“He wrote Kidnapped, didn’t he, Daddy?”
“He did, Bertie.”
“It’s a bit scary, that book. Ranald said that he doesn’t want to read it, but then he can’t read yet – and nor can Tofu. Tofu says that reading’s old-fashioned and that he’s not going to waste his time learning how to do old-fashioned things. He said you might as well spend your time learning Egyptian hieroglyphics.”
Stuart smiled. “Tofu is wrong on most things, Bertie – as I suspect you’ve noticed.”
Stuart waited a few moments. Then he said, “Well, Bertie, perhaps you might like to spend a few weeks at another school – without Tofu. Or Olive, for that matter.”
Bertie’s eyes widened. “Really, Daddy? Do you think I could?”
“How about Glasgow?”
Bertie dropped his book. “Did you say Glasgow, Daddy? Glasgow?”
Stuart nodded. “There’s an exchange scheme, Bertie. And Ranald is on it. We wondered whether you might like to join him – and go to school in Glasgow for a month.”
Bertie leapt out of bed, tossing the bedclothes aside. “I can get changed straight away, Daddy. Should I wear my new shoes? What will it be like? Will you write to me?” The questions came thick and fast. “Will it be in the Gorbals, Daddy?”
Stuart caught his wrist. “Hold on, Bertie. I didn’t mean right now. These things have to be arranged, and I just wanted to check that you would be happy to go.”
Bertie leapt again – this time into his father’s lap. “Oh yes, Daddy. I can think of nothing better. Glasgow!”
“In that case,” said Stuart, “I’ll get in touch with the school – both schools – first thing on Monday, and find out what needs to be done. I can’t guarantee it, Bertie, but Ranald’s mother said that she thought they’d be happy to take you at the same time that Ranald goes.”
Bertie climbed back into bed. “This is the best news ever,” he said. “And you’re the kindest dad in the history of the world.”
Stuart closed his eyes. For years I failed you, he said to himself. For years.
Bertie reached out to touch his father’s forearm. “Don’t look sad, Daddy,” he whispered. “It wasn’t your fault that you married Mummy.”
34
Major Events
All that had happened on a Friday. And if Friday had seemed eventful, what with Torquil’s washing of the stairs, Nicola’s conversation with Stuart about Glasgow, Matthew and Elspeth’s anniversary dinner – shared with James – at which Roger Collins’ porcini soup had been served, it was but as nothing compared with Saturday, a day that began with stillness and promise as a zone of high pressure drifted up from France, avoided England, and then, finding just the right atmospheric conditions, settled over Scotland and Norway, generously promising both northern countries at least four days of balmy, almost sultry conditions. It was still very early summer, not a time at which anybody in Scotland, other than the most incorrigible optimists, could even think about putting their overcoats away until autumn. But now, as Edinburgh looked forward to a day of uninterrupted sunshine, Montesquieu’s observations on the association between climate and disposition were everywhere laid out for ratification: in the spring in the step of the city’s early morning walkers, in the appearance of bright, short-sleeved clothing, in the figures in Princes Street Gardens, sprawled out on the grass, careless of latitude, feeling – or almost feeling – the very blades of grass beneath them beginning to perk up with the challenge of summer.
Major events lay ahead that Saturday morning. Bertie, still exhilarated at the prospect of Glasgow, was due to go into town with his grandmother and his younger brother. Nicola was to purchase a pair of jeans for him and a red bandana for Ulysses, if one were to be available.
“We may be unsuccessful in that search,” Nicola warned. “Bandanas are not the sort of thing one sees these days, but we shall try.”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “And Ulysses won’t mind, Granny. He doesn’t really know what’s going on.”
For Stuart’s part, the morning had the particular promise of a meeting – for coffee – with Katie. This was to take place at Big Lou’s, and then they planned to go for a walk at Cramond, followed by lunch in South Queensferry. Stuart was excited by the prospect – so much so that when he shaved that morning, he traced a heart on the bathroom mirror, using shaving cream. It was a childish thing to do, he thought, but it had been spontaneous, and if you ever reached the stage in life, he told himself, when you could not be bothered to draw hearts on mirrors, then surely your life would be the flatter for that.
Out at Nine Mile Burn, Elspeth and Matthew had quite separate plans, at least for the first part of the day, and these plans were significant. Elspeth had recently made a new friend in Alice, a young woman she had met at the West Linton Mother and Toddler Group. That group had been formed by various members of a local National Childbirth Trust pre-natal class, who had stayed in touch with one another after the birth of their children. Elspeth had got on particularly well with Alice, who lived in a nearby village. She was married to an architect, and had herself completed several years of her architectural training at the Glasgow School of Art before she had decided that she wanted to do something different and had set up a small business making silk flowers. That had proved successful, and even after she started a family – she had a daughter slightly younger than Elspeth’s triplets – she had been able to establish a small workshop in the grounds of their house. There she employed – on a part-time basis – a Syrian woman whose husband had a job in a laboratory at the Veterinary School at Easter Bush and a young woman who had previously been a motorcycle mechanic but who had decided to abandon that career and move back to live with her parents in West Linton. “I was trying to prove something to myself,” she confessed to Alice. “And to others, I suppose. Anyway, I hate motorcycles now. I’m more into flowers and stuff. Much more.”
