That morning Bo got at least two hours of Big Lou on film, and a good three-quarter-hour of Bruce as well. Going back to the flat in which he was staying, he downloaded and edited each film before placing them on his website. But he did something more with Big Lou’s clip; this he placed on the Web, in a prominent site used by filmmakers of every description. A Scottish Lady Remembers was the way in which the brief film was described. Join Big Lou in her coffee bar in Edinburgh to hear her views on just about everything!
The reaction to this posting was extraordinary, even by the standards that offer instant stardom to those of mediocre talent or no talent at all. Just as talking cats and accident-prone toddlers could suddenly entertain hundreds of thousands, even millions, of people throughout the world; just as a brave and confident songstress could appeal across the globe because of her lack of cynical guile; so too could a direct-speaking woman from a farm outside Arbroath speak to receptive multitudes. It was not something that could have been engineered. Had Big Lou set out to communicate with a large audience, had she said what she thought people might wish to hear or had she been speaking to a script written by somebody else, then the effect would have been quite different and the film would have been comparatively little watched. But speaking as she did, in complete sincerity and with no regard to artifice, her fame spread with astonishing alacrity. The film went up at four that afternoon. By six o’clock, eighty thousand had watched Big Lou and voiced their satisfaction over what they saw. By midnight, by which time the populations of the vast conurbations of the eastern United States were sitting down to their computer screens, Big Lou had been watched by four hundred and twenty thousand people. And by the following morning, when Bo turned on his computer to check the results of his labours, Big Lou had gone viral.
Bo had added information about his website to the film and already there were several hundred messages for Big Lou. Many of these came from Denmark, and from the rural areas of that country. Most were from single farmers – men whose wives had died or left them, or who had yet to find wives who might leave them or die in the future. They responded particularly warmly to Big Lou, many of them suggesting a meeting either in Edinburgh or in Copenhagen, and at the first opportunity. One dairy farmer went so far as to announce that he had booked a flight to Edinburgh and looked forward to meeting Big Lou the following day. What were her favourite flowers? he asked.
Bo lost no time in going into the cafe to tell Big Lou of her success.
“I think you’ve become famous,” he said. “Everybody liked your film.”
“Did they now?” asked Big Lou, in apparent unconcern.
“Yes. You’ve gone viral, Mrs. Lou.”
Big Lou shook her head. “I cannae see any difference,” she said.
70. The Wisdom of Solomon
It took only a second or two for it to dawn on Bruce that he had made a potentially fatal mistake. When the lottery official had given him the document to sign – a receipt for slightly over two million pounds – Bruce had calmly put pen to paper and signed along the indicated line. But he signed his own name, rather than Jonathan’s, and it was, of course, Jonathan to whom the money was to be paid.
He brought the pen to a stop and left its point on the paper, so shocked was he. “Oh,” he muttered, and then, “Oh …” again.
The official craned his neck to see what Bruce had written. “Some problem? Something not quite clear?”
Bruce thought rapidly, but before he could say anything the official, frowning, had pointed to the signature. “Bruce Anderson? Why have you signed Bruce Anderson?”
Bruce sighed. “Oh no, have I done the wrong thing?”
“Who’s Bruce Anderson?” asked the official. His tone was suspicious now, and he glanced over at the two security guards still encumbered with their cases of money.
“He’s my … my partner,” blurted out Bruce. “We have a joint account. I was going to give him half and I thought I should sign for him too. I was going to put my own name afterwards …” It sounded extremely lame, he thought, but it was all he could think of saying.
The official hesitated. “Your partner …”
Bruce, emboldened, smiled at him. “Yes. Have you got a problem with that?”
It was a brilliant move. By challenging the official, Bruce had caught him on the wrong foot. He, rather than Bruce, was on the defensive now.
“Of course not,” said the official hurriedly. Lottery wins were available to everyone irrespective of their social or psycho-sexual profile. “It’s just that I wondered why you’d signed for him.”
