“Are you boys all right?” shouted Ranald’s father.
Back came the reply, “Yes, but . . . but we’ve found something.”
Ranald’s father rose to his feet. He would go and investigate because it crossed his mind that boys guddling about in the undergrowth could find anything, and it might be something unsavoury – possibly even a body. That, after all, was how Scandinavian noir dramas started: a body was found by a walker or a child, or even a dog. The innocent stumbled across the corpus delicti and gave a shout – just as Bertie now did.
A Significant Spurtle
It was Bertie who saw it first, sticking up out of the ground, half-hidden by a trailing sprig of bramble. Gingerly, avoiding the thorns, he pulled back the bramble, while Ranald Braveheart Macpherson peered at the half-exposed piece of blackened stump.
“What is it, Ranald?” asked Bertie. “Do you think it’s a bone?”
“Could be,” answered Ranald. “Maybe it’s an arm – or a bit of an arm.” He gestured to his forearm. “This bit here, see. Maybe the fingers have come off.”
Bertie bent the bramble back upon itself so that they could both get an uninterrupted view. “I think I should dig it out, Ranald,” he said. “Then we can find the rest of the body.”
“What about germs?” asked Ranald. “There could be tons of germs around here, Bertie.”
Bertie considered this. “I think all the flesh has gone, Ranald,” he said. “Once all the flesh drops off . . . ”
“Or is eaten by worms,” interjected Ranald. “Most of it gets eaten by worms, Bertie. That’s what happens, you know.”
“I know,” said Bertie. “But I think this is a really old arm, Ranald. I think this goes way, way back and there’ll be no germs or anything left.” He paused. “But if you like, I’ll start pulling it out, and if anything happens to me you can run and get help.”
“You’re very brave, Bertie,” said Ranald. “Tofu says that you’re scared of things, but I don’t think that’s true.”
“Tofu’s a well-known liar,” said Bertie.
“You can say that again,” said Ranald. “His pants will catch fire one day, Bertie. All those lies he’s told will catch up with him. And, boy, is God going to punish him when he eventually gets hold of him.”
Bertie had now moved forward and was crouching alongside the strange object. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, he wrapped this around the top of the protrusion and gave it a gentle tug. The earth in which it was buried was dry and loose, and it did not take long for the thing to become free, bringing with it a small clump of attached soil. Bertie brushed this off with his free hand, while holding the top of the object with the handkerchief.
“I think it’s wood,” he said. “I don’t think it’s bone.” He brushed more soil away. “No, Ranald, this is a bit of wood – it’s not an arm, or anything like that.”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson looked disappointed. “It’s a pity it’s not a body,” he said. “It would have been really exciting to have found a body, Bertie. We could have taken it to school to show people.”
Bertie did not reply. He did not think it likely that his mother would allow him to keep a body in the flat; there were so many restrictions in his life, and that was just one more of them.
“It’s a piece of carved wood, Ranald,” he said. “It’s a stick – maybe a baton. Look at this.”
Bertie pointed to a small round bobble at the top of the stick. As he polished it with his handkerchief, the shape became more recognisable. “That’s a thistle, Ranald. You see that bit there – that’s the smooth bit at the top of a thistle.”
Ranald had spotted something. “And down there, Bertie,” he said. “There’s some writing.”
Bertie looked at the small carved letters pointed out by Ranald. Peering more closely, he read out M R.
“Mr. somebody?” asked Ranald. “Could that be the name of somebody who owned this?”
Bertie looked doubtful. “If it was Mr. there would be another name.” He examined the stick again. “But there isn’t.”
Ranald wondered whether it was a ceremonial wand of some sort. Bertie considered this and was about to answer when Ranald’s father appeared and asked them what they were doing. Proudly, the boys showed them their find. “We thought it was a bone,” said Ranald to his father. “But it’s really a sort of . . . sort of . . . ”
“That looks rather like a spurtle,” said Ranald’s father. “You know what a spurtle is, don’t you?”
Bertie did. “It’s something you stir your porridge with, Mr. Macpherson.”
“Precisely, Bertie. And should we go and show that to somebody in the house? Just to see whether they can throw any light on it?”
The two boys followed Ranald’s father back into the house, Ishbel having tidied up the picnic things and taken them back to the car. In response to Ranald’s father’s request to speak to somebody about a find, one of the custodians said that James Holloway, Chairman of the Trust, was in the house and they could speak to him.
James arrived and examined the spurtle carefully. “Where did you find it?” he asked.
Bertie explained, and James listened attentively. Then, addressing the two boys, he said, “This is a very important find. These initials here – M R – stand for Maria Regina, and this, boys, could well be nothing less than the lost spurtle of Mary, Queen of Scots!”
Bertie drew in his breath. “You mean . . . ?”
“Exactly that, Bertie,” said James. “The place where you found it is the spot where Sir Walter Scott used to like to have picnics. He possessed Mary’s spurtle, but it went missing. He must have used it on a picnic and then dropped it by mistake.
