Angus brought up the question of Hugh MacDiarmid. “He lived to a ripe old age, didn’t he – and yet he enjoyed his whisky. Glenfiddich, I think.”

  “The point about rules,” said Matthew, “is that the excep-tions outnumber them. And Byron.”

  “Malaria, wasn’t it? Another mosquito. Mosquitoes: the enemies of poetry.”

  The band had started to play, although nobody was dancing yet. Big Lou and Fat Bob were standing by another table, shaking hands with their guests. They looked so happy, Angus thought, and he smiled to himself with pleasure: if anybody deserved happiness now, it was Big Lou, that hard-working, good woman who represented all the old values of Scotland’s farming community. The world, he felt, had become a cold and casual place; Big Lou, with her warmth and the couthy qualities instilled in her during her girlhood at Snell Mains near Arbroath, was the very opposite of that.

  “They published the poetry,” Matthew went on, “in a special issue of Angry Penguins. They described it as the work of a major new Australian poet – although it consisted of cobbled-together nonsense, including sections of a military manual on mosquito control.”

  Angus let out a delighted laugh. “Wonderful,” he said.

  “And then the papers managed to find out who had written it. Two young men from Melbourne. They had composed the whole oeuvre in an afternoon.”

  “Angry Penguins was not amused?”

  “No,” said Matthew.

  Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna had been listening closely. Now, she observed, “Exposure of falseness can never be false. Nor, for that matter, can the false be true.”

  Angus and Matthew exchanged glances. “That might require some reflection,” said Angus.

  “Identifying that which requires reflection is itself a matter of reflection,” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.

  Antonia wrinkled her nose. “Sparkling wine makes me want to sneeze,” she said. Then, turning to Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, she added, “And don’t turn that into an aphorism, carissima. Basta, dear floral one.”

  Angus looked away awkwardly. A wedding reception was no place for a lovers’ tiff, but, he went on to say to himself, that was exactly the sort of occasion where tiffs were most likely to occur. Like all things that were ever thus, this then, thus, was thus.

  13

  Minor Disagreements, Germs, Promises

  As this conversation about Ern Malley took place at Angus and Domenica’s table, on the other side of hall, the younger guests, seated around a low-level juvenile table of the sort to be seen in primary school classrooms, were contemplating the spread of sugary cakes and unhealthy aerated drinks that Big Lou had asked the caterers to provide for the children. The infantile guest list was not a large one, but included Finlay, Big Lou’s adopted son; the triplets, Rognvald, Tobermory and Fergus; Bertie, who had been allowed to bring his friend Ranald Braveheart Macpherson; Bertie’s tormentor and would-be Nemesis, Olive; and Olive’s lieutenant and Greek chorus rolled into one, Pansy. There was also a boy with glasses, Tommy, who lived in Drummond Place, his sister, Henrietta, also with glasses, and Bertie’s young brother, Ulysses, who was now able to walk although he was still to make significant progress in toilet training and in learning to refrain from biting.

  Bertie’s heart had sunk when he had seen Olive sitting several pews ahead of him in the church.

  “Look over there,” he had whispered to Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “Do you see her, Ranald?”

  Ranald followed the direction in which Bertie was pointing his finger. When his gaze settled on Olive, he gave a low groan. “It’s her,” he whispered.

  “Maybe she’s here by mistake,” said Bertie. “You never know.”

  “And Pansy too,” said Ranald. “They must have been invited because I can see her mummy sitting next to her. And her dad, too. My dad says that Olive’s dad drinks even more than he does.”

  “Maybe that’s why they’re at the wedding,” said Bertie. “Some people just go to weddings to drink lots.”

  Ranald looked thoughtful. “My dad does that,” he said.

  Bertie nodded. “So I’ve heard, Ranald.”

  They managed to avoid Olive and Pansy coming out of the church, but when they reached the reception there was to be no escape.

  “You and your friends are going to be sitting at a nice wee table specially for you,” said Big Lou, as she greeted them at the Mansfield Traquair Centre. “And we’ve got lots of cakes and sweets for you. And Irn-Bru too. Lots of that.”

