The assistant slid a tray out of a display case. “I imagine that we don’t have the bride’s finger size, do we? No, I thought not.”
“She has very nice hands,” said Angus, trying to salvage what dignity was left to him. “Not too large and not too small. Ideal size.”
The assistant nodded. “It might be better to err on the side of caution,” she said. “It’s awful when the groom can’t get the ring on the bride’s finger.” She pointed to a line of wedding rings all neatly placed in velvet slots. “One of these perhaps?”
Matthew bent down to peer at the rings and then turned to look at Angus. Angus met his gaze dolefully. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “And now we’re taking somebody else’s ring. Just think of the story behind each of these. The desperation.”
“Not necessarily,” said the assistant cheerfully. “People pawn their jewellery for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they can’t wait to get the wedding ring off their finger. Sometimes they’re marrying again and the new husband is giving them something better. You never know.” She hesitated. “Or they’ve died, of course.”
Matthew looked at his watch. “Just choose, Angus.”
Angus pointed to a plain gold band. “That one, I think.”
“A very good choice,” said the assistant. “Plain. Can’t go wrong – and it’s average size.”
“Good,” said Matthew. “Now just pay for it and let’s go.”
Angus padded the side of his chalk-stripe suit. “I’m terribly sorry, Matthew, but I don’t seem to have my wallet. You couldn’t possibly …”
Matthew pursed his lips. “Yes, I can.” He reached into his inner pocket and extracted a credit card.
The transaction completed, they left the shop and continued along Queen Street. “I’ll give you a cheque tomorrow,” said Angus. “Before we go off on our honeymoon.”
Matthew assured him that that would be all right. “Where are you going, by the way? I don’t think you told me.” He had read that one of the best man’s duties was to ensure that the newly married couple’s departure went smoothly.
“Actually, I hadn’t really thought very much about it,” Angus said.
Matthew stopped in his tracks. “You hadn’t thought about where to go? Are you serious?”
“Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t quite fixed it up yet.”
Matthew’s tone was incredulous. “So what did you say to Domenica?”
“I said that it would be a surprise. I told her that all she would need would be her passport.” He paused. “I suppose I can see what’s available tomorrow, flight-wise. You can get to quite a few places from Edinburgh Airport these days.”
Matthew opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. “All right,” he said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible. “The important thing is to get you married. So let’s carry on.”
It was only a block or so to their next stop, the outfitter Stewart Christie. Matthew was a regular customer there and knew the proprietor well. If anybody could help them deal with the kilt emergency it was Mr. Lowe.
“Here we are,” said Matthew, again propelling Angus through the door.
Mr. Lowe was fetched from upstairs by one of his assistants and had the nature of the crisis explained to him.
“I know you have those books of tartan swatches,” Matthew said. “I was wondering if you could cut one of them up and use it as …”
“As a patch?” prompted Mr. Lowe. “Why not? We’ve done that before, you know.”
“Really?” asked Angus.
“Yes,” said Mr. Lowe as he led them into the back of the shop. “We’ve helped a number of people who’ve discovered holes in their clothes at the wrong time. Some years ago, for instance, we had the Moderator of the Kirk in here. His breeches had developed a hole just before he was due to meet a delegation to Scotland of the Coptic Church, and we fixed him up with a patch from an old set of tails. And David Steel’s yellow waistcoat developed a hole when he was Lord Commissioner at the Assembly and we found an old duster that matched it perfectly. Nobody could tell. We’ve saved the day on numerous occasions.”
He extracted a thick book of swatches from under the counter. There was something reassuring about the heavy covers of the book and the satisfying way in which it flipped open to reveal an astonishing range of tartans, all arranged alphabetically.
“Burns,” muttered Mr. Lowe, paging through the samples. “Caledonia, Cameron, and … yes, here we are, Campbell.”
The familiar dark green tartan was an exact match of the kilt. Now taking the holed fabric in his hands, Mr. Lowe squared up the swatch so that the lines of the pattern met. Then, reaching for a large pair of tailor’s scissors, he cut into the swatch, producing a patch slightly larger than the hole in the kilt. “A few stitches with some strong green thread and we’ll be right as rain,” he said.
Angus leaned forward and put a hand on the outfitter’s shoulder. “I’m very grateful,” he said. “I really am.”
“We try to be as helpful as possible,” said Mr. Lowe. And then, discreetly, “Your suit, by the way, would you like us to … help you in that department?”
“Indeed I would,” said Angus. “When I return from honeymoon, I shall bring it in for …”
“For adjustment,” supplied Mr. Lowe. “By all means.”
The kilt was soon ready and Angus changed into it in the changing room.
“I feel much more confident now,” he said. He stopped. Cyril was looking up at him, his mouth in a wide smile. The paisley scarf round his neck had been changed for a striking piece of Campbell tartan.
“I think that’s more suitable,” said Mr. Lowe, with a smile. “He is after all a Campbell too.”
“Exactly,” said Angus.
“A Campbell dog,” muttered Matthew.
“What was that you said?” asked Angus.
