Sunshine on Scotland Street

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Irene turned and stared at her husband. “I’m sorry, Stuart,” she said. “It’s the Yoga Fest. And I’m not having Bertie playing with that heavily armed child.”

  64. One Out of Three

  Stuart bit his lip.

  “I’m not sure,” he ventured, “that I’d say that the possession of a few Swiss Army penknives merits the description heavily armed. I had a penknife when I was a boy.”

  Irene looked down her nose. “Oh yes?”

  “Yes, I did. It had four blades, as I remember, and a hook for taking the stones out of horses’ hooves.”

  “Very useful,” said Irene scornfully.

  He ignored the jibe. “I loved it.”

  There was a silence. He looked at his wife. Why had he married her? It was difficult to remember how he had felt, but he must have thought it a good idea at some point. But now, with Bertie and Ulysses and the mortgage and the insurance policies all to think of, it seemed to be altogether too late to ask that question. Life just leaks away – he had read that somewhere and had thought at the time how true it was and yes, it was true, so very true. What did he do? He went to the office in the morning and played around with figures for the government. Then he came home and he had his evening meal. Then he went to bed so that he would be able to get up in time to set off for the office next morning. And in between all of this, he had to listen to Irene going on about Melanie Klein and psychotherapy and yoga and such things.

  He loved Bertie – he loved him to distraction, but he had so little time to spend with him because Irene seemed to dominate their son’s life so completely. So it seemed that whenever he suggested doing anything with Bertie – a fishing trip or something of that nature – he had to endure her ideological opposition. Fishing was cruel; penknives were dangerous; rugby was barbaric; cub scouts were paramilitary; dogs were dirty; and so on. He sighed.

  And as for Ulysses, Stuart hardly dared even to think about him. To begin with, he was sure that he had never intended Ulysses. He thought that he and Irene had decided not to have another child and he thought that she was in charge of ensuring that the family did not get any bigger, and yet … Then there had been the remark that Bertie had passed about how Ulysses looked remarkably like his psychotherapist, Dr. Fairbairn, and Stuart had at first laughed and said that lots of people looked a bit like other people, and then Bertie had said, “But his ears, Daddy – have you looked at his ears? Dr. Fairbairn has these really unusual ears – here, let me draw you a picture … You see that bit there? Both Ulysses and Dr. Fairbairn have that bit over there, you see, that bit.”

  That had worried him. He had said nothing to Irene, but he had examined Ulysses’ ears more closely and had seen what Bertie was talking about. Nobody in his family had ears like that, he was sure, and as for Irene, he had not known her mother, who had died before he and Irene had got together, but he had known her father and his ears were perfectly normal, as far as he could recall.

  Of course it was a simple matter to do a DNA paternity test. He had investigated the matter online one evening by typing paternity testing into a search engine and following the results. One site had promised a result in three days if one sent a few hairs from the child and a few hairs from the putative father. That’s me, he thought. I’m a putative father.

  It was a strange description, but it could have its uses. Perhaps he might one day say to Irene – quite casually – “as Ulysses’ putative father.” And then wait to see how she reacted. A guilty person might in such circumstances be expected to gasp, or at least blush, but he was not sure that Irene would do even that. Irene was not an easy woman, and he had never been able to show quite the resolve that he might have wished to show when she locked one of her stares onto him.

  He had sat at his computer screen, riveted by one of the frequently-asked-questions on the testing service’s website. Q: What proportion of test results show that the putative father is not the real father? You’d be surprised! In our experience about one in three tests reveal that the man who is acting as father is not the real father. Stuart had been astounded. One in three! What did that say about people’s behaviour? Did it mean that one in three women were misleading their husbands or partners and having clandestine affairs with … psychotherapists and the like? Stuart thought the figure really rather high and wondered whether that statistic needed geographical refinement. Whatever was happening elsewhere in the country, it was highly unlikely that one in three women in Edinburgh were behaving in that loose way. Of course, as a statistician, he could tell the flaw in that figure. All that this showed was that among those who have reason to suspect the fidelity of their partner, one out of three will find that he is not the father of the child. That was because the sample was a selective one. It was really a case of no smoke without a fire: only those who had some reason to doubt paternity would have it tested. So that meant that the sample was already biased towards including unfaithful women.

