The widow had decided that her husband should be buried by the local church at Salen, overlooking its picturesque bay on the shores of Loch Sunart. The kirk was two hundred metres from her pretty bungalow. A barracks type building, from which the Commission controlled its vast ownership in Lochaber, stood nearby.
Munro’s fourteen year old son was delivered from boarding school to doorstep by a Commission vehicle and driver, the boy uncomfortable in the knowledge that his peers now knew his deceased father not to be the senior civil servant in whose supposed function he had imparted much mystery, but a humble forester, virtually an ‘estate worker’. He dreaded a new soubriquet (‘Son of Robin Hood’ or ‘Young Robin’, were considered by him to be the most likely) and the purgatory of a ‘damned outsider’.
The Commission, to emphasise its standing in the community, had hired a local piper for the funeral and was deciding whether or not a graveside rendering of ‘Flowers of the Forest’ might be considered cheesy by local folk. The widow, having chosen the hymns, had given ready consent to a Commission led affair complete with eulogy.
Head Office, concerned to observe proper protocol, struggled to discover precedent which would guide them. They turned to Director, currently in Jacksonville, Florida, heartland of American golf, and officially absorbed by matters arboreal in that leafy state. This grandee was contacted at his hotel by Assistant Director (Scotland), a public schoolboy whom Director called ‘AD’, as if he could never quite remember his name.
“Apologies for the morning call, Director,” Assistant Director had begun, “but we lost our Regional Chief for Lochaber. A road accident I was told. Killed outright. Chap called Munro.”
“Oh dear, AD,” Director, clad in shorts and gaudy shirt, had said from his hotel room overlooking the eighteenth green, “how unfortunate. Munro was his name, you said? Can’t say I remember the fellow. Wouldn’t have met him socially, I don’t suppose. Decidedly not a patrician.”
A pause followed in which Assistant Director caught a muffled reference to ‘room service’. Director resumed decisively. “You go, AD. Deliver the eulogy. Use the opportunity to do a bit of good public relations up there. The Commission’s caring heart, you know the sort of thing. Perhaps one might consider a day of mourning for the workforce?”
“A day of mourning seems to overstate Munro’s importance, Director,” AD said carefully, “but what does one wear to a funeral in these parts?”
Director became impatient, “Highland dress of course, AD. Kilt and best brogues. Do think again about giving the local troops a day off.”
Director was brusque and their conversation ended. Assistant Director shrugged resignedly and called each department head in turn. He kept himself pragmatic, unemotional. There would be no day of mourning. ‘That is going too far’, Assistant Director pronounced when the Press Relations Officer mentioned it. As executive head of the Commission, Scotland, he would personally attend the funeral. He would then meet and evaluate the merit of all local Commission staff to determine their competence and whether there was any need for urgency in replacing Munro. The sartorial difficulty he resolved in favour of the Maxwell tartan, discovering a distant family connection by way of his mother.
“Alison,” he said loudly, but conversationally.
Assistant Director’s secretary tapped the office door before entering and he continued in top gear.
“Alison, set up a meeting with the environmental people who continue to complain about bio-diversity, Blair to minute, Legal Blair that is. Make it soon, but not imminent, if you understand me. Oh, and Alison, I do need to know who is attending this funeral up north. Names of the next of kin, whoever is dropping in from local government, anyone of note. Give me some background on each. Cancel all my appointments for that day. Oh, and check out the press coverage. Tell Press Liaison it should be sombre, appropriate, unsplashy; we are deeply saddened,” and Assistant Director smiled at the secretary.
“What was his first name, you know, the chap we are mourning.”
“Hugo,” the secretary said, flat voiced.
“Really?” Assistant Director mused. “Possesses a distant cachet. Check with the Party, he likely was a member. Good for one’s prospects. Wait a moment, it’s coming back to me…didn’t his father have a nice little hotel near Muirfield? Director would take the occasional golfing Congressman there for a weekend. I remember him now. Munro. Fussy little fellow. Of course he joined the Party. Posted his boy to a very decent private school. Nothing red about Munro…Oh, and make sure everything we do is in the monthly magazine. This month’s edition. Photograph of Munro to appear with his obituary. Tasteful, not overly grim. Do it and let me see the draft before five.”
The secretary nodded to Assistant Director and left the room. ‘Oh-and’, as she referred to Assistant Director in private conversations, nourished her dislike of him each day. She felt sure he was aware of this and that it amused him.
“Horrible man,” she whispered to herself, reaching for her desk phone.