by Robin Hardy
'My question, Sir Lachlan, was: Are the people of Tressock drinking the water out of their taps again?'
'Let me answer that for you, Sir Lachlan,' rumbled Murdoch. 'I speak as the Convenor of the TUWU here. Most people who work here are our members and live in Tressock. They clean their teeth in water. They wash their bairns' bottoms in it. They DRINK beer and whisky. But everyone drinks water too. Although I have to say that, like you, Magnus, I am no addicted to it.'
Meanwhile, Lachlan had used the overhead projector to put a largescale map of the Tressock area on to the screen. The River Sulis could be seen running from west to east across the map. The topography was clearly marked. The river split and then rejoined itself, forming King's Island. It then wound through fields and woods till it reached Tressock, passing under a bridge on the main street, and then on, through more fields and woods, till it reached the Nuada Nuclear Power Plant. Beyond that, it joined the River Tweed for a short journey before it reached its mouth on the North Sea.
'The Sulis, life blood of our valley,' Lachlan's hand traced the progress of the river. 'As you can see our plant is downstream from Tressock.'
'He's telling you that water tends to run downhill,' interjected Murdoch. 'Sorry but these technicalities tend to get missed in the press.'
Magnus Tarrant, who was in the act of pouring himself some more of the Directors' malt, glared malevolently at Murdoch.
'The river helps in our cooling process at Nuada,' continued Lachlan. 'It was of course polluted by the accident, but only for twenty-four hours. We cleaned up the Sulis years ago.'
Lachlan looked around as if almost expecting applause, so sweetly reasonable had his explanation been. But his other journalist guest, one Patricia Gow, now leaned forward. In demeanour she was as calm and direct as Magnus had been combative. Her face, slightly raddled now, had once been beautiful, and she spoke in an attractive, persuasive voice.
'Well I quite understand you protesting my piece in the Ecologist; naught for your comfort there,' she said. 'However, will you not agree that nuclear power stations have had their day? Too expensive to build? Too costly to run? Too dangerous to live nearby?'
This lit an evangelical gleam in Lachlan's eyes.
'Patricia,' he said. 'The greatest power station in our galaxy, the Sun, is dangerous. It can create deserts, melt ice caps, give you cancer. We've lived with it since, according to Darwin, our ancestors crawled out of the primeval slime. It also brings life to almost everything on which it shines. Respect and understanding of these forces of nature is the key to controlling them. Nuclear is just one of them, but it is in so many ways key.'
'Can I quote you on your slimy ancestors?' asked Magnus.
'Our slimy ancestors,' corrected Lachlan with a smile.
Everyone joined in the laughter. The adversarial tension of the meeting had been broken. Lachlan and Murdoch knew they now lived to fight another day, but that such stories rarely went completely away.
A little later, Lachlan drove Murdoch and himself back to Tressock in his bull-nosed Bentley. They were in a festive mood.
'That Patricia said we're the best double act since Laurel and Hardy,' laughed Murdoch. 'After the accident, the press went on about the danger of a nuclear catastrophe. The lowlands laid waste. A no-go area. Now, suddenly, they start worrying about the water. Funny they never do their homework. A river is a river – but the water table is another thing. One flows. The other is static.'
'Journalists, thank heaven, have the attention span of wet hens,' said Lachlan. 'And that's when they're sober. Sick babies they might notice. Even deformed babies. But virtually no babies – no comment. So far… Hullo?'
Lachlan's mobile phone had rung. It was Delia to say that she was sitting in their bedroom by the window, where she had a clear view of the stables. Orlando, the policeman, was walking towards the stables where Lolly was grooming Prince and talking to Anthea.
'That Orlando worries me,' Delia said. 'He's been seen questioning Jack. He's on his way to the tack room. Lolly will cope, I know. But I wish you'd get back as soon as possible.'
'Nothing wrong with his going to see Lolly,' said Lachlan. 'She's giving him the treatment.'
'I remember when she gave me the treatment,' said Murdoch, smiling at the memory. 'I walked like a duck for a week.'
