Easter story: Edward Kane, Advocate in No Bunnies in the Bible – Ross Macfarlane QC

A story to lift the spirits by Ross Macfarlane QC
Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes MacfarlaneIllustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane
Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

1851. Edinburgh. Good Friday

‘Mr Horse – what on earth is that smell?”

Edward Kane, Advocate, yawning, and still dressed in his nightgown and nightcap, stood in the doorway of his bedroom and peered at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. Just after 6 o’clock in the morning.

Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes MacfarlaneIllustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane
Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

Mr Horse, Kane’s Cockney manservant, gave a shy grin: “Apologies, Mr K, apologies, sir. I got this big batch of eggs on the cheap and I think one or two of ‘em might be off...”

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Kane walked into the sitting room. He looked at the fireplace. And there, on top of the open fire, on a metal frame, sat a large pot of bubbling, boiling water. Kane looked into pot. Bobbing around, were – what looked like – twenty or so eggs. And the water was blood red. Kane looked up.

“Horse …what on earth...this looks like a witch’s cauldron...”

Horse grinned: “Happy Easter, Mr K...”

Kane began to come round, and remembered that today was Good Friday: “Happy Easter, Mr Horse.” He nodded towards the bubbling pot on the fire. “But what...?”

“Remember, sir. You said that you was seeing your friend, Mr Collins today, and Mr Collins has got the five little nippers, so – like we said – I’ve got some eggs to take with you, sir.”

Kane looked again at the pot: “But why is the water all...all bloody?”

Mr Horse lifted up a piece of red onion skin: “I’m giving the eggs a bit of colour, sir. For Easter. With red onions and some beetroot. Give them twenty minutes, Mr K, they’ll be a nice shade of red. I already done the green ones with the periwinkle.” Horse pointed to a pile of eggs on the nearby table - all bright green.

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Kane stood there. Not quite awake yet. Mr Horse went into the larder: “I’ll get another pot on the fire, sir. Get us some more hot water and we and have a brew. And then you can have a wash and a shave.” He nodded towards the bubbling pot: “Can’t use the water in there, Mr K. You shave in that and you’ll look like a human beetroot....”

*****

Quarter-past ten now, and Edward Kane and Mr Horse were making their way through the crowds along Edinburgh’s Lawnmarket towards Calton Hill.

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“Well, I feel like a right, ponce, Mr K...” Horse’s Cockney accent cut through the din.

“Chin up, Mr Horse, chin up. Remember – the basket was your idea.”

Oh, but it was a beautiful, fresh morning. A very jolly Kane strode along dressed in top hat and cape, swinging his cane before him. And at his heels, lagged a less-cheery Mr Horse – carrying a basket of coloured eggs and bright flowers. To the casual onlooker, the image brought to mind a gorilla. Carrying a handbag.

The Lawnmarket was crowded today. Mothers and fathers dressed in their finery. Children carrying tiny baskets overloaded with coloured eggs.

And the cries of the lawn-merchants, bellowing at the market stalls: “I don’t want a florin, I don’t want a shilling. No, ladies and gentlemen, this silk handkerchief – a tanner!”

At another stall, two elderly sisters were inspecting a piece of cloth, holding their spectacles against the fabric to interrogate the quality of the weave.

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And there, at the side of the road, sits a stony-faced farmer, guarding his baskets of eggs and rolls of cheeses from a group of rowdy young boys.

“Mind your back, mind your back!” A carriage of fresh fish, with the fishmonger barking his warning to the folks before him on the cobbled road.

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And now a group of police officers, a blue blur of stovepipe hats and brass buttons, are spilling out of the Police Office at the side of St Giles’ Church, pushing their way towards the troublesome youths.

Kane pointed towards them: “Ah, Mr Horse, our noble police officers. On hand to quell those lads and employ the Rule of The Law.”

“If it was up to me, sir – I’d employ the boot up the arse...”

*****

Kane had never seen Calton Hill so populated.

From a distance, the bright, holiday clothes of the Easter revellers on the green grass made the hill look like a Christmas tree with migrating decorations.

Kane and Horse began to climb the hill. Kane consulted his pocket watch: “Almost eleven o’clock, Mr Horse. I told Mr Collins that we would meet him under the Nelson monument.”

They looked up. There, at the top of the hill was the great monument, the upturned telescope dedicated to the late admiral.

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Horse grunted as they climbed the steep incline of the hill: “Never understood that monument, Mr K. You got Admiral Nelson – a bloke with one eye – and you give him a monument of a telescope. Is that a joke, sir?”

Kane smiled: “Read your history books, Mr Horse. It was the Admiral himself who said: ‘Sometimes we have a right to be blind’. Ah, I see them…”

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And looking up, they saw Kane’s friend, Mr Collins, standing at the foot of the great telescope. And standing beside him was the vivacious Mrs Collins, all smiles and bows and ringlets. And there were two exhausted-looking housemaids, stick-thin girls in their early twenties, standing guard over a hamper that they had just lugged up that hill.

And, of course, the five young Collins children, jumping up and down now, squealing and clapping their hands at the prospect of rolling those coloured eggs down the hill.

