Capital Union, A (2 page)

Mr Grant arrived at exactly two o’clock, just as Jeff had said he would, and when I took tea through to the drawing room, Mr Grant stood up to be introduced. Jeff said, ‘May I introduce my wife, Agnes Thorne? As sweet a martyrdom as any man could wish.’ I couldn’t hit him as I usually did when he said that, so I just smiled at our visitor. Jeff liked his jokes. Mr Grant’s head was as high as the top of the press, nearly at the picture rail, and I said to him, ‘I hope you can’t see any stour up there, Mr Grant?’

‘I can assure you it is spotless, Mrs McCaffrey,’ he replied, shaking my hand. His grip felt like a bear’s. He had black hair, which he had to keep pushing out of his eyes, and a muckle great beard. He said Jeff was doing a good job helping him with his current trouble and I asked, ‘What trouble would that be, Mr Grant?’ and passed him a scone. Jeff gave him a look and sort of shook his head. It made me feel cross but I didn’t want to be rude to a visitor, so I just poured the tea and sat down with my sewing. I remember Mr Grant said my jam was delicious, and I was able to tell him that the Roslyn Glen was a great place to pick rasps and brambles, even in a war. I cycled out there with Jeff last summer and that was when he asked me to marry him.

Mr Grant put down his cup with his great bear paw and said, ‘Perhaps you can advise me, Mrs McCaffrey? I am trying
to grow some soya beans and Jeff told me you are a farmer’s daughter.’

I had never heard of them. Dad grew neeps and barley, but Mr Grant seemed very excited about what he called the high protein-value of beans and how well they cropped. He was trying to grow some. ‘I think you might be better to raise hens, Mr Grant,’ I said, ‘although feed is in short supply. I am planning to get some for the back green. I thought I might start with four.’

‘Mrs MacDougall will love that,’ laughed Jeff, but Mr Grant looked at me kindly and said that anything was better than powdered egg. He expected that even the wrath of the legendary Mrs MacDougall would be worth tholing for fresh eggs.

‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘how do you get your scones so light in these difficult times of rationing?’ And I told him the secret was buttermilk, but perhaps his mother had already told him that?

‘Unfortunately my mother is sorely disappointed in me at the moment and only communicates with me by letter,’ he replied. ‘The temperature at home in Fife is currently ten degrees colder than in Glasgow, so I am obliged to spend much of my time at the Scottish Home Rule Association, just to keep warm.’

‘How so, Douglas?’ asked Jeff, and Mr Grant said that his mother’s minister had put ideas into her head that he should buckle on the armour like a good Scotsman for the sake of puir, old Scotland.

‘That old dunderhead can’t see it is Scotland’s interests I am fighting for,’ he added. ‘Independence of body and soul, Agnes. That’s what matters.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant, and then he said to Jeff that MacCaig’s exam hadn’t gone well in Glasgow. I asked what he was studying. Mr Grant laughed and said the triumph of hope over experience, and Jeff joined in. I was tired of people having a laugh at my expense, so I got up to go and put more water on to refresh the tea. Jeff never even noticed I was upset although
I banged the teapot down on the tray as I went out. He said they would be in the study if I wouldn’t mind just leaving the tea at the door when I came back. Mr Grant smiled
apologetically
at me and shrugged.

I was watching the kettle boil on the range when I decided to go out. It got on my wick that Jeff made me feel like a skivvy in front of our visitor, so I put on my wellies to walk up the Blackford Hill. It was just a stone’s throw from our flat and I felt a lot better in the fresh air. Being inside so much confused my mind. As I walked past the pond and up the path to the Observatory, I calmed down. Perhaps I had been a bit daft to leave the men without their tea?

