The Seven Trials of Cameron-Strange

by James Calum Campbell

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the padre.’

  A nasal, Presbyterian whine drifted up from somewhere in the depths of the hall.

  ‘Some hae meat …’

  I resigned myself to a long evening. After the grace, the company sat down and the murmur of conversation recommenced. Forster was sitting on my left; the seat on my right remained vacant. I had a few moments quickly to glance round the table and marry up names and faces. Directly opposite, the Governor-General and his wife were flanked by the plethoric Major General and the august Baroness, Margaret Rowallan, a striking, tall, slim woman of a certain age who I felt sure would retain her beauty right into her nineties. She was a patrician utterly comfortable in her own skin, blessed with the God-given knowledge that she had been born to lead. Next, the First Sea Lord and the Air Vice-Marshal were sharing some apparently hysterical joke, while the Lord Spiritual and the Lord Chief Justice were indulging in a more earnest tête-à-tête. The two police officers were sitting silently, looking slightly intimidated, minding their Ps and Qs.

  But the members of the group I found most intriguing were the anonymous pair of civilians both absorbed studying the menu. Sir Christopher Hotchkiss and Mr Jonathan Braithwaite. Hotchkiss was a slight man of pale complexion, bald, with careful studious eyes behind a pair of round steel-rimmed spectacles. He looked as anonymous as a shipping clerk. If he wore a full-length black leather coat and carried a soft satchel, he would be a caricature of a Gestapo officer. I heard him whisper something to his neighbour in a soft, flat, regionless, lisping voice. Jonathan Braithwaite acknowledged by pulling a pouting face. He was a large, dishevelled man of about forty with a manic dress sense, an asthmatic wheeze and, even from across the table, a reek of cigarette smoke. He wore a shouty sports jacket of startling broad check clashing with a garish tie of fortissimo stripes. Unmarried. No sane woman would let her husband loose on the streets like that. He reminded me of a one-man band with a huge bass drum on his back and cymbals attached to his ankles. Yet, in a curious way, he was even more anonymous than Hotchkiss, the man beside him disappearing into the furniture. The strident clothes, the wheezy laugh, and the adiposity had all been carefully applied like a theatrical costume. The eyes were steely and unblinking.

  Spooks. Hotchkiss would be five, Braithwaite six. Or maybe the other way around.

  The soup came. It was a traditional Scotch broth full of leek, potato and parsley. It was delicious. I said as much to Major Forster. At least we were going to get a good square meal.

  ‘I didn’t think you were up for all this. What made you change your mind?’

  ‘Trouble with the press.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that. Storm in a teacup. And we’re all impressed. Even the Major General. Chardonnay or cabernet merlot?’

  There was a rustle to my right. The vacant space was filled. Across the table, Civil broke off his conversation with the Governor-General and growled, ‘Don’t they teach you punctuality in Ordnance? I thought timing was everything to the bomb disposal wallahs.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Predetonation.’ Nikki could have been talking about her Citroen deux cheveux, or high explosives. At any rate, she was not intimidated. On her, the short ceremonial jacket in egg-plant metamorphosed to a fragment of haute couture. There was a subliminal hint of fragrance, like broom in springtime. I said, ‘Hello again.’

  ‘Hi.’ She picked up my place card and read it. ‘You keep turning up. Like a ninja.’

  Eructations, snorts and wheezes pervaded the hall from the entrance. The piper was flogging his tartan bag. Forster said, ‘Not enough treacle and whisky.’

  Now the great steaming heap of offal was ceremonially fetched hither on its oval silver platter. A wizened thespian with a London–Scottish wing three-quarter accent approached the haggis, wielding a dangerous-looking carving knife.

  ‘Fae fa’ yer honest, sauncy face …’

  I took a large slug of merlot and said, ‘My mother taught me never to talk to my food.’

  Captain Nikki Hodgson screwed up her very pretty nose. ‘Are we supposed to eat that? What’s in it?’

  I said, ‘Giblets.’

  ‘What … giblets, precisely?’

  ‘Dunno. Sweetbreads, tripe, brain, whatever comes to hand. All wrapped up in stomach.’

  ‘Oh God. Won’t we get scrapie, or BSE or something?’

