The Philosophy of Pheasants!
I left school in 1970 at the age of 18. I first set foot into the real world with a façade of confidence, five years at boarding school having taught me how to conceal the real me. Through a variety of connections and youthful laziness, I managed to find a job as an hotel porter in the village of Aviemore, an outdoor resort in the Highlands of Scotland. The staff accommodation was excellent so it felt like I was back at boarding school. But the work force was far different from anything I had experienced before. Most of them were from Glasgow. They were definitely working class and had found it difficult to find work in their native city. The combination of alcohol and close living quarters often led to altercations of a physical variety, most of which I avoided.
In contrast the man who ran the stores was an upper class middle aged Cornishman called Arthur Trevenna. He seemed to be an anachronism in the hard bitten toughness of much of the workforce. One would have thought that this Englishman with the crystal glass accent would be roundly despised and mocked by his workmates. But Arthur had a way about him. Certainly he could walk with kings but he could talk with everybody. He was blessed with twinkling eyes and a weary wisdom. We all warmed to Arthur and, frequently he became our father confessor, our imparter of practical wisdom. I should mention here, Dear Reader, that Arthur had been a volunteer in the Spanish Civil War. I knew little of this precursor to World War II at the time but have since learned through reading George Orwell and Ernest Hemingway what a nasty little war it was.
Life at the hotel was fun. Carrying guests luggage up to their rooms, sticking Archie in the sauna because he had overindulged on his tips; helping Colin Campbell load his musical instruments and sound system back into the elevator because he had unloaded them on the 10th floor rather than the first. All the floors looked the same. Being offered 3 pounds 40 pence per day on my days off to clear snow off the road to the ski hill on Cairngorm . It was good to be young and healthy but, Dear Reader, I was so, so naïve that the worldly wise exploited my innocence with merciless mendacity
“You’re a pheasant plucker, Davidson.”
I was sat in a group in the staff dining room in the bowels of the hotel. I did not know how to react to this statement but, I felt, that in such company I should at least show that I was able to stand up for myself. I foolishly mounted my high horse, I took offence. Arthur had voiced this statement with his usual twinkle and his inkling of a smile. I took all by surprise by becoming red in the face, standing up and storming out of the lunch room. Well I sort of made a stand, Dear Reader, but hardly a glorious exit The quizzical looks of the group followed me on my way. Eventually laughter broke out as I exited. I spent the rest of the day inwardly upset and thinking how I should respond to this slur on my character, this verbal act of bullying.
A young long-haired fellow was in charge of the hotel plate wash. His name was Sinclair. I warmed to him. When I walked through the kitchens he would often be found chin on elbow resting on the metal work top waiting for the current batch of dishes to finish its cycle in his pal, Hobart. Hobart being the brand name of the dishwasher.
“Ye niver can hurry Hobart, laddie.”
I was always ‘laddie’ to him despite our closeness in age. I would always acknowledge him when I passed He would respond with a variety of incomprehensible grunted greetings, each of them unique.
“Correach aye, laddie”.
Working in the plate wash was neither challenging nor interesting, I guess that ‘Sinkie’ had to make his own entertainment. Over a pint one night I asked him how he had found a job in the Strathspey Hotel plate wash being as he was from some obscure corner of South-Western Argyllshire.
“Where else would ‘Sinkie’ Sinclair work, laddie?”
Amidst laughter from the gathering in the pub. I did not understand. I was a great deal slower in those days. A further example of Davidson missing the point. Hiding Archie in the sauna because he was too drunk to work was a plan to save Archie’s job but we who conceived it did not realise that we could have seen Archie off from something far worse than his job. Drunk man in the sauna, quick dehydration, sleeping in excessive temperatures could have resulted in Archie’s demise. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it, mes amis?
Dear Friends, I was used to living with others through my school experience. But my upbringing had been comfortably middle class. I had mixed with the rich and famous. Two actors sons, in the shape of Michael Wilding and Nick Hawkins. A royal from the kingdom of Brunei. Sammy Ashamu, son of a Nigerian magnate. And here I was with a variety of characters from some of the rougher estates of Glasgow. I don’t know whether or not I was a snob then. I do know that my every day was filled with uncertainty. How would they feel about this spoilt rich boy working with them? I need not have worried. I was accepted very quickly.
After about a day or so of angst, wondering how I would handle Arthur’s slur on my character, he called me over to join him for lunch. He looked me in the eye.
“We’re all laughing at you, Peter.”
I must have reddened again. He chuckled.
“What do you think, a pheasant plucker is?”
“Something not very nice,” I muttered.
“Oh Dear, Oh Dear. JJ come over here and explain it to the laddie.”
John Jordan one of the hotel waiters came over.
“Arthur called you a pleasant f _ _ _ er.”
And that, Dear Reader, was what might be called, if not a ‘teaching moment’ then certainly a learning one.
