TRWD20

My Journal
By Harriman Nelson
20

While our expedition’s itinerary had been hand delivered to the Inverness City Hall yesterday, Lee had been suckered into a press conference to be held this morning at 0800 and he’d already left the boat.

A local tabloid had printed out a late ‘special edition’ about the promised visit that I’ll stuff into the journal.

I’d planned to accompany Lee to the press conference, but an unforeseen problem delayed me as Emmie had informed him by the intercom. No explanation. And Lee hadn’t asked.

“There,” Emmie was saying, hands on her hips, bringing my mind back to the present, “Braveheart would be proud.”
“I really don’t have to go,” I complained, “It’s not as if Lee really needs me.”
“You mean you’d rather stay here and hide. Sweetheart, it was your idea to honor the host nation in the first place, before I even came aboard. This is the perfect opportunity. So, let’s get you to do a little old-fashioned public relations for the institute.”
“My legs are going to freeze out there.”
“You won’t be out in the weather that long and…”
“Hurry up in there!” Mrs. C.’s voice called from outside the cabin, “the cab’s waiting.”
Emmie opened the door to Mrs. C. who was wearing a lightweight faux fur trimmed coat, took one look at me and started to giggle.
I was just about to turn tail when Emmie, grabbed my arm.
“Come along dear,” she said as she pulled on her blue suede coat and handed me my favored green pullover, despite the small hole in it that I hadn’t bothered to repair.
Like a condemned man without hope of reprieve, I pulled it on, then trudged along, down through the maze of companionways to the Control Room.

O’ Brien and a couple of crewmen who hadn’t gone ashore looked at me sympathetically, as my kilt swayed from side to side.

I was surprised to see so many folks behind the barricades, and still some press, as Lee was the man of interest, not me and there were bound to be far more at the city hall. Especially after yesterday’s vindication.

It was a short drive by cab, barely ten minutes, before we reached our destination. Indeed, press and public were crowded around, unable, I supposed, to enter due to over-crowding.

I kissed Emmie, who was going shopping with Mrs. C. (They’d decided not to yesterday, after all. They said goodbye, and were whisked away as I stepped up onto the curb to show the officials guarding the city hall my temporary ID.

“Forget your pants, Admiral?” someone from the crowd called out.
“That doesn’t look like a Nelson tartan.”
“Did you know your socks are too short?”
“Do you…”
“I apologize,” I interrupted, “I must have gotten it mixed up with the Irish one.”
Exaggerated groans and laughter.
More pictures were snapped from cameras and phones by the public and press as I was escorted by a new official toward the automatic doors. Then it happened. A stray breeze attacked me.
“Ach, you be a True Scot!”
Laughter and applause.
My dignity in tatters, and red faced, I was glad to escape inside.

My entrance into the auditorium was greeted with polite applause, and Lee, tugging gently at his black eyepatch which had ridden up a little over the now light bandaging over his loose metal socket, motioned to me to join him up on the podium to take a seat behind him to join the mayor, Chip and Jiggs were in dress blues. Lee and Joe were in civvies. Lee was wearing a denim blue shirt, black slacks, and sneakers as if to signal the visit to Inverness was completely civilian, which it was. Sort of. Joe was wearing a casual suit and black oxfords as if to support the move.
“Let’s resume,” the mayor stood up to say.
The room erupted with hands waving and shouts for attention.
“The gentleman in the second row was first, I believe,” the mayor said.
“My question’s for Chipee,” the woman said, “Morton’s a fine old Scottish name. Why didn’t you wear a kilt? We know the captain’s not a true Crane. Or a Nelson.”
“Now, wait a minute,” I began, annoyed about to rise from my seat.
“It’s okay, sir,” Chip, said, getting up and taking the microphone, “Kilts,” he continued, “aren’t an American custom. Granted, a few marching bands and some societies do on occasion use them. My family and I have never been members of any of those. My ancestors may have worn kilts centuries ago before they crossed the pond, but none of the family in living memory have. As far as Captain Nelson-Crane not being a Crane or a Nelson, he is definitely both. He’s a Crane by his adoption as a child by Edward and Mrs. Crane, and a Nelson by mutual agreement between him and Admiral Nelson. shouldn’t he be entitled to whichever tartan the Scottish Cranes and Nelsons claim as theirs?”
“You got it all wrong, Lad,” a man in the audience said, “nobody’s entitled to a specific tartan just because of the name. You have to be part of a particular family to use one. You Yanks corrupt everything. Even taking coats of arms you’re not entitled to. Check with Burke’s Peerage if you’re so desperate to link yourselves with our history.”
“I think we’ve gotten off track. Next question? You, over there,” he asked, waving his hand. “Captain, how did you know that the People’s Republic’s test satellite rocket was a threat?”
“The trajectory was simply too close to Washington. It warranted action.”
“A bit risky to defy presidential orders, wasn’t it?”
“Riskier if it had fallen on Washington.”
“How long has the U.S. had the technology you used?” A member of the press, a very pretty woman, even an old married man like me appreciated, asked. “And why didn’t you just blow up the rocket? And…”
“Excuse me,” a man in a gray suit interrupted from the doorway, accompanied by four other men, and walked up to the podium, and showed the mayor his ID, and handing him a document.
“Can he do this?” the mayor asked Lee after reading it and handing it to him, who read it silently.
“Afraid so,” Lee said.
“By order of President Avery of the United States,” the mayor said, “all questions and answers about the rocket situation are to cease.”
“What’s so secret about it now that it’s over?” someone shouted.
Lee raised his hands to silence the noise
“It’s a reasonable request as the investigation is incomplete.”
“That’s a bunch of hooey,” someone said. “C’mon, Captain. You busted orders before, why not answer the questions?”
“This is all my fault, I’m afraid, everyone. I should have checked with Washington before agreeing to a press conference. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
For a moment even I might have thought his little boy lost look was legit, a man embarrassed and morose over his negligence. But I knew that underneath the projected image he was probably seething.
“Can you still answer questions about the kelpie expedition?”
“The White House didn’t address that,” the mayor said, looking at Lee for a response.
“Fire away,” Lee told the audience.
A familiar man rose.
“I have me a question. My name’s Angus McDonald. The same Angus McDonald that saw the kelpie and…”
Applause and a few boos interrupted him.
”Mr. McDonald,” Lee said, stepping off the dais to go greet him personally, and shook his hand, “So good to meet you at last.”
“You can call me Angus, Lad.”
“And you can call me Lee. Go ahead with your question, Angus.”
“Well, now, does your admiraly father still think me kelpie’s the result of moonlight and moonshine?”
I grabbed the podium’s microphone before Lee could get back to the podium. “There’s no question in anyone’s mind, sir, that you think you saw something. Something that the captain wants to investigate. Without any physical evidence, however, what you saw could indeed have been nothing but shadows. Or a delusion possibly due to a surfeit of whiskey and dense fog illuminated by moonlight.”
Gasps and boos.
“Ach, there you go again. Blast it man, I know what I saw. The laddie don’t think I was daft or drunk! Do ye, Lad?”
“Do you believe in his kelpie or not?” someone yelled.