Kane tipped his hat. Mr Collins bowed: “Good morning, Edward. And a very Happy Easter to you.”

Kane smiled: “And to you, Collins, and to you.”

The vivacious Mrs Collins gave a small curtsey: “Good morning, Mr Kane.” Then – ‘The Lord is risen’.”

Kane – the son of a clergyman – thought that since this was Good Friday, there would be no question of any rising from the dead for a good two days yet. But no point in being discourteous: “He is risen indeed, ma’am.” Kane beckoned to his manservant: “Mr Horse?”

Horse handed Kane the basket. Kane produced a bunch of flowers and presented them to Mrs Collins. She blushed: “Oh, Mr Kane. Easter lilies. How thoughtful...”

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Then Kane looked down at the expectant faces of the five children: “And what have we here? I don’t suppose that any of these virtuous little boys and girls are at all interested in...” Kane pointed to the contents of the basket “...the rolling of Easter eggs?” Much jumping and squeals followed: “Oh, me, sir...oh, please, Mr Kane...”

Kane held the basket down and let the five children pick out eggs, and in a matter of moments, those coloured eggs were being rolled or thrown down Calton Hill to the sound of much gleeful chortling, the girls encouraging the eggs down with their little wooden spoons, the boys thwacking them with twigs and branches.

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And stumbling behind them, Mr Horse, minding his footing, who, in an act of gallantry, had volunteered to carry the enormous Collins hamper, so that the housemaids “…don’t hurt them lovely little hands of yours...”

Crowds near the bottom of the hill now, as a number of other families had laid out their picnic blankets and were sitting down, laughing and drinking and peeling the coloured eggs for eating.

Mr Collins nodded towards a grassy space: “Here! This is a nice spot.” Horse put the hamper down with a grunt. The housemaids reached in and took out some large tartan blankets and started to arrange them on the ground. Then they began to unpack the hamper contents: some bottles of brown lemonade, a large square of toffee and a great deal of hot cross buns.

Kane invited Mrs Collins to sit down. She did so. Collins and Kane then sat down beside her. The five Collins children sat separately on a blanket nearby with the two housemaids and with Mr Horse, who appeared to be entertaining them. Collins nodded over: “Your man, Mr Horse, is very adept at entertaining the children, Edward.” Kane laughed: “I fear, Collins, that if you are not careful, will find him very adept at entertaining your housemaids...”

The friends laughed. And then something caught their attention. At the rise of the hill, an elderly gentleman wearing a clerical collar was setting up what looked like a wooden box to stand upon. After two or three false starts, the old gentleman finally fixed it into the ground. Now he was rummaging through his bag. After a short period, he produced a large, leather-bound Bible. The aged clergyman then mounted the box, somewhat unsteadily, thought Kane, and began to address the holidaymakers - now his unwitting audience:

“Turn away! Turn away from these Pagan rituals!”

Men, women, children and servants were all turning their heads now, looking up at the figure standing on the box: “You are not rolling eggs down a hill - you are rolling your children into Hell...”

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It’s fair to say that the preacher had caught the attention of his audience, whether they liked it or not. He began to wave the Bible above his head: “Study the word! Study the word! There is no ‘Easter’ within these pages. There are no eggs, no rabbits...”

At this point, Mr and Mrs Collins looked over at Kane for confirmation or otherwise. Edward Kane’s father had been a Minister of the Church of Scotland. He was meant to know these things. On this occasion he didn’t.

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The passionate preacher continued. Two directly opposite things happened: some families re-stacked their picnic baskets, folded their blankets, grabbed their children and moved to a nearby spot less theologically-intensive. On the other hand, some others stood up and began to approach and surround the speaker. Kane noted that those approaching the old man now included some of the rowdy boys who had been spotted earlier that morning at the Lawnmarket. Kane could hear a great deal of laughter now as the boys challenged the speaker:

“Shut yer pie-hole, you silly old fool.”

The old man’s voice cut through the cat-calling: “You are the unwitting slaves of the Pagan gods. ‘Eostre’ – goddess of fertility – and her symbols: the egg and the rabbit...”

A tall boy with red hair hooted: “And you – the mad March hare...”

And the mocking hilarity began to spread. Many were jeering openly now. He was not quite sure why, but Kane rose from the comfort of his blanket and began to make his way towards the speaker and his hostile audience. He was stopped when Mr Horse, jumping up, reached out and held an open hand against his chest: “Where you going, Mr K?”

“I am simply going to remind those boys of their manners...”

Horse exhaled: “I wouldn’t do that, sir. I know some of them lads. They’ve got the devil in them, Mr K. I would just...”

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But Kane, undaunted by the warning, swept past his manservant and made his way to the front of the crowd.

The preacher was in full flow now: “You are the unwitting apostles of Ashtoreth. The Pagan goddess Astart-e...”

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“Well you can shut up for a-start-e...” jeered the lanky youth with the bright orange hair.

Edward Kane approached the youth: “You! Yes, you, young lad...” The tall youth looked down on Kane, not at all chastened. He took a bite out of the hot cross bun that he was holding and answered as he chewed: “What?”

