Eight
Sunday, September 13 ‘Better to be the head of a cat than the tail of a lion.’
BEFORE HE WAS FULLY awake, Qwilleran had a flashback to his early boyhood: walking home from first grade with his friend, Archie… both watching the sidewalk to avoid stepping on cracks… both spotting a lucky penny and grabbing for it… fighting about the penny until Archie’s mother told them about joint ownership… after which they took turns carrying the penny in a pocket. In a few seconds the film of memory had faded, and he was wide awake.
Why, he asked himself, had this fragment of ancient history raced through his mind? Then he remembered the penny he had found on the parking lot and had put in his pocket simply to please Mildred. Where was it now?… When Qwilleran went down the ramp to start the coffeemaker, Koko was sitting on the library table not waiting for the phone to ring but guarding the spalted maple box. Of course! That was where he had put the penny the night before. Did Koko know he was wondering about it? Was he mind-reading again?
“You rascal!” Qwilleran said. “I wish you’d learn to speak English.”
Then he remembered the cat’s tour de force with the paper towels. “What was that all about, young man?”
Koko scampered to the feeding station in the kitchen and waited confidently for his plate to be filled.
Later in the day Qwilleran drove to Indian Village to pick up Polly for the Scottish Gathering. In this rustic residential complex the trees were turning gold, making a striking background for the stained cedar buildings. There were fourplex apartments, a clubhouse, and clusters of condos along the Ittibittiwassee River. Four in a cluster, they were named The Birches, The Oaks, and so forth. Polly had a unit in The Willows and so did Qwilleran, although he occupied it only in winter, when the barn’s cavernous spaces were hard to heat and its half-mile of driveway was blocked with snowdrifts. Indian Village might be in the country, but the county kept the roads clear, because many influential persons lived there. Another occupant of The Willows was Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist; the Cavendish sisters had recently moved to Ittibittiwassee Estates, and their unit, adjacent to Polly’s, was vacant, causing her concern. The walls of the condos were thin, and noisy neighbors could be a problem.
Polly was waiting. She and Qwilleran exchanged pleasantries with the cats and then set off for the fairgrounds, both wearing their kilts, white shirts, and the Glengarry cap that had become unisex headgear.
“Lovely evening last night,” she said.
“Very enjoyable.”
“Any idea why Koko rampaged with the paper towels?”
“He was expressing himself.”
“Carol Lanspeak called yesterday, but I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night. It’s about her lovely collection of French perfume bottles in the powder room. Her housekeeper has found two missing two of the nicest. Apart from me, the only one to use the powder room was Delacamp’s niece.”
“I went in there to look at the collection,” Qwilleran said.
“Yes, but you’re not a suspect.”
“Has Carol reported it?”
“No, it was too petty an incident, compared to subsequent happenings… And now for the good news. This morning I met my new neighbor. He’s an antiquarian bookdealer from Boston!”
“You couldn’t ask for a quieter neighbor.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Does he know he’s moving to Little Antarctica?”
“He’s a native of Moose County. He’s returning home.”
“Is he interested in winter sports? They’re trying to start a curling club.”
“I spoke to him only briefly, but I’m really excited about having a rare book collector next door.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He too was a collector of old books, but they were not rare just secondhand. He said, “I bought a book from Eddington’s this week something I’ve always wanted to read. In pretty good condition for the price. Three dollars.”
“What’s the title?”
“Twenty questions.” It was a game they often played with book titles.
“Nineteenth century?”
“Yes.”
“Fiction?”
“No.”
“Male author?”
“No.”
“Was she American?”
“No.”
“British?”
“Yes.”
“Did she also write novels?”
“Yes.”
“Has any one of them been made into a film?”
“It’s safe to say… no.”
“Is the book you found… poetry?”
“No.”
“Biography?”
“No.”
“History?”
“No.”
“Hmmm… I’m not doing very well, am I?… Was her work popular in her time?”
“Rephrase the question.”
“Was the book you bought popular in England?”
“Yes.”
“In America?”
“No.”
“Ah!” Polly said with a look of discovery. “How many questions do I have left?”
“Plenty.” Qwilleran could tell by her attitude that the game was lost.
“Was it a book of travel?”
“Yes.”
“Is she known today for something other than her writing?”
“Yes.”
“Was she the mother of a famous author?”
“Yes.”
“Was his first name Anthony?”
“Yes.”
“Did their last name begin with T?”
“Congratulations!” Qwilleran said. “Mrs. Trollope’s Domestic Manners of the Americans, published in 1832.”
“I’ve never read it,” Polly admitted, “but I know she disliked Americans, their manners, their principles, and their opinions. It should be fun to read.”
At the scene of the Gathering Qwilleran and Polly climbed to the top of the bleachers to ensure the best view.
First there were the marching bands, featuring bagpipes and drums and representing the counties of Lockmaster and Bixby. “The very sound of a bagpipe-and-drum band makes me teary-eyed with Scottish pride,” Polly said.
Qwilleran admitted that he liked the sound but was not moved to tears. “Probably because I’m only half Scottish. I’m assuming that my father was a Dane, basing the assumption on the Qw spelling and my fondness for Danish pastry.”
When the first skirling bagpipes and beating drums were heard, however, a chill ran down his spine. Eight ranks of men and women in colorful tartan garb marched in precise formations while playing Scotland the Brave. The spectators rose to their feet.
Then came the dancers, performing the Highland Fling and Sword Dance on portable stages while musicians bowed their fiddles in a frenzy. Young women in Highland dress bounced on the balls of their feet, their pleated kilts swirling.
Polly said, “O to be twenty years old and weightless!”
The traditional kicks and turns and arm positions were done with micrometric exactness.
“They dance on a dime and do it without looking!” she cried in amazement.
In the Sword Dance they bounced between the crossed blades without touching steel. When they danced in a line of three or four, their gyrations were synchronized right down to a heartbeat.
There was only one male dancer. In announcing his solo, the master of ceremonies said that Highland dancing was originally an athletic challenge for men, requiring both skill and endurance.
Qwilleran said to Polly, “Do you know the bozo who won the gold medal for the caber toss?”
“I’m afraid not. I know several John Campbells, but none could toss anything heavier than a horseshoe.”