It was January 25, and Qwilleran phoned the public library. While waiting to be connected with the chief librarian, he could visualize her in her glass cubicle on the mezzanine, reigning like a benevolent despot over the paid staff, the unpaid volunteers, and the obedient subscribers who never, never brought food, beverages, radios, or wet boots into the building.
"Polly Duncan here," she said pleasantly.
"What's today's date?" he asked, knowing she would recognize his voice.
"January twenty-fifth. Is it significant?"
"Birthday of Robert Burns. Tonight's the night! Point of no return!"
Gleefully she exclaimed, "It's Scottish Night! You're going to wear your kilt! I wish I could see you before you leave. What time is the dinner?"
"I leave at six-thirty, with trepidation," he admitted.
Polly said she would stop on her way home from work, to bolster his courage.
Qwilleran was allowing two hours to dress for Scottish Night at the men's lodge. He fed the cats early, then disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door. There he faced the unfamiliar trappings: the pleated kilt, the sporran, the flashes, the bonnet, the dubh. Bruce Scott, owner of the men's store, had told him the evening would be informaclass="underline" no Prince Charlie coatees, no fur sporrans, and no fringed plaids thrown over the shoulder and anchored with a poached egg. Bruce had sold him a leather sporran and a correct pair of brogues and had given him a booklet to read.
The trick, according to the helpful text, was to develop an attitude of pride in one's hereditary Scottish attire. After all, Qwilleran's mother had been a Mackintosh, and he had seen movies in which the kilt was worn by brave men skilled with the broadsword.
With this attitude firmly in place, Qwilleran strapped himself into what the dictionary called "a kind of short pleated petticoat." His kilt had been custom-tailored from eight yards of fine worsted in a rich red Mackintosh tartan. On this occasion, it would be worn with a white turtleneck and bottlegreen tweed jacket, plus matching green kilt-hose and red flashes. "Not flashers," Bruce had cautioned him. These were tabs attached to the garters that held up the kilt-hose - a small detail but considered vital by the storekeeper and the author of the booklet. The kilt itself had to end at the top of the kneecap and could not be an eighth-of-an-inch longer. The leather sporran hung from a leather belt.
Then there was the bonnet. Qwilleran's was a bottlegreen Balmoral - a round flat cap worn squarely on the forehead, with a slouchy crown pulled down rakishly to the right. It had a ribbon cockade above the left temple, a pom-pom on top, and two ribbons hanging down the back. According to the booklet, they could be knotted, tied in a bow, or left hanging. He cut them off and hoped no one would notice.
Studying his reflection in the full- length mirror, Qwilleran thought, Not bad! Not bad at all! Meanwhile, the Siamese were out in the hall, muttering complaints about the closed door. After one last glance in the mirror, he opened the door abruptly. Both cats levitated in fright, turned to escape, collided headlong, and streaked down the stairs with bushy tails.
When Polly arrived, she was overwhelmed with delight. "Qwill!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "You look magnificent! So jaunty! So virile! But I do hope you're not going to catch cold in your bad knee, dear."
"No chance," he told her. "The parking lot's behind the lodge, and we duck into the rear entrance in bad weather. I won't need boots or earmuffs - just a jacket. Also, Bruce says the knee is all gristle and doesn't feel cold, as long as you're wearing good wool socks. That may be true, or he may be a good sock salesman. You wouldn't believe what I paid for these socks!"
She walked around him and noted the straight front of the kilt - a double panel wrapped left over right. "Why isn't it pleated all around?"
"Because I don't play in a marching band and I'm not going into battle. Ask me anything. I've read the book. I know all the answers."
"What's that odd thing in your sock?"
"A knife, spelled d-u-b-h and pronounced thoob. I can use it to peel an orange or spread butter."
"Oh, Qwill! You're in a playful mood tonight! Do I know you well enough to ask what you wear under the kilt?"
"You do! You do indeed! And I know you well enough not to answer. It's known as the mystique of the kilt, and I'm not going to be the first to destroy a centuries-old Arcanum arcanorum!"
Downtown Pickax was deserted except for men in kilts or tartan trews ducking into the back door of the lodge. Qwilleran showed his knife to the doorman and was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, who had invited him to be a guest. "I'll introduce you and mention your mother," he said. "What was her full name?"
"Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran."
Big Mac nodded. "Half my female relatives are named after Lady Anne. Let's go downstairs and look at the new exhibit."
The walls of the lower lounge were covered with maps, photographs of Scotland, and swatches of clan tartans. Qwilleran found the Mackintosh dress tartan, mostly red, and the Mackintosh hunting tartan, mostly green for camouflage in the woods. The majority of men were in kilts, and he felt comfortable among them.
Gil MacMurchie, the dowser, was wearing a lively Buchanan tartan. Qwilleran said to him, "I'm ready to buy your dirks, if you haven't sold them."
"They're still there." MacMurchie paused and looked down sadly. "But the one I was saving for myself was stolen."
"No! When?"
"While I was running those ads to sell my furniture and dishes and pots and pans. Strangers were traipsing through the house, some of them just nosey, and I couldn't keep an eye on all of them."
"Did you report it to the police?"
"Oh, sure, and after Lois's boy was arrested, I went to the station to see if my dirk turned up in his locker, but it wasn't there."
"How ironic," Qwilleran said, "that the thief should take the one your wife gave you."
"The hilt was silver," MacMurchie said. "The others have brass hilts."
The wail of a bagpipe summoned them to the dining hall on the upper level, where the walls were hung with antique weaponry. As soon as everyone was seated at the large round tables, the double doors were flung open, and in came the police chief in kilt, red doublet, towering feather bonnet, and white spats. A veritable giant, he walked with a slow swagger as he piped the inspiring air "Scotland the Brave." The skirling of the pipes, the swaying of the pleated kilt, and the hereditary pride of the piper made an awesome sight. He was followed by a snare drummer and seven young men in kilts and white shirts, each carrying a tray. On the first was the celebrated haggis; on each of the other six was a bottle of Scotch.
Bagpipe, haggis, and Scotch circled the room twice. Then a bottle was placed on each table, and toasts were drunk to the legendary pudding, which was sliced and served. Diners guffawed while old haggis jokes were told. "Did you know the haggis is an animal with two short legs on one side, for running around mountains?"
Then dinner was served: Forfar bridies, taters and neeps, and Pitlochry salad. Big Mac said to Qwilleran "I hear you interviewed Gil for you column."
"Yes, but it can't run until I've seen a dowsing demonstration. When do you think snow will melt this year?"
"My guess is April. In 1982, it was all gone by March twenty-ninth, but that was a fluke. Last year the official meltdown was three-eighteen p.m. on April fourth. My backyard was the Secret Site.
Every year the Moose County Something invited readers to guess the exact minute when the last square inch of snow would disappear from a Secret Site, usually someone's backyard. It was considered an honor, and the property owner was sworn to secrecy.