  Civil snorted with uninhibited mirth and said to the table at large, ‘Hodgson thinks she’s going to contract mad cow disease. As if we’d notice the difference.’

  I was the only person round the table who realised Civil was flirting.

  The excruciating evening wore on. I was greatly heartened to find that the haggis had been made, in fact, from choice New Zealand lamb. It was highly spiced and seasoned, and tasted scrumptious. Nikki even ventured to try some. ‘Yummy,’ was her sole comment.

  The Governor-General, Sir Godfrey Takerei, turned out to be good company. He was a six-foot-six aristocrat with the landed gentry’s indifference to personal appearance. Or was that merely an adopted front? He wore an ancient, crumpled, ill-fitting dinner suit. He was almost sloppy. He looked as if he had just gralloched a stag. He was weather-beaten and looked as if he had spent his entire life out on the hill. He had been educated in Zurich and Geneva, and then Oxford, before spending a lifetime in the diplomatic service, and he spoke in old-fashioned BBC Received Pronunciation. He had, like me, come from an obscure northland farm and had been completely assimilated into British culture, and then into the wider international community. Yet I had an idea he had assumed a role the way he had put on his dinner jacket. He could as easily slip it off again. At heart, he was still in touch with the iwi. I ventured a few words with him in Maori. He replied in his own tongue. I could see Civil glowering. People who like to be in control don’t like to encounter things they don’t understand. Diplomatically, the Governor-General switched back to English.

  ‘What’s your take on the Bledisloe Cup?’

  Ah. The national religion. Rugby. And the annual trans-Tasman stramash – always a bruising encounter.

  ‘I am indifferent.’

  ‘Surely you support the All Blacks?’

  ‘I’ve got dual citizenship. You’ve got to remember I’m half Scottish. I just hope nobody gets hurt.’ My views on rugby were settled the day a 16-year-old boy came off the pitch and into Middlemore ED with a C4 on 5 fracture dislocation. It had been the Kings College–Auckland Grammar fixture – always a grudge match. His coach had leaned over the spinal board to which the boy was attached and said, ‘Never mind, Darryl, you played a blinder.’ I confess I told the coach where he could stuff his oval ball. Got into a spot of bother over that. I decided not to gloom the table recounting this anecdote. But Civil was pursuing me.

  ‘Excellent game, rugger. Character-building.’

  ‘I just worry about the physicality of it, especially down this neck of the woods. These are very big guys. The punishment they take is quite extraordinary. It’s not just the possibility of breaking your neck, it’s not just the acute musculoskeletal injuries. It’s the long-term effects of the concussion I really worry about. The decelerating contre-coups injuries. God knows what that does to your cognitive function over the years. It has been very inadequately researched. If I had a son, I don’t know that I would forbid him to play, but I’d try to divert his interest in another direction. Get him to take up the cello and let him see how he needs to look after his hands.’

  Civil said, rather inanely I thought, ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Rugger is very good for youth. Teaches teamwork, esprit de corps, courage, self-sacrifice, and above all, perseverance.’

  The great thing about being indifferent to the outcome of a job application is that you can say whatever you like. I didn’t mind if a debate turned into an argument. ‘Well, I agree with you about the self-sacrifice bit. Rugby is really a metaphor for the First World War.’

  ‘How so?’ The Governor-General sounde
d interested.

  ‘It’s a game played at the front. The backs are the officers and the forwards are the other ranks. The opposing teams are in trenches and the gap between them is no-man’s-land. It’s a game of attrition. Despite the brutality, there is a strict code of conduct. The rules of the game are called Laws. They are a kind of Geneva Convention. You can stomp on a man’s face in the ruck, but you can’t forward-pass. That’s the big no-no.’ I was aware that the other conversations around the table had ceased and suddenly I was giving a lecture. ‘It’s the inability to forward-pass that creates the stalemate of the trenches. That was why, in the next war, Hitler proved to be such a cad. Mobile armour – blitzkrieg. He developed the technique of the forward pass. In the meantime, you struggle away in the mud and get down into the Big Push that’s the scrum. Then suddenly there’s a breakthrough. The ruck becomes the rolling maul and suddenly the scrum-half flashes the ball out to the fly-half and maybe, just maybe, the opposition’s defence gets broached. And you’re in Berlin by Christmas. Or maybe not.’