Lolly is Questioned
THE STABLE BLOCK at Tressock Castle was a long, two-storey, redbrick building close to the estate's great gates and at the town end of the Willies Walk. Lolly's quite sizeable apartment was on the upper floor, along with some studio flats for the other stable hands. Apart from Lachlan and Delia's own horses, a number of steeplechase brood mares were stabled there along with their foals.
When Orlando completed the short walk from the Police Station to the stable block he could see Lolly chatting to another girl at the far end of the paddock. Horses peered at him from their stables as he passed. He had a friend, a fellow cadet at Police College, who'd opted for the mounted unit of the Glasgow force when she graduated. Orlando had been curious about what the attraction to these, for him, almost prehistoric beasts was. His friend, a very plain girl called Hannah, had described them as a species you really had to know, so that you understood their psychology, to love them. 'But,' she added, 'I fell in love with them at first, because I thought – they're just so beautiful. Then I wanted to understand them. So I learnt about their psychology and now I love them even more.'
Orlando thought about his new and undoubted love for Lolly – however much she should disclaim and discourage it, he knew it was real. If she loved horses as she obviously did, then he must try and do so too. And, yes, they are beautiful, he decided. Lucky that she wasn't fixated on warthogs. But now he was getting close enough to her that she would soon notice his approach.
Lolly was grooming Prince while chatting to her friend Anthea, who was rubbing down the grey mare.
'So what's he like, the cowboy?' Anthea was asking.
'Anthea, he is really lovely. I'm terribly afraid I'm going to break my habits of a lifetime. I mean, lovely in a different way to…' there was a slight catch in Lolly's voice, which Anthea didn't miss.
'Orlando Orgassissimo?' she asked with a laugh, having teased Lolly about what she had heard. 'Not just another good stud?'
Lolly shook her head vehemently. But at that moment they noticed Orlando, who was already only a few yards away from them. Both women were on the verge of bursting into giggles. Lolly managed to control herself but Anthea was less successful and wheeled the grey mare round so she could hide behind her, while pretending to continue her grooming.
'Hello, Lolly!' said Orlando, wishing he could kiss her, but conscious of his uniform. 'I'm sorry if I'm interrupting something.'
'Not at all! We were just discussing our new stallion. What can I do for you? Is this a duty call?'
'It is. Lolly, you know this place so well. Has there ever been any sign of a cult around here? You know, a religious cult.'
Lolly was leading Prince into his stall, which was reached through the double doors that led from the tack room. Orlando realised that here the horses came first, and an apologetic smile from Lolly told him that he must wait till she had settled Prince in his stall. But then she came and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
'Did you sleep in this morning?' Lolly was affectionately solicitous. 'I called you to wake you, as you asked, but there was no answer. But in response to your question: religious cult? Well the Christian Kirk used to function when I was a little girl. Not any more of course.'
'No, a non-Christian cult. Witchcraft? Paganism? Anything like that?'
'Well ye-es there is.' she spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. 'But it is very, very secret and out of respect for the dead…'
She paused for so long that Orlando wondered if she had decided to end her revelation there.
'The dead?' Orlando cued her gently, willing her to continue.
'The person who was at the heart of it has died. Sad really, but
perhaps all for the best.'
At this point, Anthea, having at last controlled her giggling and stabled the grey mare, came into the tack room in order to fetch a blanket for the animal. Orlando therefore lowered his voice. He felt he had made a breakthrough already. No point in pressuring her. They had a date tomorrow. Then it would all come out. Of that he was now positive.
'You can tell me tomorrow – I'm cooking us steaks,' he said, smiling. 'I don't know about you, but I think I'm going to need the protein.'
She smiled back. 'You Italians are so romantic,' she said.
After he had gone, Anthea returned to find her friend sitting on a bale of hay, looking rather gloomily out at the sky. A storm was brewing.
'It always rains right up to May Day and starts again right after,' said Anthea. 'Isn't that what people used to call a miracle? What's his name? The cowboy?'
'Steve.' Lolly sounded slightly panicked. 'Anthea, I can't get him out of my mind. Do you think there's something wrong with me?'
