Capital Union, A Read online

  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.’

  4

  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.
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  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.

  5

  The house was very quiet when I got back. It was just as I had left it, and I missed the stir of the farm with my brothers tramping in and out, leaving clothes and newspapers strewn everywhere, and filling the house with their laughter. I remembered Mother’s che
ery fire in the kitchen and the cooking smells, and it just felt like the flat had no life. I was looking after a museum full of Jeff’s late mother’s things. Her china knick-knacks were still in a glass case in the drawing room and her clothes were in our double wardrobe. They still smelt of her perfume. I put my hand on the door handle to Jeff’s study, gripping the cold metal. I wanted to look for the letter with the black crown on it but he trusted me not to go in, so I made a cup of tea in the kitchen instead.

  The trees out the back were thick with leaves. A fat wood pigeon was waddling along one of the branches, but when the window upstairs opened, he flew off with a crack of his wings. I put my teacup down in the saucer and heard footsteps crossing the kitchen floor above, and then water running. Maybe Mrs MacDougall was also lonely if she was cleaning Professor Schramml’s empty flat again. I thought maybe I should try to be more neighbourly and invite her in for a cup of tea. I ran up the spiral stairs and chapped on the door, which had a brass knocker in the shape of a thistle. There was no reply, so I tried again, and then Mrs MacDougall’s voice said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Agnes,’ I replied.

  ‘What do you want?’

  I was surprised because she was normally so quick to open a door. ‘Nothing. I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  I heard her footsteps moving away and then some keys being lifted and Mrs MacDougall came out into the stairwell with her pinny folded in her hand. I glimpsed a dresser covered with a white dust-sheet in the hall. Mrs MacDougall’s eyes were very blue, which I hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘Couldn’t you wait until I am home to speak to me?’