Oh gawd. Any answer would place Lee in a no win situation.

“I want to believe in it,” Lee said, “but science can’t prove it, at least not yet. I’m sorry that I can’t say I’m one hundred percent sure about its existence. But I’m sure, Angus, what you saw was not due to moonlight or moonshine.”
Applause.
“Well, Admiral,” Angus said, “I hope you won’t be a taking the captain out to the woodshed for disagreeing with ye.”
Laughter.
“We’ve already agreed to disagree,” I said. “It’s no secret that my business partnership with the captain is fifty-fifty. I’m the senior partner of NCIMR only in the sense that I’m older and have been CEO longer. And that can create some differences of opinions that demands one of us yield. Despite my personal feelings to find a creature that I’m convinced lives only in fantasy, a scientific expedition has merit to prove or disprove whatever it was that Mr. McDonald saw.”
A boy of about ten rose.
“Captain, how will you get your submarine into Loch Ness since there’s not a big or deep enough way from the river?”
“We’ll be using the Flying Sub to check out the loch.”
“But without your prosthesis, will you be able to fly or sail it by yourself?”
“Probably not by myself,” Lee said sadly, “but I can still dive from it. We’ll also use specialized sonar and bio systems. And we’ll be hiking around the shore for any hard evidence as well.”
“Wouldn’t hiring something like the Cousteau Society,” a woman asked, “make your quest simpler?”
“No doubt, but for now, we’d rather investigate ourselves. Besides, I have a vested interest in being here.”
“Vested interest?” the mayor asked.
“I need to make my XO happy. He’s been raving about how wonderful Scottish scones and shortbread cookies are supposed to be. Oh, I guess I should say biscuits here. Professor Higgins was right about us Americans not having used English for years.”
Howls of laughter.
“Well,” Lee continued, “I think we’ve covered about everything we can cover. For now, anyway,”
Applause.
Then Lee’s stomach rumbled.
“Ach, Laddie,” Angus said, “Haven’t had yer breakfast yet? Then how about we have a real Scottish breakfast together? The hotel down the street has a fine restaurant that serves one. Including blood pudding, and them shortbread biscuits.”
“We’d be delighted, but only if it’s my treat. For you and the mayor, and hey, why not anyone who’d like to join us.”
Applause, applause, applause.
It’s a short walk,” the mayor said and we followed him out through the happy crowd.
“You going to pay for the entire township?” I whispered.
“Chalk it up to public relations. Of course, I could charge it to the institute…just kidding, Harry. It’s getting breezy. You’d better hold on to your kilt.”
“Lee?” Chip whispered. “You do know what blood pudding is, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know. Had some on that culinary tour. It’s not too bad once you get over the fact that it’s made with pig’s blood. If it scares you, remember, I’m the one who agreed to it, not you. ”
“Very funny.”