Elspeth had arranged to visit Alice that morning and then to have a picnic with the boys and with Alice’s daughter, Wee Alice. Alice knew of a burn down near Peebles where the children could play safely in the water and where she and Elspeth could catch up on each other’s news. Their friendship was an easy one: they agreed on most subjects, and those on which they disagreed were never raised. They liked the same films and books, and exchanged boxed sets of DVDs. Alice had offered to teach Elspeth how to make silk flowers, and had said that she might even be able to use her at times when they had large orders to fulfil. “We’re beginning to send them to France,” she said. “They go to Lyon. Apparently, there’s a lot of interest in silk flowers in Lyon.” But then she stopped. “Of course, you don’t really need to work. I was forgetting. Matthew’s not short of money, I gather.”
Elspeth was tactful. “He doesn’t flash it around. And everyone has to be careful.”
“Yes, but you don’t actually need to work, do you?” She sighed. “Architecture’s odd. Colin’s really good at his job, but he ends up doing rubbish work half the time. Kitchen extensions and so on. He’d like to design concert halls and airports.”
Elspeth looked away, embarrassed by Alice’s remark about Matthew’s circumstances. Matthew was discreet, and not at all showy; they lived simply enough. Of course, the house was large, but it had not been all that expensive, and was not in very good condition. The problem was envy – not that she was accusing Alice of that – but it was a problem with an awful lot of people. “Everyone wants to feel useful,” she said. “And I think you should work if you can.”
They had left the subject there, and if Elspeth were to learn how to make silk flowers, it would be for her own enjoyment rather than to participate in Alice’s business.
For his part, Matthew had agreed with James that he would drive him over to Single Malt House to check up on his uncle, the Duke of Johannesburg, whose behaviour was causing James some concern.
“I don’t want to go by myself,”
James said. “If you wouldn’t mind coming with me…”
Matthew had readily agreed. “I hope everything’s all right,” he said.
“I don’t think it is,” replied James. “In fact, far from it.”
That outing promised to be revelatory, and it was, but, as it happened, it was considerably less dramatic than the experience ahead of Angus, and indeed of Cyril, on a planned walk to the Moray Pleasure Gardens, to which Angus had an informal key. Calling in on India Street, Angus proposed to invite his friend, James Holloway, to accompany him and Cyril as their walk continued in the gardens between Moray Place and the Water of Leith below – a wild spot within the city, a noted example of rus in urbe, where cliffs descended to the river bed, and where groves of trees, clumps of shrubs, and meandering paths provided plenty of challenge and olfactory entertainment for Cyril. Angus wanted to sound out James about an exhibition he was curating at the Scottish Arts Club, and they could discuss it as they walked while Cyril, free of his leash, heady with freedom, ran in circles, endured the taunting of nimble squirrels, and generally behaved as nature had designed dogs to behave.
35
A Walk to Stockbridge
“Cyril seems in fine fettle,” remarked James Holloway as he and Angus made their way down India Street.
Hearing his name mentioned, Cyril glanced up appreciatively. A dog’s name is, to a dog, mood music of the most desirable sort. While we might tire of the constant iteration of our names – dogs did not, as Angus now explained to James.
“The point about these creatures,” he said, gesturing to Cyril, “is that they have very simple word association capabilities. They have a vocabulary, of course, but it’s usually relatively small. Some dogs have no words at all, other than their name – Cyril has a bit more than that, but his name, obviously, is the most important word in the world – for him.”
The second mention of his name brought another appreciative glance from Cyril. This time he smiled, his gold tooth flashing briefly in the sun.
“Yes,” continued Angus, “the best thing for him would be to hear a constant refrain of Cyril, Cyril, Cyril – sung by a mass choir, if you will, but uncomplicated by further words. That would be heaven.” He paused. “Of course, human beings tend to assume our divinities are similarly pleased by our recital of their names. Perhaps it’s the same thing. Why engage in the endless repetition of the same few words? What if God were to say: I heard you the first time? No need to go on and on.”
James smiled. “But the purpose of prayer, surely, is to remind ourselves of something. Om is rather interesting in that respect.”
“Om,” muttered Angus.
“Yes. People say it at the beginning of a yoga class, for example. They take a deep breath and say Om.”
“Of course, it has a broad meaning,” James continued. “It’s meant to be the sound of the universe, isn’t it? It brings together mind, body and spirit.”
“That’s a lot of work for a small word,” Angus said. He looked down at Cyril. “Do you think that the canine equivalent is woof?”
James laughed.
“No,” said Angus. “That’s a serious suggestion. When a dog says woof, does he actually mean anything?”
James said he thought that would depend on the context. The bark of a guard dog might be a warning, for instance. It was reasonable to give such a bark the meaning Look out! or There’s something going on over there!
“Or I want my dinner,” added Angus.
“Precisely. And in that case, surely, a bark becomes language.”
“On the other hand,” Angus went on, “a lot of barks are simply expressions of an emotional state – excitement, anticipation, sheer joy. Those barks, I would have thought, are getting close to Om – the canine variety of Om, that is.” He paused. “Have you ever heard a wolf howl, James?”
