The Interview

“B; my dear chap....”

Andrew’s massive hand reached out and casually crushed mine. 

“So good of you to come.  Let me introduce the rest of us – no, no; first let me give you a snifter”.

A large tumbler of golden life was pushed across the table in front of me.  I eyed it, hoping my hand might recover consciousness enough to lift it in the next few minutes.  The introductions were made.  To the casual observer, here were eight City types meeting in one of those old fashioned City restaurants that in truth survive more from the tourist business than the bowler hat business.  But beneath the pinstriped uniforms lurked the terrible truth – this was Andrew McTavish’s Scottish shooting syndicate; and your nervous and trembling correspondent, surreptitiously shaking his hand behind his back in the hope of restoring some circulation, was here in hope of chumming in to said syndicate and thus some fine shooting in dearest Albion.

“We should go to the table.  Drink up B.  Not like you to hold back from finest Talisker"

It was obvious that the rest of the syndicate, Andrew’s old lags, had been here a brace of doubles earlier than me, presumably to dissect my character and parse my reputation.  But as I downed the Isle of Skye’s finest product, it was also obvious that my brace of doubles was all in the same glass.  I had a momentary sensation of being hit by a tank and my hand came suddenly back to full functionality.

The little procession proceeded across the dining room with some impressed looking tourist types gawking at us.  No doubt, next week they would be telling the folks back in Hicksville, Wisconsin, (population: 1,926) that they had dined in the presence of the Governor and Court of the Bank of England.  Andrew directed us to our places with him in the middle, and me next to him.

“Now, B, we know your taste for all things Italian...” - much guffawing from those present who had obviously received a full briefing on various complications arising on a business trip to Milan a few years before, complications at the expense of yours truly but instigated by Andrew whose recommended Milan nightspot had turned out to be even more dubious than the quality of bonds he flogged to widows and orphans to earn the crust.

“...For all things Italian, so I ordered a rather jolly Barolo for tonight.”  Indeed he had.  There was a uncorked bottle at each place, together with a massive balloon glass.

“But first we traditionally wash down the salmon with a further soupcon of Talisker”.  A tray of overfilled golden tumblers appeared and were distributed amongst those present.  “Sláinte!”  He drained the glass at one flourish.

More training should have made for this event.  I operated the glass and had an odd sensation of the tank backing up over me.

What the loyal reader will be expecting now is an insight into Scottish shooting, tales of glens full of whirring pheasants and vast moors trembling with eager grouse, the craic at the lodge in the evening, the exuberance of the ghillies and their bonnie lasses at post shooting balls.

But, I am sorry to say, all this has passed unremarked into the highland mist of memory.  I do recall another pair of bottles of the Barolo appearing and Andrew’s vast hand knocking one over so that it poured over Gregor sitting opposite.  “Christ!” exclaimed Andrew, “That’s a calamity, it’s drinking so well”.

And I recall Philip rising incredibly slowly to his feet and announcing:  “I am going outside, and may be some time”, before turning, and with great dignity, one tartan brace hanging to the floor, disappearing out of the room.

“He nicked that line from somewhere” said the alarmingly red faced broker opposite me, “was it Robert Louis Stephenson?”

But we resume the narrative with my Blackberry ringing in my ear; with me finding it in my jacket breast pocket which I was surprised to find under my head; and most unexpectedly of all, with my slow dawning awareness that I was in the guest room bed, fully dressed , down to and including my brogues.  An uneasy feeling began to grow that Mrs B was (a) probably aware of this; and (b) probably not totally happy about it.

The noise of the phone continued and by a process of thoughtful reasoning it occurred to me to answer it:

“Hullo?” (groan)

“Morning B!”

“Oh lawks.  Morning Andrew.  What time is it?”

“6.49 old boy; just going to the Savoy for breakfast, then off home to bed. Care to join us for haggis and egg?”

I thought not.

“Having fun elsewhere, old boy?  What a hound dog you are, B.  Anyway, thought I would let you know you are in the syndicate, you’re just the sort of eighth man we are looking for. Though you been kind enough to pick up last night’s bill did help.  Much appreciated by us all.  See you at Cally Lodge in October”