  His eye ran further down the column of frequently-asked-questions. What should I do if the result shows that I’m not the father? You need to talk to your wife or partner. Sound advice, thought Stuart, but what if … he hesitated, and then articulated his own supplementary question: What if you’re frightened of your spouse or partner? He wondered what the answer to that would be, and then it came to him. The answer would be this: See a psychotherapist. He smiled. Yes indeed. See a psychotherapist and say to him: see this child’s ears …

  He had not heard Irene push the door open. He had not heard her walk quietly across the room and lean forward, not quite over his shoulder but not far behind it, in order to see what he was reading with such interest. How many husbands have experienced that disturbing sensation? How many husbands have been enjoying some piece of research on the internet and have suddenly been aware of their wife standing behind them and saying, “And what are you doing?” Two rather than one out of three, thought Stuart.

  Irene cleared her throat. “Stuart …”

  Stuart’s hand darted forward; he was swift with the cursor. “Nothing,” he said quickly.

  “Nothing what?” she said. “I didn’t ask you what you were doing.”

  “It was nothing anyway,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. Stuart had rapidly navigated from the paternity testing site to an altogether more innocent site advertising holidays in Sri Lanka. “There,” he said, pointing to the screen. “I’ve always wanted to go to Colombo.”

  Irene said nothing. For his part, Stuart thought, Why should I feel guilty when she is the one who should feel guilty? And why should one not want to go to Colombo?

  65. Consultation Over

  Irene remained icily quiet. But then she said, “It’s not Colombo.”

  Stuart affected surprise. “Not Colombo? Oh well, I suppose not everyone’s interested in Colombo. One can’t expect Colombo to appeal absolutely universally. There are bound to be those who …”

  “Stuart,” interrupted Irene. “I am not in any way referring to Colombo. Colombo is irrelevant.”

  “Not if you’re Colomban,” muttered Stuart.

  Irene moved closer. “I was referring to the site you were visiting earlier on – that paternity site. Why were you there?”

  Stuart shrugged. “Accident,” he said. “The Web’s like that. You click by mistake when the cursor’s travelling innocently along and there you are … looking at something unexpected. Twenty-four-hour plumbers, for example. There’s no telling.”

  Irene moved closer. “You wouldn’t be thinking of carrying out a paternity test, would you?”

  Stuart gasped. “Paternity test! Whatever gave you that idea? And why would I want to carry out a paternity test?”

  “Why indeed?” said Irene coldly. “It would be very unwise, I’d say.”

  Stuart thought about this. Why would it be unwise? Why should men be frightened to establish that they are not the father? Why should he be frightened?

  “Sometimes it’s best to know the truth,” he ventured.r />
  Irene moved closer still. “Oh yes?”

  Stuart rose to his feet. He had had enough – at least for the time being – and the matter was shelved. There will come a time, he thought, even if that time is not yet.

  Now, on that Saturday morning, he was not thinking of Ulysses but of Bertie, and of his promise to take Bertie fishing.

  “Sorry,” he said to Irene. “Sorry about the Yoga Fest. I’m sure there’ll be another one some time. They’re always holding Yoga Fests.” He met her gaze. She was watching him. Medusa, he thought. One has to be careful about looking directly at Medusa – without a mirrored shield, of course, which Stuart did not possess.

  “So it’s fishing,” he concluded, looking away. “I’ve told Bertie already. So that’s it finished.”

  “What do you mean – that’s it finished?” Irene snapped.

