Features / The Ken Speckle Papers: the predicament of Solemn Vow
My journal and commonplace book, writ at Stobuster this tenth day of December in the year of Our Lord 1825.
This is a most inclement season, a time of such ferocious tempests and soaking downpours that I have rarely left my study, save for the calls of Nature and my occasional catechising duties, taking the Word to the drenched and wretched infidels of Vodo Meadow, Grutwick and Da Banks Knowe. A leak in the roof covering of my sedan chair, rendering the interior very damp and unhealthy, is a further disincentive to more distant travel. In any case, my sturdy assistants, Lowrie Stane and Brucie Barr, have been preoccupied with urgent matters, such as slipping rams and bigging up slaps and grinds, and thus too busy to carry me to the west side of the island and the ferryboat to Scharnycrick.
Thus, of late it has been such a lonely life here on the blasted heaths of British East Breezey that it was almost with pleasure that Sally Geo and I greeted our errant lodger, Dr Witney Aloysius Garlick, when he returned this morning from a week-long sojourn in that den of iniquity, where he had been a-hawking his pamphlets and jeremiads to the credulous and gullible indwellers of Scharnycrick.
Over a dinner of roasted mutton, boiled kail and stewed neeps, the aged agitator imparted his latest intelligences from the seat of our local government. By chance, he had met upon the street a young gentleman, by the name of Mr Frank Leigh-Tyro, whom Sir Allastir Curmedgeon had despatched north to assist Lady Pinkrivlins, the Countess Coupkecks, in her campaign to retain for the Whig interest Zetland’s place in “the pretendy Scotch Parliament”, as Dr Garlick dubbed it.
“You will not believe, dear Sir, the panic in the young fellow’s eyes when he confided in me, a complete stranger, his assessment of the electoral prospects of the Whig junto. He had just come down from an interview in the Town House with your candidate and I tell you, Sir, he was quivering in his boots. I took him into a nearby tavern and purchased a gill of Mr Bardastrom’s best genever to calm his nerves, but presently he commenced weeping uncontrollably, crying ‘Oh, we are lost! I am undone! The woman is hopeless! When I asked about her policies she said her policy was to be nice. Nice! Nice? What earthly use is that? Oh, and when we are defeated I shall lose my position and have to seek another, more lowly and less well remunerated situation! Oh woe is me that I ever ventured into this barren wilderness!’ – and more in a like vein of misery.”
Dr Garlick continued: “I bade him be of good cheer and reminded him of your own genius in composing sermons calculated to induce religious enthusiasm even in the breasts of the heretical scoundrels of Stouraclett and Skultumsdaal, to bring them to the Light. I averred that, as your oratorical skills were so effective in a devotional context, there was no reason why they should not be equally so if applied in matters electoral and secular. At this he brightened a little. I promised that I would encourage you to send him sundry tracts that he might distribute to the crowds thronging the commercial thoroughfares of our bustling insular capital.”
I thanked Dr Garlick for conveying this message to me and I resolved to write this very day to poor Mr Frank Leigh-Tyro with words of inspiration and encouragement. But first I pressed our guest for more news of the doings (and undoings, as it transpired) of our respected Commissioners of Supply and their peerless leader, Lady Pinkrivlins. Barrels of peat oil await loading at the Dock of Silliness in more prosperous times.
“Well, Sir,” he vouchsafed, “There is great alarm and growing unrest amid the combination of workmen in the tar-boiling works at Solemn Vow, due to the dwindling number of wherries, barques and schooners calling there for cargoes of peat oil. The Commissioners have for many years past been accustomed to receiving from the owners of such vessels large sums in the way of port dues, barrel bounties, pilotage charges, mooring fees and the like. These payments not only helped them defray the annual expenses of the County of Zetland but were so large that Lady Pinkrivlins and her municipal wonderlings were able to amass a great treasure chest of specie, ‘Something for a Rainy Day’, as Mr Phrazzle, their Cashier-General, put it. This fund, held in reserve, has to some extent compensated for the peppercorn land rent that the Whig Commissioners, led then by Canon Shand and aided by the Hon. Tovarish Lairdsloon, had granted the British Peat Oil Company back in the year 1796.”
I must have looked bewildered, for the superannuated sage continued, somewhat brusquely: “You must surely recall, my dear Mr Speckle, that the company threatened it would close down its boiling vats and other works at Solemn Vow by the year 1800, were the Commissioners to refuse its financial demands, and that the Commissioners then very meekly acceded to this pathetic pittance of a land rent (a tenth of what it ought to have been) and surrendered their rights to Payment for Disturbances, but still retained their revenue from the harbour undertaking, under the Zetland Enrichment Act of 1774. Events have revealed the folly of their timidity, for the British Peat Oil Company and its successor enterprise, the Vulture Capital Quest Corporation, have continued in business for a quarter century since and prospered mightily.”