From the ridge, I could see the whole city lying round Arthur’s Seat, and the castle looked like a toy on its black rock above the Forth. The Pentland Hills lay just behind me in a long, blue line to the south and I could see almost as far as Stirling in the west. It was too windy to sit on the bench at the top and, although it wasn’t the most sheltered, I decided to go home down the steep side. I had hidden a snare in the gorse and, sure enough, there was a rabbit in it, stone dead. I
wondered
if Mr Black would buy some from me if I could catch more, but I didn’t think he liked me now. Anyway, Jeff wouldn’t have thought it was ladylike to make snares out of old garden wire from the foot of the stair. The rabbit felt soft and heavy when I put it in my bag and I hoped it wouldn’t bleed all over the steps, because Mrs MacDougall would no doubt have got right back on her high horse about that, too.

The men were still talking when I came in. I stood very quietly in the hall. I didn’t even breathe and I could hear Mr Grant saying something about the Act of Union being no
better
than the Anschluss. Jeff said that seemed a bit strong.

‘
Komm der Tag
,’ replied Mr Grant. I think it was German, and then the door opened and Jeff said, ‘Oh, there you are, Agnes. I thought it had gone very quiet. Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?’ His eye fell on my hand. ‘What on earth have you got there?’

Mr Grant laughed when I held up the rabbit by its back feet. ‘I think this will taste better than your magic beans, Mr Grant.’

He looked less fierce, then. ‘You have married a warrior woman, Jeff, not just an Ayrshire lass.’

Mr Grant helped me to skin my catch at the kitchen table. Jeff looked a bit haunless and disappeared behind his paper. It was when Mr Grant was standing there with his hands all bloody that he said I should call him Douglas, and I jokingly suggested Red Douglas instead. But he replied he was too true-blue a private school boy to be red. Jeff didn’t join in the banter but read us bits from his paper, adding, ‘Your appeal is mentioned in here, Douglas. The ninth of July.’

‘Aye,’ he said, wiping his hands, ‘the shades of Barlinnie prison are not yet to close about me, as far as I can gather, but no doubt I shall end up in the Bastille sooner or later.’ He looked at me. ‘Don’t worry, Agnes. I have got Jeff and others to rescue me.’

Jeff gave him a sharp look and I think he looked a wee bit afeart. At the time I thought it was for his friend.

‘You do the onions, Agnes,’ said Douglas, ‘and I’ll joint the rabbit for you.’

I looked away when he pulled the eyes out. That bit always made me want to boak but Douglas didn’t seem to mind. He said to Jeff he was sure he would be able to expand on the skeleton case he had flung together before the last trial. ‘There is no way that the Act of Union gave a Scottish court the right to enforce English conscription up here.’

Jeff wasn’t so sure. I remembered the letter that had come for him with the black crown on it.

Douglas added the meat to the onion I was stirring, while Jeff wrote a list on the back of an old envelope. ‘You could try citing the Dumfries Proclamation against the Union,’ he suggested. ‘Not many know there was an English man o’ war in the dock at Leith when the Three Estates signed away the country in Parliament Square. I wish I had been there to kick the door in with the rest of them.’

For some reason I wished that Jeff wouldn’t talk so much and do so little.

Douglas wasn’t sure it mattered now. ‘I’ll fight at the head of a Scottish army,’ he said, and he sounded so old-fashioned that I couldn’t help laughing, and I asked him where he would find a horse big enough to carry him into battle if the
milkman
wouldn’t part with Flash. Jeff banged his pen down on the table.

‘It is serious, Agnes,’ he muttered, and I wondered if he might be the same as Douglas and have to go to court, too.

‘I don’t want you in the jail,’ I said.

‘Yes, what would Mrs MacDougall say?’ asked Douglas.

‘Plenty, that’s for sure,’ Jeff replied.

He was right as it turned out, and I only thought later that Douglas’ joke had got in the way, and that Jeff hadn’t answered me.

After we had eaten, Douglas gave us a tune on the piano. Jeff sang in his bonny baritone, and gave us a Gaelic air or two, which Douglas joined in with on the chorus. Jeff’s dad was a Highlander and used to take him up north in the summer on a grand tour of aunties and uncles on Skye.

‘You’ll need to give me a hand with translating Sorley’s poems, Jeff,’ said Douglas. ‘I had forgotten you were all but a native speaker. I am hoping to get his
An Cuilithionn
published
in Lallans. I think the poor sod is fighting in Africa at the moment. He was a bit quick to sign up, having missed the Spanish Civil War.’

