Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 39: A bare shield

Big Lou had heard only a snippet or two of what passed between the Secretary and the Chairman of the Association of Scottish Nudists. She had formed the impression, though, that all was not well in the Association – and she was right. It had been a very long time since the affairs of the Association had been anything but troubled. The Secretary had served for almost twelve years, and he could not remember a time when there had not been some form of sniping at the office-bearers. He had long been inured to snide comments and even overt attacks, but every so often these wore him down to the point of considering giving up altogether. If people wanted to haul him over the coals for issue after issue, then they might care to take on the role themselves. That would show them, he thought. It’s easy to criticise, but not quite so easy to keep the metaphorical ship of state on a firm course.

44 Scotland Street

Some of the challenges had been easily dealt with – others had been considerably more problematic. That latter category included the attempt by Glasgow members to take over the Association, under the guise of a campaign to rectify the imbalance in voting rights between Edinburgh-based nudists, who had several votes each, and those with a Glasgow address, who had one vote, or, in some cases, none at all. That had been fought off successfully, but it had brought in its wake an asset-stripping plot that would have seen the sale of the Association’s expensive premises in Moray Place and its relegation to some cramped office near Meadowbank Football Stadium. That would never do: the Association was a prestigious organisation, and it needed a good address to command the respect it deserved. There were plenty of people who were prepared to snigger at the Association, but when they realised it was based in Moray Place, they had to take it seriously.

Moray Place was, in fact, an ideal location for the Association. The Secretariat occupied three floors of a five-storey house, originally the home of the Earl of Auchtermuchty, a Scottish aristocrat whose ancestor had come into possession of a number of confiscated estates following the unsuccessful Jacobite uprising of 1745. The first earl was Robert James Campbell, a kinsman of the Duke of Argyll, chief of the Clan Campbell. Robert James was a relatively modest tacksman, a tenant farmer, who had ingratiated himself with better-placed Campbells and, more widely, with Hanoverian interests. By dint of political cunning, he had acquired a number of confiscated estates and had eventually been ennobled. His nineteenth-century successor, the Earl of Auchtermuchty who bought the house in Moray Place when it came on the market, had made a modest fortune through trade between East Fife harbours and Dutch merchants. He spent some of his money on acquiring a collection of Dutch Golden Age paintings, including a Rembrandt and a Vermeer. These paintings, though, were sold in 1854, when the earl at that time, having made a large investment in Australian gold mines, had been defrauded by his partners. The house itself, though, remained in the hands of the Auchtermuchty family, now reduced to two estates – one in Fife and the other in Perthshire. In 1920 it became the property of an Edinburgh lawyer, Crombie Abercrombie, after the Auchtermuchty title became extinct. Crombie’s heir, a horse-breeder in the Borders, had no interest in living in Edinburgh and it was he who eventually sold the Moray Place property to the Association of Scottish Nudists.

The Secretary enjoyed working in Moray Place, and was indifferent to the fact that he was cold-shouldered by some of the residents. If they did not like the idea of having nudists in their midst, then that, he thought, was their problem rather than his. He made a point of being a good neighbour, ensuring that other residents of Moray Place were invited to the regular getting-to-know-you parties that the Association held in the communal gardens, weather permitting of course. Few residents accepted, and none took him up on his offer of a cut-rate membership subscription for those who lived in Moray Place or Ainslie Place. A good number, though, indicated to him that they were sympathisers of the movement and that all that prevented them from becoming paid-up members was the deeply rooted inhibitions that were part and parcel of being brought up in Edinburgh. “It’s not really that sort of place,” one of them said to the Secretary. “We don’t take off our clothes that readily in Edinburgh, I’m afraid, much as we’d secretly like to. It’s just not us, really.”

The Association had weathered various storms, particularly the takeover bid from Glasgow, and was now, the Secretary believed, in excellent health. It was that state of stability, in fact, that had prompted the Chairman to raise the issue of a coat of arms for the Association. “We can feel justifiably proud of what we have achieved,” he said to the Secretary. “We need to fix our image in the public mind, and for that we need some sort of symbol. Just about everybody has a logo – we need to take it one step further and have a coat of arms. Plenty of public bodies have that sort of thing.”

The Secretary had agreed, and the Chairman had gone on to explain what was involved. “I gather that the procedure is quite straightforward. You petition the Lord Lyon, and then if he gives you the nod, you get the arms designed by a heraldic painter. Then Lyon grants you the arms and they’re registered.”

“That sounds fair enough,” said the Secretary. “I suppose we have to choose what goes on the shield.”

“Yes,” said the Chairman. “I’ve actually matriculated arms myself. I don’t make a big thing of it, but I am, as they say, armigerous.”

The Secretary was impressed. “Oh, yes?” he said.

“Yes. I must show you the actual grant one of these days. You get it on vellum. I have lovely design. A rose to represent my interest in gardening, and a fish, because my grandfather was a great angler. And a sailing ship, because I’m a Watsonian, after all – same as you.”

“We’re everywhere,” said the Secretary, adding, “Thank heavens.”

They discussed the matter further, and a few weeks later they met one of the heralds, Adam Bruce, and discussed with him the devices that they might have on the Association’s arms. Unfortunately, this was when the first problems arose. “I must point out,” said Adam, “that Lyon is unlikely to approve any revealing design. Fig leaves are okay, but I’m afraid that anything without strategically placed cover might not be permitted.”

The Chairman was dismayed. “But that’s who we are,” he protested. “We do not believe in fig leaves.”

Adam sighed. “There are many things in which one may not believe, but yet which are unavoidable concomitants of life in society. Success in life involves navigating one’s way past such obstacles, you know.” He paused. “Why don’t you consider having what we call a bare shield? That’s one with nothing on it at all.”

The Chairman glanced at the Secretary. It was so unfair. Everything was stacked against the Association of Scottish Nudists, it seemed: social attitudes, weather, biting midges – everything.

© Alexander McCall Smith, 2025. Bertie’s Theory of Ice Cream will be published by Polygon in August, price £17.99. The author welcomes comment from readers and can be contacted at [email protected]