A Time of Love and Tartan Read online

  Morrison hesitated. “I wouldn’t sing it. And I don’t know the words anyway.”

  Stuart began to hum the opening bar; then the words: “It’s old but it is beautiful . . . ”

  Morrison turned pale. “Sshh!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Stuart, smiling. “I won’t sing it. But there are plenty of people who would. And they’d sing it to stir up trouble. They’d sing it to start a fight – and surely we’re entitled to say that we don’t want people fighting with one another.”

  Morrison was silent. Then he said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m reactionary,” he said.

  Stuart smiled. “Anything but that.”

  “It’s just that I get the feeling,” Morrison continued, “that there’s an imposed consensus. That there are people who want us all to think in the same way and are using pressure of various sorts – social disapproval as well as real sanctions – to ensure that people toe an ideological line.”

  Stuart thought of Irene. He almost said, “I’m married to one” but loyalty prevented him.

  “I’ve got nothing against much of this,” Morrison continued. “I’ve got nothing against correcting the injustices of the past – including all the injustices that women have had to bear. It’s just that I still believe that an old injustice doesn’t justify a new injustice.”

  “Ah,” said Stuart.

  Morrison fixed Stuart with an intense gaze. He leaned forward as he spoke. “And there’s a line in the sand right here in this building,” he whispered. “And if either of those two – Elaine or Faith – gets the job, then it’s the end of tolerance and it’s hello witch-hunts. I’m warning you, Stuart, this is deadly serious.”

  Stuart sat back in his chair. “Don’t you think you’re over-stating it a bit?”

  Morrison shook his head. “I’m not, Stuart. I’m telling you as it is. Those two have an anti-male agenda. They’re every bit as bad as men who have an anti-female agenda. There’s no difference. Or there is, perhaps, in that they’ve got the zeitgeist on their side. They’ve got the rhetoric, Stuart.”

  “I think you’re being unreasonable, Morrison,” Stuart said evenly. “The world has changed. Old privileges and old attitudes are out. Accept it.”

  Morrison rose from his chair. “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The View from Dunfermline

  Stuart felt unsettled by the conversation with Morrison. He was fond of his colleague and it saddened him to think that he should feel alienated from the world he worked in. But that, he supposed, was not surprising: Morrison was approaching retirement and at that age people commonly felt at odds with social progress. Every generation made that discovery, Stuart thought; the world changed – of course it did – and not everyone found it easy to accommodate these changes. Yet many of these changes were not bad ones: far from it, they were introduced to help people feel better about themselves, to lead happier lives, to be treated fairly and not discriminated against by those who had an advantage over them. No, he could sign up to all that – and not just because he was married to Irene and had experienced an extreme version of that agenda at full blast, but because he actually believed in the central values that such reforms embodied.

  What worried him, though, was that Morrison had been made so anxious – indeed frightened – by the prospect of one of the other candidates for promotion getting the post. Stuart did not like Elaine or Faith. He did not like their only-too-obvious ambition and the fact that they were always calculating the effect that anything they did would have on their superiors. There had been several instances where he had seen the advice they gave to ministers and had realised that what they said was the exact opposite of what he knew they believed; they gave this advice, though, because they knew that this is what the minister would want to hear. Everybody likes those who express their personal prejudices, and government ministers are no exception to that rule. Both Elaine and Faith knew that, and were prepared to act against their own better judgment if that meant a smile or a pat on the head from those in authority. It was sickening, thought Stuart. What’s the point of having an independent civil service, he asked himself, if that same civil service is not going to give independent advice?

  He felt a strong dislike for those two, but he did not really know either of them at all well. Elaine was the older; she was a tall, rather irritating woman in her mid-forties, who came from Fife – a fact that she never tired of mentioning. Remarks on a wide range of subjects would be prefaced with, “Well, I’m from Fife, you see, and we . . . ” There then followed some general local prejudice, set out in great detail and presented as if it were an example of deep wisdom only available to those who had the good fortune to be born and brought up in Fife.

  Another of her expressions was, “We don’t look at things that way in Dunfermline.” That could be inserted into any discussion at any point, and was very effective in derailing the debate. For the most part, people were unsure what to make of it. Was there something about Dunfermline – some quality of higher rationality – that made it futile to question the Dunfermline view of things? Or was there an implicit suggestion that if any position were espoused that differed from the Dunfermline view, then there would be endless trouble in Fife and, perhaps, in many other places that were somehow in Fife’s sphere of influence?

  He knew little of Elaine’s personal circumstances. He had been told that she was married, but he knew nothing of her husband, whom she mentioned from time to time, invariably adding, “He’s originally from Kirkcaldy, you know” as if in explanation of all that he stood for. Stuart had heard that he was called Sammy, and that he ran a tree nursery near Auchtermuchty. He felt vaguely sorry for this Sammy, with his tedious wife and his tree nursery, and all the worries and burdens that went with both of these.

  Elaine was very friendly with Faith, who was a strongly built woman with broad shoulders and a square chin. She had a master’s degree from McGill University in Montreal, and insisted on listing this degree behind her name on any letter or circular she signed. It was also rumoured – although the accusation remained unproven – that the Christmas cards she sent to politicians were signed Faith McDougall, MSc (McGill).