The mayor had already called the restaurant, so the deluge of humanity that poured into it wasn’t too much of a shock. I was surprised by how efficient the manager was and had set out various breakfast dishes on a buffet table. Lee, Joe, and I took a little of everything. Chip did as well, but concentrated on the cookies and scones. McDonald took the sausage and oatmeal, and Jiggs took bacon and eggs.
“The milk’s fresh from this morning,” the manager told us as we headed to a big round table he’d saved for us. “Might taste a bit different from what you’re used to. Grass fed cows, and raw.”
“Raw?” Chip asked.
“Not pasteurized,” Angus said, “but no harm to ye.”
“I’ll try some,” Lee said, endearing him to the manager and most of the patrons. “Is there any coffee?”
“Almost perked, unless you’d like a pot of tea. That’s ready now.”
Lee hesitated.
“Both, for everyone,” I said.

When we waited, Lee, in between small bites off his plate, engaged Angus and the mayor in with conversation about Loch Ness. Tales of the Loch Ness Monster, kelpies, some long forgotten sightings by family members now gone, and a few more recent sightings, but none matched McDonald’s kelpie, though there were a lot of legendary tales of them.
I noticed how well Lee cut his sausage into tiny pieces and moved them around his plate to disguise the fact that he wasn’t eating much of it. He had better success with the thick cut bacon and scones that he smeared with what we were informed by the mayor was a local home- made brambleberry jam.
“Brambleberry?” I had to ask. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor, I’m a scientist, not a culinary connoisseur.
“A bit like blackberry.”
And so I followed suite and smeared my own scone with thick butter and jam.
“I think we should purchase some of this for Seaview,” Chip told Lee.
“Well,” Angus said, “ye might not be able to. Depends how much old Mrs. McDougal put up. I can find out for ye.”
Soon he was discussing the jam with the manager who with Angus headed into the kitchen.
Our milk arrived on a push tray, along with little china teapots, cups and saucers, and a big carafe of coffee and heftier mugs.
The old waitress serving Lee spilled his milk on the tablecloth, flustered, but Lee worked his magic on her, and dabbed the spill with his napkin himself. She then insisted on pouring his tea, adding more sugar and cream than I’d have thought usual.
Lee took a sip, smiled at her, and she continued to set out the little teapots and crockery for the rest of us. But she didn’t pour any out for us. And she left the coffee and mugs on the cart, leaving that brew for us Yanks to take care of ourselves.
We made short work of the dishes, though Chip, Joe, and I had taken Lee’s lead about cutting up the blood pudding and moving bits of it around our plates, hiding some of them under bits of leftover scones, though we’d all taken a few bites of the pigs blood specialty.
“Sorry, Lads,” Angus said as he returned to our table with the mayor and manager. “Afraid there’s no brambleberry jam left.”
“That’s too bad,” Chip said.
“Well,” Lee said, “I’m afraid we have to get back to Seaview. Angus? Remember, we’re still going to have you and the Lord Mayor over to the boat for lunch or dinner when we get our schedules resolved.”
“Would be a pleasure, Laddie,” Angus said.
“I’ll be honored,” the mayor said.

The crowd, instead of parting for us, just wanted to linger, at first hesitating but soon taking Lee’s hands, touching his face as if good luck would rub off. Some of the women, mostly the older ones, ruffled his hair the hair.
Chip had his own surfeit of adoring women, mostly the younger ones, only they kept kissing him, often on the lips. I had to wonder why Lee had gotten more of the maternal favors and Chip the sexual. I couldn’t help thinking it would make for a good study.

During all this, Chip managed to call for a cab, and soon, he, Jiggs, Joe, Lee, and I squeezed in, saying and waving our goodbyes to the mayor, Angus, and the crowds. It was very hard for the driver to ease the vehicle through the crowd but finally we were on our way back to the boat.
Once aboard, Lee whispered something to Joe and both headed aft. Chip checked on a few things with O’Brien and leaving the rest of us to take to the loungers.
“Don’t you think you should go change something?” Jiggs asked me, nodding toward my legs splayed apart as I leaned back in my lounger.
“Oh gawd,” I groaned. “Sorry.”

As I passed by Lee’s cabin on the way toward the bend to mine, I could hear Lee and Joe arguing.
“You knew better than to eat all that damn blood pudding,” Joe complained.
“Would have hurt their feelings if I hadn’t. Oh gawd, what a time not to have any pink stuff aboard. How about Ipecac?”
“All right, all right, I’ll go get some.”
“Intercom’s faster.”
“You really want everyone to know you let an old man conn you into something you knew you probably couldn’t handle? Damn stuff’s made with blood! No wonder you have a tummy ache.”
“Didn’t bother you. And I didn’t have much. Just get me the damn Ipecac! This is worse than food poisoning,” Lee groaned.
“Sick Bay,” Joe said over the intercom, “bring some Ipecac to the captain’s cabin. On the double.”
“The skipper’s been poisoned?” the duty corpsman’s voice asked.
“Tummy ache.”
“Did you have to tell him that?” Lee chided Joe

Poor Lee. He’d only been nice to Mr. McDonald, and now this. Still, I was darn glad I wasn't experiencing any GI problems. Neither apparently, were any of the rest of us. Odd.

Oh the perils of PR.

Tattler Special Edition

My Journal 21