44 Scotland St

VOLUME 14 CHAPTER ELEVEN

VOLUME 14

CHAPTER 11

MUCKLE BIRKIES

‘O h jings!” said the Chairman of the Association of Scottish Nudists. “We should have been more careful. There are plenty of ways of telling where somebody is from – if you look out for the tell-tale signs.”

The Secretary shook his head sadly. “You’re right. We haven’t been vigilant enough.” But then he thought: just how did one tell whether somebody claiming to be from South Queensferry was really from Pollokshields?

The Chairman answered the unspoken question. “The verbal cues are the really important ones. We should have noticed that he spoke rather quickly. Remember? He ran his words together with scant regard for the natural break between words.” He sighed. “I sometimes wonder how people in Glasgow manage to breathe. All the words come tumbling out without any pause for breath. It’s extraordinary.”

The Secretary knew what the Chairman meant. “It’s as if they can’t wait to get things out,” he said. “It’s as if speed adds force to what they say.”

“Perhaps that’s intentional,” mused the Chairman. “If you speak so quickly that nobody can understand what you’ve said, you’ve probably scored an initial victory. The person to whom you’re speaking is left in doubt.”

“And then there’s the inflectxion,” added the Secretary. “There’s an underlying challenge in most Glaswegian sentences. Each statement implies: contradict me if you dare. The tone goes up at the end, and you’re left there.”

“These are subtle matters,” said the Chairman. “We haven’t even considered the patois. Do you remember when we offered him a glass of sherry at the end of the interview …”

“It being past twelve o’clock,” interjected the Secretary, primly.

“Yes, and remember what he said?” The Secretary frowned. He had not paid particular attention to the interview, such was his relief that somebody had actually applied for the post of editor of the magazine. “What was that?” he asked.

The Chairman grimaced. It was not easy for an Edinburgh financier to use the demotic, irrespective of its origin. “He said …” And I quote, of course; ipse dixit, as we say, “I wouldnae mind a wee swally.”

The Secretary gasped. “Oh no! And I didn’t notice!”

“Well, that’s what he said. A wee swally, no less. I thought that he was being ironic, in the same way in which you and I take leave of one another with see yous. We would never pluralise the second person singular, because we know, of course, that the same form includes both singular and plural. But we do use it ironically.”

“Like those people who say au reservoir?”

The Chairman nodded. “Exactly. And so I just smiled and said Oloroso?” He paused. “And you know what that led to? He looked at me and said, Where’s that?”

“No!” exclaimed the Secretary. “What a hoot!”

The Chairman nodded. “Of course, one can’t count on any degree of knowledge about anything these days. You would imagine, would you not, that a senior official in the Department of Culture and the Arts could be expected to know who Giotto was. You’d think that, I believe. And yet I met one a few years ago who thought Giotto was some sort of cheese. Yes! He actually asked whether you could get Giotto at Valvona & Crolla – he really did.”

“Astonishing,” exclaimed the Secretary. “Giotto, of all French painters!”

“Hah!” said the Chairman. “Très drôle.”

Their mirth seemed to cheer them up – and there was more to come.

“That same chap,” said the Secretary, “might have thought pointillisme wasa skin disease.”

The Chairman doubled up, laughing so much that a seam on his waistcoat split. “Characterised by extensive spots,” he said.

There was more laughter. Up at the counter, Big Lou interrupted her conversation with Matthew to observe, “Those twa over there,” she muttered. “See them, Matthew? Those twa lang-nebbit chiels who run roond with their bahookies on show – something’s making them cheerful the day.”

But the chat at the two men’s table had already reached its comic apogee. Now came a descent into concern and anxiety.

“You see,” said the Chairman, “he didn’t indicate at all what his editorial line would be – other than to say no change. Do you remember that? Because I thought: any new editor who says no change gets my support. I have always supported those who say no change –and Iam always disappointed when they are swept away.”

“I can see why you believed him,” said the Secretary. “You mustn’t reproach yourself. South Queensferry, after all, is completely acceptable. Nobody would imagine that Glasgow was lurking in the background.”

“It’s not Glasgow,” said the Chairman. “I like Glasgow – in its place …”

“Which is forty miles west of here.”

The Chairman smiled, but the time for laughter was over. “I like their cheerfulness and their good humour. I don’t always see the point of their jokes, but that might just be me …”

“Au contraire,” said the Secretary. “It’s me as well.”

The Chairman smiled. He and the Secretary were, he thought, almost always on the same page. It was very reassuring. “Well, there you are,” he said. “But the real point is this: Glasgow should keep its nose out of other people’s business. The Association has always been based in Edinburgh and run by Edinburgh people. And did anything go wrong? It did not. And the magazine has always been neutral on political issues – we’ve always made a point of welcoming everyone, no matter what their political views may be. We’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns, after all, aren’t we? Once the clothing’s off, we’re all the same underneath.”

“Well, to a degree,” said the Secretary. “Some of us have perhaps allowed ourselves to go to seed a bit. But we’re never ashamed of the human body, whatever its contours might be.”

“That’s a very good metaphor,” remarked the Chairman. “Take ownership of your contours! I think that would be a very good slogan.” He paused. “But to write that provocative editorial and then to fill the magazine with pictures of a South Ayrshire naturist pilgrimage to Bannockburn where everybody – and I mean everybody – had Saltires painted all over them … Well! There was no mistaking the political message there.”

The Secretary sighed. “I take a broad view of the national question. I respect both camps, and I really don’t think that our magazine should identify with one side or the other.”

“My views entirely,” said the Chairman. “But what do we do?”

“We could ask him to show editorial balance,” said the Chairman. “Are there any big Unionist naturist events coming up?”

The Secretary looked at the ceiling. “I have heard of something,” he said. “But I don’t think we should discuss it just yet.” He made a sign to the Chairman – a strange movement of the fingers across the lips.

The Chairman recognised this immediately. This was the New Club sign for omertà.

“Lips sealed,” he said, and made the sign back to the Secretary.

From behind the counter, Big Lou whispered to Matthew: “Look at them, Matthew. Twa muckle birkies.” She shook her head. “Mair coffee, Matthew?”

‘Filling the magazine with pictures of the naturist pilgrimage to Bannockburn where everyone had painted Saltires on them …

Well! There was no mistaking the political message there’