"The Scottish Constable"
Newton Stewart, Scotland
August 10, 1983
Dear Folks,
Scotland rose from the eastern horizon of the North Atlantic to enchant me for the first time several evenings ago. Low, softly-wrinkled, and shrouded in the red mist of a melting sun, its gold-tinted humps had lolled on the waves in such a playful manner as to make me think of whales.
With the white plume of a lighthouse spouting from its most forward ridge, one particularly lonely peninsula captured my attention for the longest time. I was fascinated by how the chilly sea breezes swept across its unpopulated hills and dells with total freedom. In
the simple unbroken void resting upon its grasses, I sensed a pocket of time and space where the past still weighs very heavily on the second hand of the present; Where, instead of being disrespectfully
trampled under, history is simply allowed to crumble away at its own pace, like the Celtic crosses on the emerald Ireland I had sailed away from earlier that day.
As during my first view of this old country, my passage overland on foot these past several days has been steeped in quiet contemplation. Life here in the farmlands of south Scotland strikes me as being so uneventful that even the devil of the Irish--if he will pardon me for saying so--would be hard-pressed to cause much of a commotion among these people on any given day.
Now, lest you think that I am about to let my Irish heritage show through by making jest of the conservatism and the sobriety the Scots are universally labeled with, let me clearly state that such is not to be the case here. You see, there is someone I met three days ago whose experiences with the Scottish mentality will do well enough in illustrating how staid life is in these parts. He is someone of unquestionable integrity and is vastly studious of his fellow Scots' moral character, as well as a champion in the garnering of respect. He is, as a matter of fact, a chief constable.
Mister Murray and I met in the village of Glenluce, where for over two decades he has been the only policeman of that quaint highway town's seven hundred or so residents. I had gone to his station, in his home, to request an "official signature" from the town for entry into my logbook--my excuse being that I'd like to get credit for this rather lengthy walk I've ventured on. Whereupon, he being duly impressed and all, instructed his matronly wife to boil us a pot of tea, while he took the opportunity to learn more about his uniformed peers on my side of "the waters."
"Is it really like on the American coop showz I watch on me telly, what where the police goo rooshin' oofter t'roobers wi' flashin' stroobs ayn lewd sarnz?" he mumbled with traditional aplomb.
I contemplated for a few very interesting seconds what "flashin' stroobs" and "lewd sarnz" might be, decided with a bit of disappointment he was talking about flashing strobes and loud sirens, and finally settled for nodding with my nose buried in my tea cup.
"But t' roobers connear it, ayn git 'way!" he said.
This time I was more polite and nodded with a sugar wafer poking from between my lips. He rubbed his balding head and inquired with still more disbelief in his voice: "You mean to tell me the policemoon really use all them big goonz, too?"
Again I had to confirm what he had seen on the television dramas.
He shook his head in amazement, saying that he had always thought the policemen in those American shows were too much like something from another universe to be believable. What a frightening place to live--or even visit!--he said, as much to his wife as to me. Pointing to a shiny black truncheon the length of a tall man's forearm, he assured me that the club was the only weapon he'd ever had in his twenty-six years of keeping the law in Glenluce.
"Ayn not woonce 'ave I 'ad to pool it froom me belt," he boasted with pride, adding with a laugh, "Ayn I 'ope I nev'r doo! Cuz I'll a toon a paperwork to fill out explainin' why I pooled it on soomeone."
I had to laugh, too. Back in the hills of the Ohio Valley where I was from, the thought of a policeman lasting twenty-six years with only a billy club for protection would have seemed absolutely preposterous. A policeman without his pistol, his big car, his shotgun, his club, and, yes, all those big flashing "stroobs" would be...well, he wouldn't be a real cop in the eyes of most.
By the third cup of tea, I got around to asking the good constable what the most serious crime was he'd ever had to face in Glenluce. Surely like any veteran policeman in the States he'd seen his share of violence. And, from the way his eyes lit up after a brief spell of pondering, I just knew he had come up with a real thriller, one that would prove the Glenlucians were as normal as the rest of us.
The worst thing that had ever happened took place just a few weeks before, he said gravely. The prepetrators had been a handful of the local lads who were having a wake at one of the area's pubs for a buddy killed in an auto accient down in England's way. Came the 10 o'clock closing time of all pubs in the British Isles, and the lads seemed a bit reluctant to start for home. So in strode the large form of Constable Murray, to kindly refresh their sense of law and order. At which time a few of the more high-spirited "snook" out a side door, ran around to the street, and carefully lifted--by themselves--the constable's tiny car off the asphalt, only to set in back down a minute later in the same spot--on its roof!
Since those still in the pub were more than willing to "right matters," so to speak, with Constable Murray, all was forgiven within short time. True, an actual crime of a shameless nature had besmirched the streets of Glenluce, but there were more important things to be worrying about--like sleep--than to bother with all that "paperwook."
Steven