Opinions / Ken Speckle Papers: a surprising new document has come to light in Bressay
Having assumed that all the surviving papers of the Reverend Kenneth Speckle B.D.Edin (failed), 1747-18??, had been located and studied, it came as a pleasant surprise to scholars when a visiting ornithologist, searching for aalamootie chicks in the stones of the Wadbister souterrain on the east side of Bressay, recently discovered a stone jar with a waxed cork, which he immediately brought to the attention of Dr Shilpitt, the celebrated historian. Inside were fragments of a journal kept by the former divine who, it may be remembered, was banished to the remote charge of Stobister and Pendicles in 1785 after a misunderstanding concerning the communion wine accounts of a parish in Fife. It had previously been thought that Speckle did not survive the poverty and distress that so afflicted him in the early 1820s, but it seems he not only survived but prospered, as the enclosed extract shows.
My journal and commonplace book kept at the Manse of Stobister, Breezey Island, Zetland, this third day of July in the year of Our Lord 1825.
With the flit boat Leering to the chambers of the Commissioners of Supply at theToon Hoose of Scharnycrick this morn, there to confer with Commissioner Coupkecks anent a most interesting proposition, vouchsafed to me by her emissary Mr Bigally, the Gudeman of Boorsetter, when he touched along Stobister last week while searching for his mislaid rams before the landholder of Goddiehice could shoot any more of them. At a juncture when my personal fortunes were at a low ebb and destitution beckoned (the collections from a dwindling congregation being now so meagre in my Chapel of The Blessed St. Beatrice the Silent of the Holy Rood), this invitation was most welcome because, in addition to a handsome stipend, it promised opportunities to mingle on equal terms with the quality of Zetland society and, in time, perhaps to gain influence with His Majesty The King’s Party in the British Government.
As Mr Bigally explained, “Du sees, meenister, wir hed ta gyit Commissioner Coupkecks ta sit i’da pretendy Scotch pairlymint fir we couldna fin onny idder body.Shoos nae muckle wirt an braaly witless weeit bit whit idder cudweedoo?”
But why, I inquired, had they not considered Commissioner Mogloyal who, albeit a notorious Dissenter, had at least some passing acquaintance with the arts of eloquence and disputation, from her evangelical lay preaching, and had even been known to read the papers for a meeting of the Commissioners beforehand?
“Weel, I keen,” the worthy replied, “Mestir Theophilus sed da sam an shoo did axewis hirsel bit shoo wis bin aafil coorse wi’ da municipal underlings, du keens, an dey didna lik dat. Ananidder ting, da Kirk widna bin weel plaised if’n wid sent dem a blaspheming baptiser ta Embury. Du hes ta kip in widda Kirk at da King is da heid o’,yuss.”
Mr Bigally further explained that Commissioner Coupkecks “wid likkly be inowerer depth” at the Scotch capital (“ir onnyidder wye, firdatmettir”) and so the Antient and Established Zetlandic Order of Whigs, over which he had the honour to preside, had determined in privy convocation that a suitable person be appointed to act as spiritual guide and confessor for their anointed delegate to the advisory council of the Scotch Minister, Mr McSwimmy (“Hell mendim, da sleekit, seddeeshus, essenpy boggerattyis”). That person would be myself, were I willing to undertake the various tasks which he had adumbrated on a page at the back of his well-thumbed book of sheep lug marks.
Thus acquainted with the delicate circumstances of the matter, I approached the oaken portals of the Toon Hoose and knocked thrice, as instructed by Mr Bigally.“Come in, Speckle, I know your knock!” a disembodied voice boomed and the massive, iron-studded doors swung open to admit me to the presence of our depute temporal leader, Commissioner Robin Garrulous. Clad in his municipal robe and chains of office, he confided that, to preserve public appearances, I would be styled‘Chaplain to the Preferred Candidate’ but my true role would be to make regular reports to him, and to him alone, on Lady Coupkeck’s discharge of her official duties, her contacts with the seditious separatist junto currently in power at the Palace of Holyrood, and in particular for any sign of disaffection with the King’s Party, now in disarray following the rout of Mr Moray Dross. Her intromissions with Mr Stairmounter’s New Model Leveller Party would be of particular interest, Sir Robin averred, that squadrone now being in a position to further the policies that the King’s Party had tried so unsuccessfully to implement during their time in office at His Majesty’s displeasure.
