that.  Looks medieval.

The strange coincidence is, as we discussed earlier, that a branch of the

Tindalls owned this pele tower at one time.  So, in a sense, you might be

coming home.  I’ll dig out the charters tomorrow.  I was going to frame one

or two for the Great Hall.

I’m not going to drag Gus through a lengthy process of establishing rights.

The insurance on the jewel would be a liability and a nightmare.  It should

remain with The National Trust at Wyvern Mote, Dru stated firmly.

I think you are right, Murgatroyd nodded sagely.  I get in a tizzy over the

security of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s communion chalice.  I hated getting it

marked by ultraviolet, but it is alarmed in that niche by the fireplace.  One

day it will be yours, my girl.  Come to think of it, you do resemble

Clementina Walkinshaw a tad.

Well, thanks for that.  I have no intention of escaping to a convent just

yet.  Do you think it came from Bannockburn House when Clementina was

nursing The Young Pretender from a nasty bout of Manflu?  He probably was

demanding the Last Rites histrionically- you know- the way all you guys do

when you catch a cold!

So the story goes, but Walter Scott and his ilk tended to embellish things

as you can imagine.  It does come from the Rebellion period and has a very

good maker.  I won’t take it out now, but it bears the motto: Nemo Me

Impune Lacessit and the lion sejant affrontee gules, crowned, holding in

dexter paw a sword and an erect sceptre, proper..

Whae dare meddle wi’ me?  A motto I would gladly adopt as my own ,

smiled Dru.  Well, I must go up the spiral stair to bed.  My head is

spinning with all this history, the Auchentoshan, or losing myself in the

mizmaze this afternoon. 

I’m sure it is a combination of all three, speculated Murgatroyd, handing

her a beeswax taper in a pewter chamber candlestick.  The hive has

been busy to light you on your way.  I’ve only been stung twice.  You can

taste the honey at breakfast, my sweet. 

She felt a renewal of filial affection which wasn’t diluted by being shared

with her biological pater.

The embers were dying, so Murgatroyd placed the fire-guard in front of the

glow and rolled back the rug, lest a spark should catch.  He was turning into

a fussy old chatelaine.  Dru left the egg on the table.  If there should be a

raid by the reivers, they were welcome to it.  The egg, not the table!

She dreamt of Border tussles: mafia bosses fuelled by proxy wars, with

visages remarkably like Rory Stewart.  She briefly counted sheep in Cumbric,

that language, Stewart claimed, of The Lost Middlelands.  She thought she

saw the face of the last independent King of Cumbria who vanished in the

11th century and screamed as it morphed into the heavy-browed, jowly

phizzog of Alex Salmond.  Clearly she had watched too many Game of Thrones

episodes.  Or he had.

Thank goodness the tower was fortified!  Any snatch of The Proclaimers

which might herald the approach of The First Minister and penetrate the foot

thick walls and she would be tipping the contents of her chamber pot out of

the window.  If Alex was stationed below with his troops and that wee

bauchle, the standard bearer, who shall remain nameless, Dru would not even

give them the warning:  Gardy Loo!

The Young Chevalier

Tags

Allan Ramsay, Archbishop of Bordeaux, Bendor Grosvenor, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Camlachie, Charles Edward Stuart, Clementina Walkinshaw, Duchess of Albany, Fiona Bruce, Glasgow, Gosford House, manflu, Meaux-en-Brie, Philip Mould, The Young Chevalier, Walker's Petticoat Tails

So, that would have been one of your ancestors then? teased Brassie.

We were sitting, not ‘sat’, in Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe now

that half-term was over and we could have the place reasonably to

ourselves.

What do you mean? I parried.

Charles Edward Stuart.  His lost portrait has been found.  Didn’t you watch

the programme?

It wasn’t that lost, Carrie chipped in.  It was safely hung, if not displayed, in

a dingy corridor in Gosford House, but catalogued in the inventory there.

Yes, but it took a man in biking leathers with the name of a Derby winner

to have it authenticated, Brassie continued.  He asked a woman whom I

supposed to be the Dowager Countess if he could take it away and, just

because he shares a name with the Duke of Westminster, she immediately

let him take it off the wall, without batting an eyelid.

Maybe it wasn’t because of his name, I speculated.  Leather seems to be

persuasive. They’re all into it.  Fiona Bruce has several leather jackets in a

wide spectrum of colours and she is all over works of art nowadays.

Brassie became enthusiastic: I know, but when Bendor got his leg over..

..his motorbike- I defused her instantly.

Who’s Bendor? asked Carrie.

Duh! We both looked at her incredulously.

Don’t let’s lower the tone.  We were talking about Scottish Art

and Allan Ramsay, weren’t we?  Or should we talk about Philip Mould?

He’s more age appropriate, but not so fetching in hide, I agree.

I can see Bendor in a blue sash and cockade, sighed Brassie.

Never mind ‘Charlie is my Darling’.

Yes, but as a Sassenach, he’s not strictly entitled to wear tartan, I

reminded her.  And no one is going to put Mr Grosvenor on a packet

of Walker’s Petticoat Tails, are they?

I suppose not, more’s the pity.  She looked disappointed.  I‘d probably

buy some if they did.  He’s better looking than Rabbie Burns.

Carrie tried to change the subject.  Actually, they thought that there

might have been a portrait of Charlie’s mistress, Clementina Walkinshaw

too, but the one in Derby, or wherever, was discredited.

Now there was an interesting woman, I jumped in.  Glaswegian, one of

ten, from Camlachie.  I don’t believe that she nursed him through manflu,

though. No woman from Glasgow is that sympathetic.  Eventually, fed up with

his drunken antics, she re-invented herself, as many a Glesca girl has done,

and styled herself Countess Alberstroff. She went off to Meaux-en-Brie.

Sounds cheesy, remarked Carrie.

Not as cheesy as what Charlie did next.  He married a nineteen year old

princess.

Didn’t he have a daughter with Clementina?  Wasn’t she The Duchess of

Albany?  It was all coming back to Brassie.

Yes.  Poor Charlotte died young after becoming the mistress of the Archbishop

of Bordeaux, I explained.

Did she have kids?  Brassie couldn’t remember the details.

Yes, but they couldn’t be royal as Henry, Charlie’s brother-who was a Cardinal

by the way- made Clementina sign a document of renunciation of any rights.

There might be a lost portrait of Clementina as a nun in one of the French

convents she took shelter in, suggested Brassie.

Or one of Charlotte as the Virgin Mary at a Bishop’s Palace in Bordeaux or

Cambrai, I added.

Should be good for a motorcycle trip to Aquitaine through the French

vineyards, Carrie concluded.

Perhaps he will need an assistant, Brassie said wistfully.

I’d better buy myself a leather jacket.  Fiona’s too tall to fit in a sidecar.