Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 28: Such dear souls, the committee

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 12th Mar 2025, 07:00 GMT

“Our days,” said Sister Maria-Fiore, “are but as leaves. They fall and lie forgotten on the ground. They cannot return to the branches from which they have fallen.”

Angus frowned. Sister Maria-Fiore was known for her aphorisms – and they were never in short supply. But when one began to look at them carefully, when one took them to pieces and examined them, phrase by phrase, they were, as often as not, trite to the point of banality. And yet they were delivered with such assurance that rather than attract scepticism or sheer rejection, they were received with nods of approval and sighs of agreement. This was an example, he thought. Of course, leaves could not be returned to the tree once they had fallen. Nobody denied that, and yet Sister Maria-Fiore seemed to think that the proposition needed to be stated. And people, it appeared, were prepared to take her on her own evaluation, to marvel at her pithy observations, and then to confer on her every position of any consequence in Edinburgh, including, astonishingly enough, membership of Muirfield. Could she even play golf, he wondered?

“I hear,” he said, “that you have been made a member of Muirfield. I must congratulate you. I know scores of people who would love to be members there, but can’t face those long years on the waiting list.”

“Such dear souls, the committee,” said Sister Maria-Fiore. “I hadn’t thought of joining a club, but …”

Angus interrupted her. “You didn’t apply? They asked you?”

Sister Maria-Fiore inclined her head. “They were most insistent,” she said.

Angus struggled with this information. He imagined a delegation of senior Muirfield figures standing in a long line in Drummond Place, waiting for the chance to beg Sister Maria-Fiore to join their golf club.

“I didn’t know you played golf,” said Angus, trying to conceal his jealousy. Nobody had ever asked him to join Muirfield; indeed, as far as he could remember, nobody had ever asked him to join anything. Why should so many people beat a path to Sister Maria-Fiore’s door? Was it because she was an Italian nun, and therefore a rara avis in these latitudes? Or was it because she exerted some sort of charismatic power over people?

“Golf?” asked Sister Maria-Fiore. “I don’t see what golf has to do with it.”

Angus looked at her with incredulity. “Muirfield is a golf club.”

Sister-Maria Fiore looked at him with incomprehension. “Is it really? I thought it was a restaurant. How strange.” She paused. “Of course, I noticed quite a few golf paintings on the wall, and there were bags with clubs left lying around, but I thought they were the property of people going off to play at Luffness, on the other side of Gullane.”

Angus struggled to conceal his amusement. “You might have noticed that there was a golf course in front of the clubhouse. You might have seen the bunkers.” He paused. Sister Maria-Fiore was looking confused. “Bunkers are sand traps,” he explained. “You don’t want to get your ball into them.”

Sister Maria-Fiore looked thoughtful. “I thought they were flower beds,” she said.

“Well, they aren’t,” said Angus. “And yes, Muirfield is a golf club – a very distinguished one.” It was astonishing: Sister Maria-Fiore had been made a member of Muirfield without being able to play golf at all. This was delicious. If word got out that there was member of the prestigious golf club who did not have the first clue about the game, the committee would be a laughing stock. That would not be welcome, as Muirfield had only recently taken the decision to admit women members. Perhaps, thought Angus, the election to membership of an Italian nun would be a convincing signal that Muirfield was now committed to diversity, the next step on that progressive road being the admission of bad golfers or, as in the case of Sister Maria-Fiore, of people who could not play the game at all.

He looked at Sister Maria-Fiore, and smiled. “You should try to play some time,” he said. “You might surprise yourself. You might be rather good.”

She gave a modest laugh. “Not me, dear Angus. I lack the co-ordination required.” She looked thoughtful. “Of course, sportsmen – and sportswomen, of course – have their patron saints to help them. Did you know that there is a patron saint for lacrosse players? St Jean de Brébeuf. I have a particular devotion to him, I must admit, because he put up with so much. He was a great friend of the Huron people in Canada. He learned their frightfully difficult language and was much concerned with their welfare. Then the Iroquois, bless them nonetheless, got hold of him and subjected him to the most appalling tortures. He survived everything – baptism with boiling water, having his nose twisted three-hundred-and-sixty degrees and so on, che Dio mi protegga! But then they removed his stout and loyal heart from his body for culinary purposes. Nobody can survive that, I’m afraid.”

“But why lacrosse?” asked Angus.

“No idea,” said Sister Maria-Fiore. “But you do know, don’t you, that St Andrew is the patron saint of golfers?”

“I can see why,” said Angus. “St Andrews being the spiritual home of golf ...”

“Indeed,” said Sister Maria-Fiore. “Relics, you see. There are things that are of very great importance to us. They may seem ordinary, but they mean so much.” She paused. “Such as the Stone of Scone.”

Angus frowned. He wondered why she should suddenly have mentioned the Stone of Scone, the stone upon which the throne of England had perched since it was stolen from Scotland by Edward I. Then he thought: stone.

Angus stared at Sister Maria-Fiore. This was impossible. Surely not. And yet when it came to Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, nothing would surprise him. Could it be that she had somehow got hold of a piece of the Stone of Destiny? The Stone had been stolen back from the English by some spirited Glasgow students all those years ago, and there were persistent rumours that part of it, at least, had never been recovered. What if Sister Maria-Fiore had somehow got hold of one of these pieces, and was hiding it in Drummond Place Gardens? It seemed unlikely, but the whole point about Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna was that she was unlikely – deeply so.

Angus fixed Sister Maria-Fiore with a conspiratorial stare. “Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked, his voice lowered.

Her reply was barely audible. “Yes,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder as she spoke.

Angus muttered, “Edward the First – ghastly man.”

“Precisamente,” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.