A Promise of Ankles

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Stuart cupped his hand over the receiver. “I’m dictating a memo,” he called out to Irene.

  “What about?” asked Irene, knocking again as she spoke.

  “Something private,” said Stuart.

  “Have you gone mad?” asked Irene.

  Stuart now addressed Katie. “Listen,” he said. “Can I see you in about half an hour?”

  Katie replied immediately. “Yes. Where?”

  Stuart thought of the first place that came to mind. “The Wally Dug Bar. Northumberland Street. On the corner.”

  “I know it,” said Katie.

  “I have to go,” said Stuart.

  Outside the bathroom, there was an ominous silence. Plucking up his courage, Stuart unlocked the door and began to open it. As he did so, his eye caught a drawing that Bertie had done and that he himself had stuck on one of the door panels. It was a portrait, in the stick-man style of a child’s drawing, and it portrayed Stuart in a kilt, wielding what looked like a claymore. Underneath was written, in faltering lettering, MY DAD IN HIS KOLT (sic), and beneath that the signature, BERTIE.

  He stared at the drawing, his emotions welling up within him. That was him: MY DAD – seen from the perspective of a little boy who was barely seven, who wanted from the world no more than that which any seven-year-old boy wants – a Swiss Army penknife, a dog, friendship and adventure, and a mother and a father. That was all. And yet even if he could provide some of these things for Bertie, he could not provide them all, no matter how hard he tried.

  He saw that Irene was no longer waiting outside the bathroom, and so he was able to look again at the drawing. Why had Bertie chosen to portray him with a large sword in his hand? He thought he knew: Bertie had recently expressed an interest in William Wallace, of whom he had read in a book that Nicola had found for him: A Boy’s Book of Scotland and Scottish Things, published by Messrs Nelson, at their printing works in Edinburgh in 1956. Nicola had obtained it from her friend Mary Davidson, who collected books for the Christian Aid sale and who had spotted this as being ideal for somebody of Bertie’s age. Bertie had been thrilled because the editors of A Boy’s Book of Scotland and Scottish Things had a vision of Scotland that was misty, romantic and totally at odds with the contemporary official version of the country. Scotland, in their view, was all about plotting, revenge, acts of astonishing bravery, explorers, inventors, the Forth Railway Bridge, and oatmeal porridge. People such as Olive and Pansy were written out of this conception of the country, as were the English, who were only marginally portrayed in their role as members of Edward’s army, ruthless Redcoats at Culloden, and frightened occupants of Northumbrian farms cowering in the face of entirely justified Scottish raids to retrieve stolen cattle from English stock-thieves.

  And here, thought Stuart, am I, imagined in that vanished world that never was anyway, pictured by that little boy with his wavering pencil, pictured with love, with pride, and with an intensity that shone through with as much force as that which drove Michelangelo, Titian or Rembrandt van Rijn to put pigment to canvas, board, or plaster.

  Oh, my darling Bertie, Stuart thought. I love you so much, so much. And I’m going to do everything – everything – I possibly can to make your life better, to allow you to be a boy, which is not something you need be ashamed of or apologise for. I promise you that, Bertie; I promise you.

  And with that he went into the kitchen, where Irene was waiting for him.

  16

  At the Wally Dug

  Irene said to Stuart, “So, Stuart: dinner à deux, I imagine, with your young friend?”

  Stuart ignored the taunt. “There’s a quiche in the fridge for you,” he said. “It’s chopped ham and sun-dried tomato. And there’s a salad too – it’s already dressed.”

  Irene sniffed. “You shouldn’t put dressing on a salad until you’re ready to eat it. It kills it dead after half an hour.”

  “Well, there you are,” said Stuart. “That’s what’s available.”

  He turned to leave the kitchen.

  “I take it that you’re finding something you didn’t see in me,” said Irene. “Men being men.”

  Stuart caught his breath. He gave Irene what he hoped was a withering glance, and made his way out of the flat. He felt his heart beating within him; that would be adrenaline, he thought, the fight or flight hormone produced by such situations of stress. Well, he had opted for flight, which was ultimately better, he decided. Bertie might see him as William Wallace, but that was not really him. He wanted only harmony and freedom from constant criticism and sniping. He wanted normality.

  He went out onto Scotland Street and started the five-minute walk to the Wally Dug. Although it was summer, and the city was filling with visitors, in that quiet part of the New Town there were few people about: a man taking a dog for a walk; a young couple strolling hand in hand, completely absorbed in the miracle that was one another; a woman loading an estate car with bunches of cut flowers and plants in small terracotta pots.

  It was quiet, too, at the Wally Dug, with only four or five people in the bar, none of whom he recognised. There was a point in life, he thought, where you might expect to go into a bar and recognise nobody; and then a further point, still a distant one for Stuart, but one that he could nonetheless at least envisage, where one would go into a bar and realise that one is the oldest person there.

