10

Tribal Markings

While Matthew and Big Lou engaged in these preliminary exchanges at the counter, at the back of the café, seated at a table directly in front of the window giving onto the shared green, were two men in their mid-forties. They were smartly dressed in grey, pin-stripe suits, one suit being slightly darker than the other, although both disclosed an attention to cut. The tie that each wore revealed, to any experienced spotter of such plumage, the wearer’s institutional affiliations. Ties, for men, can be a tribal marking, as clear in their statement as any system of facial tattooing to be found in Polynesia. A tie can demonstrate the wearer’s preferred sport, his education, and, in the case of politicians, his party membership and position on the left-right spectrum. A deep red tie indicates uncompromising attachment to socialism, while a tie of a lighter red is a sure sign of the left-centrist; a tie shading into pink may be making a different statement altogether. A navy blue tie is an indication of bone-deep conservatism, while one that is sky-blue will proclaim a more liberal disposition, yet still be a tie of the right. Green ties are worn by Greens – and are almost always recycled. There is a small but thriving industry that takes red, blue and yellow ties discarded by other politicians and dyes them before selling them to Greens. In Big Lou’s that morning, one tie, sported by the taller of the two, a man with a fine aquiline nose and a general air of distinction, even if faded, bore the motif of the Bank of Scotland; the other proclaimed, in bold silver and maroon stripes, membership of the Watsonian Rugby Club.

To the casual observer, these two would seem to be typical Edinburgh businessmen, one obviously employed by the Bank of Scotland, the other possibly a member of one of the law firms that had migrated from Charlotte Square to the financial quarter behind the old Caledonian Hotel. Such an observer, had he or she bothered to speculate, might suggest that their meeting would be the prequel to a larger meeting to take place at one of the banks or investment firms – an opportunity to discuss strategy or explore a position before the dynamics changed and people from London joined in the discussion.

Such an assessment would, of course, be wrong, as the look of concern on the face of one of these men, leading to a frown on the face of the other, was nothing to do with the vagaries of business affairs but had everything to do with the continuing difficulties of a voluntary association that was against its will being drawn into territory in which it would prefer to remain uninvolved.

The man wearing the Bank of Scotland tie was, in fact, a senior figure in Scottish Widows, a life assurance and pension company set up in 1815 to look after the female dependents of men who had lost their lives in the Napoleonic wars. He was a successful middle-level manager in a solid company, but that was by no means all that he was. In addition to his business role, he was the Chairman of the Association of Scottish Nudists, and his companion at the table, a partner in a firm of commercial property managers, was the Secretary of the Association. When they had both recently assumed office, neither had been aware of the looming crisis that now threatened to divide the Association. It was this crisis that had disturbed the sleep of the Chairman for the last two nights and had prompted him to telephone the Secretary with the suggestion that they meet for coffee and a chat at Big Lou’s. Big Lou’s was, in fact, convenient for both of them that day as they were both to attend an earlier meeting at the headquarters of the Association, which was only a few blocks west of Big Lou’s in Moray Place – an elegant Georgian circus looking in upon a sedate urban garden. The garden, with its shady canopy of trees and its well-kept paths, was a favourite haunt of members of the Association, and was the site of the well-attended annual Scottish Nudist Country Dance Weekend, an event coinciding with the main Edinburgh Festival each year and drawing its audience from all over the world.

The Chairman looked up at the ceiling, as if for guidance from some hidden oracle. “It’s very difficult to know what to do,” he remarked.

The Secretary nodded his agreement. “I feel as if we’re destined to lurch from crisis to crisis,” he said. “There was that entryism debacle a few years back – remember that? And I thought we’d got over that whole wretched business.”

“Just when you thought it safe to get back into the water…” mused the Chairman. It was a metaphorical observation, although even as he made it, the Chairman was reminded of the particular hazard that swimming now presented to Scottish nudists with the proliferation of jellyfish species along the West Coast of Scotland.

The entryism episode had been a bruising experience for Scottish nudists: a group of Glaswegian nudists, smouldering with resentment over Edinburgh domination of the committee, had plotted to take over the Association and all its assets. These attempts had required a quick response from the Edinburgh membership, and this defence had eventually succeeded. But it left bad feeling that had not been entirely dispelled and had, in fact, been fanned by the choosing at the last election of a committee made up exclusively of members from Edinburgh and its environs.

“What about us?” one of the Glasgow troublemakers had complained. “Do we count for nothing over here? What about Paisley? They have one of the most active memberships in the country and they don’t have a single voice on the council. Not one.”

The crisis had been weathered, and the committee was now hoping for a period of stability. But nobody on the committee had anticipated the consequences of appointing a new editor and editorial board to the Association’s bi-monthly magazine, The Scottish Naturist. This new editor, who had impressed the sub-committee set up to make the appointment, had seemed plausible enough. He had given an address in South Queensferry, and it had been assumed that this was where he came from. But that proved not to be the case. The editor, it transpired, was only staying for a few months with his sister-in-law in South Queensferry while his house was being renovated; his real address, disclosed nowhere on the application form, was in Pollokshields. And everybody knew that Pollokshields was in Glasgow.