“Equality,” snapped Bruce, challenging the other man to contradict him.
The official looked away. “Fine. Fine. But you don’t have to put his name in. Just sign yours.”
Bruce obliged. He was sweating profusely – he could feel the beads of moisture run down the small of his back, but he said to himself: I’ve done it! Two million! In the bag! Silently he watched the official cross the room to where the two security guards were standing. He watched as the cases were opened and the money taken out and placed in stacks on the tables. It was not as large a pile as Bruce had expected, for the notes were all fifty pound notes and unused, and therefore did not have great bulk.
Once the official had checked that everything was in order, he took his leave. “May I repeat what I said earlier on?” he said, fixing Bruce with a cautionary stare. “Please don’t leave this lying about.”
Bruce nodded. “I’ll be careful.” And then he added, “I don’t think I said thank you. So thank you!”
The official smiled wanly. “It’s only my job,” he said. “But I do hope that all goes well with you. Be careful.”
“I shall,” said Bruce, and showed him to the door … just as Jonathan was arriving. The official looked at Jonathan and then at Bruce. He hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and left.
Bruce had no alternative but to admit Jonathan.
“Well,” he said cheerily. “How’s it going?”
Jonathan pushed past him and made his way into the living room. He stopped when he saw the pile of money, and turned to Bruce. “So they’ve already paid,” he said.
Standing behind him, Bruce looked at the back of Jonathan’s neck. It reminded him, curiously, of Freddie’s neck and the boil, and he was staring at it when Jonathan spun round and confronted him. “I see that I’m just in time.”
Bruce affected to be casual. “You’ve obviously heard of my win.”
Jonathan’s nostrils flared in anger. “Your win? My win, if you don’t mind. I’m in that syndicate, not you.”
Bruce shook his head. “No. I gave Freddie my money. I became a member when I did that. You were out of it when I joined.”
Jonathan reached forward to grab Bruce’s shirt but Bruce intercepted the lunge and held the other’s wrists in a firm grip.
“No, you just listen to me, Jonathan. I became a member of the syndicate and I get my share of the winnings. But …” He hesitated. An idea had occurred to him. “But there’s a lot of money there. If we don’t fight about it, it’s a million each. If we fight, it’s … well, it’ll be a major fight – lawyers et cetera – and neither of us can be sure of winning. So why don’t we act in a civilised fashion and split the proceeds?”
Bruce felt the tension go from the wrists he was holding, and he knew immediately that Jonathan was going to be satisfied with his proposal.
“A million each?” asked Jonathan.
Bruce let go of Jonathan. “Yes, a cool million. Think of what that means. One million.”
Jonathan began to smile. “All right. Shake on it?”
They shook hands.
“I feel very odd,” said Jonathan. “I feel that I’m in a dream.”
“You’re wide awake,” said Bruce. “This is real. We’re rich.”
“Did you enjoy being me?” asked Jonathan.
Bruce nodded. “You’re cool,” he said. “And what about you? Was it easy to be me?”
“Maybe not,” said Bruce. “I like your clothes, by the way. Although your jacket’s going to have to go to the dry-cleaners.”
“I can afford that now,” said Jonathan. “In fact I can afford a new jacket. Would you like to keep that one?”
“Thanks,” said Bruce. “I’ll get the cleaners to get the pus off it.”
Jonathan frowned.
“It’s a long story,” said Bruce. “Freddie had this boil, you see …”
“I don’t want to go there,” said Jonathan. “He had a boil before. But, as I say, I’m not going there, if you don’t mind.”
“Very wise,” said Bruce.
They sat down and drank a cup of coffee together. “I see you’ve been watching my DVDs,” said Jonathan, looking about the room. “Did you like them?”
Bruce nodded. “Yes. Not bad.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed them,” said Jonathan. He paused. “What about dinner later on? He glanced at the money on the table. “Let’s go somewhere expensive. Prestonfield House?”