  “Exactly that,” said Stuart. “Consultation over.” He had picked up that phrase at work, from a minister who used it to announce his decisions. Consultation over meant that there would be no further debate on a particular item of policy, but the phrase could also be used in advance of any announcement, even before any consultation was carried out. Stuart, like all his colleagues, had long understood the purpose of most government consultations: this was to get public support for decisions that had already been taken. Everybody knew this, except perhaps those members of the public who submitted their views in the hope that these might be taken into account.

  Stuart looked at his watch. This was another trick he had learned at work. If one looked at one’s watch it unnerved any potential opponents and certainly cut short any further consultation. Rather to his surprise, it seemed to work, and with an indecipherable mutter about yoga fests, Irene busied herself with some other task. Heady with victory, Stuart helped Bertie prepare for their fishing trip and made a telephone call to Andy’s mother to ask whether her son would care to join them. “Of course he would,” she replied. “Andy loves going fishing.”

  Bertie grinned with pleasure. The thought of seeing his friend, who would almost certainly have a Swiss Army penknife on him, was exciting enough, but when compounded with the thought of actually going fishing in one of the Pentland lochs, and possibly, just possibly catching that large trout that had so narrowly escaped on their last fishing trip, the effect was to swell his heart with an almost uncontrollable joy.

  “Now,” said Stuart when everything was ready, “it looks as if we can go and get into the car, Bertie.”

  Bertie nodded enthusiastically. “I can carry all my stuff, Daddy. You just get your things and the key.”

  Stuart nodded. “I have the key in my pocket, Bertie. So it’s off we go! Off to …” He hesitated. He was the last one to use the car. He had used it about three weeks ago and had parked it … He scratched the side of his head. He had driven to Perth for a meeting of the Statistical Society of Scotland, of which he was secretary. Then he had come back – he was sure of that – and had parked … It was Nelson Street, he thought, or possibly Northumberland Street. Somewhere up there. They would find it easily enough, he decided. There would not be many red Volvos in Northumberland Street and it would be spotted easily. It was becoming quite distinguished, their car, now that modern cars all looked the same. Their car, which was sixteen years old, stood out from the crowd in a rather distinguished way. And that was useful when one had to locate it.

  Stuart and Bertie walked up Scotland Street and into Drummond Place. It was barely nine o’clock and the streets were quiet, with only one or two residents out enjoying the warmth of the morning sun.

  “That’s Mr. Irvine Welsh over there, Daddy,” said Bertie, pointing to a tall man striding down the opposite side of the street.

  “Indeed it is, Bertie,” said Stuart.

  “He wrote a book about trains,” said Bertie.

  “Yes he did, Bertie. That’s quite correct.”

  And round the corner, completing an energetic circuit of Drummond Place, Magnus Linklater waved a cheerful greeting. “That’s Mr. Linklater,” said Bertie. “He writes newspapers.”

  “I believe he does, Bertie.”

  They continued up Nelson Street to the point where it becomes Northumberland Street. Somewhere here, thought Stuart. Somewhere along here – I’m sure of it. He glanced down the street, hoping to see the familiar red roof of their ancient Volvo. There were several red cars, but none of them was a Volvo.

  “We’ll just walk along the street, Bertie,” said Stuart. “Sometimes cars are rather tucked away and you don’t see them until you’re right up against them.”

  Bertie nodded. This had happened before, and the outcome had usually not been a good one. And if they did not find their car, then what? No fishing?

  Suddenly Stuart remembered. Just along the street was the premises of an art dealer. It was not a gallery like Matthew’s – more of an office really – a business called Art International that represented a number of artists, including a number of rising stars. Stuart knew the proprietor, George MacGregor, and he had remembered that he had parked the car outside his office that day because he had spotted the proprietor standing in the window, his back to the street.

  “I’ve remembered where the car is, Bertie,” he announced. “Panic over.”

  Bertie said nothing. In his experience, panic over did not necessarily mean panic over.

