The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [47]
‘So the Edinburgh clubs went more or less underground. How many people, for instance, know about the Monks of St Giles?’
Matthew looked blank. ‘I don’t.’
Angus lowered his voice. ‘The Monks of St Giles is a club. It still exists – still meets. They give themselves Latin names and they meet and compose poetry. They even have a clubhouse, but I’m not going to tell you where it is. Some very influential people are members. And it sounds terrific fun, since they wear robes, but there’d be such a fuss if word got out. Can you imagine the prying, humourless journalists who would love to have a go at them? I can. Composing poetry in private! Not the sort of thing we want in an inclusive Scotland, where everybody will have to be able to read everybody else’s poetry!
‘Have you seen the Archers? That’s another club. They’ve got a clubhouse too. Over near the Meadows. They call it their Hall, which is rather a nice name for a clubhouse. They’re frightfully grand, and I’d like to know how you become a member. Can you apply? If not, why not? But we shouldn’t really ask that sort of question. Why can’t these people get on with their private fantasies without being taken to task for being elitist or whatever the charge would be? Or for not having female monks, or whatever? Women are fully entitled to their secret societies, Matthew, and have them, in this very city. Have you heard of the Sisters of Portia, which is for women lawyers? Virtually all the women lawyers in Edinburgh belong to that, but they don’t let on, and they certainly wouldn’t let men have a men-only legal club. Can you imagine the fuss? Of course, some of them say that men used to have a male-only club called the Law Society of Scotland, but I don’t think that’s funny, Matthew. Do you? The Sisters of Portia are every bit as fishy as the Freemasons, if you ask me. They give one another a professional leg-up and they close ranks at the drop of the hat. Or the Red Garter, which is a club that meets every month in the Balmoral Hotel. That’s for women in politics, except for Conservatives, who aren’t allowed. And most of the women politicians are in it, but nobody lets on, and they even deny it exists if you ask.
‘I haven’t mentioned the most secretive one of all. That’s a strictly women’s club called the Ravelston Dykes. They meet every other week in Ravelston. But let’s not even think of them, Matthew. They’re fully entitled to exist and have a bit of fun. If only they’d extend us the same courtesy.
‘And then there’s another society which is said to have survived from the eighteenth century and which meets by candlelight on Wednesday evenings. The thing about that one, Matthew, is that it doesn’t actually exist! Every so often, people make a fuss about it, but the truth of the matter is that it’s entirely fictional! But I’m not concerned with apocryphal clubs like that one; I want to tell you about the club that we ended up going to that night. And it was far from apocryphal!’
Matthew looked encouragingly at Angus. He enjoyed listening to these strange accounts of Edinburgh institutions, but he was keen for Angus to get on to the point of the story. What sort of club was it that he and his friend were taken to that night? Was it a reincarnation of the Beggar’s Benison? Surely not something so lewd as that. Edinburgh, after all, was a respectable city, and whatever the eighteenth century had been like, the twenty-first was certainly quite different.
He looked at Angus. Such an unreconstructed man, he thought; it’s surprising that he hasn’t been taken to task, or even fined, for the things he says.
32. Relative Warmth for the Ice Man
Angus continued the story of his meeting with Big Lou’s friend and his friends in the Captain’s Bar.
‘As we