“Yes,” said Bruce. He looked at Jonathan and smiled. Then he winked.
71. Matthew’s Decision
Matthew tried not to feel discouraged by his failure to provide Bo with anything worth filming, but he could not help himself from feeling despondent. He had always been susceptible to swings of mood, and although he had never suffered from full-blown depression, he knew the warning signs for what might be a day or two of the minor blues, a period during which he believed the serotonin levels in his brain dipped. Or so a medical friend had told him, although the same friend had pointed out that nobody knew whether serotonin levels diminished because we felt low, or we felt low because there was not enough serotonin in our system. Whatever the reason, there were moments when Matthew suddenly felt empty and sad.
It could happen without warning, and often did so, just as a cloud may suddenly dull a bright day. He knew these moments of sudden, inexplicable gloom, and he knew that they would pass quite quickly; rather slower to dispel were those changes in mood that came about reactively, as when somebody made a cutting remark, or when he heard or witnessed something disturbing or discouraging. Reading the newspaper could do this to Matthew: stories of woe had a profound effect on him, and could appal and distract him even if those of us who are more thick-skinned can read them, shake our heads, and then get on with what we were doing before we opened the newspaper. Matthew, for all his good qualities, was not robust.
He returned to the gallery and took down the sign that said Back in Twenty Minutes. He gazed out of the window for a few minutes and then looked back at his empty desk. There was no point staying, he thought. It was highly unlikely that anybody would come in and buy anything, because nobody had done so the day before, and the day before that. He sighed. Bo’s right, he thought: my life is completely uneventful; the audience of any documentary, had it ever been made, would have been lulled into sleep, or switched channels.
He stood up. He would close the gallery. He would walk away from it. He could do something else, something more exciting, something that involved high-adrenalin decisions, travel, intense meetings lasting late into the night through cups of strong coffee and hard bargaining … There were so many other jobs that would be more fulfilling, that would be more documentary-worthy than this. He could even make documentary films – that was a thought. He had the money. He could go to Napier University’s Film School. He would make important films about … about … well, the subjects would no doubt suggest themselves once he started. He had seen a documentary made by one of the students from Napier. It had been about a family of Bulgarian wrestlers – not the most obvious choice of subject, but it had certainly been interesting.
Reaching for a piece of paper he scribbled a sign. Closed Until Further Notice. Then, sticking the sign onto the glass front door, he locked the gallery behind him and began to walk back to India Street. The decision made, the low mood seemed to lift almost immediately, and by the time he reached the flat, he felt perfectly normal.
Elspeth was surprised to see him. She and Anna were preparing the triplets for an outing to Inverleith Park – a walk that they both enjoyed. There was nothing much to see in Inverleith Park – for all its numerous merits – apart from grass and trees, but it was about the right distance away and there were often dogs there. The boys, although still very small, were old enough now to appreciate the sight of dogs cavorting on the grass, and would shriek with delight at the canine spectacle.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” suggested Matthew. “How about …” He thought of the possibilities. Tantallon Castle, where the breeze came off the sea and there was the shriek of gulls? St. Andrews, where they might stroll about and imagine that they were once again students – admittedly students with triplets? Gullane beach, where you could walk on the sand and look over the cold firth to Fife? Anna could look after the boys while he and Elspeth went off together and talked and he could tell her about his decision to change his life.
Or the Pentlands? They could park in the Flotterstone car park and then walk up the glen to the place where there was a little bridge across the burn. Behind that was a hillock that gave commanding views without requiring too much of a climb; they could have a picnic up there and look at the sky and he could think about all the things that he could do now that he had his freedom from the millstone that was the gallery.
“A picnic in the Pentlands,” he said. “You, me, Anna and the boys.”
Elspeth looked doubtful. “But won’t you have to be back for work this afternoon?”
Matthew shook his head. “No,” he said. “A change of plans. Big time. I’ll tell you. Let’s just make some sandwiches.”
