“Haven’t we always lived in times of crisis?” he said to the Duke.
The Duke, about to climb into the car, pushed the door shut, indicating that he wanted to finish their conversation before he left.
“That’s all right, Padruig,” he said. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
He turned to Matthew. “You’re right, of course – every generation thinks its situation is uniquely worrying – but the world has always been on the brink of disaster. Yes, that’s right, but that doesn’t detract from the particular difficulty of specific times.” He paused, appearing to think through the next stage of his argument. “All that I’m saying, I suppose, is that there appear to be some periods where the dilemmas seem greater than those experienced a few years previously, or where there is a marked decline in something we value. That’s what I was thinking about.”
Matthew waited for the Duke to continue.
“It’s the destruction of civility,” said the Duke. “Twenty years ago, people may have had their differences of opinion – of course they did – but they did not abuse one another for it. They respected those with whom they disagreed. They spoke courteously.”
Matthew was silent.
“Oh, I know that we shouldn’t romanticise the past,” the Duke continued, “and I don’t, you know. But there are times when it seems that the social glue that holds people together is weakened and . . . well, brother is turned on brother, so to speak. My American friends report something very similar in their society. Friendships have been broken, families sundered because of the polarisation that has taken place. Who can be happy about that? I can’t.”
“Nor I,” said Matthew. The Duke was right – he was talking about something that was there, that had been noticed. And Matthew felt sad even to think about it.
“And now,” said the Duke, “there’s something very unpleasant on the loose. We may pretend that it isn’t; we may deny it, but we know that there are more and more people who hate those whom they used not to hate. And there are even some who encourage this hate, who harbour that hate within themselves and are happy to see it flourish in the breasts of others.”
Matthew felt his heart beating hard within him. This was true; it was the uncomfortable truth that nobody wanted to acknowledge, to look at squarely in the face.
“I sometimes wonder,” said the Duke, “whether this isn’t because we started to dismantle nations. Nations gave people a sense of common identity and encouraged concern for others – because of the community implicit in the idea of nation. We started to chip away at that in the name of a wider, transcendent identity but . . . but perhaps that hasn’t worked and as a result we’ve been cast adrift, our previous links and bonds dissolved or discredited, suspicious of one another, ready to distrust our neighbours.
“Hate is very easy to unleash,” the Duke continued. “All you need is the Other. And then people will take over from you and do all the hating that needs to be done, all the belittling, all the insulting and bullying.”
Matthew waited for the Duke to continue, but it seemed that he had said all that he wished to say on the subject. For his part, all that Matthew could say was, “I know what you mean.” It was not much of a response, but it was accurate. He knew exactly what the Duke meant.
The Duke reached to open the door of the car. Padruig brushed his hand away, though, and took the handle.
The Duke looked at Matthew in the moonlight. “Matthew,” he said, “have you read what Hamish Henderson had to say in one of his poems? He says, somewhere or other, let us not disfigure ourselves with hatred. Let us not disfigure ourselves . . . how apt, how resoundingly true. We should not disfigure ourselves with hatred, Matthew, and yet we do, and dear Hamish Henderson, that softly-spoken, good man, who believed that we should treat one another with gentleness and love, understood the dangers of that and will be birling in his grave, Matthew, birling, to hear some of the things that people say to one another these days.”
Matthew had not read the poem, but he had heard Henderson’s great hymn to fellowship and sympathy, “Freedom Come All Ye,” and knew the sentiments.
The Duke eased himself into the car. He wound down the window and addressed Matthew from within. “A final point, Matthew. We unleash these forces at our peril: a virus behaves in exactly the same way wherever you release it. Nobody is above it, and we are just as vulnerable as anybody else. That’s why I’m sad, Matthew; that’s why I’m sick at heart.”
Scouting for Boys, etc.
Friendships between children often result in friendships between sets of parents. Conversations between waiting parents at the school gate do more than provide information on what is happening in the world of the school – and the latest gossip, of course – they may lead to exchanges of e-mail addresses, invitations to dinner, games of bridge, and the negotiation of numerous playdates for the children themselves. Or they may encourage animosities and feuds.
It was not at the school gate that Irene had come to know the mother of Bertie’s friend Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. Bertie and Ranald were at different schools – Ranald at Watson’s and Bertie at the Steiner School, but they were both in the Morningside Cub Scout pack that met at Holy Corner in Bruntsfield. It was while they were waiting to collect their sons after the cub scout meeting that Ishbel Constance Macpherson first met Irene. The meeting was not a success by any standards, and both women conceived a perfect dislike for one another – a dislike that subsequent acquaintance merely served to intensify.
“I met an extremely ghastly woman this evening,” Ishbel told her husband. “You should have heard her.”
“Loud?”
“No, it wasn’t the volume, it was the whole attitude. It’s difficult to describe, but she was the sort of person one just couldn’t help disagreeing with – whatever she said. You just wanted to disagree.”
“Oh dear. Difficult.”
“And her son, little Bertie . . . ”
“Oh, he’s marvellous,” said Ranald’s father. “I’ve met him. Very earnest. Very polite.”