  Sir Godfrey said, good-naturedly, ‘The Scots should make you their coach.’

  Civil said wistfully, ‘The Scots have never beaten the All Blacks.’

  ‘Scotland will only beat New Zealand at rugby when we get a halfway decent anthem. Flower of Scotland? No wonder we keep dropping the ball.’

  There followed a general discussion about the relative merits and demerits of various national anthems. The conversation disintegrated into various breakout groups. I ate my haggis and eavesdropped on each of them, one by one. My hearing is very acute. The slangy services lingo between the First Sea Lord and the Air Vice-Marshal bordered on the surreal.

  ‘Pranged smack in the custard.’

  ‘Utmost Fish.’

  Dunning and Mogadishu were still in earnest tête-à-tête. The Lord Spiritual with his black skin and gorgeous purple vestments looked magnificent. ‘Forteviot, I gather you favour a Barts man.’

  ‘Guys, Perry. But my mind remains open.’

  ‘You resile your previous opinion?’

  ‘I reserve judgement.’

  ‘You recuse yourself?’

  ‘I am in avizandum.’

  Baroness Rowallan asked Kipper Herring, ‘Where’s Rafe?’

  ‘Melbourne. Do you know, Margaret, you are the only person in the world from whom Parkie will suffer the pronunciation of his name after the English fashion?’

  ‘I am duly honoured.’ The Baroness’s eyes swept the company. ‘Do we have a Witan?’

  The Air Vice-Marshal conducted a quick head count. ‘Twelve. One short.’

  ‘Not if we include the candidate.’

  ‘Hm.’

  Meanwhile the spooks, Hotchkiss and Braithwaite, were talking in cyphers. While Hotchkiss’s lips barely moved, Braithwaite’s jaw opened and shut like a film-set clapperboard. It was like watching an exchange between a ventriloquist and his dummy.

  ‘… get on and work out the details of Operation Sheer Plod.’

  ‘The trouble with Plod is we haven’t enough muscle on the international scene. Plod’s a non-starter.’

  ‘I can’t agree. Plod has legs …’

  The Governor-General turned round to Major General Civil and said, ‘Women on the front line. What’s your opinion, Iain?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m appalled. What’s got into Her Majesty’s Forces? First it’s pansies. Now it’s the fairer sex …’

  I could see the GG’s eyes twinkling. I had an idea it amused him to rouse Civil’s ire. Mischievous old devil.

  ‘You don’t think women should fight.’

  ‘Bad enough that someone as charming as Captain Hodgson should have to handle munitions,’ Civil said, with leaden gallantry. ‘I find it appalling that we should consider asking women to fix bayonets.’

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  ‘I can think of a few women I know who would be rather handy with a bayonet.’

  Civil glowered across the table at me. I never really wanted the job anyway. I turned to the girl and whispered, ‘You wanna fix bayonets?’

  ‘No fear.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘I told you. Short-term commission.’

  ‘How do you spend your time?’

  ‘I’m here on The Captain Cook.’

  ‘And what exactly is The Captain Cook doing here?’

  ‘It’s a research vessel.’

  ‘I’m disappointed. I thought it might be a protest ship, like The Rainbow Warrior. What are you researching?’

  ‘You’d better ask Major Forster that.’

  ‘What do you do on board?’

  ‘I’m just a cabin boy.’

  I tried a long shot. ‘Is this all part of Sheer Plod?’

  She said carefully, ‘I couldn’t say.’ She wasn’t sure if I was a member of the club.

  ‘Are you really a bomb disposal expert?’

  ‘Not an expert. I’m an apprentice.’

  ‘Must be a difficult skill to acquire. You can hardly learn by your mistakes.’

  ‘Is that how doctors learn?’

  ‘What are you two being so lovey-dovey about down there?’ called out Civil across the table. ‘Here.’ He stretched out a salver of vegetables. ‘Have some more neeps and tatties.’