I confessed I had only a vague memory of all this or, indeed, of much else, owing to my advancing years, but I then asked if he could explain why the operatives at the works were now in such a consternation. Dr Garlick gazed at me in astonishment:
“Do you not understand me, Sir? If there is not sufficient peat oil to ship, there will be no ships to ship it and thus no employment for the oil blenders, tar boilers or the matelots who bring vessels in and out of the port. Hence the uproar. However, the Commissioners and their nautical employees are on the same side, for once. The sailors fear for their jobs and the Commissioners fear that if their revenue falls below the cost of keeping the harbour open, then they may find themselves using the window tax, chimney tax, skatt, sheep money, and other imposts upon us, the citizenry-at-large, to subsidise the commercial gentlemen at Solemn Vow.”
“But surely,” I responded, “The Commissioners would never stand for that. Lady Pinkrivlins would put her foot down, would she not?” The crew of a peat oil schooner discuss Countess Coupkecks’ decision to defer a decision on the future financial arrangements at the Solemn Vow peat oil storage facility.
“The position of her Ladyship’s pedal extremity is immaterial, Sir! The law requires her to maintain the accounts of Zetland in equilibrium. If there is a deficit, as there certainly will be within a twelvemonth, then she and her colleagues must find a way to fund it. And all she has done so far is to say she hopes everyone will agree with her decision to defer a decision and not to provoke our friends in the Vulture Capital Quest Corporation unnecessarily and prematurely. It is quite outrageous!”
Dr Garlick by now appeared to be somewhat exasperated that I had failed to grasp the full import of his report, so I opened another bottle of Mr Bardastrom’s fine claret, new brought from Bordeaux, and decided to change the subject to our domestic arrangements for the forthcoming festive season.
However, Miss Sally Geo, my housekeeper and companion, had been listening with rapt attention to Dr Garlick’s discourse and now amazed us with her perceptive and practical suggestion: “Coodn deyno chust axe da Beepy fokk furra coarn mair siller ta tide demower? Yun oilies maun hae a pockla penga.”
“Indeed they do,” Dr Garlick replied, “but the rascals keep it close to their chests. However, we shall see what Mr Speckle’s friend, the Countess, can squeeze out of them.”
“Now then,” I interjected. “About the supply of comestibles and refreshments for our Yule feast. There will, of course, be cupcakes and…”
At this moment the door burst open and there stood Brucie Barr and Lowrie Stane, the latter bearing the carcass of a sheep on his shoulders.“Boys, what is the meaning of this?” I cried, for the gore was dripping on my best rug.
“Wir binnat da Millagorie rodeo,” Brucie explained. “Wir flittit da cast yowes ta Cloddysdaal an dissus wir pey, du sees, so we towt ta comalang an axedee furda lonna da Stobuster skeo ta hengit furra stert afore we reest hit.”
To this proposal I gladly agreed, not least because the smell of the mutton already pervaded the entire Manse. We then discussed my order for strong waters to enliven our spirits through the midwinter festivities.
“Shall I speak to Mr Bardastrom and order a hogshead of Hamburgh beers, a keg of claret and two gallons of gin?” I asked Brucie.
“Na, na, du’ll need fower gallon lang afore Aald Newer!” that worthy replied. “Am spokkin wi’ Bardastrom onnywye an he’s gotten hit aa led by, seffan soond idda hideyholl inunder da Grimster hoosis, nivir fear!”
Thus reassured, I retired to my study and composed the following missive to poor Mr Frank Leigh-Tyro:
Manse of Stobuster, Breezey Isle, 10th Dec. 1825.
Dear Mr Leigh-Tyro,
I have received your urgent and distressing message via Dr Garlick and would advise the following courses of action, pending our meeting in the Town’s House, which I trust will not be long delayed.
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- When composing new Whig pamphlets, always employ our catch-phrase or motto: ‘It’s a Whig for me, and a Liberal tea!’
- In placards for display in the windows of our supporters, let the message be: ‘Vote Whig – the Lightsome Candidate!’
- Arrange for our candidate to place a publick notice in Herr Martyr’s Zetland Intelligencer, saying ‘Lady Pinkrivlins wishes to inform the electors that she is in favour of the following: King and Country; sheep; fishing; piltock farming; peat oil; parochial schools; shopkeepers; and apple turnovers.’
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That should inspire the faithful to remain true to our noble cause.
Do not despair, Sir, for help is always at hand!
I remain, with the most cordial sentiments, your humble servant,
Kenneth Speckle
Bachelor of Divinity (failed), Edin.
