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Thanks for visiting, but there's not much point to it at present: I'm in the process of eliminating this site and building a newer, better one. I haven't added anything to this page since 12 September, and don't anticipate doing anything further with it. But I will post directions to the new site once it is up and running.
www.bogwomen.com
I will begin with some background, which I originally posted shortly after my arrival in Carstairs (although I almost immediately began hanging out in Glen Lachart, which is much more interesting).
July 30 A packet of crisps was pinched from off the bonnet of an abandoned Vauxhall left at Mrs Aulde's, 13 Dolphin Crescent. Less immediate, but far more compelling, is the fact that I have uncovered news which is best headlined as AT YOUR CERVIX!!! or even WOMB WITH A VIEW!!! Mrs Aulde's deceased, Dr Aulde, appears to have had no credentials beyond a flimsy diploma issued by the OB/GYN division of the "Hollywood Upstairs College of Medical Knowledge," which was printed on the reverse of a handwritten recipe for mayonnaise chaud-froid. "Dr" Aulde, according to his widow, attended countless examinations and births, all of which now appear to be highly suspect and badly managed. I am by no means an officer of the court or anything like that, being a simple dance instructor and part-time chef, and having uncovered this shocking evidence singlehandedly, but I believe nonetheless that the evidence speaks for itself. I strongly encourage all Glen Lachartians to look twice, think twice, measure twice, and re-evaluate the situation at least twice before acting. PS and NB Before you go scouring yer maps looking for a Dolphin Crescent in Glen Lachart, let me clarify (cartography being one of my abiding interests): Mrs Aulde's guesthouse lies well outside of town, on the edge of Carstairs.
July 30 Apparently a badger or chinchilla, judging from the prints, liberated the aforementioned packet of crisps from the bonnet of Mrs Aulde's abandoned Vauxhall. The packet--crisps intact--was discovered beneath a hedgerow adjoining Mrs Aulde's semi-detached. The mystery of "Dr" Aulde's credentials, however, remains.
August 2 Subsequent sleuthing has revealed the true depth of "Dr" Aulde's perfidy. One hesitates to reveal too much in an insecure venue, but I will relate the following, and leave it at that until further evidence has accumulated to the point of being both compelling and convincing--which it is doing, and doing so at an alarming speed. "Dr" Aulde's childhood, in the otherwise unremarkable burgh of Auchter Mochtie, was defined by repeated episodes of head injury, bedwetting, animal torture, and arson. This evidence does not bode well for the deceased gynaecologist's reputation--nor for Glen Lachart's population of gullible women of child-bearing vintage. I am very grateful for any assistance with my ongoing enquiries.
August 4 One Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles)--former Glen Lachartian; current whereabouts unknown--is now key to my unravelling of "Dr" Aulde's nefarious snake-oilery. At the moment, I cannot say too much, in the interest of her privacy, but I beg: if any of you can assist me in my efforts to contact Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles), I implore you to contact me as soon as possible. In other news, Mr V J Surajprasad, of the Tellicherry Institute for Knee Wackling, will demonstrate the proper way to oil one's snake at the P&B Tuesday next. All donations will benefit the Mr V J Surajprasad Foundation for the Care and Betterment of Mrs V J Surajprasad. Meanwhile, the investigation continues . . . .
August 6 I am sorry to report that Mr V J Surajprasad's demonstration, scheduled at the P&B Tuesday next, has been cancelled--due not, as one might expect, to a lack of interest (which existed, but failed to gain the requisite critical mass in such a short time), but, instead, to the tragic demise of Mr V J Surajprasad: found hanging by his braces in Mrs Aulde's orangery. Suicide? Perhaps. But I have compelling reason to suspect the involvement of "Dr" Aulde and/or the Hollywood Upstairs College of Medical Knowledge. But that, for the time being, is my own cross to bear. We should, as a community, remember Mr V J Surajprasad and his unsurpassed contributions to the demanding fields of snake oiling and knee wackling. Memorial donations may be made, c/o yours truly, to the Mrs V J Surajprasad Foundation for the Timely Construction of a Presentable Pyre and Transportation thereof to the Ganges. Meanwhile, the dragnet widens in its search for Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles); I am still very desirous of any information leading me to her whereabouts. And to think it all began with pinched crisps! Ironic . . . .
August 7 much news--no time to write--shocking developments--pray for me--must run U beware the limping fishmonger!!!!!!