“That’s him,” said Ishbel. “He has to put up with this train crash of a mother. He deserves a medal.”
These cold relations had not been improved by a famous telephone call between the two mothers, in which salvos had been fired from Scotland Street across the rooftops of the Old Town to Church Hill, and then returned with interest. But although they were barely speaking to one another, both were compelled by their sons’ friendship to negotiate times to drop off and collect their offspring from the other’s house on those occasions when the two boys met.
So, when Ishbel came that day to drop Ranald off for a play session with Bertie, she rang the Pollock doorbell somewhat gingerly, as if prepared to receive from it a reproach, or even a minor electric shock.
Irene knew who it was at the door and was determined to wait as long as possible before she answered.
“I think that might be Ranald Braveheart Macpherson at the door, Mummy,” said Bertie.
“Ah,” said Irene, “you think, Bertie, but do you know that it’s Ranald at the door? How can you be certain?”
Bertie looked puzzled. “Because it’s three o’clock, Mummy, and that’s the time that Ranald said he’d arrive.”
“No, Bertie,” said Irene. “One should not act on mere surmise – I’ve often told you that, n’est-ce pas?”
Bertie looked down at the floor. “I can’t remember, Mummy. But I . . . ”
Irene interrupted him. “That person at the door, Bertie, might be an unsolicited caller. We wouldn’t want to encourage them, would we?” She paused, and then continued, “Shall we see whether the person rings again? If she does that, then we’ll know that it might be a genuine caller – possibly even Ranald What-Not.”
“Ranald Braveheart Macpherson,” Bertie reiterated, just as the doorbell sounded again.
“Well,” said Irene eventually, “perhaps now we can go and investigate. And who knows . . . ” And here she raised her voic
e, as they had reached the door; “ . . . and who knows what manner of surprise awaits us?”
Bertie opened the door to reveal an irritable-looking Ishbel and a beaming Ranald. “Hello, Ranald,” he said brightly. “I told Mummy it was you, but she said we were to wait.”
The frown on Ishbel’s forehead intensified. A weather forecaster, interpreting it as a meteorological map, might have used the words thunder, gathering storms, and ice.
“I hope we didn’t disturb you,” said Ishbel.
“Not in the slightest,” said Irene. “And here’s young Ronald – how nice to see you!”
“Ranald,” muttered Bertie. “Not Ronald, Mummy.”
“Of course,” said Irene. “How silly of me. And Isabel, how are you?”
“Ishbel,” whispered Bertie.
Ishbel spoke through gritted teeth. “Very well, thank you. Just catching my breath, though, after all these steps. I must say I admire you, living in a tenement – it must keep you all so fit! All these funny little stone steps every day. Up and down.”
Irene’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, you don’t have that in suburbia, do you? I suppose that’s quite comfortable, but I must say give me Georgian proportions any day, steps or not.”
Ishbel smiled sweetly. “So, here’s Ranald all eager for his play session with Bertie. Shall I come back in about two hours?”
“Perfect,” said Irene. “Bertie has to go to his yoga round about then.”
“Yoga!” exclaimed Ishbel. “All that stretching and posturing.”
“Positioning,” corrected Irene.
“Of course – positioning.”
Bertie decided to take control. “Let’s go inside, Ranald,” he said. “I want to show you something in my room.”
“Good idea,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson.
The two boys went off, leaving the mothers facing one another for a moment. With an icy smile, Ishbel turned to leave.
“A bientôt,” said Irene.
Ishbel turned around. “What?”
“A bientôt . . . French for see you soon.”
Ishbel muttered her way down the common stair. “Common stair,” she whispered to herself, and felt a great deal better for the remark.
Once in his room, Bertie showed Ranald Braveheart Macpherson his contraband copy of Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys. They examined diagrams relating to the positioning of tents and the making of a camp fire.
“I bet Mr. Baden-Powell made really good fires,” said Ranald.
“Yes,” said Bertie. “He never used matches, you know. He just rubbed sticks together over some tinder. Or he sometimes used a magnifying glass to focus the rays of the sun.”
“He was jolly clever,” said Ranald. He looked at Bertie. “You know something, Bertie? My mummy hates your mummy. Does yours hate mine back, do you think?”
Bertie looked thoughtful. “It’s difficult to tell, Ranald. You know how grown-ups are – it’s hard to work out what’s going on in their minds.”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson nodded. “I asked her once why she hated her, and she just smiled and said that everybody did.”
“Everybody did what?” asked Bertie.
“Hates your mother,” said Ranald. “I’m really sorry about that, Bertie. It can’t be easy having a hate figure for a mother.”
“Let’s not talk about it, Ranald,” said Bertie. He looked out of the window. “You see, you can’t change the mummy you get, can you? You have to accept her.”
Ranald looked at his friend with admiration. “You’re very good at that sort of thing, Bertie,” he said.
Bertie looked more cheerful. “Thanks, Ranald. So, let’s go to the Drummond Place Gardens and play Walter Scott.”
