Let the Games begin

VOLUME 15 CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

‘Of course you’re nervous,” Big Lou said to Fat Bob on the morning of the Games. “These are the first Games you’ve ever organised yourself.” She paused. “And dinnae worry, Bob – this is going to be a big success.”

“Mega,” said Finlay.

“Aye, mega,” Big Lou agreed.

“I hope so, Lou,” said Bob. “Last night I was lying there thinking What if nobody comes? What then?”

Big Lou made light of his fears. “But of course folk are going to come. Lots have already said so: Angus, Domenica, Elspeth, Matthew; their wee boys. Matthew says he’s had them all fitted with kilts for the occasion. They’re all coming. Bruce. Antonia and that nun of hers. Those students who live in the flat below Angus and Domenica. You ken them, Bob? The tall one told me he was coming and that he’d bring some friends from the university who were good runners, he said. And James Holloway. He’s coming. He said he was going to try throwing the hammer. He said he was already practising, but I had to tell him it wasn’t an ordinary household hammer – the sort you get in toolboxes. He seemed a bit disappointed, but he’s still going to try.”

Bob looked a bit more cheerful. “That’s reassuring, Lou. Having a big crowd makes a difference. Atmosphere, you know.”

“You cannae have too much atmosphere,” said Big Lou.

“There’s atmosphere in the sky,” joined in Finlay, who had been listening to the exchange.

“Aye, you’re right there, wee fellow,” said Fat Bob. “We’d be gey trochled if we didnae have atmosphere.”

These predictions of a good turnout might have been optimistic, but, as eleven o’clock approached – the hour at which the Games were due to be inaugurated – a sizeable throng of people had assembled at the west gate of Drummond Place Gardens.

“You see, Bob,” Big Lou said, as the pipe band wheezed into action and the first members of the public were admitted. “It’s already a big success.”

Fat Bob was still slightly on edge, but it did not show, and within a few minutes of the opening of the gates he was beaming with pleasure, giving instructions to his helpers and greeting some of the professional strongmen whom he had lured into participating. The prize money – such as it was – would normally not have attracted any of these competitors, but favours had been called in. The fact that he was the organiser also helped: Fat Bob was popular on the Highland Games circuit, and most of the professionals present would have willingly supported him in any venture he undertook.

The pipe band paraded, the notes of Isee Mull drifting up to the windows of the surrounding buildings. Dogs barked, children squealed with delight, the crackling sound of an ancient public address system announced the first of the events; smoke drifted up from the food stall; passers-by stopped to stare and then to join in. The few clouds that had been in the sky cleared, as if dispelling on the orders of the Chieftain of the Games. Angus, wearing his steward’s badge, a Glengarry on his head, girt with his faded kilt, moved amongst the lined-up competitors, instructing one, exhorting another, pointing out on the programme where individual events would take place.

Near the judges’ tent, the place from which the Games would be ring-mastered, Domenica sat with a small group of friends, enjoying the spectacle. To Dilly Emslie, one of her longest-standing friends, she pointed out Fat Bob, singing his praises as she did so.

“I’ve never seen Big Lou so happy,” she confided. “And she certainly deserves it.”

Dilly agreed that Fat Bob seemed to be just the right man for Big Lou. “It wouldn’t seem right for her to marry a mousey man,” she said. “And there are one or two of those around these days.”

They surveyed the crowd, hoping to identify an example, but there was none that stood out, which was not surprising, perhaps, as that was what mousey men, by definition, tended not to do.

“I have a feeling,” Domenica said, “that these Games are somehow right .It’sodd.i don’t quite know how to put it, but I feel that the energy here is just as it should be.” She paused. “I know that sounds a bit New Agey, but …”

Dilly smiled. “I know what you mean. But I think you’re right. There are moments when it seems that the world is at peace with itself. It’s curious. But you know them when they happen.”

“And we have had rather a difficult time, haven’t we?” Domenica continued. “It seems to me that there’s been so much confrontation and conflict. Where does one look for something positive?”

“Perhaps over there,” said Dilly. She pointed towards a corner of the gardens where Elspeth and Matthew were standing with their triplets, holding the hands of the boys who, although overwhelmed by the noise and the movement, were looking at the scene with expressions of wonder.

“Look at them in their little kilts,” said Domenica. “Oh, my goodness, I’m welling up inside …” She pointed at Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, both of whom had been given a role as runners, carrying results from the judges of individual events to the tent where they were recorded. They, too, were in their kilts.

The caber tossing was about to begin, and their conversation paused as they watched five extremely muscular men, clad only in kilts, singlets, and rough working boots, take their place beside a couple of heavy poles. The first competitor, a red-haired mesomorph with impossibly bulging biceps, struggled to lift the pole, managed to get it vertical, and then, with a few staggering steps, tossed it across the grass. The judges ran after it, tape measures at the ready, to record the length of the throw. A cheer arose from Domenica’s student neighbours.

‘The next to step forward was Bruce.

In the past he would have done so with braggadocio,

savouring the attention. Not so now’

“Epic!” shouted one.

More cabers were tossed and a winner was identified. This was one Rab Macreadie, from Fife, who waved a hand to his cheering supporters when his name was announced as winner. Then Billy Gilmore, from Ayrshire, won the men’s long jump, and received his two-pound prize with dignity and modesty. Cookie Dunbar, from Kirkintilloch, won most of the women’s running events, but generously declined to take home more than one first prize, donating it instead to the competitor who finished last. “It’s not just coming first that’s important,” she said. “Coming last is important too.”

Now it was time for the hammer throwing, and silence descended as the first of the entrants, Rab Macreadie, who had distinguished himself in the caber tossing, took to the field. Round and round he twirled before, with a grunt that could be heard throughout the gardens, he let slip the hammer shaft and sent the implement on its journey: a mighty throw that stretched the judges’ tape measures to their limits.

The next to step forward was Bruce. In the past he would have done so with braggadocio, savouring the attention, preening himself as he prepared to throw. Not so now; he was a picture of self-effacement as if he had been pressed to compete only in order to keep numbers up.

He picked up the hammer and began to twirl. Round and round he went, until, after he lost his grip at a critical moment, the hammer prematurely left his hand, sailing off in entirely the wrong direction. Although not as burly as Fat Bob and his friends, Bruce was powerfully-built, and the hammer had considerable velocity. It crossed the road and made landfall through the window of a house on the south side of Drummond Place, landing in a shower of glass. Nobody was hurt – not even the man at whose feet it came to rest. He was playing the harpsichord at the time, and barely missed a note.

“Caroline,” he called to his wife. “A Turner Prize event has occurred in the drawing room.”

And with that he continued his prelude by Bach.

© Alexander Mccall Smith, 2021.

A Promise of Ankles (Scotland Street 14)

is available now. Love in the Time of Bertie (Scotland Street 15) will be published by Polygon in hardback in November 2021.