Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 38: The Association of Scottish Nudists

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 26th Mar 2025, 07:00 BST

She remembered little of this, although she could recall Tommy Anderson, who came from a farm a few miles away and who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Oor Wullie, a popular cartoon character usually pictured sitting on an upturned bucket as he ruminated on the issues of the day. Oor Wullie belonged to a Scotland of fond memory, a Scotland that was becoming fainter, more distant; a Scotland of values and courtesy for which there seemed to be less and less time in a present laden with suspicion and distrust of others. What we had back then was so precious, thought Big Lou, and yet we did not know it. But that was the same for everyone, everywhere – the fellowship that people loved, the human, intimate sense of connection and mutuality, the bonds that tied us one to another, were withering under concerted onslaught.

She had kept up the habit of writing a diary entry each evening. As she grew older, the terseness of the earlier entries was replaced by a more relaxed and discursive style. Whole paragraphs were devoted to passing thoughts and impressions. Public events were recorded with reference to what was said about them in the Press and Journal or The Scotsman. There was the occasional note, too, of regret at what had not happened, which was frequently as important, if not more important, than what had actually occurred. There was some sadness and disappointment, particularly on the emotional front, because Big Lou had been unlucky with men – until the arrival of Fat Bob, of course, who was a good and deserving man, unlike some of her earlier boyfriends.

She and Bob were well-suited and were getting on well, but still maintained separate flats. Bob was living in Longstone, which was convenient for the gym that he attended and also on the right side of town to reach the workshop near Bathgate, where he and his friend Eddie had their shed construction business. The demands of that business varied, but it had proved successful and there were days when Bob and Eddie worked until ten at night in order to keep on top of orders. That meant that Bob could only manage to have dinner with Big Lou on two or three nights a week. As it happened, this suited Lou, who cherished her independence and who did not think relationships flourished if people were in each other’s pockets all the time. She had her interests and Bob had his. He enjoyed weightlifting and, in the summer, participating in Highland Games; she enjoyed reading and experimenting in the kitchen with new recipes. They did some things together, and had recently joined a tango class at the Counting House. Bob had been reluctant, but had overcome his reservations and was proving to be a promising dancer.

She did not show him her diary, although there was no real reason for her not to do so. The diary contained nothing that would embarrass him; perhaps it was just a lingering childhood belief that diaries were strictly private. She knew that if others read what she wrote, she would somehow be more inhibited. As it was, the diary amounted to a conversation with herself, unrestricted by concerns as to how others might react.

That evening, Big Lou sat down to her diary shortly after nine. Finlay, the boy whom she fostered and whom she would – if all went well – adopt, was already asleep. He had been at a lengthy ballet lesson and had come home exhausted, too tired even to make much conversation over the dinner they had shared. Bob was working late – until midnight, he said – although they would see one another, he promised, the following day, when he would take the three of them to a Chinese restaurant. Once Finlay went to bed, the flat in Canonmills was quiet.

Big Lou wrote in her diary: “A normal sort of day – like most of my days, I suppose. I opened up a few minutes late, because I walked up Dundas Street rather than taking the bus. Everyone is counting their steps these days – using one of those watches. They say you should take at least ten thousand steps a day. Ten thousand! How many do I take at the moment? Two, at the most, I imagine.

“Nicola dropped in. We had a bit of a conversation and then a man came in. I had not seen him before, but it appeared that she had met him. There was some story about him dropping a bag of potatoes from his bicycle in Dundas Street. I had things to do, but I noticed that there was chemistry between the two of them. It was unmistakeable. That man is interested in her. And why shouldn’t he be? She’s an attractive woman and it’s never too late. She deserves a bit of romance in her life, I think, because she has to look after Stuart and the boys. I wonder, though, if he’s going to be it. You can’t trust men. I trusted them, and look what happened. Bob, of course, is different, I know that, but when you think of all the greasy chefs and Elvis impersonators out there …

“We had those two in again – the Chairman and the Secretary of The Association of Scottish Nudists. They came in looking more than usually down in the dumps about something or other – they are never short of disagreements and disputes with their committee. I wonder what it is this time. They sat there for at least an hour – on one cup of coffee a head – muttering to each other and shaking their heads.

“I wanted to shout at them: Come on! Stop being so miserable. Enjoy life. Of course, I said nothing. It’s not for the person who makes the coffee to express an opinion.

“I don’t like listening in to other people’s conversation, but at one point I couldn’t help but hear what they were saying. They were talking about an application they’ve made to the Lord Lyon to grant the Association a coat of arms. Apparently, there are difficulties … Something to do with what the heraldic artists are prepared to paint. Odd. Why should that be an issue?”