Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Would you like to go to the … the …” He began to stammer. “To … to …” Bum! he thought. Why do I have to bloody stammer just when I’m trying to ask her out?

  “Yes,” said Meryl. “I’d love to.”

  “To the cinema,” he blurted out.

  “Yes,” said Meryl. “When?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Love to,” she said. “You get really good ideas, George. Did you know that?”

  At breakfast the next morning, the Mayoress looked reproachfully at her son.

  “You must have been very late last night,” she said, passing him his glass of orange juice. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Yes,” he said, gazing intently at his toast. “I did.”

  “And how’s our friend Ed?” she said. “Has he got a job these days?”

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s working at Rileys. It’s quite a good job.”

  She digested the information silently.

  “Anybody else there?” she asked after a while. “Or was it just you?”

  “A few others,” he said. “Nobody you know.”

  She pursed her lips, but he did not notice, as he was now scrutinising the label of the marmalade jar.

  “I’ll be late back tonight as well,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  He shot a glance up; the eyebrows were raised, and he looked away again quickly. Then, before she could say anything more, he sprang to his feet, picking up his toast.

  “It’s late,” he said. “Don’t bother to drive me in today, mother. I want some exercise. I’ll walk.”

  Her mouth dropped open as she searched for words.

  “But … If it’s late, then you shouldn’t … You … I always take …”

  But he had left the room and she was alone with Cecil. The dog stared at her from the other side of the room, his watery eyes expressionless.

  “Get out!” she said suddenly. “Get out, you smelly creature! Out!”

  He collected Meryl from her shared flat and they drove into town. There were plenty of parking places outside the cinema and he parked in one of these. Then they went in, purchased a large barrel of popcorn from the refreshments counter, and entered the comfortable air-conditioned cocoon of the cinema.

  There were advertisements to begin with, and the trailers of the forthcoming attractions.

  “We should go and see that one,” he said, naturally, without thinking, and she agreed.

  “Good idea.”

  He felt a warm flush of satisfaction. They were going out together! She had accepted his second invitation! This might be their first date, but there were going to be more! He would propose to her in a few months’ time – maybe even a bit earlier – and he was sure that she’d say yes. They could run the shop together. They could build a house over in that new development – Executive Hills – it would be bliss! They would take Cecil, of course, but leave her! Hah!

  Then, just before the film was due to start, a large figure eased itself into a seat directly in front of them.

  “Typical,” Meryl whispered. “Some old duck comes and sits right in front of you when the film’s about to start.”

  George froze. It was impossible. It couldn’t be! It was a nightmare. The Mayoress turned round, as if accidentally.

  “Well, well!” she said. “Fancy seeing you here! I thought you were working.”

  She half-turned in her seat to look at Meryl.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me, George?”

  George could barely speak, but Meryl was looking at him, and so he made the introduction.

  “This is my … my … my …”

  “Mother,” said the Mayoress. “Pleased to meet you. And you are …?”

  “Meryl.”

  “Look, I’ll just come and sit beside you, Meryl. It’ll save me getting a crick in my neck.”

  The Mayoress got to her feet and pushed past George to sit on the other side of Meryl.

  “I do hope this film is good,” said the Mayoress, her voice sickly sweet. “Do you like the cinema, Meryl?”

  The lights dimmed.

  “We’d better save our conversation for the interval,” said the Mayoress. “The film’s starting now.”

  George said nothing in the interval. He looked straight ahead, trying to block out the sound of his mother’s conversation with Meryl. Meryl did her best to deal with the Mayoress’s questions, which came thick and fast, but it was clear that she was finding it a strain. From time to time she looked at George in mute appeal, but he could not help her.

  At the end of the show, the Mayoress rose to her feet and suggested that they all go home for a cup of hot chocolate.

  “George likes to go to bed early on a Saturday,” she said. “We always go to early communion, don’t we, George? And it’s easier to get up if you’re in bed early. George ’s Daddy always used to say that.”

  They walked out of the cinema, and at the front door, the Mayoress said: “You drive ahead. I’ll see you at the house in a few minutes.”

  They got into the car. George reached forward and turned on the engine. Then he noisily reversed out of the parking place, swung the wheel round, and accelerated down the road.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry about that. I can’t help my m … moth … mother. I can’t …”

  “Don’t worry,” said Meryl. “I thought she was quite nice really.”

  “She isn’t,” said George. “I hate her.”

  Meryl bit her lip. She had noticed the look of pain on his face, and now she saw that it had been replaced by an expression of determination. She saw him look in the driving mirror and she saw the headlights behind them. George pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the car lurched forward. The car shot ahead, and the lights behind them dimmed for a few moments. Then they were at a corner and George braked sharply and brought the car into a screeching turn.

  They shot down the side-road. Behind them, the lights of the other car slowed down and then made the turn too. George looked behind them and speeded up again. There was another turning, and a turning after that, but still the lights followed them.

  “Who is it?” she asked. “Who’s following us?”

  “Who do you think?” George muttered.