  Olive and Pansy were already at the table when Bertie and Ranald arrived to take their seats.

  “So, Bertie Pollock,” said Olive, fixing Bertie with a triumphant gaze. “Here you are at a wedding after all.”

  Bertie did not know how to respond. He and Ranald stared silently at Olive.

  “I must say that I’m pleased to see you here,” Olive continued. “After all, it’s a good opportunity for you to practise.”

  Bertie continued to look at her suspiciously.

  “I don’t think he even knows what you’re talking about,” interjected Pansy. “You know how stupid boys are.”

  Olive considered this for a moment. “You may be right about boys in general, Pansy,” she said. “But I think Bertie knows fine well what this is all about.”

  “I don’t,” muttered Bertie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Olive.”

  Olive’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you don’t, Bertie Pollock? You say you don’t? Well, let me tell you.” She paused, her gaze fixed on Bertie as if she were sizing up a victim. “Should I let you know what I was thinking?”

  “Yes,” urged Pansy. “You tell him, Olive.”

  “I was thinking of how this was good practice for you on how to behave at a wedding. That’s what I was thinking.”

  Pansy rubbed her hands together. “You have to know what to do,” she said. “So you’ve been able to watch what’s going on here and see what you’ll have to do when—”

  “When you and I get married,” Olive crowed. “Because I can tell you one thing, Bertie. That’s one wedding that’s definitely, totally going to take place.”

  “Totally,” echoed Pansy. “Probably right here.”

  Olive frowned. “I’m not sure that I want to commit myself to hiring this actual hall. I’ll have to wait and see how they do things today.”

  “If they’re good enough, then you can,” Pansy suggested.

  “Yes,” said Olive. “We’ll wait and see. But the important thing is that you should watch it all very carefully. I don’t want any mistakes at our wedding – when it takes place.”

  “But I don’t want to marry you,” Bertie said quietly. “I never asked you, Olive.”

  “You did so!” hissed Olive. “And don’t you forget: I’ve got it in writing. You signed, Bertie Pollock – and you can’t go round signing promises to marry people and then pretend you didn’t.”

  “That’s not the way it works, Bertie,” said Pansy. “Even your stupid friend Ranald Braveheart Macpherson knows that.”

  “He’s not stupid,” muttered Bertie.

  “You’re the stupid one, Olive,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson.

  Olive spun round. “You’d better take that back, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson,” she spat. “If you don’t, you’ll be kicked out of the Mansfield Traquair Centre. I’ll tell Big Lou and they’ll throw you out.”

  Pansy rose to her feet. “I’m going to go and tell her right now,” she said.

  Olive restrained her. “Not just yet, Pansy. If Ranald apologises we’ll let him off this time.”

  Bertie nudged his friend. “Just say sorry, Ranald,” he whispered. “It’s not worth it.”

  Ranald’s grudging apology was accepted by a smirking Olive. “Now,” she said, “we can get on with enjoying this party before the dancing starts.”

  She looked at Bertie. “I hope that you and Ranald know how to do a Non-binary Gordons,” she said.

  Bertie looked at the floor, as did Ranald. He was just about to reply that he was not sure, when Pansy suddenly let out a piercing scream.

  “Olive!” she shouted. “Look what that horrible little boy has done!”

  They all turned to look at Ulysses, who, unnoticed by any of the other children, had just finished licking every cake on the large plate of iced cakes that the caterers had set out for the children.

  “Disgusting!” shrieked Olive. “Look at your disgusting little brother, Bertie. That’s your fault. He’s totally your fault.”

  Ulysses beamed at his accusers. “Cake,” he said. “Nice.”

  Olive shrieked again. “What are you going to do about that, Bertie? You’d better do something quick.”

  “I don’t mind eating them,” said Bertie nonchalantly. “Do you, Ranald?”

  “Not at all,” said Ranald. “I don’t mind getting a few germs from Ulysses.”

  “They say our food is too clean anyway,” Bertie said. “If you don’t get a few germs now and then, you get allergies.”