“The spurtle was not heard of after that,” continued James. “But then, in 1975, there was an article about it by Professor Sandy Fenton, published in the Scots Magazine. That raised interest in the subject, but nobody knew of its whereabouts – until, quite possibly, now.”
Ranald’s father was visibly pleased. “This is quite wonderful,” he said. “You boys have made a great discovery.”
“We shall, of course, evaluate it further,” said James solemnly. “But in the meantime, a small reward is payable to both of you.”
James reached into his pocket and took out a one-pound coin for each of the boys.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Holloway,” said Bertie, pocketing his reward.
Ranald echoed the thanks.
“Who would have thought it?” said Ranald’s father. He glanced sideways at James, who smiled. Ranald’s father understood. He knew that the world was a place of wonder and excitement for seven-year-old boys – as it was for the rest of us, if we are willing to open our hearts to things beyond the things we see – and if that sense of wonder could be enhanced and made to last just a little bit longer, then why not? The world was a vale of tears – who could doubt that? – but there were moments when the tears might momentarily be wiped away.
Mission Statement
While Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson were explaining the rules of Rob Roy to Angus Lordie in the Drummond Place Gardens, in their flat in 44 Scotland Street Irene and Stuart were discussing their plans. The campaign to which their strategy related was Stuart’s application for promotion in the Scottish Government’s Department of Statistics. When Stuart had first revealed to his wife that a senior vacancy had opened up and that he, along with two colleagues, was a candidate for the promotion, she had given him her support without hesitation. Irene was not interested in the activities of the Scottish Civil Service, and had even less interest in statistics. What motivated her, though, was the higher salary that went with the post; the Pollock household may not have been on the breadline, but with only a single income coming in – Irene did not work – their budget was a tight one. The new position, Irene learned, had a salary that was twenty thousand pounds a year higher than Stuart’s current point on the pay-scale, and that, in her view, clinched the matter: Stuart needed the job, and s
he would do whatever she could to help him get it.
Stuart had explained to Irene that there were two other applicants – both of them current colleagues of his in the department, and both, in their individual ways, insufferable. Irene had listened to his description of Elaine and Faith and his account of their shortcomings. She agreed that neither had particularly attractive personal qualities, and that Elaine’s inability to do long division would be a serious drawback. But she felt that she had to tell Stuart that notwithstanding these drawbacks, the other two candidates had a major advantage.
“Whatever you may think of them as people,” she warned, “don’t forget that they have one formidable advantage.”
Stuart tried to imagine what this would be. Perhaps what people said about Faith was untrue; perhaps Elaine really could do long division if given enough time.
“Can’t you see it?” asked Irene impatiently. “It’s very obvious, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” said Stuart. “I can’t. I’m trying to think positively about them, but, frankly, it’s beyond me.”
Irene sighed. “Really, Stuart, you’re being a bit slow on the uptake, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s chromosomal, I’m afraid.”
Now it dawned on Stuart what Irene’s point was. “You mean, they are at an advantage because they’re women?”
Irene nodded. “They are both women, and therefore entitled to the job. So you are battling against a major handicap right from the start.”
Stuart frowned. “But surely the job will be allocated on merit?”
Irene smiled. “Yes, it will be. Women candidates are more meritorious – it’s as simple as that.”
“Why?”
Irene gave him a discouraging look. “That’s just the way it is, Stuart. It’s to do with historical injustice. It’s to do with hidden male networking. It’s to do with the persistence of patriarchy. Take your pick, but in essence it means this: you are not as meritorious as they are because, well, because you’re a man.”
“But that’s outrageous,” said Stuart. “Why should I be punished because I happen to be male?”
Irene made a dismissive gesture. “That’s just the way it is, Stuart. We can’t reopen that issue all over again. Learn to live with it.”
Stuart bit his lip.
“So,” said Irene, “let’s get down to work. You said that you have to submit an essay in which you set out your stall, so to speak.”
“Yes,” said Stuart. “It’s to be my vision of what I think about the issues facing the department and what are the values I would try to assert if I were to be appointed.”
Irene listened carefully. “I think I know what to write.”
Stuart stared at her. “But I’m meant to write it. It’s meant to be from me.”
“Oh, Stuart, that’s the merest formality. You can have an input, but I know what these people are looking for. You must let me handle this.”
This last injunction was made in a voice that Irene used when she was giving a final and definitive ruling on some domestic matter, and Stuart knew that it was futile to argue. This was Irene speaking ex cathedra and with an authority only slightly eclipsed by the authority with which the Pope issues an encyclical on some matter of dogma.
Irene took the form from the folder in which she had filed the application papers. “Here we are,” she said. “You had better write it out in your handwriting, Stuart – I’ll dictate.”
“I’m ready,” said Stuart.
“Very well,” said Irene. “Now, note this down – I shall begin. ‘I believe that I (that is you, Stuart) am the right person to take forward the implementation of the department’s goals on transparency, accessibility, inclusiveness, stakeholder involvement and consultation, and rectification of historical imbalances.’”
Across the paper scratched Stuart’s pen, committing Irene’s prose to the official form before him.
