Features / The Ken Speckle Papers: Astonishment amid the snows of May…
…being further extracts from the papers of the Rev. Kenneth Speckle, B.D. (failed) Edin. (1747-18??), transcribed and edited for publication by Jonathan Wills.
My journal and commonplace book, writ at Stobuster this eighth day of May 1826.
At dawn upon the eve of the parliamentary poll I drew back the curtains of my boudoir to behold a landscape Arctic in appearance. Heavy, wet snow was falling over the Stobuster parks. In the mirk I espied two distant figures struggling through the drifts.
Sally Geo, my housekeeper and constant companion, exclaimed: “Loard save wis, hit’s Mestir McMerkiaverly fae Central Office an Sir Allastir Curmudgeonly. Brucie! Brucie! Geng du furt and gie dem a haun afore dey smoor in a fan!”
Brucie Barr sprang to the door, taking with him a length of stout manila rope with which he had been intending to secure the Millagorie tup, who had got out again and was rampaging through the Grimster gimmers. In no time at all my stout amanuensis had rescued the floundering gentlemen and was leading them on his rope, safely over the brigstanes of the Manse.
“Damnable weather you have in this Godforsaken hole!” Mr McMerkiaverly commented. “Why I ever consented to advise that foolish creature who leads the Zetland Commission of Supply, I do not know. The money was half what I could have got from Mr Dross or the Pinkertories!”
When we had dried out and warmed up our visitors we sat around the fire, newly replenished with some peats (purloined from the laird’s stack in Virdiedaal by Lowrie Stane and carried hither in meshies upon the back of the shop horse) and partook of a bowl of punch while they explained the reason for their unexpected arrival here. Sir Allastir Curmudgeon was in partickular distress, as he explained:
“We are in a dreadful situation and urgently require your wise counsel, Mr Speckle. Lady Pinkrivlins, alas, has proven to be the worst candidate we or any other politickal party ever entered in a contest for the favours of Zetland’s voters. She cannot make a speech without asking me to prepare notes; she keeps repeating her curriculum vitae as if that alone were a qualification for elected office; she boasts vainly of her non-existent achievements in municipal affairs; and her campaign slogan of “Motherhood and Apple Crumble!” has enraged the fairer sex, who feel belittled and patronised. And the poll is upon us tomorrow!”
“I share Sir Allastir’s forebodings,” Mr McMerkiaverly confided. “Lady Anna Stokfisk-Gödelåde and Dr Shovego have run rings around us! And the Whalesahoy fisherfolk are threatening to vote en bloc for the Foragiste Blackshirt Tendency! O, woe is me that ever I set foot upon this blasted archipelago! Whatever are we to do?”
“Gentlemen,” I replied. “Pray remain calm. For all is not lost. What Lady Pinkrivlins must do immediately is to issue a proclamation via the Town Crier, Mr Olsterfry, making it clear that, after her election to the pretended parliament in Edinburgh, she will not desert her flock in Zetland but will retain her commissionership to ensure that, in her newly elevated station, she is not tempted to let Zetland down or sell us short. This will be a novel form of politickal self-control, a species of democratick dualism!”
From their furrowed brows and quizzickal grimaces, my guests appeared to be puzzled by my suggestion, but agreed that, in their desperate situation, anything was worth essaying.
“That is not all, my friends,” I continued, “For we have another shot in our locker!”
“And, pray, what might that be?” Sir Allastir inquired, wearily and warily.
“Why, nothing less than Lady Pinkrivlins’ new Corporate Plan!” I replied. “Her fellow commissioners have already approved it, in a privy session after excluding Hans Martyr and others of His Majesty’s Press. Let me remind you of its innovative, game-changing, state-of-the-art, cutting edge proposals working collaboratively in integrated joint partnership and moving forward transformatively at pace. Here is a copy that I have kept close to my chest. Now is the moment to release this inspiring document to the multitude of inferior rank, reminding them of the true British liberties they enjoy as subjects of His Majesty in Privy Council with His North British Ministry and to persuade them to resist the temptations of Lady Anna Stokfisk-Gödelåde and her seditious secessionist sectarians!”
“But, but, that’s just twaddle! It means nothing whatsoever!” Sir Allastir protested.
“It need not actually mean anything,” Mr McMerkiaverly observed. “It has only to appear dignified and important. I rather like it. As I would, for I wrote it, her Ladyship being incapable of elementary composition in plain English.”
“But look, Sir Allastir, there is more,” I interjected. “Helpful, constructive and meaningful consultations are taking place at pace – at pace, mark you – with the combinations representing the municipal underlings, in order to alleviate their concern and anxiety about large scale transformation. Her Ladyship’s Municipal Overlings have recommended a phased approach that will break the implementation of a change to the management structure down into manageable stages – starting with director roles, to ensure the Commissioners continue to provide services in a co-ordinated and resilient manner, also at pace. So what do you think of that, Gentlemen? Masterful, I would call it.”