As befits the supreme leader of the Commissioners, Lady Coupkecks’ chambers are on the top floor of the Toon Hoose or Tollbooth, beneath the clock tower, and it was thither that Sir Robin now escorted me, up an imposing staircase decorated with portraits of municipal dignitaries of past years and of our Hanoverian Monarch, may his revered name be praised.
After formally presenting me to his superior officer, Sir Robin diplomatically closed the door behind him and retired to his own privy chambers where, among other cares of office, he was scheming to placate the mob in the streets outside. They were baying for blood after Herr Martyr, the Saxon scribbler, had published in his Zetland Intelligencer the information that one of the functionaries in the local infirmary was being paid a higher stipend than the First Lord of the Admiralty.
Her Ladyship received me most graciously and inquired whether I took sugar in my tea. I allowed that I did when I could afford it, whereupon a municipal underling plopped two large pieces of cane sugar into a delicate bone china cup containing the finest Bohea tea I ever tasted. This got our acquaintance off to a good start for she then said: “I’m awfy blyde you take two lumps. It’ll give you such strength. It’s the best sugar that can be got from that slave plantation in the West Indies where we invested a bit of the money we’ve been given so kindly over the years by the dear old British Peat Oil Company at Solemn Vod, bless ’em.”
She then introduced me to the sinister figure wearing a dark cloak and a large black hat who had been lurking behind a sideboard during our pleasantries anent the sugar:
“And this is dear Mr McMerkiaverly. He always tells me what to say when that Town Crier fellow, Jonny Olsterfry, comes snooping around asking awkward questions. Thankfully, Mr McMerkiaverly now handles all of our political dealings with Westminster and so forth, and for very reasonable fees. I don’t have any time for politics myself but he used to work for that jolly Mr Boris who was in Downing Street for a while so he knows his way around the Court of St James and everything down there,” she said.
Mr McMerkiaverly shook my hand with a firm and ‘on the square’ grip, winked, and said I was to call him Ian: “Any time you have any problems here, Reverend Sire, do not hesitate to send a message in a cleft stick to my men of business, whom you may find in the basement of the white house at the shoreside by Nortness, care of Messrs Haunless & Smeeg in the Pundlars and Bismers Department,” he whispered, and promptly glided out of the room, apparently without opening the massive door.
“Would you care for a fancy, Reverend?” Lady Coupkecks said. “We have iced buns, jam tarts and huffsie but, alas, no chocolate wafers today for the boat is not in yet.”
In between mouthfuls of ginger cake and rhubarb meringues I attempted to steer our conversation to the delicate matter of what the vulgar multitude was already muttering anent her past relations with Lady Knuckola, Duchess of Sneep, and the Separatists. This circumstance, and also Commissioner Coupkecks’ former public advocacy (in the year 1814) of secession from our blessed Union of Great Britain andIreland, was, in the opinion of some braying malcontents, a clear disqualification from the high office to which she had just been anointed by Mr Bigally’s ‘We Are The 35’ committee.
Her Ladyship replied: “Well, the fact is that I left the Essenpee mainly on account of the very poor standard of baking. Their Sunday teas were a disgrace, frankly. The Whigs, on the other hand, have always had their liberal teas which, I can assure you, are a great deal better.”
Warming to her theme, she continued: “What we really need is a new law about Sunday teas. There should be minimum sizes for fancies and a minimum sugar content for billionaire shortbread, for a start. In the chamber I’ll be happy to speak to members of other parties about the details. There’s no need to fall out about it and get all political. We don’t need politics this far north. Keep politics out of politics, that’s my motto!”
Editor’s note: This is as far as our team of palaeographers have got in transcribing this much stained and tattered document, which is still drying out on a radiator in Dr Shilpitt’s study. Further fruits of their unceasing labours will appear in due course.
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