The World According to Bertie

by Alexander McCall Smith

  When he entered the café, Big Lou was by herself, standing at the bar, reading a book. She looked up at Matthew when he came in, slipped a bookmark between the pages of the book, and closed the cover.

  ‘Don’t let me disturb you, Lou,’ said Matthew, glancing at the title of the book. ‘Eric Linklater. The . . .’

  ‘The Prince in the Heather,’ Big Lou said. ‘Robbie gave it to me. It’s quite a book. All about Bonnie Prince Charlie being chased through the Highlands.’

  Matthew reached over and took the book from Lou. He opened it at random; a picture of a wild coast, a map, the prince himself draped in tartan. ‘Quite a story, isn’t it?’ he mused. ‘It seems like a game from this distance.’

  ‘It was no game at the time,’ said Big Lou.

  Matthew sensed that he was being judged for levity. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. But there’s something that interests me, Lou. What would have happened if Charlie had pushed on just a bit more? Weren’t things rather disorganised in London? What if he had huffed and puffed a bit more and blown their house right down?’

  Big Lou’s answer came quickly. One did not engage in such idle speculation in Arbroath. ‘No point thinking about that,’ she said. ‘It didn’t happen.’

  ‘But it could have,’ said Matthew. ‘It could easily have happened. Look at how far he actually got. And anyway, there’s nothing wrong in asking these “what if” questions. I saw a whole book on them the other day. What would have happened if the American planes had been on a different deck at the critical moment in the Battle of Midway? What would have happened if the wind had been coming from the other direction when the Spanish fleet took on the English? We’d be speaking Spanish now, Lou, as would the Americans if the wind had shifted just a few degrees. You know that, Lou?’

  Big Lou shrugged. ‘Well, Prince Charlie didn’t get there,’ she said.

  ‘If he had,’ mused Matthew, ‘we’d have had more bishops.’

  Big Lou looked thoughtful. ‘Robbie . . .’ she began.

  ‘I know,’ said Matthew. ‘He’s got this thing about them, hasn’t he? He’s a Jacobite, I gather. I suppose that it’s a harmless enough bit of historical enthusiasm. Like those people who re-enact battles. What do they call themselves? The Sealed Knot Society or something. You know, Lou, I was going for a walk in the hills above Dollar once and suddenly a whole horde of people came screaming down the slope. And suddenly I saw this chap in front of me dressed in sacking and wielding a claymore. And do you know who it was? It was an Edinburgh lawyer! Very strange. That’s how he spent his Sundays, apparently.’

  67. We All Need to Believe in Something

  Big Lou stepped back from the counter and started to fiddle with her coffee machine. ‘Men need hobbies,’ she began. ‘Women are usually far too busy with looking after the bairns and running the home and so on. Men have to find some outlet – now that they no longer need to hunt in packs.’

  Matthew smiled. ‘So dressing up in sackcloth and pretending to be some ancient clan warrior is entirely healthy?’

  ‘Well, it’s not unhealthy,’ said Big Lou. ‘It’s odd, I suppose. But it’s male play, isn’t it? There are all sorts of male play, Matthew.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Big Lou ladled coffee into a small conical container and pressed the grounds down with an inverted spoon. ‘Golf clubs,’ she said. ‘Car rallies. Football. The Masons. The list goes on and on.’

  ‘And don’t women play?’ asked Matthew.

  Big Lou switched on the machine, stood back, and wiped her hands. ‘Not so much, you know. We women are much more practical. We just don’t feel the need.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Matthew. ‘But to get back to Robbie and his friends. Is it play, do you think, or are they serious?’

  Big Lou looked up at the ceiling. She was not sure that it was that simple. Play involved a suspension of disbelief, but once that step was taken, then one might imagine that everything was very serious. ‘Do you go to the theatre?’ she asked. ‘Or the cinema?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew, and he thought: but I don’t really go to anything these days.

  ‘Well, when you’re in the cinema, you believe in what’s happening on the screen, don’t you? You engage with the actors and with what’s happening to them. You believe in it, although you know it’s not real.’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ said Matthew. ‘Everyone does. Everyone wants the men in the white hats to sort out the men in the black hats. Or they used to. Maybe it’s different now.’

  ‘I don’t know about hats,’ said Big Lou. ‘But the point is this. Robbie and his friends know that there are not many of them. They know that there’ll never be a restitution of the Stuarts. But they act as if it’s possible because . . .’ She trailed off.

  For Matthew, this was the most interesting part. How could people hold on to so evidently lost a cause, and expect to be taken seriously? ‘Well, Lou,’ he pressed. ‘Why?’

  The coffee machine was beginning to hiss, and Lou reached out to operate a small lever that released steam into the jug of milk she had placed below it. ‘Because we need to believe in something,’ she said. ‘Otherwise our lives are empty. You can believe in anything, you know, Matthew. Art. Music. God. As long as you have something.’

  Matthew knew that this was true. He would not have expressed the idea in that way, but he knew that what Big Lou said was true. And it was as true of him as it was of Robbie. Robbie believed in something while he, Matthew, believed in nothing, and that made a major difference. If I believed in something, thought Matthew, then my life would have some meaning. I wouldn’t be drifting, as I am now; I would have some sense of purpose.

