Features / The Ken Speckle Papers: Mr Hermitage spoils a festive soirée…
My journal and commonplace book, inscribed at Stobuster, Isle of Breezey, this third day of January in the year of Our Lord 1826.
In my forty years of unceasing labour for Christ in this Godless wilderness I have striven manfully to eradicate the sad relics of popish and even earlier superstitions to which the ignorant natives of Zetland are so firmly wedded. Very early in my ministry I discovered that the wretches persist in celebrating the anniversary of Our Blessed Redeemer’s birth 11 or even 12 days later than the rest of the kingdom. That was the occasion when Mistress Mana Berg prepared quantities of sweetmeats, pastries and ale for the parochial soirée on Christmas Eve and none of my parishioners arrived until 10 days later.
My amanuensis, Brucie Barr, explained it thus when I asked why he and his cronies continue to ignore the resolution of our Great British Parliament in the year 1752 to move the date of Christmas from 6th January, Old Style, to 25th December, New Style:
“Weel, du sees, Meenister, dussiz da wye o’ hit. Du kens hit wiz da Pope at first boggertaboot widda calendar, a cuppla hunder years fae syne. In da year o’ fufty twa da heid eens doon in London wiz chust followin’ Rome, as du micht say. Wir aald fokk wirna happy dan aboot da Govymint an da Pope takkin ulleevin days affa dir life. An wir still no happy abootit noo.”
“Bit wir funna wye roond dat problem,” Sally Geo added. “Nooadays we hadd New Chrissymuss an New Newer sweelaz Aald Yule an Aald Newer. So da youngeens can hae fower sprees insteeda twa!”
I was about to chastise my helpmeet in this vale of tears, for her frivolous attitude at what should be a time of pious contemplation of the Christmas Miracle and the making of solemn resolutions to repent and reform, when we heard the sound of Lowrie Stane, heavily laden, entering by the back door of the Manse.
As he deposited several dead geese, a jugged hare and many parcels upon the flagstones he announced: “Loard firgie me, Sally, bittam droppit somma da messiges and I doot dy new tae kettle’s braaly binkled. Eena yun demmful Whig fellows bompit inta me på stritt an I gied me lengt.”
“Was the gentleman hurt at all?” I enquired.
“He be demmed. Nivir aivin sayed sorry pardon. His pride wiz mebbe hurtit but I dootit’ll hurt mair com da munt o’ May, fae whittam hearin’. Hit wiz yun snooty fellow at wiz here a stert fae syne wi’ Aald Bigally: Mestir McThingummyjig.”
“Oh no! Not Mr McMerkiaverly, Lady Pinkrivlins’ aide de camp?” I exclaimed. “I shall have to apologise to him on your behalf at our next campaign planning meeting.”
“Dö whit du liks bit hit’s him at sood be sorry,” said the indignant Lowrie.
As Sally sorted through the parcels she discovered that Lowrie had omitted to buy several items on the list she had given him.
“Nivir leet,” she sighed. “Hit’ll be lichtsome ta takka run ower da soond an see whit dey hae idda Scharnycrick Chrissymuss Fair. An da Meenister laekly haes busyness at da Toon Hoose. So, Brucie, will du an Lowrie flit wis wi’ da whullieboat da moarn?”
“Dat wull we,” responded the gallant Lowrie. Next morning at first light we set off over the shoulder of the Warty Hill, the boys bearing me in my newly repaired sedan chair to the Noost of Ancestors, where their frail bark had been laid up out of reach of winter storms. For a change, the day was fair and the sea calm, so we had an easy passage to the beach below the Toolbar tavern, whither Lowrie and Brucie repaired with some groats I had given them to purchase a refreshment after their arduous row. Sally was greeted by a gaggle of nieces and nephews, her sister being a resident of the town. Leaving her amid the garishly caparisoned stalls of the market traders, I made my way along the shore to the seat of municipal governance, where I beheld an extraordinary spectacle: for the noble edifice was besieged by a tumultuous crowd of urchins, blowing whistles, banging drums and crying “Sweeties! Sweeties! Wir waantin sweeties and wir waantin dem noo!”
Having no sweetmeats about my person, I was obliged to shower coins upon the ringleaders of the infantile mob before they would allow me to mount the steps to the great oaken door, upon which I knocked with my cane.
A muffled voice came from within. I recognised the growl of Commissioner Sir Robin Garrulous, Lady Pinkrivlins’ deputy dog catcher: “Go away, you peerie beasts! There is nothing for you here!” he cried.
“But, Sir Robin, it is I,” I replied. “I have an appointment with Her Ladyship to discuss policy matters.”