  She did not answer. They had reached a roundabout, and he had taken the car up over the grassy verge and across the centre. They bumped down on the other side and he pulled off into a tree-protected stop just beyond. He turned off the engine and the lights and glanced into the mirror.

  The other car was now travelling more slowly. It paused at the roundabout and then made a full circle, its lights sweeping out over the lawns of the houses on either side of the road. Then, more slowly, it began to move away along the route by which it had come.

  “That’s got rid of her,” said George. “And good riddance.”

  She moved across the seat towards him. “It’s nicer to be just by ourselves,” she said. “Much nicer.”

  “That’s how a date should be,” said George, stroking her hair. “Just two people. No mother.”

  The next morning, George was down at breakfast early. By the time the Mayoress came downstairs, he had finished his toast and was drinking his second cup of coffee.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the suitcase that stood in the middle of the room.

  “My suitcase, mother,” he said, pouring more milk into his coffee cup. “That’s what that is.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “It’s Sunday, you know.”

  “I am well aware of that, mother,” he said. “I’m moving out. I’m going to go and stay with my friend Ed for a few days while I look for my own place.”

  She glanced around her for a chair, and sat down heavily.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, George.” She was struggling to keep her voice even. “There’s no call to move out. You aren’t cross about last night for some strange reason are you? Did I do something to upset you?”

&
nbsp; He looked over towards her, but he did not dare meet the gaze. That would have been to look into the eyes of Medusa.

  He rose to his feet. “My mind is made up,” he said. “I’m going. Goodbye.”

  The Mayoress stood up.

  “George,” she said imperiously. “Look at me! I forbid it! Imagine what … Imagine what Daddy would think! Just think what Daddy’s saying in Heaven right at this moment!”

  But he had called Cecil over to his side and was preparing his leash. She took a few steps towards him, but he drew back and raised his voice:

  “Don’t come near me, mother. Just let me go.”

  “George!”

  She advanced a step or two closer, but he had pulled Cecil round to face his mother and was pointing at her.

  “Cecil,” he said. “See her off! See her!”

  Cecil looked up at his master, as if for confirmation of a manifestly illegal order.

  “See her off, Cecil! See her!”

  The Alsatian growled, and the Mayoress stood quite still.

  “George! How dare you! How dare you! Tell that ridiculous dog to sit.”

  But Cecil was inching towards the Mayoress, his hackles raised, a low growl coming from his throat. She moved back slowly, and the dog pressed his advantage. Then his growl became louder, and he showed his teeth, old, yellow rotten teeth, but still fang-like in appearance.

  The Mayoress was now close to the door that led back into the hall, and she suddenly turned and lurched through it, slamming it behind her.

  “Good boy, Cecil,” George said. “Now you come with me. We’re going to Ed’s. Remember Ed, Cecil? He won’t mind your bad breath. He likes dogs like you.”

  They left the kitchen, George carrying his suitcase in one hand and holding Cecil’s leash in the other. It was a wonderful morning outside – fresh and exhilarating. Ed was expecting him almost immediately, and then he was going over to Meryl’s for lunch. She had said that she knew somebody who had a flat to let, which she thought might be big enough for two, and a dog. It was a marvellous prospect. Marvellous.

  Cecil gave a bark.

  “Good on you, Cecil,” he said. “Woof bloody woof. That’s the spirit!”

  Heavenly Date

  Lunch was taken on the terrace, as it always was. She had cut several slices of white bread – the thick, crusty bread which Signora Sabatino baked – and she laid them out on a plate alongside ham, olives, and mozzarella. It was his favourite lunch – a meal that he said he could eat only in Italy. They would sit, father and daughter, shaded by the pergola, and look down the valley to the blue hills beyond. She liked to throw the olive stones over the parapet in the hope that they would root and make an olive grove one day; already there were saplings from previous years. He would watch her with amusement, sipping from the glass of wine which he always had with his lunch, while she drank mineral water from large bottles decorated with the certificates of chemical analysts. Professore Eduardo Militello of the Istituto Idrobiologico of the University of Parma testifies to the contents of this bottle as follows: calcium …

  She loved the sound of the names. She loved the signatures and the elaborate, flowery language. What did a professore idrobiologico actually do? She imagined bubbling, sulphurous realms in the cool depths of an ancient university building.

  “I inevitably want to fall asleep when I arrive here,” he said, reaching out for a piece of bread. “Italy has that effect on me.”

  She smiled. “There ’s nothing wrong with doing nothing.”

  “I really should retire,” he said. “This place could do with somebody living in it permanently. Not just for a few months each year, but all the time.”

  He put his glass down and lay back in his deckchair.

  “What are your plans? Do you really want to stay out here until it’s time to go to university? Are you sure about that?” His voice was lazy, but this concealed concern, anxiety.

  She nodded. “I love it here,” she said. “I always have. And you’ve just said that this place needs more attention.”

  He looked dubious. “But surely you could be doing something more with this year? Going somewhere else, for example – Australia, Canada. I’ve got plenty of contacts there. You could have an interesting time, you know that.”