  Stuart ordered a half pint of Campbell’s and sat down at one of the tables in the back. He looked at his watch. He was early, but only by ten minutes. Even if Katie were to be five or ten minutes late, this meant that within twenty minutes, at the most, he would be seeing her. The thought excited him, and he felt his heart beat more noticeably. Our revealing hearts, he thought: they give everything away. He had read somewhere that the idea of a broken heart was not an impossible one; that the heart, pre-eminently amongst organs, reacted to the emotions. So perhaps the heart was indeed where feelings of love were located. You did give people your heart; your heart was snatched away from you by one for whom you fell.

  And the heart, with its chambers, may have room for more than one love; in Stuart’s heart, there was a chamber for his sons, for Bertie and Ulysses, and one for his mother, and one for somebody like Katie.

  He looked at his watch again. Time would drag because of his anticipation; he knew that. But then he saw the door swing open and Katie came in. He rose to his feet automatically, and spilled his glass of beer across the table. She saw it happen; saw him reach forward, too late to prevent disaster.

  “Oh, look,” he said. “Just look. Stupid me…”

  She laughed. “I’m always doing that.”

  “Spilling things?” He mopped at the pool of beer with his handkerchief, now soaked.

  “Yes, and breaking things too.”

  A woman behind the bar came round with a cloth and tidied up.

  “I feel very stupid,” said Stuart.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. It happens. Sit at that table there. This will dry.”

  They moved, and Stuart ordered Katie a drink. She wanted orange juice. “I like wine,” she said, “but not always. Sometimes.”

  He said that he thought it a good idea not to drink wine all the time. And then he laughed. “That sounds so odd. Don’t drink wine all the time.”

  “Two or three times a week,” she said. “That won’t harm you.”

  He looked at her, his eyes falling to the linen blouse she was wearing. He loved linen, particularly green linen, which this was.

  “Linen,” he muttered.

  She had intercepted his gaze. “My blouse? You like it, then?”

  “Love it.” And then he asked, “Have you been working on the PhD?”

  Katie was doing a PhD on twentieth-century Scottish poetry. She spent a lot of time, she had told him, in the National Library.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve been…” She lo
oked embarrassed. “I’ve been indulging myself. I know I should be working on the thesis, but…well, every so often, I want to do my own writing. And I do. Today has been one of those days.”

  “Poetry?” asked Stuart. “You told me you write poetry – and you gave me that poem once. Remember?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’ve got a ridiculous plan.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You won’t laugh?”

  “Of course not.”

  She took a sip of her orange juice. “I’m writing sonnets. I want to write a series of sonnets about friendship and love. That’s my plan.”

  Stuart smiled. “But that’s wonderful.”

  She seemed pleased. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave him a searching look. “Do you know Shakespeare’s sonnets?”

  He replied that he knew one or two lines – nothing more. “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…etc. etc.?”

  “That’s one of them. There are rather a lot. Not all of them are as memorable as that.”

  “And yours?” asked Stuart.

  “They’ll be in strict sonnet form. Or fairly strict.”

  He looked at her. He was in love. It hit him as a wave hits you when wading in the sea – or that is what it felt like. It made him feel elated. It was love, as forceful and as powerful as a wave. He wanted to say to her: Look, I’m in love with you – head over heels, utterly, completely, insanely. But instead he said, “Would you read one to me? One of your sonnets?”

  She blushed. “Do you really want me to?”

  “Of course.” He reached out and took her hand. He could not believe he was holding it. She did not resist. She returned the pressure of his fingers, and that meant only one thing: they were lovers. He had a lover. And suddenly it felt as if a great burden was lifted from him: a burden of guilt and regret. He had done his best with his marriage: it was not his fault. He had gone through life tiptoeing round Irene’s sensitivities, apologising for being who he was, and now it was over. There would be no more apologies. He was free.

  17

  Love, Like Electricity

  Stuart said to Katie, “You said you’d read me one of your poems.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He stroked her hand. “So? Will you?”

  She looked about her. “Here? In the pub?”

  “Nobody’s paying any attention to us.” He gestured to the other people, none of whom seemed aware of their presence. “See?”

  She reached into a bag she had brought with her. “As it happens…”

  He grinned encouragingly. “Go on.”

  Katie took out a single sheet of paper. Stuart craned his neck to look at it, but she kept it to herself. “Remember, they’re sonnets.”

  “You said that.”

  “So that means fourteen lines,” she explained, “with twelve lines rhyming on an abab scheme, and the last two lines rhyming aa.” She paused. “Pentameters. More or less.”

  Stuart nodded. He tried to remember what he knew about meter, but it had been forgotten. He had done Higher English, but that was a long time ago.

  “I’ve imagined this first poem as something that might have been written by James VI,” Katie said. “He was a very interesting figure, you know. Rather sad. He had a pretty stern tutor and very little joy in his life. His mother, after all, had her head chopped off. And then, along comes his cousin from France, Esmé Stuart, and James, as a boy, falls in love with him. For the first time there is light in his life – until Esmé is sent back to France. So I imagined James writing this. It may sound a bit old-fashioned as a result.”