It was not a long drive out to the hills – twenty minutes or so, Edinburgh being blessed with such an accessible hinterland. They parked the car and each then placed one of the boys in a sling, Matthew carrying Tobermory, Elspeth looking after Rognvald, and Fergus strapped to Anna. The picnic things, contained in a copious straw basket, were borne by Matthew.
They walked along the reservoir road to the point where it branched off towards the burn. Now they were on rough ground, although the path was firm underfoot, the mud being dried by the fine weather into a tiny landscape of crusts and crenellations. They negotiated the bridge and ascended the hillock beyond, to find a natural picnic place where they sat and placed the boys on a tartan rug that had been tucked into the basket.
“Perfection,” said Elspeth, as she extracted from the basket a package of sandwiches and a vacuum flask into which cold lemonade had been decanted.
“Denmark is so flat,” remarked Anna, looking down towards the distant Lammermuirs. “We would love to have hills like this, but we do not have them.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Matthew.
He wondered whether that was the right thing to say. He wondered too how many there were who lived in flat landscapes and dreamed of hills; and how many who lived with hills and yearned for plains. Our world, he thought, our geography, our lives, are not always as we wish them to be.
72. On the Importance of the Local
They ate their picnic slowly, relishing the sandwiches that Elspeth and Anna had prepared; sipping, rather than gulping, the still-cold lemonade. The boys, Tobermory, Rognvald, and Fergus, behaved impeccably; if it occurred to any of them to cry, then the thought must have been a fleeting one, as they sat contentedly, propped up against one of the adults, trying to focus on what must have been to them a landscape of impossible vastness.
“The Pentlands must seem like the Himalayas to them,” mused Matthew. “Look at Rognvald: he’s transfixed.”
“Yes,” said Elspeth. “The thrill that any child feels on seeing the world … Do you know, that’s why young children, toddlers and above, run around all the time. It’s as if they’re intoxicated. The world is so e
xciting they’re quite overcome.”
“The world can continue to be exciting,” said Anna. “How sad it would be if it became predictable. Dull and predictable.”
“For some, it is,” said Elspeth.
Matthew thought: me. They’re talking about my life in the gallery.
“Of course not everyone …” began Elspeth, but stopped. A figure, a walker in stout country breeches and a tweed jacket, appeared over the brow of the hillock, coming upon their picnic spot with a suddenness that surprised both him and the picnic party.
“My goodness,” he said. “I didn’t expect to find a party going on.”
Matthew knew immediately who it was. He rose to his feet, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Hallo. I think we’ve met.”
The stranger looked at Matthew and seemed for a moment to search his memory. “I think so too. Now, don’t tell me … Yes, you’re called Matthew, aren’t you? You came to my place not all that long ago – my place just down there. Some evening. A party, I think.”
Matthew nodded. “Yes, and you’re the Duke of Johannesburg, aren’t you?”
The Duke nodded. “Just call me Johannesburg,” he said. “We don’t need to be formal.”
Matthew introduced the Duke to Elspeth and Anna.
“And these fine boys?” asked the Duke, sitting down on an unoccupied corner of the rug.
“Rognvald, Tobermory, and Fergus,” said Matthew, pointing to each in turn.
“No,” said Elspeth. “That one’s Rognvald and that one’s Tobermory.”
The Duke laughed. “Triplets? I have three boys myself: Midlothian, West Lothian, and East Lothian. I used to get them mixed up when they were very small.”
“I met them,” said Matthew. “Great boys.”
“Thank you,” said the Duke.
There was a silence, and Matthew wondered how he might keep the conversation going. The Duke was an easygoing person, but they could hardly sit there in complete silence. “What are you up to?” he asked, and then added, “These days.” It was, he thought, a question that although trite could be asked of anybody, of the humblest, who had nothing to do, and who could reply “Nothing much,” or of the great and the busy, of a prime minister or a president perhaps, who could reply “Still governing” or something of that sort.
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