August 9 People of Glen Lachart: Thank you, first of all, for you support and kind words during the recent hubbub. Luckily, it is not difficult to stay one step ahead of a limping fishmonger. I have located Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles); she occupies a pretty plot at the Cambuskenneth Abbey cemetery. Pity. As "Dr" Aulde's former nurse, Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles) could have spilt many a bean. Mrs Aulde, meanwhile, has mysteriously developed a case of spontaneous senile dementia. I believe that she is bluffing; rather than confronting the awful truth about her dead husband, she has taken the route of denial. I have also learned that the Hollywood Upstairs College of Medical Knowledge no longer exists. It was co-opted by the frozen pie division of Yamaha Corp. in 1982, and converted to a lard-storage facility. I contacted the director emeritus of the college, however, and he related that he has no memory, knowledge, or physical record of anyone named Archibald Wilfred Aulde, or, for that matter, any Scottish persons, although he does recall having once seen a coed in a tartan blouse with a mandarin collar, muttonchop sleeves, shot cuffs, a profoundly darted midriff, and coconut shell buttons [entirely off the subject: it occurs to me that "buttons" is "snot tub" backwards. Coincidence???]. I will look into this catastrophe of fashion, but my expectations are not at a peak. Various Auchter Mochtie officials, both high and low (Auchter Mochtie being "Dr" Aulde's hometown), report that the entire Aulde family was marginally bonkers: beating each other up almost daily, dining on the neighbors' lupins, building "flying machines" in the lane, training the family cattle to respond to commands in demotic Latin, and hollering limericks while trampolining. These capers may well pass muster in Glesga, but raised more than a few eyebrows in quiet Auchter Mochtie. Enough for now; I will soon relate the harrowing tale of the limping fishmonger. Curiouser and curiouser.Thank you all for your interest and patience; herewith, your reward, the tale itself:
It began simply enough: I had gone to Stirling to visit the grave of Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles), at Cambuskenneth Abbey--mostly to assure myself that she is, indeed, dead. I had never been to the Abbey, and did not realize that it stands at the top of quite a hill. It was a taxing hike, and I was very tired by the time I finally reached the Abbey itself. But I soon forgot my own aches and pains, on consideration of 1) the orchard of the dead--including Glenda Bowen (nee Wackles), and 2) the beauty of the Abbey. I walked around the outside of the Abbey, a building which looks as though it has been left out in the rain for centuries (which, of course, it has been), taken in by its casements and gargoyles, its quaint-yet-muscular design. Then I came around a corner, and saw a man lying face-down on the grass, his arms and legs splayed out in a peculiar swastika-fashion. His body was about six feet out from from the base of the wall which leads up to the bell tower. He was wearing a nice slate grey suit with light grey pinstripes, and his maroon necktie flapped in the breeze. He was obviously dead. I had never seen anything so inert. There is no mistaking a dead body for a live one.
My first thought was that he had had a heart attack. My second thought--and the one which stuck--was that he had jumped, or been pushed, from the bell tower. Frankly, I panicked. I knew I had to help somehow, but by the time I could reach the nearest telephone, at the bottom of the hill, someone else, surely, would have come along to his aid. I couldn't approach anyone inside the Abbey; what if they had pushed him? What would they do to me? These thoughts--and many, many more--raced through my mind as I backed away from the body, still staring at his flapping four-in-hand. A sinister crow--so black and shiny that he was almost purple--had landed on the grass near the body, and was pecking around the tufts beneath the bunches of helichryse and asphodel that grow there. I wondered: how long until the crow discovers the man's eyes? Are his eyes open now? What was his final vision? But I knew that I was approaching mental overload--which is akin to full-panic--so, I turned around and began walking, with the longest and most vigourous strides my tired legs could muster, back around the Abbey, toward the road that leads to the bottom of the hill.
And that's when I first saw them. Peering out from the Abbey's barely opened main door were two men: one old, grey-haired, and scowling, the other young, red-haired, and grinning. The old one was slightly hunched over, just inside the door, and the young one looked out over his shoulder. What were they looking at? Surely they had seen me, and beyond me was nothing but the expanse of the Blairdrummond Plain. Were they looking at something, or for something? I couldn't tell, and didn't want to know; they frightened me. Even their yellow raincoats and navy blue knit caps frightened me. They did not belong in that beautiful building. So I looked down and continued toward the road, discovering, suddenly, more strength in my legs.