Kane pointed his finger: “Stop it. Stop it now. This is no way to treat your elders and betters.” The boy kept chewing: “And what if I don’t?”

Kane stood there, staring at the lad. The lad stared at Kane. And then, very deliberately, the lad tore off a piece of his bun and threw it at the old preacher. The boys around him, taking this as a cue for more mischief, tore off pieces of their own buns and began to shower the bemused old man with them.

Kane raised his voice: “I told you to stop.” The tall ginger lad turned round, lowering over him again. “And who’s going to make me? Are you going to make me?”

Everything was still for a moment. Not a sound from the crowd. Even the preacher appeared to be holding his breath. And then, out of nowhere, a full bottle of lemonade hurtled towards the lanky youth’s face and caught him square on the face. The boy, blinking heavily, fell to the ground, moaning. And then, emerging casually from the crowd, walked Mr Horse. He picked up the bottle, wiped the blood off the bottle and onto his sleeve, and addressed the rest of the tall lad’s friends: “Any of you other lads fancy a taste of this? Who’s next, then?” And the remainder of the boys appeared to evaporate into the throng at that point, each one weaving through the crowd, head-down. The tall, ginger boy lay on the ground, holding his bloody face and moaning softly. Horse bent over him: “Would you mind keeping it down, son? I’m trying to hear the bloke what’s on the box. He says we’re all going to Hell...”

*****

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Six o’clock in the evening. Back in the rented rooms, Mr Horse was pulling off Kane’s boots. Kane leaned back into his wing-back chair by the fire: “I’m bound to say, Mr Horse, that while your method of dealing with that young ruffian proved highly effective, it was not very Christian.”

“I thought there was enough religion going about already, sir. Anyway – don’t it say somewhere – in the Good Book, I mean - if the eye is giving you a bit of gyp – you gouge it out.”

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Kane laughed: “I never took you for a Bible scholar, Mr Horse.”

“When I was a boy, Mr K, I had to read it to me old Nan. When she was going blind...”

“Then you will have seen the part about turning the other cheek?”

Horse grinned. “Must have skipped that bit, sir.”

Boots off, Horse boiled some water in a pan on the open fire and made them both a cup of tea. He handed Kane the cup and saucer, then sat at the table and drank his own tea from an old tin mug. Horse produced a long, clay pipe from his jacket, struck a match and carefully lit the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe. Master and man sat in contented silence for a while. Then Horse spoke:

“Mr K, you know all that stuff the old fella on the box was raving on about – no ‘Easter’ in the Bible, no eggs, no rabbits. Is all that true, sir?”

Kane thought for a moment, then: “I suppose it was largely accurate, Mr Horse. I can’t recall anything significant about rabbits in the Bible – except, perhaps, ‘Don’t eat them’.”

“Then that makes us both sinners, sir!”

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Master and man laughed. Horse pressed on: “But what about the eggs down the hill and the like, sir? Was that not, like, when your man Jesus was rolling away the stone?”

Kane shook his head: “Unlikely, Horse. Apparently, the stone covering the tomb was shaped like a coin...”

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Horse took the pipe from his mouth: “Hold on a minute, sir. If there ain’t no ‘Easter’ in the Bible, and there ain’t no bunnies in the Bible, and there ain’t no eggs to speak of, then why are we chasing all them bloomin’ eggs down Calton Hill?”

Kane thought for a moment, then: “To be perfectly honest, Mr Horse – I have no idea.”

And then, Mr Horse started to laugh. He laughed so much that he began to cough. Kane looked up: “You seem to derive a great deal of pleasure from the absence of scriptural authority, Mr Horse.”

Horse coughed into his hand: “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr K, but I was thinking about what you was saying about the Admiral Nelson and the monument. All these people running up and down the hills with their eggs and their bunnies – and all about something what was never in the Bible anyway? What did the Admiral say again? ‘Sometimes we got the right to be blind’? Old Nelson must be looking down and laughing his head off. I mean, what’s the point?”

Some days, Kane, as a Son of the Manse, felt exhausted by a life exposed to theology. He began to feel that now. But he could not let the conversation rest there: “The point, Mr Horse…the point is not what happens on the Friday. It’s what happens on the Sunday. Today, when that young ruffian – the one, as you said ‘had the devil in him’ – when he was challenging me to a fight, and no-one was coming to my aid…he must have thought at that point that he had won. But come Sunday, he will wake up with a black eye, a headache and fewer teeth. And that is the point of Easter, Mr Horse. It’s when the Old Tempter thinks that he was won the fight on the Friday, but Jesus comes back and the Devil wakes up with a bloody nose on the Sunday. That’s the point, Mr Horse.”

Horse puffed on his pipe for a moment, then nodded: “You would have made a wery good preacher, Mr K.”

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Kane smiled: “Thank you, Mr Horse. Now – do we have anything in the larder for supper?”

“How about a nice green egg, sir?”

Kane shot Horse a look. Horse sat there grinning: “Happy Easter, Mr K”

Kane chuckled: “Happy Easter, Mr Horse…”

Look out for more exploits of Edward Kane, Advocate and Mr Horse later this year – exclusively in The Scotsman

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