  “Bertie’s right,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, helping himself to one of the cakes. “Look, I’m eating this and I’m not getting sick, am I?”

  Olive’s mouth pursed in fury. “You wait, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. You just wait. Those germs take a bit of time to work, but you’ll almost certainly be dead really soon.”

  “Exactly,” said Pansy. “Totally dead. By four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. You just see.”

  “Half past three, max,” added Olive.

  On the other side of the hall, Domenica looked across towards the children’s table. “How nice to see the youngsters enjoying themselves,” she said to Angus.

  Angus nodded. “Like little angels.”

  “Childhood,” commented Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. “A time of innocent pleasure and pleasant innocence.”

  Antonia Collie sighed. She had already had two glasses of Italian sparkling wine. “Oh really,” she said.

  “Carissima,” whispered Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiore di Montagna, leaning forward, “Chiudi il becco, per piacere.”

  It was not the language one expected from a nun, but at least, as Domenica noticed, Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna had added per piacere. These things make a difference.

  14

  The Reel of the Fifty-First

  The wedding reception at the Mansfield Traquair Centre lasted until eight o’clock that night. By that time, the dancing had been going on for three hours more or less without interruption, the ceilidh band gamely working its way through its repertoire, and the guests fortifying themselves against exhaustion with draughts of chilled lager, drams of whisky, or cups of tea. Jackets were removed, sporrans transferred to the sides of waists, and heeled shoes abandoned on the floor. It seemed to Domenica, who, with Angus, sat out two dances in three, that some sort of mass catharsis was taking place – that reserves of pent-up energy, long suppressed in the sedate climate of Edinburgh, were being released with sudden and profound abandon. So might dervishes whirl to induce a state of heightened spiritual awareness – finding, as did these dancers, a sense of communion with something just beyond their immediate surroundings.

  At eight, Big Lou caught the eye of the leader of the band, and nodded. She had discussed with him the point at which the party might end, and he was certainly ready. Fat Bob, though, was keen for a final dance – just one more Gay Gordons, he said, and then the curtain could come down. The band leader smiled, and agreed. He announced the dance. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Bob and Lou have given us all a wonderful party, but every party has to come to an end. So take your partners, please, for a final Gay Gordons.”

  The guests paired off, willingly, or stoically, according to the extent of their enthusiasm for Scottish country dancing. Angus rose to his feet with a sigh that he quickly suppressed under Domenica’s look of disapproval; Matthew, who liked dancing and who, as a teenager, had undergone long hours of lessons in Scottish country dance, needed no encouragement to lead Elspeth to the floor; Bertie, who looked about for an escape route but found none, was dragged onto the floor by Olive, while Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was similarly press-ganged by Pansy.

  “You just pay attention to me, Ranald Braveheart Mac-pherson,” warned Pansy. “I’ll show you the steps – all you have to do is follow them. I’ll lead. You just do what I say.”

  Ranald glared at her. “That’s not the way it works, Pansy,” he said. “I’m seven, remember – I’m not stupid. I was watching the Gay Gordons earlier on. The man takes the lady’s hand and twirls it round before they do that sort of round and round dance. I saw it.”

  Pansy shook her head, almost in pity. “Oh, you are so yesterday, Ranald. That’s not how it works these days. Men do what women say in dances. That’s what happens these days – sorry, but that’s where we are.”

  Ranald looked about him. He could refuse to dance. He could just sit down. Pansy thought she could tell him what to do, but she could not force him to dance the Gay Gordons.

  “You can’t force me,” he muttered. “I don’t have to dance the Gay Gordons if I don’t want to.”

  Pansy glared at him. “You’d better be very, very careful, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson,” she said.

  Ranald swallowed hard. It was difficult to stand up to Pansy, who was almost as bad as Olive; but you had to do it, he decided, because otherwise life in Edinburgh would become unbearable.

  “No,” said Ranald. “I’d prefer not to dance, Pansy.”

  Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m giving you one last warning, Ranald,” she said.

  Ranald hesitated. Bertie was already on the floor with Olive, and Pansy was a formidable foe. He sighed. There would be other opportunities to take a stand.

