A History Maker by Alasdair Gray Page B

could not recognize. A central part was missing — the Warrior house. Then he realized he was above it. The Ettrick commander’s apartment was in a tower which from outside he had always thought a solar heating duct. Delighted by his new elevation he let out a bark of laughter which almost hurt his throat. Without hurry he bathed then dressed in a clean suit of loose clothes which fitted perfectly. He walked aboutglorying in the soft carpet, the spare efficient furniture, the combination of perfect comfort with a view commanding the countryside he loved best. No wonder his father had preferred this place to houses where all apartments were on the same level.
    â€œPrivacy and power,” he murmured aloud,
    â€œPower and privacy.”
    He would hate leaving here if someone else became general, but who else could they make general? Three days ago he had honestly meant to nominate Joe for the job but then a new army had seemed years away. If Archie Crook Cot was right Ettrick would perhaps be able to fight again in six months. Some recruits would certainly crack under their training — he hoped so, it would show the strength of the rest — but only Wat Dryhope would be fit for the general’s job if he did not waste time daydreaming. Sitting at a keyboard Colonel Dryhope summoned a series of training programmes and started adapting them to the probable needs of middle-aged recruits.
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    There was a slight cough and he saw Jenny laying a meal on a table.
    â€œYes, it’s time I ate,” said Wat, “And I appreciate your quality of silence. But next time warn me before you enter. A quiet tinkle will do. Whena chain of thoughts is being connected even wee surprises can break it.”
    â€œI will do so in future, Colonel Dryhope, but may I speak?”
    â€œFire away,” said Wat, sitting at the table and uncovering a dish of roast woodcocks.
    â€œI have served four Ettrick commanders, Colonel Dryhope, and those who worked hardest kenned how to relax. Three relaxed with alcohol but you, I think, are your father’s son?”
    â€œAye?”
    â€œMessages await your attention, Colonel Dryhope. Some will be invitations,” said Jenny, pointing to a shelf where a stack of papers lay under a wallprinter.
    â€œSort them for me,” said Wat pouring gravy on small brown bodies, “Put messages about warrior business on my desk. Put messages from public eye channels down the waste chute. Bring the rest here.”
    For several minutes Wat sucked delicate meat from small bones and disposed of a salad. He was pouring coffee when Jenny laid a sheaf of pale violet papers beside the cup. Wat said,
    â€œGood man, Jenny. Have my pony saddled and waiting in twenty minutes. I may go out.”
    â€œWould not a horse be a more suitable mount, Colonel Dryhope? The late general’s favourite, Bucephalus, is both elegant and docile.”
    â€œI’m no an elegant horseman,” said Wat pleasantly, “Go away and do what I said, Jenny.”
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    The prints contained intimate portraits and were mostly from women who adored him for qualities they had noticed through the public eye. A few were from older women he knew well; they pleased him best. He was hurt to find nothing from Nan but she hated warrior business and probably disliked him being a colonel. A note from her daughter Annie begged him to call at once. He did. In a voice full of happiness and tears she said, “O Wattie Wattie. O Wattie Wattie.”
    â€œHello there.”
    â€œO Wattie I was daft to be feart when ye were mad at me this morning, my aunties and grannies have telt me I was daft, all soldiers have wee mad fits when they’ve been in bad wars, they say, and it doesnae hurt the bairns they get so I can see ye again, Wattie! Tonight if ye like!”
    He took a moment to remember what she was raving about then said awkwardly, “That’s good, Annie, but