The World According to Bertie 4ss-4

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Circles.”

  Angus nodded gravely. “Lots of them.”

  “But what proof do you have?” Matthew asked.

  “Look at the architecture,” said Angus. “And I don’t just mean Rosslyn Chapel, although that’s very interesting. Look at Moray Place. Start walking at one point and carry on, and where do you end up? Where you started! It’s a circle, you see.

  “And then there’s Muirfield Golf Course, where the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers has its seat. What happens if you start on the first tee? You walk all over the place, but you end up more or less where you started – back at the clubhouse. Circular.”

  “So what does all this mean?” asked Matthew.

  “I would have thought it’s pretty obvious,” replied Angus.

  “This is a city which is built on the circular. So if you want to understand it, you have to get into that circular frame of mind.

  And that frame of mind is everywhere. Look at an Eightsome Reel. How do people arrange themselves? In a circle. And that’s a metaphor, Matthew, for the whole process. You get in a circle, and you work from there. You refer to others in the same circle.

  You don’t think outside the circle.”

  “You mean outside the box,” Matthew corrected him.

  “No, I said circle,” insisted Angus. “And that’s what I mean.”

  And then Angus had become silent. Matthew wanted him to say more, but he had not, and he had been left with the uncomfortable conclusion that Angus was either slightly mad Things Behind Things in the Circular City 101

  or . . . , and this was a distinct possibility, slightly circular. But the conversation had remained with him, and now, sitting again in the Cumberland Bar, again with Angus, he had reason to recollect it as they looked across the room at the small circle of men at the other table . . . circle . . .

  “That,” said Angus quietly, “is a Jacobite circle. The one in the blue jacket is called Michael somebody-or-other and he’s the one I’ve met before. I was in a pub over the other side of town, the Captain’s Bar, in South College Street, near the university. It’s a funny wee place, very narrow, with a bunch of crabbit regulars and a smattering of students. Not the sort of place one would have gone in the old days if one objected to being kippered in smoke. I was there with an old friend from art college days who liked to drink there. Anyway, there we were when in came that fellow over there, Michael, and another couple of people – a lang-nebbit woman wearing a sort of Paisley shawl and a man in a brown tweed coat. Jimmy, my friend from art college, knew the woman in the shawl, and so we ended up standing next to one another and a conversation started. It was pleasant enough, I suppose, and we bought each other a round of drinks. Then Michael looked at his watch and said that they had to go, but that we were welcome to go along with them if we had nothing better to do. Jimmy said: ‘I suppose you’re off to one of your meetings.’ And Michael laughed and said that they were, but that we would be welcome too. There would be something to eat, they said, and since we were both feeling hungry, we agreed to go.

  “And that,” said Angus, “is how I became aware of that particular circle of Jacobites, and their strange interest in things Stuart. Would you like to hear about what they get up to? Will you believe me if I tell you?”

  Matthew nodded. “I would like to hear, and yes, I will believe you. You don’t embroider the truth do you, Angus?”

  Angus smiled. “It depends,” he said.

  102 Edinburgh Is Full of All Sorts of Clubs 31. Edinburgh Is Full of All Sorts of Clubs

  “We went off with these three,” said Angus. “Michael, the woman in the shawl and the man in the brown tweed coat. A motley crew, I must admit.

  “I asked Jimmy what sort of meeting we were heading for, but he didn’t answer directly. ‘Edinburgh’s full of all sorts of clubs,’ was all he said. Which was true, of course. We all know that Edinburgh’s riddled with these things, and always has been. Back in the eighteenth century, there were scores of them. The Rankenian Club, for example – Hume was a member of that. That was intellectually respectable, of course, but some of the clubs were pretty much the opposite of that. You’ve heard of the Dirty Club, perhaps, where no member was allowed to appear in clean linen. Or the Odd Fellows, where the members wrote their names upside down. And there was even something called the Sweating Club, the members of which would enjoy themselves in a tavern and then rush out to chase whomsoever they came across and tear his wig off, if he was wearing one. The idea was to make the poor victim sweat. Very strange.