  On the other side of the room, seated around one of the smaller tables, two middle-aged couples had decided to sit the final dance out. They had danced some of the earlier dances, including a demanding “Duke of Perth” and a “Reel of the Fifty-First”, but now they gave the appearance of being somewhat dispirited.

  They had been invited because they were regular customers of Big Lou’s in her coffee bar, and when she had found that she had a few spare places at the wedding, she had decided to include them on the list. The men were her customers – their wives had been in the coffee bar once or twice, but she barely knew them. The men were, of course, Mackie McIntyre and his old friend, Iain McDonald, the Chairman and Secretary respectively of the Association of Scottish Nudists, a national organisation with its headquarters in nearby Moray Place, one of Edinburgh’s most prestigious addresses. The association occupied two floors on the north side of the elegant Georgian crescent, and enjoyed sweeping views over the gorge of the Water of Leith below and, in the distance, beyond the Firth, the blue hills of Fife.

  Mackie was married to Jane, a cookery writer, and Iain was married to Catriona, a veterinary surgeon who specialized in skin diseases in West Highland Terriers. All four of them were prominent naturists, having met in the movement, Mackie and Jane at a meeting of the International Nudist Federation in Geneva, and Iain and Catriona at the Scottish and Irish Nudist Games in County Wexford.

  Now Mackie watched the couples assembling for the final Gay Gordons. “It’s not quite the same,” he remarked, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

  “The band’s been good,” said Iain.

  Catriona agreed. “Really good,” she said. “That fiddler is wonderful.”

  “Yes,” said Mackie. “But what I mean is that the dancing hasn’t been as much fun as it was in Largs. Remember when we all went down to Largs, to that campground, and we had that dance on the last day? Remember that? We did an eightsome together with the Sinclairs and…”, he searched his memory, “that couple from Melrose. Remember? They’d never been to a naturist gathering before. He wanted to wear a sporran, but was persuaded otherwise.”

  “Everyone has his or her way of coping with initial awk-wardness,” said Catriona. “And the weather was glorious. And we danced outside on the grass.”

  “Such happiness,” mused Mackie. “Those days seemed to glow, didn’t they?”

  “The past has that aura,” Iain said. He paused before continuing, “Do you think Scotland has changed? Have we lost the innocence we once had?”

  “Was it innocence?” asked Jane.

  “I’m not sure,” said Mackie. “Maybe it was. But the point is that we have always been a country where people have felt happy within themselves. They may not have had much, but they felt love for their country and that made them happy. It’s very curious.”

  “Not curious,” said Iain. “Clothing is the metaphor here. Clothing obscures the spirit underneath. Clothing is an addition. Take your clothes off, and how do you feel? Liberated. If only more people in Scotland would take their clothes off.”

  “Oh, we all know that,” said Mackie.

  They looked at one another, and for a few moments a current of sympathy flowed between them. It was sympathy that meant so much, thought Mackie. David Hume and Adam Smith had explained that in their system of moral philosophy. Sympathy. And if you were naked, sympathy was so much easier to feel, because sympathy needed no clothing, no artifice, no disguise.

  15

  The Perfect Bacon Roll

  Were it not for the responsibility of running her coffee bar, Big Lou would undoubtedly have gone off on honeymoon – had Fat Bob suggested such a thing. But she did have that responsibility and Bob, in spite of several hints, subtle and otherwise, intended to implant the idea in his mind, had failed to produce the desired suggestion. So she had eventually reconciled herself to the fact that the trip to Norway that she would so much have loved to make, would simply not take place, and that instead of waking up on a honeymoon cruise she would instead find herself starting the day, as usual, in her flat in Canonmills, and proceeding with her regular routine. That involved preparing breakfast for Bob and her adopted son, Finlay, and then, after Finlay had been dropped off at school in Stockbridge, making her way up the hill to Dundas Street. There, in the small food preparation area behind the stainless-steel bar of her coffee shop, she would start preparing the bacon rolls that she knew her regular customers would order when they began to arrive in dribs and drabs from eight onwards.