  Stuart listened.

  Cousin, you came into my life too late

  To be the one to teach me how to see

  How strange it is to be a slave of Fate,

  Even though men should subjects be to me.

  But what you taught me – that I’ll always hold

  More precious than the gifts of high estate,

  Those are base metal, while your words are gold

  Displayed in letters large at Heaven’s gate;

  A gentle look, a secret touch, a smile,

  Given free and by outsider’s hand unbidden,

  Will count for more than any trick or wile

  Or words in which a heart of ice is hidden.

  Now you are gone, you have put out the light

  That bathed my days in sun, that banished night.

  When she had finished, Stuart was silent. He looked at her and she looked back, unblinking.

  She said, “The departure of Esmé Stuart brought his world to an end.”

  He said, “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?”

  “I have another one,” she said. “Another sonnet. Nothing to do with James. This is about the end of a love affair. One person has gone and the other reflects on the parting.”

  He waited, and she began to read:

  When I felt lonely I would go around

  Lost in a crowd of those I did not know,

  Hoping to hear the once familiar sound

  The voice of one who claimed to love me so;

  But listened in vain, just as I listen still,

  For you to utter, to evoke my name,

  Knowing the ear’s a trickster and often will

  Contrive to make other people sound the same;

  You needed do no more than write to me,

  You needed do no more than make a call;

  Writing costs nothing, email’s almost free,

  My sorrow, though, I think counts not at all.

  An injured heart does not engender love,

  No sheltering tree will want a single dove.

  He reached for her hand again. “Is that you speaking?” he asked. “Did that happen to you?”

  She did not answer immediately, but then she said, “Hasn’t that happened to everybody? Hasn’t everybody loved somebody and not been loved back? Unreciprocated love?”

  He thought about it. When he was sixteen he had fallen in love with a girl who was a year older than he was. His feeling for her had hit him like a jolt of electricity, as he had suddenly discovered the possibility of thinking about another person for a sustained period of time with pleasure. This was the real essence of love – that simply thinking about another, conjuring up the image of the object of your love, could fill you with such an extraordinary sense of excitement. It was like cradling a rare thing in your hands and staring at it in wonderment – the wonder being that this thing actually existed, that it was. How strange, how strange…and he had felt all that for that girl who had not even noticed him because he was a year younger than she was, and at that age such an age difference can be fatal.

  He answered Katie. “Yes, it probably has. It happened to me.”

  He had not intended to say that, but he had, and now she asked, gently enough, but with an enquiring look, “Your wife?”

  He shook his head. It had been quite different with Irene. He had always imagined that he had loved Irene – after all, he had married her – but now he was not at all sure. He had done his best to love her, because Stuart was duteous and it is expected of husbands and wives that they should at least try to love one another, but there had never been that…that…He searched his mind for the right word, and ended up with electricity. It was a somewhat hackneyed metaphor, but everybody knew what it meant in the context. There had not been that electricity that went with love; it simply was not there. Perhaps it was affection – perhaps that was what there had been, at least on his part. He was not at all sure, now, that Irene had ever even liked him. She had been so critical, so censorious, that he had wondered whether her first and greater loyalty was to some social or political project, some greater cause in which there was no place for the unbel
iever, the outsider.

  He looked at Katie. “Your poem,” he said. “What were the last two lines of that second poem?”

  She looked down at the piece of paper from which she had read the two sonnets.

  “An injured heart does not engender love,” she read. “No sheltering tree will want a single dove.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked. “I like the sound of it, but what does it actually mean?”

  She folded the paper. “It means that it’s no good trying to get sympathy from the other person – the person who’s indifferent to you. He, or she, will never love you because you’re sad – just as a tree wants two doves that are happy rather than one that’s sad.”

  He looked down at the floor. Yes. That was quite true. He had not thought of it before, but it was one of those observations that had always been there and that one suddenly stumbled across and knew to be true.

  Something occurred to him – a doubt. “There’s something you should know, though,” he said. “It’s this: those two little boys of mine – Bertie and his brother – I love them so much. They are more important than anything else. They’re my life, I suppose. They’re everything to me.”

  She reached out to take his hand. “Of course, I understand that. Of course I do.”

  18

  An Offer from Paris

  That same afternoon, Pat had arrived at Matthew’s gallery two hours later than usual. She had warned Matthew that she might be delayed at an interview she was attending for another part-time job, but had implied that she would be in for work no more than half an hour after he would normally expect her. As it turned out, it was not until almost four o’clock that Matthew saw a taxi draw up outside the gallery entrance and Pat step out. That in itself was unusual: Pat never travelled by taxi, as she made a point of walking everywhere or using the 23 bus, which conveniently made its way from the south side of the city, where Pat lived, all the way down Dundas Street, a route that took her almost to the gallery door.

  “A taxi?” said Matthew as Pat came through the front door.