  66. The Turner Prize!

  It soon became clear to Stuart that there was no red Volvo parked outside the office of Art International although there was a smaller, non-Swedish red car not far away, now sporting a collection of parking tickets.

  “I’m sure I put it here,” he said to Bertie. “I drove back from Perth that afternoon and I parked right here in front of George MacGregor’s office. I remember it, you see, because I looked up and saw him standing in the window.”

  Bertie thought for a moment. “Maybe you were drunk, Daddy,” he said politely. “Maybe you were drunk and put it in another street.”

  Stuart laughed. “I’d never be drunk in charge of a car, Bertie. That’s a very bad thing.”

  Bertie nodded. “I just wondered, Daddy. I didn’t say you were definitely drunk. I just wondered.”

  “Well, I can assure you I was stone cold sober, Bertie.”

  Bertie looked down the street. “Perhaps you didn’t put the brake on properly, Daddy. Perhaps our car just rolled down the hill. Maybe we should look down at Canonmills.”

  Stuart suppressed a smile. “I don’t think so, Bertie. No, it’s very strange.”

  Bertie had an idea. “Maybe it’s been stolen, Daddy. Maybe somebody came over from Glasgow and stole it. Tofu says that happens all the time. Glaswegians come over to Edinburgh and steal all our cars and take them back to Glasgow and drive round in them. He says that Glasgow’s full of Edinburgh cars being driven round in by people from Glasgow who’ve pinched them.”

  Stuart shook his head. “That’s nonsense, Bertie. Tofu really does talk a lot of nonsense.”

  Bertie had another suggestion to make. “What about your friend, Daddy? If that’s his window up there maybe he saw our car. Maybe he saw what happened to it.”

  Stuart was about to reject this possibility too when it occurred to him that it was really a rather good idea. “Good thinking, Bertie,” he said. “Let’s give his bell a ring.”

  George MacGregor gave a warm welcome to his old school friend. He and Stuart had been exact contemporaries at James Gillespie’s High School in Edinburgh. Stuart had been particularly good at mathematics and George had excelled at art. Their later careers had reflected those talents, Stuart graduating with a first in statistics from Heriot-Watt University and George carrying off a distinguished degree in art history from St. Andrews. George had worked for some years for Bonhams, where he developed his expertise in Scottish art, before branching out as an agent for painters and sculptors, representing them in their dealings with galleries and dealers in London and further afield.

  Stuart introduced George to Be
rtie, who shook hands gravely with his father’s friend.

  “I wondered if you’ve seen our car?” Stuart asked. “I parked it right outside your place a few weeks ago.”

  George looked puzzled. “There are a lot of cars in the street,” he began. “I don’t really notice them very much.”

  Bertie decided to help. “It’s red,” he said. “A red Volvo.”

  George looked down at Bertie. “A red Volvo? Right outside?”

  “Yes,” said Stuart. “You must have noticed it.”

  George MacGregor put his hand to his mouth. “Oh …”

  “Something happened?” asked Stuart quickly. “Was it towed?”

  George had now turned distinctly pale. “It was put on the back of a large lorry.”

  “But I’ve got a parking permit for this area,” protested Stuart. “They’ve no right …”

  George was shaking his head. “Oh no,” he said. “It’s beginning to make sense.”

  Stuart was now beginning to show his irritation. “Listen, George, you’re being a bit obscure. What exactly happened to my car?”

  They had been standing in the doorway, and now George invited them in. “I need to explain something,” he said. “And it might be better if we were all sitting down.”

  “Me too?” asked Bertie.

  George nodded. “Yes, all of us. Come in.”

  They went into George’s office, a large room decorated with the posters of exhibitions and with shelves laden with books on art. George indicated two seats while he sat behind his desk.

  “It’s a very odd story,” he began. “You see, I have an artist by the name of Geoffrey Airdrie. He’s been doing rather well recently. He’s a conceptual artist – cutting-edge stuff.” He waited for a reaction, but Stuart remained silent.