'Not necessarily,' said Anthea, rather wistfully. 'I feel like that about Carl and he doesn't know I'm alive. But variety has always been the spice of life for you. Perhaps Sulis has taken matters into her own hands. Steve bathed with you in the pool, you said. What will you do if you are pregnant?'
'Well I'll know it wasn't Orlando. He's very careful, bless him.'
To Anthea's and indeed to her own astonishment, Lolly's eyes started to fill with tears.
'Steve. It did cross my mind. Oh Sulis, could you have done that for me?'
Anthea looked closely at her friend.
'You don't do love, do you?' she asked. 'I mean as far as I know you never have. So what's going on? I've always thought of you as being as close to the Goddess as it's possible for a mere human female to be. Capricious, ruthless, a sort of sexual pioneer forging paths for the rest of us to try and follow.'
This drew a bitter little laugh from Lolly.
'What paths? You've always said you want four perfect, absolutely normal children and Carl for a husband – if Sulis would allow it. If not – a beautiful stallion would make a very good substitute.'
'True. But I am always hopelessly in love with just one man. You're never in love. Or are you?'
'Oh, Anthea. It may just be some kind of virus. It could not have come at a worse time. But all I can think of is Steve, Steve, Steve and I've got to spend tomorrow evening with Orlando.'
'From what I heard, there could be worse fates. Sulis will help you. She always has. I suppose I'm glad to hear you are a little more mortal than I thought you were.'
Lolly put out her tongue at her friend and went up to her flat to change.
Goldie
AMONG THE MANY duties of an officer who wishes to gain the sympathy and support of the civilian population is helping pet animals in distress. While the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals can always be called, an officer gains merit from personally performing simple acts of succour or rescue.
Admittedly, this excellent advice from the Police College handbook is seldom followed. But in rare cases, where a zealous officer is anxious to make a good impression, it is possible to see a constable risking both dignity and severe injury by climbing a tree to rescue a cat. Such was the scene later that day in Tressock, where Orlando was balanced precariously on the branch of a sycamore tree, situated (as he was to put in his report) on the corner of Wallace Street and Dunblane Avenue. The feline in question was a marmalade orange colour, and, according to the tag on her collar, answered to the name of Goldie.
At the foot of the tree, several elderly female citizens of Tressock, led by Mrs Menzies, variously shouted advice, encouragement, and occasional criticism at both Orlando and Goldie, as the attempted rescue progressed. Eventually, a severely scratched Orlando managed to grab Goldie by the scruff of her neck and negotiating his descent with only one spare hand, arrived on terra firma to the applause of the ladies.
He immediately held out the cat to his audience, assuming one of them would claim her. To his considerable annoyance, none of them were prepared to admit ownership of Goldie. Even Mrs Menzies, who had alerted him to the cat's plight, denied having any idea who the owner might be.
'Tom always took any strays back to the Police Station,' she informed him.
'And if they weren't claimed within a week he very often stuffed them,' shrilled a blue-rinsed lady with a very high voice.
'He did not!' shouted Mrs Menzies. 'Don't you listen to her. Our Tom loved pet animals. He only stuffed wild ones. That's part of the taxidermist's hypocritic oath. Like a doctor's, that is.'
'You're right there; anything wild and regardless of gender,' said Blue Rinse. 'Particularly young owls, from what I've heard.'
The other women looked at Blue Rinse, plainly appalled at this allegation, and started a chorus of protest. Orlando, seeing no point in getting involved in this increasingly acrimonious conversation, made his way to the Police Station with Goldie now clinging to him as if they were long lost friends. But young owls? That was the sort of remark that made Orlando wonder whether inbreeding had made these people loopier than city folk.
Jack's pet raven, Nevermore, sat perched in the belfry of the Tressock church watching out for his patron. Fifty or sixty other ravens chattered and fussed and preened themselves and sometimes each other all over the belfry and the old clock's workings. Apart from a few slats of wood, covered with slates, it was open to the air. The time for the evening feed was close, but there was as yet no sign of Jack. Sometimes he emerged from the inn and sometimes from his home up the road towards the bridge. You could never be quite sure. Between feed times all the ravens made trips to the town dump, where they competed with the seagulls for the bonanza of scraps which arrived each day.