  Faith very rarely spoke to Stuart, whom she seemed to ignore most of the time. If Stuart asked her a question at a meeting, Faith would answer it, but would not look at him as she spoke, addressing her answer to Elaine, who would nod encouragingly as she spoke.

  “She doesn’t acknowledge my existence,” said Stuart to another colleague. “She doesn’t see me.”

  The colleague laughed. “She doesn’t see me either,” he said.

  “I wonder why?” asked Stuart.

  The colleague laughed again. “We’re the enemy,” he said.

  This explanation depressed Stuart. He felt it was quite unfair to be branded with the misdeeds of other men – men who treated women unfairly and could be thought to deserve this angry froideur in return. He was not like that, and yet she refused to hear him out, to see that he was not like the men against whom she was waging her campaign.

  “I’ve never personally been . . . ” Stuart began, only to be cut short by his colleague.

  “That’s not the point,” the colleague said. “This is status guilt. The moment you were born you became part of the structures of oppression – because you’re male. It’s nothing to do with choice, Stuart – nothing to do with what you yourself think or feel.”

  Stuart sighed. It was the mark of Cain – a burden much the same as that borne by the offspring of enemies of the people in revolutionary Russia. It was inherited guilt, and no protestations of innocence, no rejection or disavowal of the iniquities of the past could remove the stain.

  He wondered how long this would last. Would it be there until the memory of the past faded completely, or would it last until men themselves had become the new oppressed class? And if that were so, then how long would the period of revenge last?

  He was thinking of this when th
e summons came for a meeting with the Supreme Head of Personnel. All three candidates were to attend, the note specified, to have explained to them the selection procedures that were to be followed to ensure a process that was transparent, equitable, and designed to achieve the best possible outcome. But what, Stuart wondered, was that? That the best candidate would be appointed? And best for what? That was the real question – that was where the demons lurked.

  No Boys’ Club Here

  “Now,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel, “as you know, there are very carefully set-out procedures.”

  Elaine nodded. “Procedures. Yes, procedures. Unlike the bad old days when . . . ”

  She glanced at Stuart, who smarted under the implicit accusation that he had somehow been involved in the procedures of that benighted era.

  The Supreme Head of Personnel was reassuring. “Oh, I can assure you: we’re not going back to any of that.”

  Stuart struggled. “Of what?”

  Elaine glared at him. “The boys’ club approach.”

  “Precisely,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel. “We now have procedures that meet the all the requirements of public appointments. There will be an outside assessor. Then the position will be advertised.”

  “Where?” asked Stuart.

  “On the noticeboard,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel.

  Stuart raised an eyebrow. “What about people from out-side . . . ?”

  “Not eligible,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel abruptly. “This is a category A position. Category A positions are not advertised outside the civil service, as per the relevant agreement.”

  “With whom?” asked Stuart.

  All three women stared at him.

  “With the relevant union,” answered the Supreme Head of Personnel.

  Stuart sat back in his chair. “I see. And the outside assessor? How is he chosen?”

  “She,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel.

  Stuart corrected himself. “How’s she chosen?”

  “I’ve made an appointment,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel. “Under the terms of the relevant regulation.”

  “Are we allowed to ask who it is?” asked Stuart.

  “No,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel. “Now, on to the procedures themselves. There will be an initial declaration for you all to sign. This will ask certain questions, including one as to where you heard about the vacancy.”

  Stuart thought of his conversation with Morrison. Would he have to disclose that? “I heard about it on the grapevine,” he said.

  The Supreme Head of Personnel bristled. “That’s not what we’re after, Mr. Pollock. In fact, that’s exactly the sort of thing we’re trying to get beyond – the cosy passing on of information about these opportunities.”

  “Well said,” said Elaine. “We need to expose that sort of thing.”

  Stuart turned to face her. “Where did you hear of it then?”

  Elaine was momentarily taken aback, and Stuart pressed his advantage. “From a friend?”

  Elaine exchanged a glance with the Supreme Head of Personnel. Unknown to Stuart, she had heard from the Supreme Head of Personnel herself, who had telephoned her at home to pass on the news.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel. “And I’ll regard the question as not having been asked.”

  “But it was,” said Stuart. “I asked it.”

  The Supreme Head of Personnel ignored this. “Now, there’s another aspect of the process,” she said. “The resumé. As you know, we’ll be following the new form. We don’t want personal details of a sort that would enable favouritism to be exercised. So we don’t want any names on the resumé itself – just a number. And we want no details of schools or universities attended.”

  Stuart sighed. “So no reference to qualifications?”

  The Supreme Head of Personnel shook her head. “None. We are seeking to avoid networking.”

  Stuart sighed again. “Surely it will be rather hard for the Board to make a decision if they don’t know anything about any of the candidates, such as their educational qualifications, their experience, their gender . . . ”

  “Oh, that must be revealed,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel.

  Stuart nodded. “Of course.”

  “And there’s an interesting new requirement,” continued the Supreme Head of Personnel. “Every candidate must write a short paper – not more than two thousand words – on their vision for the job.”