  And I thought to myself, with sudden insight, they’re all on special ops. The operation has been dubbed ‘Sheer Plod’. They’re undercover but they are as conspicuous as a bunch of old Soviet agents posing as a trade delegation to the West. I’ve been roped into Sheer Plod and I don’t know what it is.

  Between courses, the evening’s entertainment continued. A Grand Master all the way from Lodge Number 0 in Kilwinning eschewed the longer narrative verse in favour of a selection of short lyrics.

  Sic a wife as Willie had

  A wudnae give a button fur ’er!

  Civil laughed heartily at that.

  Cranaghan for dessert. A young woman accompanied herself on the clarsach and sang three songs – Flow Gently Sweet Afton, Ae Fond Kiss, and My Love is Like a Red Red Rose. She sang beautifully.

  Coffee and toasts. The immortal memory, given on this occasion by an academic from Otago University. His theme – that Burns manifested as much intelligence as William Blake – was rather too cerebral for the company, especially having dined so well. Forster stifled a yawn. ‘Think I’ll visit the head.’ He slipped away unobtrusively. At length the don sat down to relieved applause. More coffee. Petits fours. Another wee dram. Soon they would all cross arms and sing Auld Lang Syne. The Baroness got up, walked round the table, and sat down in Forster’s vacant chair.

  ‘I’m Margaret Rowallan.’

  The proffered hand was cool.

  ‘Are you having a pleasant evening?’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘What about this N-MASS business? Major Forster tells me you’re up for grabs. Interested?’

  So. The Burns supper had been the interview. They had invested it with a bit of pomp and circumstance; I’d presented my credentials at court and kissed hands with the GG. They had parked me at the top table of a swanky ‘do’ to make sure I could behave myself. I could converse and hold my own with the Governor-General and all the other pillars of society. I hadn’t got outrageously drunk, insulted somebody’s wife, or spilled cranaghan down my shirt. I hadn’t embarrassed myself in a rebarbative display of crapulence. Forster and Hodgson had been deliberately planted on either side of me. Forster would certainly have reported back to Civil. I was to all appearances a pukka fellow, with whom you might play a decent round of golf, and have a G and T at the nineteenth. No doubt I would be warm-blooded, in a civilised way. I seemed to get on all right with that Hodgson tottie. You could never be sure, but I probably wasn’t a pansy. All the time, they had all been observing, covertly, across the expanse of the white linen table cloth. For all they knew, I could be the biggest quack and charlatan in the medical profession. But I was in.

  * * *

  The mor
tuary of Auckland Public Hospital occupies an anonymous concrete bunker just off the western slope of Auckland Domain. I made my way down a balustraded walkway elevated above the narrow driveway heading down towards the gully between the Domain and Albert Park. I stepped in out of the sunshine with reluctance.

  The young lady supine on the table, deceased, had had a sternotomy, presumably post mortem, and her rib cage had been prized open bilaterally. The appearance was reminiscent of an ancient wooden barque cast up on a deserted beach, curved wooden slats silhouetted against the sky. I walked past her and concentrated on the living. Dr Weir was examining slides under the microscope. She looked up, gave me a smile and a wave, and gestured to the bench top.

  ‘I looked out the report you requested. Can’t give out a copy, but you’re welcome to read it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took it and sat down with my back to the cadaver.

  Post mortem examination, January 7th.

  Male, 32 years, 182 cms, 78 kg.

  The body was of a well-muscled, male Caucasian of athletic build.

  Death was estimated to have occurred 24–36 hours prior to examination. The body was severely dehydrated (see biochemistry appended). There was post-mortem livedo reticularis on the trunk, bilaterally and posteriorly.

  There was skin loss over right and left index, middle, and ring finger; fingertips consistent with trauma or burn injury. There were no other external wounds.

  The principal organs were examined.

  The heart weighed 389 gms. There was post mortem haemostasis in all chambers. Coronary arteries were patent with absence of atheroma. There was no cardiac muscle infarct. Heart valves were intact.

  Airway, lungs, and pleura were intact. There was no pneumothorax, no consolidation, no congestion, and no fibrosis. The condition of the lungs was that of a non-smoker.

  Oesophagus, stomach, small and large intestine, liver, spleen, and kidneys were all intact. There were no pathological processes.