Today, Nevermore had watched an unusual occurrence, the movement of almost everyone in the town to the inn, where groups of them gazed out of the window. Jack didn't seem to be amongst them. Many others had crowded into the side streets behind the inn. Jack wasn't among these either. The great clock below the ravens was very soon going to strike the hour.
Then, all alone, carrying a well-known, extremely dangerous and unpleasant cat, came the man with the shiny badge on his helmet and shiny silver buttons on his clothes. At this point, another man, still not Jack, came out of the inn to talk to the man carrying the loathsome cat. They talked for a minute or two. Then the shiny buttoned man went on his way and disappeared from view while the other man went back to the inn. Almost immediately after that, everybody left the bar by a side door and, joined by all the people in the side streets, made their way by a back gate into the Tressock Castle grounds, and headed for the big house.
Nevermore could now hear the machinery of the clock winding itself up to strike the hour and there, coming down the street from the bridge, was Jack with his baker's basket on his arm.
'Bong,' came the first strike. The ravens seemed to rise from their various perches as one. But Nevermore was ahead of them. Thirty seconds later he was perched on Jack's shoulder, the equivalent of the best table in the restaurant, and chose the choicest little mouse on the menu. 'Bong… Bong… Bong… Bong…'
Orlando had never fancied himself as a photographer, but he was damned if he was going to take the cat to the photo studio when he had a perfectly good digital camera. The cat, on the other hand, had decided to imitate a restless, pacing tiger. Orlando had still got no picture suitable for sending to the Borders Argus' 'Lost and Found' column when the phone rang.
It was DS Campbell. Judging by his tone, he was still unsure whether DC Furioso was taking his quest seriously, or whether he was simply settling into country living with his own Police Station, a cleaning lady, and a DC's salary in a PC's job.
'Just to let you know that a message came through from the very top today,' said Campbell. 'Info about these missing persons I mentioned, Lucy Mae and Tad, from their mum, through the American Consul General in Edinburgh, to the Secretary of State. Now it has come straigh
t down to us. Those two young Yank adults that went missing last year. Some evidence has turned up. One of them sent a postcard to a college mate of theirs. It turns out the postmark was Tressock. They sent another from Glasgow a week earlier mentioning a couple of 'kind Scottish people' who'd given them some sort of invite. I'll fax you the copies. It sounded as if they planned to hang around the Borders. So no more dozy country living, laddie. We want some hard graft now, Orlando. Someone must have noticed those Yanks. And let's not have you going to sleep on finding out more about that cult either. OK, laddie?'
'Hardly any sleeping going on in this Police Station right now,' said Orlando, easily managing a note of sincerity. 'Even at night,' he added.
DS Campbell ended the call with a grunt.
The Preach-In
THE GRAND SALOON of Tressock Castle was a Georgian addition to the south side of the building and commemorated a period when Scottish castles were no longer expected to be used for war, but rather for entertaining. Its huge French windows opened on to an ample lawn fringed with pollarded plane trees. Upon the lawn an enormous marquee had been erected.
The Tressock town band, a fiddler, a piper, a drummer, a xylophonist and a guitar player rehearsed with a pianist inside the Grand Saloon, where a large dais had been erected to accommodate them. Several people sang snatches of song to be considered for the May Day concert later in the celebrations. Some of these songs celebrated fire, earthly symbol of the sun, purifier after the dead hand of winter had gone and nature's renewal was to be welcomed by all. Beltane was this feast's ancient name, not forgotten in Tressock, but almost taboo since May Day had taken its place.
Fruit wood fires had been lit in iron trays set between the saloon and the entrances to the marquee. Here the customary suckling pigs would be roasted on the same spits on which long-dead Morrisons had roasted witches and their cats for the edification of their Christian tenants and neighbours, happy in the knowledge that their howling death cries were those of devils vanishing for ever from these once Godly precincts. Lachlan related these tid-bits of historical information to Steve and Beth, who had met in the marquee to rehearse for their Redeemers' presentation.