In Drummond Place Gardens
Given permission by Irene to go out to the Drummond Place Gardens, provided they did not wander off anywhere else, Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson made their way through the narrow garden gate into the world of luxuriant shrubs and towering trees that made up the handsome green retreat. Like most of Edinburgh’s private gardens, this was a quiet, rather staid place, criss-crossed by walkways and dotted here and there with benches from which to contemplate the rus in urbe. A small sign saying Authorised dogs only dissuaded lesser dogs – or their owners perhaps – from intruding; another sign, saying No ball games, shouting, or otherwise behaving improperly is permitted under any circumstances, made it clear that these were gardens in which a certain standard of decorum was expected. Yet this was not enough to deter two small boys, away for the moment from the adult gaze, from starting an exuberant game of Rob Roy, in which they took it in turns to be Rob Roy, a hairy and frightening Highlander, whose main purpose in life was to chase after the other boy, who represented the settled, cattle-owning classes of Scotland. If Rob Roy caught his quarry, he had to be able to hold him for the count of ten, whereupon he gained one point. On reaching three points, that Rob Roy won the round and the whole thing started again – rather like Scottish history, in which some things seem to go on forever and indeed sometimes started all over again.
It was when the game was at a particularly crucial stage that Angus Lordie, exercising his dog, Cyril, turned a corner and was cannoned into by the two breathless boys, one wielding a stick designed to represent a claymore, and the other doing his best to evade capture.
“Whoa!” shouted Angus. “My goodness, this is a frightening scene I stumble upon. Pirates? Corsairs pursuing an unfortunate Sicilian? The Zulus chasing Redcoats?”
The boys stopped, panting to regain their breath.
“I’m Rob Roy,” said Bertie. “And Ranald is one of Montrose’s men.”
“How very interesting,” said Angus.
“Walter Scott wrote all about it,” said Bertie. “Have you heard of him, Mr. Lordie?”
Angus smiled. “I believe I have.”
Bertie knew about Walter Scott from a visit to Abbotsford, Scott’s Borders home, that he had made with Ranald and his parents a few weeks before. Irene had been reluctant to let him go, being dismissive of Scott and his oeuvre, describing it as both romantic and reactionary. Stuart, however, had taken Bertie’s side, and eventually he was allowed to go.
For the two boys, the trip had been one of unadulterated excitement, their imagination being fired by the towers and turrets of the great writer’s home. And the interior was every bit as exciting as the exterior, with its displays of the historical relics that so fascinated Scott. The coats of arms of Borders families, displayed around the entrance hall, spoke to Scott’s abiding interest in matters heraldic – and were gazed upon with fascination by Bertie and Ranald.
“Macphersons have got that stuff,” said Ranald proudly. “Our clan has a cat and a glove as its crest. I don’t suppose you’ve got one, Bertie?”
Bertie looked disappointed; he did not know whether he was so entitled, but Ranald’s father came to his rescue. “I’m sure the Pollocks have got their own family crest,” he said. “And even if they don’t, Bertie could make one up.”
“You could have a picture of a sword,” said Ranald. “And perhaps a lion – because you’re jolly brave, Bertie.”
“Thank you,” said Bertie. He was not sure that his mother would allow a sword, or indeed a lion for that matter. He rather feared if she had anything to do with it – and she would certainly want to be in charge – he would end up with heraldic devices rather different from those on display in Abbotsford. A yoga mat, for example, or a picture of Sigmund Freud or Carl Gustav Jung. It would not be a crest one could display with any pride.
After they had finished their tour of the house, Ranald’s mother announced that she had packed a picnic in the back of the car and they would be able to have this in a spot in the woods to the west of the house.
“I saw a rather attractive spot,” she said. “And you boys can do a bit of exploring afterwards.”
The picnic basket retrieved from the car, the Macphersons and Bertie made their way up a gently sloping bra
e towards a cluster of broad-leaf trees. Finding a suitable picnic place, they laid out a tartan picnic rug and on this placed their picnic hamper. Vacuum flasks of hot water were used for tea, while for the boys there was Irn Bru, the sickly orange national drink of Scotland’s youth. This was a great treat for Bertie, to whom Irn Bru and all other sugary drinks were normally strictly forbidden. Ishbel knew this, of course, and for this reason said, “Don’t forget to tell your mummy about the Irn Bru, Bertie. I’m sure she’ll be really interested.”
It was a delicious thought, and both Ishbel and her husband exchanged amused glances. “That’ll give her something to think about,” whispered Ishbel. “She’s such a food fascist.”
“I don’t really approve of Irn Bru,” said Ranald’s father. “The next generation risks turning into a tribe of puddings. I fear that Irn Bru is not the best thing for them to be drinking.”
“Of course it isn’t,” said Ishbel. “I know that. But the point is to get right up her nose.”
Ranald’s father understood how tempting that might be. “Very satisfactory,” he said, savouring the thought. “But what astonishes me is that Stuart puts up with it. Where’s his backbone?”
“All worms eventually turn,” said Ishbel. “Even the mildest ones.”
While this conversation was taking place, the boys had drifted off and were scrambling around in the undergrowth not far away. And it was from a clump of brambles that a cry came.
A Time of Love and Tartan Page 12