“Meenisteir, whittin God’s nemmisdu spikkin aboot?” asked Brucie Barr.
”Dir gyaan ta gie yon high heidyin fokk at’s paid a hunner thoosan a year new chob titles anna coarn mair penga,” Sally explained.
“Ah, da aald pullinda ruggower dir een trick!” said Brucie, apparently satisfied that matters would go on as before.
Resuming my exposition, I enthused about Lady Pinkrivlins’ proposal to secure the services of a suitably qualified Director of Place.
“Plaice, says du? Wull dey be directors o’ megrims an blind hoes an aa?” asked Brucie.
“Just one question, Sir?” The voice came from Dr Witney Garlick, my lodger, whose slumbers on the chaise longue in the corner of the parlour had been disturbed by my enthusiastic presentation of the revised plan to revise the Corporate Plan.
“Does this mean we shall presently be shot of Mr Risible, Mr Smeeg and Madame Apparatchique?” he asked.“Alas, it does indeed,” I replied, “And that, of course, is a very serious problem, ongoing in terms of institutional continuity, that the plan, I fear, does not address.”
“I should not worry about that, Sir,” Dr Garlick growled. “They are sure to leave forwarding addresses, in order to receive their grossly inflated and richly undeserved pensions. As for your unintelligible corporate plan, Sir, it is functionally illiterate, being composed in the strangulated dialect of officialdom. Tis as the passing of wind and I regard it not!” With this barbed sally, the aged and intemperate sage turned upon his side and resumed his post-prandial siesta.
My guests set off back for Scharnycrick, there to inform the Town Crier of the proposed announcement of Lady Pinkrivlins’ dual mandate and also to witness the counting of votes. I did not accompany them, due to my infirmities and the pressing necessity of composing this coming Sabbath’s sermon (upon the ephemeral nature of all politickal concerns and the permanence of Our Saviour’s grace, with particular reference to the venal sins of the Skulthamarsdaal people).
The following day, after casting my vote at the Breezey polling station, I despatched Lowrie Stane and Brucie Barr to assist as tellers for Lady Pinkrivlins, the Countess Coupkecks, candidate of the Whig faction of yore, may her illustrious name be praised.
The news they brought to Stobuster the following afternoon was astonishing.
“Weel, Meenister, shü’s wunnit!” said Brucie Barr as he entered the parlour, holding in one hand a crumpled piece of paper and in the other a hook from which hung two freshly gutted olik fishes, dripping upon my carpet.
“Who?” I asked. “Who do you say has won it?”
“Hirr,” he replied. “Hirr at du towt widna!”
“Brucie,” I said. “Pray forgive my impatience but do tell me: which of the two candidates of the feminine gender was victorious at the poll?”
“Haddonna meenit,” that worthy responded, squinting at the numbers scrawled upon his piece of paper. “Yea, hit wis dat Stokfisk-Gödelåde wife fae Scallywag, no Aald Coopykecks wha hed da tay shop oot ower afore da plague o’ twunty twunty. Du sees, da fokk wis choost fair disjaskit wi’ da Whigs eftir fufty year an mair o’ naethin muckle happenin. Annas du keens, da fokkir aye waantin novelty. An noo dir gotten it!”
This appalling news was beyond my worst fears. It is clear that my intervention, at the very last minute of the campaign, advising Lady Pinkrivlins to reveal her plan for a dual mandate as a parliamentarian and a local member, failed to clinch her proffered bargain with the electors.
“Oh that is dreadful!” I commented to Dr Garlick, who was examining Brucie’s paper intently. “But at least her Ladyship will remain at the helm of Zetland to implement her revised corporate plan in full!”
“She be d*mned,” Dr Garlick replied. “Look at the numbers. The Whig vote collapsed. And now she’s powerless to get any measure accepted without the acquiescence of Mr McSwimmy and his colleagues, whom she and her mentor have spent the past three weeks castigating and denigrating.”
On the other hand, he averred, the result would undoubtedly mean that His Majesty’s ministers at Whitehall would have a growing need for regular reports on the political œconomy of this archipelago and how best to counter the evil schemes of the secessionists: “In this task, my dear Mr Speckle, you will doubtless require my assistance as your proof reader, sharpener of nibs and filler of inkwells. I am at your service.”
I confess I had not thought of this but of course the ever mercenary Dr Garlick is correct; whatever the result had been, our services as bearers of politickal intelligences would remain of great value to the civil authorities furth of Zetland. We may indeed be able to profit from this wholly unexpected turn of events. For, as the Book of Matthew says, in chapter seven, verse seven: “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”
Become a member of Shetland News
Shetland News is asking its readers to consider paying for membership to get additional perks:
- Removal of third-party ads;
- Bookmark posts to read later;
- Exclusive curated weekly newsletter;
- Hide membership messages;
- Comments open for discussion.
If you appreciate what we do and feel strongly about impartial local journalism, then please become a member of Shetland News by either making a single payment, or setting up a monthly, quarterly or yearly subscription.
Already a member? Sign in to hide this message.
