The World Is Not Enough

Tags

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.

 

 

 

Grand Delusions

Tags

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.