I will return tomorrow with another installment.
I was confused and off-balance, and in short I was afraid, but I was also tired of being afraid; I shook it off and stuck to my priorities: "I'll have a half a pound of monkfish, please."
The smirky fishmonger revealed himself not to be the one at the Abbey, but someone else--his twin, surely, but a twin born with complications. When he walked, his shoulders and hips had to do most of the pushing and pulling for his legs, which dangled below him like dead weight; he shuffled in a half-squat, as if his knees were tied invisibly together. His Converse Hi-Tops were almost worn out along the instep, but the outsides of the soles still looked colourful and new. I watched him drag and scuff toward the part of the display case that had monkfish on ice, and I got accustomed to the rhythm of his gait: thud scru(thud)ffle(scru(thud)ffle) ad infinitum. It was almost hypnotising, but I left the shop without the monkfish. I don't know if it was polio or MS or CP, but it was his words that had frightened me, especially in conjunction with his twin's menacing presence at the Abbey, and so I departed the fishmonger's, the brass doorbell clunking dully behind me.
It was wet outside; the buildings and walks were covered with slick green mould, or moss. But the sky was clearing, and it had the promise of a bright, warm day. I watched people in Rovers and Vauxhalls and Cortinas mopping off the in-sides of their windscreens as I walked down the lane. But I was distracted, and soon found myself on a path which diminished to a trail, and then to rough country, and then to the edge of a narrow river.
I knew, immediately, where I was: this was precisely where the first blow of the Battle of Bannockburn had taken place, on June 23 of 1314. On this side, Robert the Bruce had gathered his men and had given them a pep talk before the battle. On the other side, the Siege Train of Edward II was still dismounting and attempting to get into some kind of organised formation--Edward II himself was already lounging in a tent made of silk.Robert the Bruce plonked away from the pep rally on his little pony, going back toward his canvas lean-to--the only home he'd ever owned. The June sun was unusually keen; the Bruce had eschewed his scant armour, and wore, as protection, only a wee leather cap. His sole weapon--even with the English just across the burn--was his battle-axe. He was lucky to have what little he had: many of his men didn't even have pikes or pitchforks, much less armour or proper uniforms.
On the other side of the burn, young Sir Hugh deBohun was watering his charger, an especially light, fast gelding. Sir Hugh was seventeen and anxious for battle, restless and absentminded while his charger lapped at the water.
Sir Hugh glanced up, by chance, and saw the Scottish king plonking along the dirt path, on his wee pony. Sir Hugh deBohun immediately recognised the opportunity--a surprise attack against the Scottish king! The defeat would demoralise the enemy, render them leaderless, ensure an English victory, and win him honour. He was giddy at the prospect, but had the presence of mind to mount his charger and clatter across the shallow burn.
The Bruce, still unknowing, ker-plunked his way back toward his canvas lean-to, as the dashing deBohun, on his charger, drew a bead on the Scottish king and began to draw out his red and white lance.
The opposing rhythms--clappata clappata clappata, ker plonk whinny ker plonk, clappata clappata clappata clappata--raised the hackles on the Bruce's own brother, who hissed a warning from behind the treeline. The Bruce looked up, finally, and saw a cloud of dust obscuring the burn, and inside of it the narrow, flaring oncoming figure of an English horse--and the armoured young Sir Hugh deBohun, lance drawn and aimed.
The Bruce--who had been slouching in introspection--stood, his pony sauntering off without him. He was a giant of a man: six feet tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with red hair blazing down to his collars. He quickly pulled his battle-axe from its scabbard, and held it at full extension above his head, while dodging the tip of deBohun's lance; at the same time, the Bruce crushed his battle-axe through deBohun's helmet, straight down, he split deBohun in two, from crown to crotch: Sir Hugh's left half fell off of one side of the charger, and his right half fell off of the other. The charger itself sustained spinal injury and had to be put down.
That was the first blow of the Battle of Bannockburn--June 23, 1314--and I knew that although I, standing on the rocky, mossy edge of that same water, in February's chill, 670 years later--that although I might be frightened, I could never be undone.
I will return soon with another installment.
Thank you for visiting! More soon. It isn't all cloak-and-dagger, by the way; there's a good deal of irony, silliness, and buffoonery in the tale. Click here to go to the new page 2
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Except as otherwise noted, all words, images, and music Copyright 2000 J H Russell