He suspected it was another tiresome reference to the Misunderstanding of Glencoe, but this, he thought, was no time for a misunderstanding with one’s best man.
12. Dearly Beloved
It could have been a disaster, but it was not. The proposition that the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley has, presumably, its converse: that badly laid plans rather than ganging aft agley can actually gang aft rather weel. Anybody who had witnessed Matthew’s experiences from the time he arrived at Angus Lordie’s front door that day would have imagined a steadily deteriorating situation; would have steeled himself, perhaps, for further disasters flowing from the almost complete lack of planning on the groom’s part; would have foreseen embarrassment after embarrassment as things got steadily worse. But none of this happened, and when Matthew looked back that evening on the day’s events he was able to reflect that just as weather reports can occasionally threaten and not deliver, so too can weddings that seem to be headed for disaster turn out to be successful and even enjoyable.
With this verdict Big Lou would also have wholeheartedly agreed. The bridal camp had also had to contend with its own crisis, one that was nothing to do with bad planning but that flowed entirely from Big Lou’s chance remark that Angus might already be married. A bridesmaid should not say that sort of thing, since if there is one piece of news that a bride does not wish to hear on her wedding day, it must be that. And the effect was, indeed, dramatic.
“I think that we should perhaps call the whole thing off,” Domenica said. “I can’t face that possibility. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
Big Lou, immediately regretting her comment, sought to undo the damage. “I’m sure he wouldn’t do a thing like that,” she said. “And it was only one letter addressed to Mrs. A. Lordie. That’s hardly evidence of anything.”
They stared at one another glumly. Big Lou, however, was not one to be defeated. Having been raised on a farm, she could cope with most challenges: a difficult lambing, a nest of rats in a byre, a broken-down tractor – and these skills had been further developed in her years working in the Granite Nursing Home in Aberdeen, wher
e the small emergencies of such a place regularly tested the staff.
“I’m going to phone Matthew,” she announced. “I’m going to get him to tackle Angus about it.”
She gave Domenica no time to raise any objections, getting through to Matthew on his mobile phone shortly after he and Angus had left the outfitters. Matthew was now in good spirits, having resolved the immediate crises of the ring and the kilt. Big Lou’s question, however, could hardly do anything but bring a frown to his face.
“I’ll ask him directly,” he said after Lou had finished what she had to say. “Hold the line.”
They were now in Ainslie Place. Turning to Angus, he fixed him with an accusing stare. “Angus,” he said. “Big Lou tells me she saw a letter addressed to Mrs. A. Lordie. Tell me right now: does Mrs. A. Lordie exist? Are you already married?”
It would not have surprised Matthew had Angus suddenly hit his forehead with the flat of his palm and said, “Oh, how silly of me to forget!” But he did not. For a few moments he stared at Matthew in incomprehension, and then he smiled.
“Of course not,” he said. “Those letters are from the electricity people. They have me down as Mrs. A. Lordie for some reason. I’ve tried to inform them, but I get on to a call centre in Timbuktu and they never seem to pass on the message. I don’t mind too much. I’m secure enough in my identity, you know.”
Matthew resumed his conversation with Big Lou, passing on the explanation. It seemed convincing enough and, for all his occasional vagueness and lack of organisation, he knew that Angus was strictly truthful. And that, it transpired, was the last hitch in the proceedings. They reached the Cathedral in good time and sat calmly through an inspiring and calming organ recital by Peter Backhouse before Domenica arrived.
The ceremony itself was conducted according to the liturgy of the Scottish Episcopal Church. Eschewing the arid simplicities of the modern service, with its language deprived of all poetry, they had opted for the form of words used in the Book of Common Prayer and related prayer books. This brought them back to the language of the time of James VI, Jamie Saxt, that extraordinary king who left Scotland for the greater prize of England, but did the most profound service to the English language with his espousal of the King James Bible.
“Dearly beloved,” began Dr. Forbes, the Provost of the Cathedral. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency …”
Dearly beloved, thought Angus; how right that we should speak to our fellows in such terms, for that is how we should see them; not as my friends or anything like that, but beloved and dearly so. And then we are gathered in the face of this congregation, which expresses exactly the full solemnity of making the promises that we are about to make before these people; this is something we are doing in the face of the congregation, not among them or before them, but in the face of this group of people, of those who are dearly beloved. And in the time of man’s innocency: what a marvellous echoing phrase, what a magnificent way of referring to what is very old, to a better time.
For there was a better time, thought Angus; there was a time of our innocency. There was a time when the world was fresher, less used, less polluted. There was a time when we really did think that humanity had a future and that our tiny human lives, our tiny human concerns, meant something, and that we were not just the brief tenants of an insignificant planet in a great and incomprehensible emptiness.
He brought himself back to where he was: at the altar, at his own wedding. Dr. Forbes had moved on and had now reached the point at which the collective breath of the congregation is briefly held: “Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”
There was a brief silence, and then, from within the congregation there came a voice.