  “Burns belonged to a club, you know. He joined the Crochallan Edinburgh Is Full of All Sorts of Clubs 103

  Fencibles, as poor Robert Fergusson had joined the Cape Club before him. He so enjoyed that – Fergusson did – and his life was to be so brief. I still weep, you know, when I see his grave down in the Canongate Kirkyard. He could have been as great a poet as Burns, don’t you think? Burns certainly did.

  “Speaking of the eighteenth century, there were some clubs which would never have survived into Victorian Scotland because of the onset of prudery. There’s the famous Beggar’s Benison club, which started in Fife, of all places – not a place we immediately associate with licentiousness. I really can’t say too much about that club, Matthew; decency prevents my describing their rituals, but initiation into the membership was really shocking (if one is shocked by things like that). What is it about men in groups that makes them do that sort of thing, Matthew? Of course they felt that London was trying to take away all the fun – the English had imposed a new monarchy, and a Union to boot. What was there left for Scotland to do but to turn to the older, phallic gods?

  “So there have always been these clubs, and of course old habits die hard. There are still bags of these clubs in Edinburgh, but nobody ever talks about them. And why do you think that is, Matthew? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because there are too many people who want to stop us having fun. That’s the reason. They’ve always been with us. And if it’s a group of males having fun together, then look out!

  “So the Edinburgh clubs went more or less underground.

  How many people, for instance, know about the Monks of St Giles?”

  Matthew looked blank. “I don’t.”

  Angus lowered his voice. “The Monks of St Giles is a club.

  It still exists – still meets. They give themselves Latin names and they meet and compose poetry. They even have a clubhouse, but I’m not going to tell you where it is. Some very influential people are members. And it sounds terrific fun, since they wear robes, but there’d be such a fuss if word got out. Can you imagine the prying, humourless journalists who would love to have a go 104 Edinburgh Is Full of All Sorts of Clubs at them? I can. Composing poetry in private! Not the sort of thing we want in an inclusive Scotland, where everybody will have to be able to read everybody else’s poetry!

  “Have you seen the Archers? That’s another club. They’ve got a clubhouse too. Over near the Meadows. They call it their Hall, which is rather a nice name for a clubhouse. They’re frightfully grand, and I’d like to know how you become a member. Can you apply? If not, why not? But we shouldn’t really ask that sort of question. Why can’t these people get on with their private fantasies without being taken to task for being elitist or whatever the charge would be? Or for not having female monks, or whatever? Women are fully entitled to their secret societies, Matthew, and have them, in this very city. Have you heard of the Sisters of Portia, which is for women lawyers?

  Virtually all the women lawyers in Edinburgh belong to that, but they don’t let on, and they certainly wouldn’t let men have a men-only legal club. Can you imagine the fuss? Of course, some of them say that men used to have a male-only club called the Law Society of Scotland, but I don’t think that’s funny, Matthew. Do you? The Sisters of Portia are every bit as fishy as the Freemasons, if you ask me. They give one another a professional leg-up and they close ranks at the drop of the hat.

  Or the Red Garter
, which is a club that meets every month in the Balmoral Hotel. That’s for women in politics, except for Conservatives, who aren’t allowed. And most of the women politicians are in it, but nobody lets on, and they even deny it exists if you ask.

  “I haven’t mentioned the most secretive one of all. That’s a strictly women’s club called the Ravelston Dykes. They meet every other week in Ravelston. But let’s not even think of them, Matthew. They’re fully entitled to exist and have a bit of fun.

  If only they’d extend us the same courtesy.

  “And then there’s another society which is said to have survived from the eighteenth century and which meets by candlelight on Wednesday evenings. The thing about that one, Matthew, is that it doesn’t actually exist! Every so often, people make a fuss about Some Relative Warmth for the Ice Man 105

  it, but the truth of the matter is that it’s entirely fictional! But I’m not concerned with apocryphal clubs like that one; I want to tell you about the club that we ended up going to that night.