“As a department, we must seek to implement in the most cost-effective and productive way the goals of ensuring that vertical job stratification should be conclusively and convincingly neutralised. For this reason, I would support a policy of non-shortlisting of male candidates for any future vacancies. I would further support and seek to implement a policy affording existing male employees to leave prematurely, either to pursue alternative careers in the catering/service sector or to take early retirement.”
Irene paused. This was very good stuff, she thought, and it would tick the boxes that she knew would need to be ticked if Stuart were to succeed, in spite of the obvious handicaps of gender, against the weight of opposition against him.
“I think that might be enough,” she said.
Stuart looked doubtful. “Shouldn’t I say something about my educational background?”
Irene shook her head fiercely. “Certainly not, Stuart – not when you have the background you have.”
“Middle class?”
Irene sniffed. “Yes,” she said. “That would be fatal. I suggest you say nothing about that – and nothing about the years you spent working for the PhD. The last thing you want to sound is elitist – and PhDs are elitist by their very nature.”
“But you’re going off to Aberdeen to do one,” protested Stuart. “What’s the difference?”
Irene looked at him with ill-concealed pity. “Oh Stuart, the fact that you need to ask that question in fact precludes my answering it. Only an elitist would ask that, I’m afraid.”
Stuart gritted his teeth. “Don’t they want applicants to be highly qualified?”
Irene looked at him with a cool directness. “They don’t want the typical, highly-educated male. They don’t want him to come in with all his baggage of assumptions. They don’t want that, Stuart – they certainly don’t.”
Stuart decided to concede. He had conceded throughout his marriage – right from the very beginning – and he saw no reason why he should try to change now. He was defeated. Irene was right – as always. He should trust in her in exactly the same way that a pilot trusted his instruments in fog. He should trust her absolutely and not try to do things himself. And in the background was the thought that this was not forever. Irene would be going to Aberdeen one day – oh, blessed, blessed day on which our freedom dawns at last.
She Wanted a Man So Desperately
Pat Macgregor looked out of the window of her Marchmont flat. By standing in one corner of the room and craning her neck, she had a view of the Meadows, of the trees that lined Jawbone Walk, and of the skyline of the old Royal Infirmary beyond that. Jawbone Walk was rich in associations for her, as in her student days, now a few years behind her, it had been along that path that she made her way into the university each morning – to Professor Thomson’s lectures on French art that she so enjoyed, or to the tutorials on Scottish painters of the twentieth century, or to the cups of coffee with fellow students in the cafeteria of the University Library when everything – and nothing – would be talked about with the passion – and certainty – that comes so naturally at that stage in life. Now, of course, she was not so sure. The world and its issues seemed so clear-cut then because almost everyone about you, or at least your coevals, held the same views, and if only those in authority would stop being so mean and grudging and agree to the things that people were asking for, then everybody would be so much happier. Could they not see that? What perversity of spirit stopped them from acceding to such patently reasonable demands?
And then, almost imperceptibly at first, the realisation came that the world was not as simple as one imagined it to be, and that there were choices to be made, and that not everybody was benign. The truth then dawned that there simply was not enough for everybody to have what they wanted or needed; that everything was finite and that what one had taken for granted had actually been paid for by years of work by somebody whom one would never know, who might never have been able to enjoy any of it anyway.
Her university days had been carefree – her generous father had supported her through her course, no
t only paying her rent but giving her a monthly allowance as well. Other students had to sign up for student loans, large sums that hung about their necks on graduation like albatrosses – the bill for four years of privilege; Pat did not have that, and felt guilty about it. Then, on top of everything, Dr. Macgregor had bought her rented flat when the landlord put it on the market, cashing in savings to pay the exorbitant purchase price. Now she lived rent-free, courtesy of her father’s kindness, and used the rent paid to her by her two flatmates to cover living expenses. Topped up by the part-time salary Matthew paid her for her work at the gallery, she had enough to live on reasonably comfortably.
She realised, though, that this was not how her life would be forever. In particular, she was beginning to feel vaguely irritated at having to share the flat with two other young women. Her flatmates, Bernice and Andrea, were tidy enough in their habits, and, in objective terms, no trouble at all. They paid their share of joint expenses without demur, they never left washing-up in the sink, they scrupulously avoided eating food Pat left in the fridge. That last matter was the cause of so many rows in shared flats – cheese wars that raged for months over who had encroached on whose lump of cheddar. There had been none of that, thank heavens, and yet, and yet . . .
The problem with Bernice, Pat felt, was a certain lack of . . . And here Pat faltered. What exactly was it that Bernice lacked? Was it engagement? Or intellectual curiosity? Whatever it was, it had begun to annoy Pat, who marvelled that anybody could be as passive as Bernice was, in the face of things that really should have produced some sort of reaction.
Bernice had a boyfriend called Terry. He was an IT man with a finance company, a slightly flabby young man whose nose Pat had never liked. She knew it was wrong to judge a person by his nose, but in this case that is what she did. Terry’s nose said everything that needed to be said about his character. It was a dull, directionless nose. It was not the sort of nose, she thought, that could ever point anywhere specific – it would wander about like a weather vane in shifting winds. It was a pointless, dispiriting nose.