‘Scope there then for an Arabic edition, too,’ said Jeff, ‘if the Germans ease off.’

‘
Tapadh leat,
’ said Douglas, ‘I’ll be sure and suggest it to him in my next letter.’

Douglas left at nine o’clock for a train to Aberdeen. He was a lecturer in Ancient Greek at the university, although I don’t know what use that was to anyone. On my way out to the back green to get the washing, I passed Mrs MacDougall on the stair. She said she noticed we’d had a visitor, as if it had a
capital letter or something, and I said yes we had. It was Mr Douglas Grant, and she said, not that rotten nationalist chap? I replied that he was very nice and she just sort of snorted and said well, he needn’t think he could climb on Graham’s Dyke and hold the Romans back a second time, because everything was different now, and Hitler wasn’t going to stop at Scotland just because men like Mr Grant thought they were too fancy to fight. I didn’t like the sharp way she said it and I told her he was busy with very important things, and Jeff was helping him. Mrs MacDougall said I was a bonny fool, and I don’t think she meant it kindly. Maybe she had noticed the stour I’d left under her mat, and was cross with me.

I ran down the rest of the steps. The air smelt sweet and I unpegged my washing and held it to my face. I loved the smell of soap and grass. I was full from the rabbit stew and I thought everything would be fine again soon. Perhaps the war would end before I lifted the tatties in the autumn and Jeff could stay safe at the university.

Upstairs, although I was tired, I set the iron to heat on the range and it sizzled when I spat on it to test if it was hot. Jeff said it was unladylike but I told him real ladies didn’t need to iron so he better get used to it if he wanted his skivvy to put creases in his shirt sleeves. He said he was glad to know he would look his best at the SNP annual conference, but I was cross because he hadn’t told me he would be out at the weekend, too. I hardly saw him, and now people like Douglas were being taken to court, I felt worried. It was only because I started to greet that he said I could come with him if I was so upset, and that Douglas would be speaking. He patted his knee and I went to him and cooried in like a bairn.

‘We’ll find a way through this, Pip,’ he said. ‘The war can’t last much longer.’

That Saturday was very hot for the time of year, so we decided to walk down to the conference on Shandwick Place rather than wait for a tram. It was always so smoky and everyone smelt so bad, squeezed together like sardines. I put on my new dress, which I had run up from a bolt of blue cloth my mother had in the attic. The utility stuff was too thin. I sewed small, puffed sleeves and put pearl buttons down the front. The skirt wasn’t as full as I would have liked, but I didn’t want to look as if I was using more than my fair share of the cloth ration, so I kept some back for a blouse. Jeff thought I looked bonny when I gave him a twirl, and after I pinned on my straw hat with the red ribbon we were ready to go. I took his arm on the way out just to show Mrs MacDougall, if she was keeking out her
curtains
, that I didn’t agree with the bad things she’d said about Jeff and Douglas. It was good to be out together, and if it hadn’t been for all the brown tape stuck to the windows in criss-cross patterns, I could have believed there wasn’t a war on. I took a deep breath and pretended it was all over, and this was how it would be, me and Jeff walking in the sun, arm in arm.

Women were sitting on the benches on Bruntsfield Links with their wee ones propped up in great big prams,
shoogling
the ones that were crying. One of the bairns looked like a flower with a halo of woolly loops on her wee, pink bonnet. The warm air and the sound of the women talking made it feel as
if their men were nearby, and not far away overseas in danger. They looked up with thin faces as Jeff passed, wondering why he was there and not in uniform, but he looked straight ahead and I had to walk a bit faster to keep up with him. He only slowed down when the path opened out onto the Meadows with its view of Arthur’s Seat. Boys were playing pitch and putt and an old man with an unlit pipe between his teeth stood in a booth taking money and handing out clubs.