  And it was far from apocryphal!”

  Matthew looked encouragingly at Angus. He enjoyed listening to these strange accounts of Edinburgh institutions, but he was keen for Angus to get on to the point of the story. What sort of club was it that he and his friend were taken to that night?

  Was it a reincarnation of the Beggar’s Benison? Surely not something so lewd as that. Edinburgh, after all, was a respectable city, and whatever the eighteenth century had been like, the twenty-first was certainly quite different.

  He looked at Angus. Such an unreconstructed man, he thought; it’s surprising that he hasn’t been taken to task, or even fined, for the things he says.

  32. Some Relative Warmth for the Ice Man Angus continued the story of his meeting with Big Lou’s friend and his friends in the Captain’s Bar.

  “As we went out into the night,” he said, “the woman in the Paisley shawl introduced herself to me and we walked along together. She was called Heather McDowall, she told me, and she was something or other in the Health Board – an adminis-trator, I think. She then explained that she had a Gaelic name as well, and she pointed out that I could call her Mhic dhu ghaill, if I wished.

  “We were walking along South College Street when she said this. The others were slightly ahead, engaged in conversation of their own, while la McDowall and I trailed a bit behind. It had rained, and the stone setts paving the road glistened in the street lights. I felt exhilarated by the operatic beauty of our surroundings: the dark bulk of the Old College to our left, the high, rather dingy tenement to our right. At 106 Some Relative Warmth for the Ice Man any moment, I thought, a window might open in the tenement above and a basso profondo lean out and break into song.

  That might happen in Naples, I suppose, but not Edinburgh; still, one might dream.

  “La McDowall then launched into an explanation of the name McDowall and her ancestry. Have you noticed how these people are often obsessed with their ancestry? What does it matter?

  We’re most of us cousins in Scotland, if you go far enough back, and if you go even farther back, don’t we all come from five ur-women in Western Europe somewhere? Isn’t that what Professor Sykes says in his book?

  “Talking of Professor Sykes, do you know that I met him, Matthew? No, you don’t. Well, I did. I happened to be friendly with a fellow of All Souls in Oxford. Wonderful place, that.

  Free lunch and dinner for life – the best job there is. Anyway, this friend of mine is an economic historian down there –

  Scottish historians, you may have noticed, have taken over from Scottish missionaries in carrying the light to those parts. And we’ve got some jolly good historians, Matthew – Ted Cowan, Hew Strachan, Sandy Fenton, with his old ploughs and historic brose, Rosalind Marshall, who’s just written this book about Mary’s female pals, Hugh Cheape, who knows all about old bagpipes and suchlike, and any number of others. Anyway, I knew this chap when he was so-high, running around Perthshire in funny breeks like Wee Eck’s. He invited me down for a feast, as they call it, and I decided to go out of curiosity. I was put up in a guest room in All Souls itself – no bathroom for miles, of course, and an ancient retainer who brought in a jug of water and said something which I just couldn’t make out. Some strange English dialect; you know how they mutilate the language down there.

  “The feast was quite extraordinary, and it reaffirmed my conviction that the English are half mad when they think nobody’s looking. They’re a charming people – very tolerant and decent at heart – but they have this distinct streak of insanity which comes out in places like Oxford and in some of the London Some Relative Warmth for the Ice Man 107

  clubs. It’s harmless, of course, but it takes some getting used to, I can tell you.

  “We had roast beef and all the trimmings – roast tatties, big crumbling hunks of Stilton, and ancient port. They did us proud.

  There were a couple of speeches in Latin, I think, and of course we kicked off with an interminable grace which, among other things, called down the Lord’s fury on the college’s enemies.

  That one was in English, just in case the Lord didn’t get the point. This brought lots of enthusiastic amens, and I realised that these people must be feeling the pressure a bit, what with all this talk of relevance and inclusiveness and all those things.

  And I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for them, you know, Matthew. Imagine if you had fixed yourself up with a number like that and then suddenly the winds of change start blowing and people want to stop you having feasts and eating Stilton. It can’t be easy.