  Then he added: “Life closes in afterwards. It really does.”

  “But I don’t want to go anywhere else,” she said. “I might never have another chance to spend a long time here. I can visit those other places later on.”

  “But what are you going to do all day? There’s nothing much to do here. You’ll go mad with boredom.”

  “I won’t. I’ll read. I’ll get the bus into Siena. I’ll sign up for a music course there. I’ll get the details.”

  “If you’re sure …” He sounded doubtful. He did not want to begrudge her this freedom, but she was his only child, everything he had now.

  “I’m sure.”

  The house had been built in the seventeenth century, or at least its heart dated back that far. Over the years there had been additions, which merged almost imperceptibly with the original building, but which resulted in an appealing architectural eccentricity. It was a house of surprises; of vast rooms, which turned corners; of corridors that led nowhere; of cupboards that became cellars.

  He had felt that even when he had bought the house – after interminable legal wrangles – he had not become its owner; that the house belonged to no one, or at least to no one who was alive.

  They shared it with animals. There was a small colony of bats, which clung tenaciously to the brickwork of an outer wall and which squealed and dipped across the sky at dusk. There were several cats, who were the progeny of the half-feral cats who had been there when he had first inspected the place, and who were overfed by Signora Sabatino, the caretaker. There was a family of foxes who lived in an old shed that was propped up against a storeroom wall; and there were mice, of course, never seen, but heard, scurrying within ceilings and behind skirting boards.

  He had bought the house to please his wife, who loved Tuscany. It would be a new beginning, he had thought, and for a while it had worked. It was rather like having a child again – something for which they were both responsible – but it had not lasted. She was bored with him, he knew, and she could not conceal her impatience. They had spent one last week there together, but the last days had been heavy – an ordeal of emptiness and forced politeness. And when they left, he knew that they would never be there again, that their marriage was over, and that she would go back to America, to take up her own life again. There were people there who cared for her. He had never been able to make much of them, and he had at last realised they simply weren’t interested. They were incapable, he thought, of understanding anybody who was unfamiliar to them; who did not share their way of looking at things, their accent – their private culture – their particular preoccupations. He felt that they were mildly surprised, in a way, that other people – people outside America – actually existed.

  At least Emma stayed with him. She had never been particularly close to her mother – who was bored with her too – and although she had expressed regret at her mother’s departure, she had seemed largely unaffected by it. So now there were just the two of them, happy enough, in their way; a man in his fifties, a trader in obscure markets, with an office in the City of London, and all his agents, a man whose life did not mean very much in particular; and a girl of nineteen, expensively educated, rather on the dreamy side perhaps, but with an idea that something would happen to her, that life would start soon enough, and that it would be quite in accordance with the script she would write for it.

  He hoped that she might change her mind after a week, and agree to come back with him, but she did not. He spoke to Signora Sabatino, who lived in a small house on the edge of his land. He knew that she was fond of Emma, and that she would protect her in the same fierce way in which she protected the property against intruders, and this made it easier. He would hav
e refused – had a row even – if Emma had wanted to stay there entirely by herself.

  As he had expected, Signora Sabatino was delighted that she would have company. He had difficulty following what she said, as his Italian, unlike Emma’s, was barely adequate, but her pleasure was clear.

  “I will see that she writes to you,” she said. “Every week, understand? She’ll write a letter. You just see!”

  He smiled. “Good,” he said, making a mental note to pay her more. She lived rent free, in exchange for her duties, but he knew that she had little money. He could make the difference so easily, and he had long known that, but had never done anything about it. Now he felt shame that the gesture would come only when he really needed to rely on her. On the day before he was due to leave, they walked up to the Church of San Cosimo. It was a favourite spot for both of them – a tiny church, still in good order in spite of being long abandoned by priest and congregation. It clung to the edge of a hill, reached by a white dust track that led up to a straggle of vineyards. At the side door, which was locked, there was a slot in the stone with the legend – FOR CHARITY – carved above it in weathered lettering. They always pushed a coin through this slot, as a shared joke, which had became half-superstitious, and they had no idea where the coin ended up. There was no sound, no clink of metal, as the offering was swallowed up in the silent church.

  He had read, to his surprise, that it was a criminal offence in Italy to destroy or abandon the currency. There had been trouble some years previously when, in a time of coin shortage, it had been discovered that the Japanese had been exporting Italy’s small change to make the coins into buttons. National honour had been involved, and there had been threats to invoke the law. But he liked the idea that his clandestine giving was also an offence. It was as if, in a time of religious suppression, he had found a priest hole, with a priest still hiding inside.

  That day, after sitting for a few minutes outside the church, they walked further up the track towards the vineyards. They occasionally saw people working here, pruning the vines or scratching at the soil beside the gnarled stems, but today there was nobody. They found a cart, though, an ancient vehicle with tyres of solid rubber, and with red wine stains across its board. She sat on the cart, and then lay on it, staring up at the sky.