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.

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.