Sorry, Willie, for the big lie

Touring round the North West a few days ago, and speaking with friends and acquaintances there, it became very clear that the recent election of Durness’s Hugh Morrison to the Highland Council has been well received.

"A local man – he’ll do a good job" was the feeling.

And while not in any way wishing to take away from the similar electoral success of Hugh’s two fellow ward councillors, George Farlow and Linda Munro, both of whom are hard workers with a proven track record, Hugh’s own appearance in the council chamber has tickled a lot of folk.

"Driving the scaffie cart on the Thursday – and being a councillor on the Friday. It’s great!"

Though the strict accuracy of the comment I heard in Scourie might be questionable, there could be no doubt as to the warmth of the sentiment. I fancy that Hugh has got off to a really good start and will be around for years to come. Speaking as one retread councillor to a new one – "well done".

"James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree…" my father used to say to me when I was little.

Morrison Morrison – ah hum – you know, it was another Durness Morrison that I once told the biggest lie of my life to. He is Willie Morrison the journalist (whose sister Violet is my next door neighbour here in Tain) and now is the time to confess.

Back in those days, when I was still a relatively fresh face on the old Ross-shire council, I was Tain councillor Alasdair Rhind’s mother’s second-in-command. She, the late Isobel Rhind, was the council’s chair of policy and resources and I was her vice-chairman.

Not so much to write home about – but for the fact that Mrs Rhind and I, and the council’s convener Major Allan Cameron, made up a largely unknown but very powerful triumvirate. "Bow bow, all ye ordinary councillors!" – we were the Emergency Powers Committee.

The way the Ross-shire council was set up included an emergency provision for lightning-fast decision-making: this was the Emergency Powers Committee. If the bomb dropped, if the sky fell in, then we three could meet ultra-quickly and decide what had to be done.

It worked entirely outside the normal democratic decision-making process ("Mr Convener, in view of the fact that the Soviet Union has launched a missile strike on the United Kingdom, I should like to make a further amendment to the motion…") and it was strictly reserved for true emergencies.

And until one Tuesday morning it didn’t exactly absorb my attention.

I was making the crowdie (as one does – or at least one did in those days) when the telephone rang. It was Roslyn, the Chief Executive’s secretary. She asked me if I could come through to Dingwall for a meeting in 40 minutes’ time. Up to my oxters in curds and whey, I said no. It wasn’t at all convenient. Roslyn sighed, and told me that she was putting the Chief Executive on direct.

"Jamie – get in your car now. It’s serious. The Major and Mrs Rhind are already on their way."

"Now look here – what’s all this about" I demanded as the door of the Chief Executive’s office was shut behind me? And then I glanced at the Major and Mrs Rhind: they both looked worried.

"Jamie, listen to me, you know the stuff in the news about the Bank of Commerce and Credit International, BCCI, that has just collapsed?" said the Chief Executive. "Well the council had £1.8 million invested in it…"

"We’ve lost the lot!" said the Major.

"And it’s going to look absolutely terrible – all that public money – we’ll be the laughing stock of the entire country," added Mrs Rhind gloomily. I sat down with a bump. This was very serious.

After an hour or so of discussion the Emergency Powers Committee took what I still think was the right decision. In the knowledge that almost everything leaks out sooner or later, we decided against sitting on this huge loss and saying nothing.

Instead we agreed that we would call a press conference for two o’clock that afternoon, go public with the loss, and try to gather as many brownie points as we could for being open and honest about the disaster.

Until two, mum was the word – and in the meantime the Convener and the Chief Executive would prepare what they were going to say. Glumly I made my way back down the main stairs of the County Buildings. £1.8 million was an awful lot of crowdie…

"Aye aye, Jamie boy!" – it was Willie Morrison standing at reception "Quiet day for news – got anything for me? Anything nice and juicy??"

And that was the big lie.

"Och not a lot – just making the crowdie… I must get on. See you."

Willie Morrison from Durness – I am so sorry. But at least you had the story shortly after two.