“You said that it was like cutting off a dead branch, noisome with fungus and riddled with worms. You said that the decline of England began with the Act of Union.”
“Did I say all that?” asked Matlock as if surprised. “Perhaps I was a bit extreme. I do recall, however, saying that if we looked at the European boundaries of the Roman Empire, we would see to this very day the boundaries of civilization. The barbarians are beyond. I see no reason here to change my opinions.”
McDonwald’s large fist crashed into his rib-cage just below his heart. The red beard thrust close to Matlock’s face as he leaned forward in pain, and the harsh voice hissed fiercely, “Don’t try to be bloody English with me, Matlock. I’ll have a drop of your blood with every drop of your bloody false condescension.”
“What makes you call it false?” gasped Matlock.
“That,” said McDonwald, repeating the blow.
It took Matlock longer to recover this time. Even now he felt the same stupid urge to counter with some ironical comment but held his tongue. Two punches from this man were enough. And in addition Ossian was beginning to stir.
“What else do you want?” he croaked.
“That’s better. Much more sensible,” said the Scot. “Matlock, I’m not sure how much you know, how much you’re just a pawn. I could find out or Ossian here could find out for me. But this much is certain, you’re very important to a lot of people. And if you’re important to them, you’re important to me. So listen Matlock. It doesn’t matter much whether you have power, or are having power thrust upon you, or even if you’re just the bloody messenger boy. No insurrection in the North can succeed without us. That much is certain. You’ve come to us for aid enough already. Now, if you want our help, you’ll do things our way. Understand? I said I don’t like yoù, Matlock, but I think you’re a man I can deal with. I want to see that Bible-weevil cracked open before we move another step. Then we can get down to some serious talking.”
Matlock shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice he tried to keep quietly sincere, “I just don’t understand.”
“Don’t play with me, Matlock. I’m offering you the Governorship of the Northern Counties when this thing comes off. You’ve got a big organization there, but there are too many groups; it’s too bitty. They’ll be at each other’s throats sooner or later unless there’s a top man. That’s you. You’ve got the name, got the reputation. You just need the organization. That’s me.”
Matlock rose to his feet and took a couple of steps towards the grotesque figure of Ossian who had now raised himself up on his elbow and glared balefully up at his attacker. The blood on his neck was beginning to congeal, so obviously (more’s the pity, thought Matlock) no major vein had been severed. As the man moved his head, the light struck off several minute fragments of crystal still set in the brown band which wound over his face. The effect was rather pretty in a way. But not in any way that brought present comfort to Matlock.
“Listen McDonwald,” he said. “I’m not being funny, nor even particularly evasive. I’ve had a long, hard trying day. I need time to digest both your drink and your offer. I must have more details, more information. And I would prefer to continue our talks out of the company of this creature.”
The Scot came towards him and he stepped back instinctively expecting another blow on the chest. It was not offered, but Ossian suddenly grappled with his left leg. Fortunately he had made his effort before he had fully recovered his strength and Matlock had no difficulty in keeping his balance and bringing his right leg round with a vicious kick to the stomach. The servant groaned bubblingly and subsided again.
“You’re not storing up riches in heaven, Matlock,” said McDonwald. “None the less, you may be right. Let it not be said that a McDonwald did not know how to treat a guest. You mentioned dinner before. Come away then and we’ll try to restore your precious equilibrium.”
“Lay on Macduff,” said Matlock with relief. “And damned be he that first cries, Hold! Enough!”
The Ambassador squinted at him suspiciously, then decided to accept the remark as a compliment and bellowing with laughter he led the way back along the corridor, turning into a more noble and dignified door which proved to open into the dining-room.
Matlock never forgot that dinner, though everything about it, from Freud’s theory of the selectiveness of memory to the alcoholic base of apparently every dish, seemed to consign it to oblivion.
There were two other guests — an Oriental from some anonymous Embassy who sat all night as inscrutably as folklore demanded, and another Scot whose status was not revealed. He was a small wiry man who looked as if he was used to the outdoor life. His face was brown with the blowing of winds, not the bombardment of infra-red from artificial suns which Matlock had seen on Browning. Only a curious hollow on his right temple, as if the bone had been crushed in, had proved impervious to the blast of weather, and the skin in the nadir of this cavity gleamed palely.
No introductions were made, not even to the small impressively still woman who sat at the foot of the long polished table and whom he assumed to be McDonwald’s wife. She it was who by small gestures of the fingers of her left hand controlled the entrance and exit of the courses. McDonwald’s part seemed to be to produce drink which he did in profusion, not letting himself be confined by any jingoistic considerations. Matlock at one stage found his plate surrounded by half a dozen glasses including one of Tokay and one of Danish Lager, almost as rare in these insular days. He could not have survived the meal had not McDonwald followed his frequent toasts by hurling his glass into the fireplace. Matlock followed suit with enthusiasm. He was sitting at the west side of the table (he gauged north by the direction in which his host normally turned when toasting Scotland) and the fireplace was on the east side of the room. His glasses had to be hurled across the table between the Oriental and the other Scot and Matlock’s half-full glasses spattered them as they passed. Neither moved.
Somewhere along the trail of courses a piper had appeared and was walking majestically round the room playing a music whose few tonal variations did not seem to correspond with any known melodic system.
“Is he miming to a record?” Matlock asked very clearly but no one seemed to understand him. McDonwald probably did not even hear him as he was on his feet again proposing another toast to the Immortal Memory. Matlock joined in. His glass took a small nick out of the Oriental’s left ear as it whistled towards the fireplace. Smiling, the man rose, bowed politely to each member of the company and left. As he did so the panelled wall at the north end of the room folded smoothly back, the piper stopped playing, a trio of two violins and an accordian struck up in his place and the long polished floor revealed by the removal of the wall was invaded by eight kilted men.
They began to dance. They danced lightly, athletically, with muscular grace. Matlock was enchanted. The Scot with the hole in his head disturbed his concentration by thrusting another drink into his hand. He tried to put it away from him, but the man insisted. Finally he tossed it down for the sake of peace.
It bubbled down his throat and into his stomach. For a second he felt very sick, then it passed and he was cold sober.
“Now,” said McDonwald who did not seem to need any artificial restoratives, “perhaps we can talk.”
In fact it was McDonwald who talked, for which Matlock was very grateful. His sobriety was confined to his immediate neighbourhood. Outside a circle of about six feet in radius from his mind, everything was still gloriously, drunkenly hazy. He watched this boundary with suspicion while McDonwald rambled on, with what sounded like an official lecture on Scottish History since Secession.