James shook his head. “I can imagine it sends shivers up the spine.”
“It does,” said Angus. “Rather like Mist-Covered Mountains played on the pipes. Or Highland Cathedral, too, I suppose. When you’re at Murrayfield Stadium and the rugby is about to begin and the pipe band plays Highland Cathedral, well…” A thought occurred; wolves had been forgotten. “It’s actually what one might call an Om moment, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps the whole crowd might chant Om before kick-off,” suggested James, with a smile.
“It might help,” said Angus. “As long as the Scottish side knew it was for them. And Om, I fear, doesn’t lend itself to partiality. One can hardly say Om and then add, to the other team, But not for you, actually. No, I don’t think Om works that way. Om is inherently universal. Just as Peace be with you is intended universally, and without the qualification, But not with you, or you, or you…seriatim, so to speak.”
Angus warmed to his theme. “We’re very lucky to have the pipes,” he said. “They’re one of Scotland’s greatest assets, you know. We don’t necessarily talk about them as such, of course, but they are. The sound of the pipes binds us – gives us a sense of identity.” He paused. “Does that sound corny? Or even dangerous?”
James shook his head. “I would have thought we wanted a sense of community. I would have thought that we wanted to care for one another.”
“We do,” said Angus. “Or, shall I say, most of us do. And other people have similar things that make them feel Yes, this is who we are. This is something that we all share. German slap dancing, for example. That’s hilarious to an outsider – these men dressed in Lederhosen stamping their feet and slapping their thighs while an oompah band plays away in the background. Priceless, but look at the faces of the people watching, and you see something else – a sort of cultural recognition; a sort of this is ours look. And…” He hesitated. But then he thought, yes, one could extrapolate from that. “And that surely is the basis of the feeling that we’re all in this together; that we must share with one another and try to treat one another well.”
“Nobody would argue with that,” said James. “Unless one were a radical individualist, and they’re somewhat tiresome, as a rule…”
“Profoundly tiresome,” said Angus. “And they’re on very shaky ground philosophically. If they were consistent, they couldn’t rely on anybody for anything. They couldn’t phone the police if they needed help; they couldn’t expect anybody to empty their rubbish bins on alternative Fridays; they couldn’t go to the dentist, because dentistry involves a commitment to co-operative effort at some point – there have to be people who train dentists and so on. Life becomes nasty, brutish and short, as Hobbes said, I believe…”
“Unless he’s being misquoted,” said James. “Perhaps he said that life in the state of nature was nasty, British, and short.”
They both laughed.
Cyril, looking up, barked.
“Cyril has a great sense of humour,” said Angus.
He barked again.
“That sounded a bit like Om,” said James. “Do you think that Cyril’s learning?”
They had reached the junction of India Street and Gloucester Place. As they rounded the corner, Cyril tugged at his lead. He had realised now where they were going, and he was particularly fond of the Water of Leith, in which Angus would allow him to splash and retrieve sticks at the end of a walk.
“We need to talk about this exhibition I’m getting together,” said Angus. “It’s at the Scottish Arts Club. We’re planning a little show, as I think I mentioned to you, and I wanted your advice on a selection issue. The idea is that the show is of paintings in members’ private collections – not their own work, of course, but stuff from their collections.”
“Nice,” said James.
“Yes, but we’ve been offered rather too much, and we have to decide which works to choose. It’s delicate, and as curator I’m going to have to justify my selection.”
“That’s what curators do,” said James.
“And the trouble is that one of the paintings I’m being pressed to show is, in my view, simply not by the painter the owner claims it’s by.”
“Oh,” said James. “Awkward.”
“It’s a portrait, you see,” said Angus. “And you know about portraits.” He paused. “And it’s also not of the person it claims to be of.”
“What a rotten painting,” said James.
36
A Speluncean Entrance
From the junction of Gloucester Place and Doune Terrace, the road dropped precipitously the short distance down to Stockbridge. Within a few minutes Angus and James were down by the banks of the Water of Leith, the river that runs from its Pentland source to the basin at the port of Leith. It is not a deep river, but it is a fairly fast-moving one, and when there has been heavy rainfall it has its share of tiny rapids where it dances with boyish enthusiasm. For the most part, it is a well-behaved river, rarely breaking its banks and never stagnating. Its water is clear, as it has a relatively short journey from the hills and its banks are unburdened by industry.
A short walk beside the river brought them to St Bernard’s Well, a stone temple erected at the end of the eighteenth century, complete with small pump-room for the taking of the waters, and presided over by a statue of the goddess, Hygeia.
As he bent down to release Cyril from his leash, Angus looked up at the goddess, who was standing in assured pose beside a column around which a snake had been entwined. “I assume that she got the snake from her father,” he said. “She was the daughter of Asclepius, wasn’t she?”
James nodded. “She was. As I recall, she had a number of sisters, including Panacea, who was in charge of remedies for everything…”
“Broad-spectrum antibiotics,” said Angus.
“Yes. And another sister was Aglaea, who was goddess of beauty and adornment.”
A Promise of Ankles Page 14