  Stuart frowned. “Our vision for the job?”

  “How you see the job as an opportunity to carry forward departmental objectives,” explained the Supreme Head of Personnel.

  “It’s not novel. And it’s useful for us to know in advance what the successful candidate thinks she will do with the job.”

  Stuart raised a finger.

  “Yes, Mr. Pollock?”

  “What she will do with the job?” he said quietly.

  The Supreme Head of Personnel looked puzzled. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  Stuart closed his eyes. “I see,” he said. “You haven’t already decided who’s going to get this?” he asked, and then added, quickly and apologetically, “Just wondering.”

  “Of course not,” said the Supreme Head of Personnel. “And, frankly, I’m surprised that you would ask such a question.”

  The meeting came to an end. As he returned to his office, Stuart was aware that someone was pursuing him down the corridor. He turned around and saw that it was Elaine.

  “I want you to know,” she said as she caught up with him. “I want you to know that even if this whole process is stacked against us, neither Faith nor I will hold anything against you.”

  Stuart caught his breath. “Stacked against you?”

  “Yes,” said Elaine. “We know what men are capable of.”

  Stuart could barely believe what he was hearing. “But there aren’t any men involved in the whole thing,” he stuttered. “It’s all women, as far as I can see.”

  Elaine smiled. “On the surface,” she said. “But the underlying patriarchy’s still there.”

  Stuart stared at her. Within him, deep within him, something snapped.

  “I think you are seriously deluded,” he said. “I think you’re paranoid.”

  Elaine stopped in her tracks. “You’ve seriously compromised my personal space,” she said, her voice filled with venom. “If I chose to make an issue of this you’d be suspended, you know.”

  “Oh, do shut your face,” said Stuart.

  Elaine screamed. Stuart stared at her. He felt a curious sense of detachment – of freedom.

  “Do you realise how ghastly you are?” he said.

  Elaine gasped. “You hateful . . . ” She struggled to find the right words. “You hateful, hateful . . . ”

  Stuart tried to help her. “Hateful man? Yes, I’m a man. I can’t help it. I was born that way and that’s what I am. I know I’m inferior. I know I’m no longer needed, but that’s what I am, for better or worse, a man.”

  Elaine shook her head. Approaching him, she whispered her warning. “Start the count-down, Stuart. Start the count-down to your early retirement – very early retirement.”

  Silk Sheets

  Big Lou’s day had begun at six. It had been that way, summer and winter, for as long as she could remember. At Snell Mains, the mixed arable and stock farm on which she had been born and spent her childhood, the idea of staying in bed once you had awoken was anathema. Lying in bed was what lazy people did – people who lived in towns and cities, who had no cows to milk, no chickens to feed, no sheepdogs to let out of their kennels. Such people could lie in bed until unheard-of hours – eight o’clock, in extreme cases – listening to the radio or even drinking tea, leaving other people to do all the work that honest people from places like Angus and Aberdeenshire were up and about doing.

  At the age of eight, Big Lou had been taken to Dundee by a favourite aunt. After they had finished
their shopping, they had gone into a cinema where she had sat through a parental-guidance-rated film. She had been thrilled at the maturity implicit in being allowed to see such a film, even if the aunt had whispered to her at one or two points that she should avert her eyes. Big Lou had complied, to an extent, clasping her hands firmly over her eyes but discreetly peeking through her fingers at what was happening on the screen. It was nothing exciting, as far as she could make out, but it did show a woman – a well-known actress of whom her aunt had often talked, slightly disapprovingly – lying in a bed with silken sheets. Lou had concluded that this was the part of the film that was viewed as unsuitable for children – the main offence being that the woman in question was lying in bed after six o’clock.

  On the way back to Arbroath, Lou said, “Auntie, that woman in the film . . . ”

  “That well-kent one? That Madame Bovary? Aye, what of her?”

  “She was a bad woman, wasn’t she?”

  The aunt had considered her response. “Definitely bad, Lou dearie. And she got what was coming to her.”

  “She had that bed with silk sheets . . . Are there fowk who really have silk sheets?”

  The aunt did not hesitate. “Aye, there are fowk like that, Lou. Not here in Arbroath, though, thank the Lord.”

  “Where, auntie? Where do they have these silk sheets? Edinburgh?”

  The aunt nodded. “Edinburgh’s one such place. There’s a gae lot of that doon there, I think.”

  “And they don’t get up til . . . ”

  “Til all hours of the forenoon,” supplied the aunt. “Some of them stay in bed until the efternoon, would you believe it?”

  “Til the efternoon!”

  “Aye,” said the aunt. “But they get what’s coming to them, sure enough.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Lord punishes them. He has a list, you see, of fowk like that. He sorts them out soon enough, don’t you worry.”

  That attitude to sluggardly behaviour set Lou in good stead during the time she spent working at the Granite Nursing Home in Aberdeen. In all her years there, she was never late for work – not on a single occasion – and never objected to the early shift. Her loyalty to the home was to be spectacularly rewarded when one of the inmates, a man of considerable means, had left Lou his entire estate “in gratitude,” as his will put it, “for all she has done for me and other unfortunates, for the heart of gold that beats within her.”