13. Bruce Visits Crieff
That morning, Bruce Anderson, surveyor and rugby player, stalwart of the Watsonians Rugby Club – and briefly secretary of the social sub-committee – was driving down from Crieff to Edinburgh. The morning sun was sufficiently warm to allow the hood of his Japanese two-seater sports car to be wound back, or half back, rather, as the mechanism had never been entirely reliable and tended to stick. This did not affect the performance of the car or the comfort of the driver and Bruce was very much enjoying this drive. He knew exactly where the speed cameras were and on which stretches of road he could take the car up to eighty-five. Bruce said that he did not believe in going much faster than that, which was convenient, as he had bought the car cheaply and that was its maximum speed. “It’s irresponsible,” Bruce opined in the rugby club bar at Myreside, “to go more than eighty-five. Speed limits are there for a purpose, you know.”
There had been nods of agreement from Gerry, Martin, Bill, and Fergus. “Yeah, sure,” said Martin. “Except sometimes. The other day I did a hundred and five on the A68 on that stretch just before Lauder, you know? You know where the turn-off to that hotel is? Just after that there’s a straight bit and you can really motor. A hundred and five, and I still had a bit in reserve. I reckon my car’s capable of a hundred and fifteen in the right conditions.”
“Great, but you shouldn’t,” said Bruce. “Eighty-five max.”
Now, with the needle on the speedometer nudging up towards that critical figure, Bruce sat back in the driver’s seat and felt the wind on his brow. Perfection! Behind him lay the gently rising Perthshire hills that marked the beginning of the Highlands; behind him lay Crieff and the parental villa in which he had spent the last two nights; ahead of him lay Edinburgh and a new phase in his life. Bruce was still in his twenties, and even if he was now closer to thirty than to twenty – three years away, in fact – that melancholy milestone seemed sufficiently distant not to worry him unduly. Certainly, one had to be aware of the fact that the thirties existed – one had to be, as there came a day, and that day had recently come for Bruce, when one received one’s first invitation to a thirtieth birthday party.
“She can’t be thirty!” Bruce had muttered when he had opened the invitation in question. She was still attractive, and he had even considered her himself as a prospect, and now here she was planning to hold a thirtieth birthday party (no presents please). Thirty! It had been a sobering thought, and the party itself had been a rather dull affair, almost like a wake, Bruce thought. If that was what it was like, then he certainly had no intention of being thirty himself.
The last couple of days in Crieff had been a bit of a strain. Bruce had gone up to stay with his parents because his father was celebrating his sixtieth birthday. There had been no party – his parents were not that type – and the birthday itself had been marked with no more than a family dinner at which Bruce’s uncle and aunt from Fort William had joined them. Bruce had spent the rest of the visit watching a Danish crime thriller, punctuating Copenhagen with sporadic and rather drifting conversations with his parents. Bruce was fond of his parents and considered himself a dutiful enough son – he just did not want to become like them. In that respect, of course, he was not unlike most of us. How often does one meet people whose ambition it is to become just like their parents? Parents, by definition, are less fashionable than their children; have worse dress sense and less understanding of the world; are so completely and irretrievably uncool. Of course there is always the problem of the camera – that notoriously mendacious instrument – that may suddenly reveal in a photograph a striking similarity between the generations: a way of holding the head, for instance, the angle of the nose, even something as fleeting and subjective as a look in the eye. But those are just externals! What counts is the way we are inside, and let there be no doubt about it; we are utterly different from our parents – of course we are!
Bruce contemplated his parents and wondered how it was that people like that could produce somebody like him. A
nd here was the same father going on and on about the need to take stock where one was in one’s career. “You have to make progress, Bruce. You should be able to look back every two years and say: Two years ago I was there, and now I’m here.” Bruce’s father demonstrated with his hands the difference in the two positions: one hand was low and the other was a good foot higher.
Bruce thought: one foot in two years – not very much.
“Are you listening, Bruce?”
“Yes, Dad. I’m listening.”
“Good, so in your case you need to think about getting a job where there are partnership prospects.” His father paused. “Are there any in the firm you’re with now?”
“Probably not,” said Bruce. “I’ll find something.”
There was a brief silence. Then: “So you’re interested in moving?”
“Always am, Dad.”
Bruce’s father smiled. “In that case, I think I might have just the opportunity you’re looking for.”
Bruce froze. “Well, I wasn’t thinking …”
His father cut him short. “There’s a job right here. Just outside Crieff. You know the Easter Cairn estate? The one off the Comrie Road? I know the factor there, Jock Blain, and he’s planning to retire this year. Jock and I play bowls together and I know him pretty well.”
Bruce said nothing.
“Jock says that if you’re interested he could suggest to the estate that they take you on as factor. You’ve got all the qualifications – your RICS and so on. It’s not a very big place, as you know, but they’ve got plans for some new holiday cottages and a wind farm if they get planning permission. There’d be a lot for you to get your teeth into. It’s ideal, Bruce, and you could use it as a stepping stone. You could get into one of the Perth firms where it’ll be far easier to get a partnership than in Edinburgh.”
Bruce looked down at the floor.
“Come home, Bruce,” said his mother, who had been listening to this conversation from the kitchen door. “Come home, darling.”