We turned past Barclay Church and down onto Lothian Road with all its shops and bars, but we didn’t see a crowd of folk until we got to the Shandwick Galleries at the West End. It was a very smart sandstone building, about four storeys high, with big, glass windows, which were boarded up on the first floor. A printed banner outside read, ‘SNP Annual Conference’, and a Saltire flag drooped beside it. Jeff passed me his copy of the agenda so that I could fan my face. He began to wave and nod to various people as we went in, and led us proudly up to the front where Douglas had reserved him a seat. He hoped we could both squeeze in and, sure enough, a kind, old man gave up his seat for me and moved to the second row.

‘Best seats in the house,’ said Jeff, smiling, but I was
worried
that if I got bored, I wouldn’t be able to leave without being rude. The agenda was very long with the typing close together to save paper.

‘I think you’ll find this very informative, Pip,’ Jeff whispered.

I didn’t think so, but I was just glad to be there and hoped to meet some of his friends. People didn’t drop by the house in Edinburgh the way they did on the farm.

Jeff pointed out who was sitting on the platform, naming all the men in their smart suits. They looked a bit het up. John MacGilvray, who Jeff said had started the Party, kept looking over at Douglas as if he was cross, and saying something to an older man called William Strang, who nodded and adjusted his tie as if it was too tight.

‘Douglas is standing for Chairman against William Strang,’ said Jeff.

Douglas was the only one smiling, and even sitting down he was almost eye-to-eye with the men standing beside him at the end of the table. He looked over but didn’t seem to see me. Then he waved at Jeff and gave me a smile as he realised who I was. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised me in my hat. The noise of people talking and chairs scraping got louder and louder, and Mr MacGilvray had to bang his gavel on the table several times before the room settled down.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the SNP annual
conference
of 1942, and although the sun has seen fit to shine on us, I particularly thank you for coming in such challenging
circumstances
. As you know, there has been considerable debate in the press, and in our own ranks, with regard to our position vis-à-vis the interests of Scotland in this time of war. A
particular
debate has been opened by the conviction served on Douglas Grant by the tribunal in Glasgow’s Sheriff Court with regard to the issue of conscription in Scotland. I can confirm that whatever stand might be taken by individual members, the SNP is the enemy of fascism and the friend of freedom.’

There were shouts from the floor of ‘Hear, hear,’ and Jeff shouted, ‘Free Douglas.’

Mr MacGilvray raised a hand for silence like a
school-teacher
, and continued speaking. ‘With regard to the election of office bearers, we will take a moment of calm reflection to consider who might best represent us as Chairman in the
coming
term. Let us bear in mind that large numbers of the Party are already serving courageously in the armed forces. Now, before we consider such weighty matters, the first item on the agenda is the report by Dr John Ranald in his capacity as
editor
of the
Scots Independent
.’

There was a jeer at the back of the room and then someone booed.

‘Order,’ shouted MacGilvray.

‘Why are they booing?’ I asked Jeff.

‘Because he published an article some felt was a bit critical of Douglas’ stand.’

‘Order,’ shouted MacGilvray, and he banged the table with his gavel again. The noise hurt my ears. It felt like this could go on all day. I took a pencil from my handbag and doodled a plan for my chicken coop on the back of an old envelope. Jeff sighed but I ignored him. The hands on the clock behind the platform moved on a whole hour before they stopped
bickering
and passed Dr Ranald’s report. After a cup of tea, and a quick trip to the powder room, which had very fantoosh
mirrors
, I had to take my seat again. Jeff whispered, ‘This will be exciting now. You are about to witness a revolution.’

I decided to write my shopping list later. There was just enough room for it beside my drawing.

In a very grand voice, the Vice-Chairman, Mr Macleod, invited William Strang and Douglas to leave the room, and their proposers and seconders to speak. Douglas winked as he passed us, and it was like being noticed by a fairy-tale giant. I could see the people seated across the aisle through his legs. The angry man called MacGilvray stood up to speak for old Mr Strang. MacGilvray had nice, wavy, brown hair. Several people booed him, but it didn’t put him off. I wouldn’t have known what to do.

‘I regret to see that so many people, who have done so little for the Party, are so vociferous against Mr Strang, one of its most established members and committed stalwarts,’ he said.

There was more booing.

