The Last Lady from Hell Read Online Free
Author: Richard G Morley
at his own joke. Poor form, I thought, but wasn’t about to call him on it.
“Congratulations!” he said. “What did you say your last name was? Was it MacDonald? Any relation to Al?”
“Yes,” I said. “Alan is my older brother.”
“One hell of a rugby player and an all-around good egg,” he said, slapping my back hard enough to knock me off balance.
“I’m Dan McKee. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the fellow you really want to speak with, our pipe major.”
He turned and walked through the crowd of kilted pipers and drummers, which parted with his approach. Those who did not move, received a friendly poke with his mace which accomplished the desired result with no malice intended or perceived. He led me toward a lean, sharp looking piper whose uniform was the same as the rest except for a red sash draped across his tunic, and four chevrons or military type stripes on his sleeve. His face was youthful and he exuded the air of leadership and responsibility that was necessary to function as a pipe major. His ramrod posture helped to accentuate this authoritative perception.
“Terry,” McKee bellowed, “We have more fresh meat, I mean another freshman.” He laughed again deep from his belly. Poor form.
“This is Terry Manning our Pipe Major,” he said by way of introduction. “Terry this is Ian Mactavish!”
“MacDonald,” I corrected.
He slapped me on my back again even harder and laughed. “That’s what I said—MacDonald.” I wondered whether my brother liked this guy.
Pipe Major Manning looked at me with a raised eyebrow and an analytical gaze.
“Ian MacDonald” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. My father always said that you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake and the shine of his shoes. Terry had a firm, genuine grip. He smiled as we shook hands, but it struck me as more businesslike than friendly. I supposed that to maintain a position of authority, one must exercise a degree of aloofness.
“Be at Grant Hall, room 110 at 1600 hours. Bring your pipes and have them warmed up and ready,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Then he snapped around and briskly walked into the crowd.
My heart was pounding in my chest as the reality of the moment caught hold. This was really happening, I thought as I headed back to my room. I’m going to be a piper at Queens. The exhilaration was short lived, though, as I overheard two pipers discussing the latest news of the war in Europe. My thoughts turned to my older brother, Alan. Alan left ten months earlier with the first Canadian wave to fight for England. The reports coming back were mixed and my family had not received a letter for some time.
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was three o’clock. I had an hour to prepare for my audition. I walked up the limestone steps of Grant Hall. The buildings of Queens University are made of limestone, as is almost every building in Kingston, Ontario, which, as a result, had been tagged with the not very original nickname “the Limestone City.”
My pipes were stored in a case that my grandfather had made for me when I was twelve years old. He was a real craftsman with cabinetry and his skill was evident in this velvet-lined case. I purchased a new set of Macgregor pipes when I was seventeen. Though they were slightly larger than my first pipes, they still fit snugly into the case.
I took the pipes from the case and practiced scales for the next forty minutes, as Terry had requested. Warming up the pipes andreeds before a performance diminished the tendency of this finicky instrument to go out of tune. The practice enabled the pipes to provide a modestly consistent tone.
Being an all-wood instrument, except for the bag, of course, the bagpipes are often at the mercy of the elements. The blow stick, three drones, and chanter are made from African blackwood, a very hard wood that provides a maximum volume with minimal reaction to temperature or moisture changes. The chanter—the part on
“Congratulations!” he said. “What did you say your last name was? Was it MacDonald? Any relation to Al?”
“Yes,” I said. “Alan is my older brother.”
“One hell of a rugby player and an all-around good egg,” he said, slapping my back hard enough to knock me off balance.
“I’m Dan McKee. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the fellow you really want to speak with, our pipe major.”
He turned and walked through the crowd of kilted pipers and drummers, which parted with his approach. Those who did not move, received a friendly poke with his mace which accomplished the desired result with no malice intended or perceived. He led me toward a lean, sharp looking piper whose uniform was the same as the rest except for a red sash draped across his tunic, and four chevrons or military type stripes on his sleeve. His face was youthful and he exuded the air of leadership and responsibility that was necessary to function as a pipe major. His ramrod posture helped to accentuate this authoritative perception.
“Terry,” McKee bellowed, “We have more fresh meat, I mean another freshman.” He laughed again deep from his belly. Poor form.
“This is Terry Manning our Pipe Major,” he said by way of introduction. “Terry this is Ian Mactavish!”
“MacDonald,” I corrected.
He slapped me on my back again even harder and laughed. “That’s what I said—MacDonald.” I wondered whether my brother liked this guy.
Pipe Major Manning looked at me with a raised eyebrow and an analytical gaze.
“Ian MacDonald” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. My father always said that you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake and the shine of his shoes. Terry had a firm, genuine grip. He smiled as we shook hands, but it struck me as more businesslike than friendly. I supposed that to maintain a position of authority, one must exercise a degree of aloofness.
“Be at Grant Hall, room 110 at 1600 hours. Bring your pipes and have them warmed up and ready,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Then he snapped around and briskly walked into the crowd.
My heart was pounding in my chest as the reality of the moment caught hold. This was really happening, I thought as I headed back to my room. I’m going to be a piper at Queens. The exhilaration was short lived, though, as I overheard two pipers discussing the latest news of the war in Europe. My thoughts turned to my older brother, Alan. Alan left ten months earlier with the first Canadian wave to fight for England. The reports coming back were mixed and my family had not received a letter for some time.
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was three o’clock. I had an hour to prepare for my audition. I walked up the limestone steps of Grant Hall. The buildings of Queens University are made of limestone, as is almost every building in Kingston, Ontario, which, as a result, had been tagged with the not very original nickname “the Limestone City.”
My pipes were stored in a case that my grandfather had made for me when I was twelve years old. He was a real craftsman with cabinetry and his skill was evident in this velvet-lined case. I purchased a new set of Macgregor pipes when I was seventeen. Though they were slightly larger than my first pipes, they still fit snugly into the case.
I took the pipes from the case and practiced scales for the next forty minutes, as Terry had requested. Warming up the pipes andreeds before a performance diminished the tendency of this finicky instrument to go out of tune. The practice enabled the pipes to provide a modestly consistent tone.
Being an all-wood instrument, except for the bag, of course, the bagpipes are often at the mercy of the elements. The blow stick, three drones, and chanter are made from African blackwood, a very hard wood that provides a maximum volume with minimal reaction to temperature or moisture changes. The chanter—the part on
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