“Good luck to you,” he muttered, as he unbarred the door and it creaked open on ungreased hinges, “Some of us have been trying to do precisely that for seven years, without getting any result.”
“Now get out, you horrid brats!” he added, as several of the importunate urchins attempted to follow me into the vestibule of the hallowed chambers of municipal governance.
Upstairs, Sir Robin and I found Her Ladyship, the Countess Coupkecks, in the Counting House, eating bread and honey with her attendants.
“Ah, there you are, dear Mr Speckle!” she cried. “Do take a cup of tea and a fancy. I can thoroughly recommend the millionaire shortbread, baked specially this morning for my wonderful team, or ‘The Six Figure Club’, as I call them. Pray, will you say grace for us?”
I responded with her favourite variation upon the Selkirk Grace: “Some hae huffsie but cannae eat, an’ some wad eat cinnamon buns but want them; but we hae cupcakes an’ ginger biscuit, so let her Ladyship be thankit!”
This gathering of Lady Pinkrivlins’ senior wonderlings appeared to be a ‘pre-meeting’ where important matters were to be decided in private, as is only proper, prior to being aired before the general publick and His Majesty’s Press in a ‘Christmas Roadshow’ in far flung corners of the archipelago.
Commissioner Scotty-Afftack, the Scallywag member, was somewhat agitated: “Whit aboot ra windae tax?” he asked. “Whit’ll we tell folk if we hevty pittitup?”
“As you know, dear Mr Afftack, this is a very complex subject,” Her Ladyship replied. “Our consulting gentlemen are working extremely hard, and for extremely high fees, to produce a solution which may or may not involve an augmentation of the cess or land tax and a corresponding reduction in the allowances for exemption from the scavenging and police levy.”
Commissioner Fleabitton was next: “An whittaboot da infirmary? Eh? Eh? Whit wye dö we stull no hae anyocha doctors fur da dissairvin poor? Da Scotch meenisters ir shurely gien wis onnyamoonta siller. Whit’s du donn weet, Emmy? Eh? Eh? Tell me dat noo an tell me true!”
Sir Robin Garrulous intervened at this point, to say: “I can assure you that my men of medical business are, as we speak, drawing up ever more attractive financial inducements to persuade newly qualified practitioners to take up temporary appointments at the Scharnycrick Clinic for Inoculating Indigent Paupers. Already we have nine out of ten staff there acting in locum tenens and we hope soon to have a full house. This will cost a fortune which, as Mr Fleabitton rightly says, is what we have been given, in recognition of our leader’s outstanding and award-winning contributions to local governance, as it says here, on my personal copy of Her Ladyship’s certificate of superlative excellence.”
“Do not be concerned upon that heading,” Lady Pinkrivlins added, “For I have in hand, oven-ready, a planus corporatus. This is a grand scheme to re-organise our pecuniary requirements going forwards in partnership working in terms of the current time frame with the Disintegrated Joint Board for, as I have often said, we are all on a journey away from silo thinking. If it were not so I would have told you.”
At this point Commissioner Hermitage, the member for Scattiness, was heard to mutter “Twaddle!” The shocked silence that followed was broken when he said: “Speaking of filthy lucre, is it not time that we sold our shares in the sugar plantations of the West Indies, having regard to the recent bloody suppression of the slaves’ revolt and the cruel and outrageous behaviour of their overseers, which has disgusted and appalled the civilised world? We fancy ourselves Christians and yet we continue profiting from slaughter and oppression.”
He proposed that the Commissioners should immediately divest themselves from what he called “this loathsome trade”.
Lady Pinkrivlins explained (very patiently and politely, I thought, in the circumstances – as Mr Hermitage’s outburst had quite spoilt the atmosphere of her soirée) that this was not as simple as it seemed. They would have to instruct agents at London, and they in turn would have to secure the services of consulting gentlemen whose fees were likely to be not insignificant.
“Thus,” she concluded, as Mr Risible and Mr Smeeg nodded in enthusiastic approbation, “Although of course I do sympathise with the poor slaves, it must be remembered that without sugar we would have no fancies and without the revenues from the plantations and the sale of whips to the overseers we would have no money to buy them. So, alas, there is absolutely nothing we can do.”
“Dat’s fairly richt! Keep politicks oota politicks!” Mr Fleabitton agreed.
At this Dr Hermitage turned on his heel and stormed out of the Town’s House. He was later seen waving a green-painted placard and addressing an unlicensed public meeting of the aforementioned urchins and sundry malcontents and disaffected persons.
I fear this will not end well but for now we must be content, here at Stobuster, to set aside our concerns about the wickedness of the world outside and concentrate on enjoying both Old and New Yule.
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