Mr Macleod shouted, ‘Silence, all members have a right to speak.’ But it was lost in the racket. Mr MacGilvray took a sip of water and said both he and Mr Strang believed it was important to work for Scottish home rule. There was a cheer this time, and he added, ‘We must work with friendly elements in other parties. I have already spoken to Tom Johnston, Churchill’s Secretary of State for Scotland, and he might consider adding it to their agenda.’

The jeering started again. Someone shouted, ‘Away and boil yer heid.’

I stood up to leave, but Jeff put his hand on my arm and pushed me back down into my chair. It was the feeling I had of being trapped in the cinema, but he didn’t understand.

‘Why can’t I go?’ I asked.

‘Because this is important; Douglas’ proposer is next.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘I want to go home.’ But the next man had begun to speak and it would have been embarrassing to stand up. He went on about Douglas’ court appeal, while I kept my eyes fixed on the door at the back of the stage and wished I could run through it. ‘Douglas will never allow the red tape of the Union to strangle our rights as a sovereign nation. We say “no” to conscription,’ he shouted.

There was cheering and booing. Everyone looked round to see who was doing what, and a wee man wi’ a ba’ heid jumped up and tried to shoosh them. The proposer raised his voice. ‘Douglas may not fight abroad, but he will fight at home to ensure that our returning servicemen do not suffer the
unemployment
they endured at the end of the last war. He will see that we do not lose our industries to the South. He will
champion
full employment and independence.’

I was thinking of the farm, and the green hills where I grew up, trying to cut out the noise, but Jeff poked me in the ribs to borrow my pencil and marked his ballot paper. When the votes had been counted there was only a difference of two in Douglas’ favour.

‘We will have a recount, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Macleod, but he was shouted down.

‘Don’t bother,’ said Mr MacGilvray, ‘I wouldn’t insult Mr Strang by asking him to lead such a rabble.’

‘Well then,’ said Mr Macleod, ‘I duly elect Mr Douglas Grant as Chairman of the SNP.’

Jeff jumped to his feet punching the air, but Mr MacGilvray had a face like a soor ploom. I couldn’t believe it when, instead of congratulating Douglas, he said he was resigning as National Secretary, and added, ‘If anyone wants me, I will be in the Rutland Bar.’ Half the room trooped out with him like bairns.

Poor Douglas looked shocked. Then Mr Strang stood up and said it looked like he had been defeated on a point of principle, and no offence, but he was resigning, too. Douglas
shouted something after them in Russian, I think. The men in the room sounded like animals, hooting and jeering, but Jeff was smiling at Douglas, clapping like a wild man. I told him I was going home, and this time he didn’t try to stop me. He was shouting, ‘Tell MacGilvray’s caucus to go hang themselves.’

The street outside was quiet by comparison. People were looking from the conference door to the Rutland Bar, and back again, at the stream of angry people, and someone had marched off with the flag. It was all so confusing. Jeff and Douglas had seemed so calm and clever at home, and Jeff was so anti-war in his slippers, but here they were hopping mad that MacGilvray had stormed off. It didn’t seem worth it for two votes. Jeff said it was just that MacGilvray didn’t want a political,
conscientious
objector as leader.

I began to breathe again as I walked over to Princes Street Gardens and sat by the gold fountain at the foot of the
castle
rock. Sculptures of naked women, piled three high, poured water into the pond. The most beautiful woman rose up out of the middle and it seemed strange because they used to drown witches here when it was the Norloch. It was like they had come back and were reaching up to heaven, dripping wet. Thinking about them gave me the willies, and I had no one to cheer me up. The pigeons walked up to me, dipping their heads, but I didn’t have any bread for them, so I left by the railway bridge and walked home. The mothers had gone from the Links. There were just rows of empty benches, and the back streets were deserted apart from a few bairns running between the gardens with guns made of sticks.

I wondered when Jeff would get back but I could imagine he would be late. He would be drinking with Douglas
somewhere
, banging on about democracy. I think the ceilidh they’d planned for later was cancelled. No one would have dared to walk out of the conference if Mrs MacDougall had been standing there with the gavel in her hand.