Rhododendrons and missionaries

Matthew drove up towards the house at Nine Mile Burn, manoeuvring round the rhododendrons clustered by the drive. These exuberant shrubs had rampaged since he and Elspeth had purchased the house, as if they were delib - erately planning to test the resolve of the new owners. The Duke of Johannesburg, from whom they had purchased the property, had warned them that this might happen. “I have a cousin over in Argyll,” he said, “who had a frightful lot of rhododendrons. They were all over his place, and actually eventually covered the house.”

Matthew shook his head. “They need little encouragement. My aunt had rhododendrons at the edge of her lawn in Currie and she …”

The Duke interrupted him. “Yes, yes. Currie. A great place for rhododendrons, but they really like the west. It’s wetter there, you see. Rhododendrons like a spot of rain. They like that. Anyway, this poor cousin of mine, Basil CampbellCampbell – they not only lost sight of the house, but they lost sight of Basil too. He was somewhere in there, they thought, but nobody knew where and eventually they lost interest. Somebody said he might have gone to Argentina – Basil had a boyfriend over there. A gaucho, apparently. He had spoken of meeting up with him. But nobody was sure.”

Matthew had laughed, thinking the Duke could hardly be serious. Nobody could be lost in a cluster of rhododendrons – it was inherently unlikely. And as for Basil Campbell-campbell and his gaucho …

“They’re frightful things, rhododendrons,” the Duke continued. “In retrospect it was not the best idea of bring them back to Scotland. They were fine in the Himalayas, but not in the Highlands. The problem was those plant collectors. We had a lot of them in Scotland, you know. Forrest, and people like that. Extraordinary people. He was pursued by homicidal lamas, you know. Up in the mountains, when he was collecting plants. These lamas took exception to his presence. Very awkward. One doesn’t think of the danger of being pursued by Buddhists keen to eviscerate one, but there we are. They were different times. And I suppose we were on their turf, so to speak. They didn’t take kindly to missionaries. And who can blame them – sometimes?”

“Oh,” said Matthew, “I’m not …”

The Duke interrupted him once again. “I was stopped by a couple of missionaries in Morningside the other day, you know. In broad daylight, outside that rather nice hardware store that sells all that useful stuff. You know the place? Anyway, these two young men came up to me and asked me whether I was interested in reading some book or other. Written by some chap who saw an angel. They all did in those days, you know. There were plenty of angels flying around, we’re led to believe.” Matthew laughed.

“Oh, you can laugh, Matthew,” went on the Duke. “But I’ll tell you something about angels: a very high proportion of the population actually believes in them. They think they have a guardian angel, would you believe. A sort of governmentangel allocated to them. So, don’t take angels lightly, Matthew.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, these two young men thrust this book into my hands and urged me to read it. They were very polite. Clean- shaven, too, which is a change these days.” The Duke lowered his voice. “I found out something interesting, Matthew. These young missionaries are actually rather nice people. They’re well-behaved and courteous and cause no trouble. A nice change. But …” Her lowered his voice still further. “They wear the most peculiar sacred underwear, though. Not many people know that. They call them temple garments, apparently, and they’re garments that you sort of slide into and which cover the torso too and the top of the arms. Must get a bit warm in the summer.” The Duke’s voice was now not much more than a whisper. “Apparently the purpose is to remind one of higher things. So I read, Matthew.” “Well,” said Matthew. “I suppose …” “It’s very odd being proselytised, Matthew, don’t you think? The basic assump - tion of the missionary is that what you – the other person – believes is somehow inferior.”

“I suppose that …”

“Whereas the people approached may have a perfectly reasonable set of beliefs – or at least their beliefs may be no more ridiculous than those of the people trying to convert them.”

Matthew drew in his breath. “I don’t think you should be too hard on missionaries. They set up hospitals and schools. They had the best interests of others at heart, don’t you think?”

The Duke seemed to lose interest. “You’ll need to watch those rhododendrons, Matthew. It’s very difficult to get rid of them once they establish themselves.”

But Matthew was thinking of Cousin Basil. “Did he really disappear? Under a whole lot of rhododendrons?” It seemed inherently unlikely to him, but one never knew with the Duke. After all, who would have believed that the Duke would have been secretly building a microlight flying boat with his vaguely sinister Gaelicspeaking driver, Padruig? If you had told anybody about that, they would have thought it was one of those exaggerated stories that people in the Highlands loved to tell – most of them embellished, at best, or completely apocryphal at worst.

“Did he disappear?” echoed the Duke. “Yes, I think he did. I thought he might turn up at a family funeral or wedding – you know, the sort of occasion that draws people out of other woodwork, but he never did.”

“And what do you think? Do you think he really could be in Argentina?”

The Duke looked thoughtful. “I think he may be. He was a great admirer of Cunningham Graham, you know. He felt drawn towards the continent. And then … well, a couple of years ago somebody said they were at a polo match out there and they saw Cousin Basil. His boyfriend was playing, and he was watching from a vintage MG parked at the edge of the field. They said he was wearing Campbell trews.”

“How very strange,” said Matthew. “Scotland is a strange country,” said the Duke. “You know, we try to convince people that we’re a rational place, but I’m afraid …”

“You’re afraid we’re not?”

The Duke shrugged. “I’m not sure that we even convince ourselves. The world is a strange place, Matthew. There are very rational, logical societies – one thinks of Sweden, for instance …”

“And Germany, of course.”

“Yes, Germany, but Germany has a broad streak of Romanticism, and of course is prone to the occasional bout of fanaticism. And then you have the rather more – how shall I put it? – passionate societies, such as any society that speaks Spanish. And then you have the odd nations. But I can tell you one thing – we’re not half as peculiar as the English, bless them.”

‘Scotland is a strange country,’ said the Duke. ‘We try to convince people that we’re a rational place ... But I can tell

you one thing – we’re not half as peculiar as the English’