The widow, high cheekboned and tasteful in tweed, was never unaware of her role in the community as wife of a Commission Regional Chief. Taking sudden bereavement in her stride, she displayed great dignity. A callow son stood in her shadow, disconsolate in the fashion of an early teen in puberty. His larynx emitted an inaugural adult sound. A rash of pimples confirmed early progress towards manhood.
Munro had few relatives, unlike his wife who spent the day pursued by moral support from a large kinship none of whom bore any resemblance to her. She appeared gratified by their attentions, while determined to be strong. After the funeral, there would be many expressions of admiration for her fortitude.
The weather continued warm, the Ardnamurchan peninsula magnificently outstretched under a gleaming sun. Assistant Director had arrived early at the Salen office, resplendent in kilt and shoon, to introduce himself to his workforce and begin to briefly assess the existing leadership and block the possibility of any mourner wondering who he was.
After their introduction, Mackinnon had been required to accompany Assistant Director throughout all proceedings in the role of guide and advisor. Neither impressed the other with his social skills. Three long haired photographers lurked; arty cousin, local press, Commission.
Assured that a local newspaper was represented, Assistant Director took station beside one of the church elders handing out an ‘Order of Service’ sheet and unctuously shook hands with all expensively dressed mourners. He smiled gravely at those around him, smoothing down the pleats in his kilt as he finally took a seat near the widow and her son.
The coffin sat on a mobile catafalque. It was the sixth time that Munro had been inside the local church. The other five occasions had been on successive Christmases when he awarded a Scripture Knowledge prize donated each year by the Commission.
The minister’s sonorous tones delivered gravitas to a packed assembly and Assistant Director read a sanctimonious eulogy. “A huge loss to us all,” he intoned, to frowns from those unused to half swallowed vowel sounds and struggling to understand.
As custom required, names were read and men took their place at the bier then carried the coffin from the church. Once outside, the piper struck up ‘MacCrimmon’s Lament’ and led the cortege in slow march along a neat footpath, pausing twice while the casket was transferred to a second set of six mourners, then a third. Gravel crunched underfoot.
At the graveside the piper halted and the coffin was lowered slowly by those chosen to take a cord. Mourners clustered around. The sun shone. Photographs were discreetly taken from various angles.
The piper played “Amazing Grace” in bright sunshine. Handfuls of dirt thudded with a hollow sound on the coffin. The mourners, reconvened at a nearby hotel, drank their alcohol of choice with triangular sandwiches and canapés. A buzz of conversation arose. Re-acquaintance was made with friends and relatives. Assistant Director circulated in red Maxwell tartan with dark green stripes before allowing himself to be transported back to civilisation.
Young Munro remained with his mother meantime. The new ‘man of the house’ would shortly return to his decent private school and the scions of privilege who had decided to bestow upon him the nickname ‘Birnham’. In remembrance of his father, and of his known academic ineptitude, the son would become eponymous of wood that appeared to walk.