  “Of course, it’s foolishness of a high order to destroy these things. The Americans would sell their souls just to get something vaguely approximating to All Souls – they really would.

  It’s such a pity, because they would have such fun in places like that. The Canadians, of course, have got something like it. I know somebody who visited it once – a place called Massey College in Toronto. It was presided over by Robertson Davies, you know – that wonderful novelist. He was the Master. Now they’ve got somebody of the same great stripe, an agreeable character called John Fraser, who has a highly developed talent for hospitality, as it happens. Thank God for the Canadians.

  “Well, at the feast, I ended up sitting next to none other than Professor Sykes, the genetics man, and he told me the most extraordinary story. I know it has nothing to do with anything, Matthew, but I must tell you. You may remember that he was the person who did the DNA tests on the Ice Man, that poor fellow they dug out of a glacier in France. He’d kicked the bucket five thousand years ago, but was in pretty good condition and so they were able to conduct a postmortem and look at the DNA 108 Old Injustices Have Their Resonances while they were about it. Anyway, Sykes decided to ask for a random volunteer down in England somewhere and see if this person was connected in any way to the Ice Man. Some woman stepped up to the block and he nicked off a bit of her nose, or whatever it is that these people do, and – lo and behold! – she shares a bit of DNA with the old Ice Man. Which just goes to prove what Sykes had been saying for years – that we’re all pretty closely related, even if some of us shrugged off this mortal coil five millennia ago.

  “But then, Matthew, it gets even more peculiar. When this woman from Dorset or wherever it was got wind of the fact that she was related to the Ice Man, do you know what she started to do? She began to behave like a relative, and started to ask for a decent burial for the Ice Man!

  “Which just goes to show, Matthew, that when expectations are created, people rise to the occasion. They always do. Always.”

  Angus paused. “What do you think of that, Matthew?”

  “I think she did the right thing,” said Matthew.

  33. Old Injustices Have Their Resonances Angus Lordie stared at Matthew incredulously. “Did I understand you correctly?” he asked. “Did you say that this woman did the right thing? That she should have asked for a decent burial for the Ice Man?”

  Matthew thought for a
moment. He had answered the question impulsively, and he wondered if he was right. But now, on reflection, even if brief, he decided that he was.

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “I think that this was probably the right thing. Look, Angus, would you like to be put on display in a museum or wherever, even if you were not around to object? If you went tomorrow, what would you think if I put you on display in, say, a glass case in Big Lou’s café? You’d not want that, I assume. And nor, I imagine, would the Ice Man have wanted to Old Injustices Have Their Resonances 109

  be displayed. He might have had beliefs about spirits not getting released until burial, or something of that sort. We just don’t know what his beliefs were. But we can imagine that he probably would not like to be stared at.”

  Angus frowned. “No, maybe not. But then, even if we presume that he wouldn’t want that, do we really have to respect the wishes of people who lived that long ago – five thousand years?

  Do we owe them anything at all? And, come to think of it, can you actually harm the dead? Can you do them a wrong?”

  Matthew thought that you could. “Yes,” he said. “Why not?

  Let’s say I name you executor in my will. I ask you to do something or other, and you don’t do it. Don’t you think that people would say that you’ve done me a wrong, even though I’m not around to protest?”

  Matthew was warming to the theme. The argument, he thought, was a strong one. Yes, it was wrong to ignore the wishes of the dead. “And what about this?” he continued. “What if you snuffed it tomorrow, Angus, and I told people things about you that damaged your reputation – that you were a plagiarist, for instance? That your paintings were copies of somebody else’s. Wouldn’t you say that I had harmed you? Wouldn’t people be entitled to say: ‘He’s done Angus Lordie a great wrong’?”

  Angus looked doubtful. “Not really,” he said. “There’ll be no more Lordie. I’ll be beyond harm. Nothing can harm me then.

  That’s the great thing about being dead. You don’t mind the weather at all.”