Excerpts

Kilt in the Closet

‘Sat around the table, Gregor had quizzed Wendy as to what Melbourne was like as a city. He had a mind to visit it on his inevitable trip to the east. As she was explaining why she liked living there so much, she suddenly mentioned,“Of course, Richard has never been to Melbourne.”
“Yes he has,” Gregor intoned and received a violent kick on his shins for his trouble. “Ouch,  what did you do that for?”“Sorry, a sudden cramp. No, no I have never been to Melbourne.” Birdie stated with hissing meaningfulness and an intense glare at Gregor.It suddenly dawned on Gregor that he was not to reveal the Sparrow visit to Melbourne because it was too embarrassing to him.The sorry tale of Richard Sparrow’s sudden trip to Melbourne had been related to Gregor some weeks previously. The Birdie had been one of the groomsmen at a ‘weeding’ (“weeding’ being the Kiwi word for ‘wedding’} in his home town of Ashburton on the South Island of New Zealand. Drink had been consumed and as the evening had moved forward, his mates had come up with the plan to have a whip round and put the drunken ‘birdman’ on a flight to Australia. Richard had woken up in an airport lounge, assumed he was at Christchurch Airport, walked outside and hailed a taxi cab.“Take me to Ashburton,” he told the driver, who had never heard of it. After a lengthy explanation to the driver, Richard was questioned.“Where do you think you are, mate? No, you’re not in  Christchurch, you’re in Melbourne, ”  and with emphasis, “in the beautiful state of Victoria in Australia.”Richard had been stuck with no money for three days over the Christmas holidays. Of course he did not want his new girlfriend to know about this escapade even though it had been in his distant past.”

 One morning a beautiful crisp winter’s day arrived at the same time as I had two days off. Azure, sunny skies glistened from the glittering white which lay silent and glorious on the mountain tops a few miles to the East. The conditions looked perfect. I was keen to get up there to ski. But, dear friends, there is a fickleness about skiing in Scotland not always present in many other resorts. The ski hill was closed. Most of the 3,500 to 4,000 foot peaks of the Cairngorms are treeless, windswept, heather-clad barriers to cold North winds with not much other than a Faeroe, a Shetland or an Orkney island lying between them and the Arctic. So it was a frustrating experience to see perfect snow, in itself rare, and find that the lifts were closed. A blizzard on the day before had caused the mountain road up to the ski lifts to be blocked.  3 pounds & 40 pence per day was being offered for casual labourers to go up and dig out the road. I jumped at the chance for such unexpected riches.

    The works’ bus dropped us at the foot of the hill with spades, pick axes, shovels, barrows basically any sharpish implement which could be wielded. I was young. I had strength. I enjoyed physical work. So I attacked the snow with vigour but with little science and no system. Monty was working alongside me. He was a full time employee of ‘The Hill’. He saw my sweated efforts and was not impressed. With others he quietly organized  barrowing and dumping so that a regular rhythm and method would see systematic progress. It was slow and steady and the impatience of youth reached lunchtime with seemingly no significant progress. Meanwhile Loch Morlich below us was so obviously a solid plate of ice. As we worked 2,000 feet above it, the snow and ice was getting harder and harder to move.

       As the afternoon rolled forwards, my youthful enthusiasm began to wane. I sweated in the cold, Monty did not. He plodded methodically. He was a silent companion, a man of few words, a toiler for the week, his full-time job, my weekend pastime. There were other casual workers there with us, mostly students, mostly possessed with the same wish to see the road clear and the ski hill open. Monty dug and shoveled, picked and cleared and uttered never a word. Eventually one of the younger members of the crew flung down his spade, wiped the sweat from his brow and sat on a lump of ice. His frustration was evident.

“Monty,” He tried to attract his attention. Monty paused and leaned on his shovel.

“Aye”.

“Don’t we have a snow blower?”

“Aye,”

“Well, where is it?”

“We’re digging for it.”

 “Reading between the lines, listening between the lines.” — Robert Ludlum

Chapter 3: Demons and Deceit

Monica and Doddie arrived at the station to find it in a buzz of activity. People were walking and talking with purpose, and there was an intensity about the computer activity which befitted the beginning of a murder investigation. Doddie almost collided with ‘Bampot’ Brodie as they came through the doors onto the main floor.

“Is Barney Rubble here?” asked Monica.

“Aye. He’s in his office. Just got in ahead of you.”

They knocked on his door, and a voice beckoned them in. They entered but could not see anybody. They looked around and suddenly heard a chant emanating from behind his desk. On peering around the edge, they found their boss in the lotus position.

“Helps me think,” he said as he unravelled himself.

“We’ve come to get our badges back, Boss,” Monica spoke.

“Help me up, Detective Inspector.”

Doddie reached down and grabbed his outstretched arm. He groaned as Doddie pulled and fell back down again. Monica raced in and grabbed the other arm, and both pulled him upright. As soon as he was standing, he groaned some more and put both his hands on his hips as he eased himself into a more upright position. He grimaced and grunted. “Yoga keeps you supple and flexible. You should both try it.”