  Could he become a Jacobite, or even an ardent nationalist? Could he find his personal salvation by becoming enthusiastic about Scotland’s cause? He did not think so. He did not think it was that simple. What about becoming a Catholic – converting – and sinking deeply into a whole community of belief? If you became a Catholic, then at least you had a strong sense of identity. Catholics knew who their fellow Catholics were. They belonged. For a moment, he thought: it would solve everything; I’d become a Catholic and then I’d meet a Catholic girl who would appreciate me. But then he thought: no, I can’t make that particular leap. It’s different if you’re born to something like that. It’s part of you; part of your aesthetic. But it’s not part of me.

  And yet all that – all that embracing of a whole raft of rituals – was attractive. Matthew had met somebody who had become Jewish, not for reasons of marriage, but out of spiritual conviction. They had been surprised, of course, because they didn’t seek to convert people, but he had found them, and the spirituality that they had, and had gone down to London to a rabbinical court and been accepted. And then he had never looked back. A whole world opened to him: a culture, a cuisine, a way of dressing, if one wanted that. He had been very content.

  I would like something, thought Matthew, but I haven’t got it. He looked at Big Lou, whose back was turned to him, and suddenly he felt a sense of her human frailty, her preciousness. For the most part, we treat others in a matter-of-fact way; we have to, in order to get on with our lives. But every so often, in a moment of insight that can be very nearly mystical in its intensity, we see others in their real humanity, in a way which makes us want to cherish them as joint pilgrims, almost, on a perilous journey. That is how Matthew felt. He felt sympathy for Big Lou – sympathy for everything: for the hard childhood she had had; for her struggle to improve herself with her reading; for her desire to be loved; for what she represented – a whole country, a whole Scotland of hard work and common decency. Oh Lou, he thought, I understand, I do, I understand.

  Big Lou turned round. ‘Here’s your coffee, Matthew.’

  He took it from her and took a sip of it, scalding hot though it was.

  ‘Careful,’ said Big Lou. ‘I had somebody in the other day who burned his tongue. You have to let coffee cool down. Those machines heat it up something
dreadful.’

  Matthew nodded. ‘I’ll let it cool down.’ He paused. ‘I’m not wasting your time, am I, Lou?’ he asked. ‘I come over here and blether away with you. And it never occurs to me to ask if I’m wasting your time.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ said Big Lou.

  ‘Good,’ said Matthew. And it was good, because he felt better about everything now, and he had a strong feeling that something was about to happen – something positive.

  Big Lou looked at him. ‘You’ll find somebody, Matthew,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve got somebody already. I know about Pat. But . . .’

  ‘But she’s not for me,’ said Matthew. ‘Is that what you think, Lou?’

  Lou nodded. ‘Best to tell the truth,’ she said.

  68. Matthew Meets Someone

  And Lou was right, thought Matthew as he crossed the street to return to the gallery. She had told him nothing that he did not already know – deep within him; that was often the case with that which purported to be a disclosure: we knew it already. He had somehow convinced himself that he would be happy with Pat, but in his heart he knew that this was not so. Now the thought that he had even gone so far as to propose to her at that party made him feel extremely uncomfortable. She had asked for time to consider, and had mentioned a few weeks. What if she decided to accept? If he wanted to avoid that embarrassment, then he would need to speak to her soon, and tell her that it was over.

  Now, it might have been simple for some young men to drop a girlfriend, but it was not easy for Matthew. There were two reasons for this. One was that Matthew had never done this before; he had always been the one who had been discouraged or disposed of, and he had no idea how one should let the other person know. The other reason was that he was kind by nature, and the thought of causing distress to another was quite alien to him. That is, of course, if Pat would be distressed, and it occurred to him that there was a strong possibility that she would not be. In fact, there was even the possibility that she would be relieved. She had never been unduly demonstrative towards Matthew – indeed, there had been many occasions on which Matthew had thought that she was quite indifferent to him. Well, if that was the case, then it could be a release for both of them.

  Matthew felt quite cheered by this thought as he completed his crossing of Dundas Street and approached the door of the gallery. He now noticed that there was somebody standing outside peering into his display window. It was a woman, not as young as Pat, but about Matthew’s age, or perhaps a year or two older. Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, thought Matthew as he drew nearer.

  ‘I’m about to open up again,’ said Matthew, as he reached for his keys. ‘If there’s anything you’d like to look at more closely, please come in.’

  The woman seemed flustered. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m not really thinking of buying a painting. I was just looking at that picture over there. That little one in the window. It’s so . . . Well, it’s so beautiful.’

  Matthew looked over her shoulder at the painting behind the glass. It was a small Cowie oil that he had acquired recently at an auction – the front of a building with a girl sitting on stone steps. And beyond this a sweep of rolling countryside, fields, the dark green of trees.

  ‘That’s by James Cowie,’ he said. ‘He was a very fine painter. You may know that big painting of his in the modern art gallery. Do you? That big one of the people sitting in front of a wide stretch of countryside with a curtain behind them and a man on a horse? It’s one of my absolute favourites.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure if I’ve seen it,’ she said. ‘I’ll go, though. I’ll go and look for it.’

  Matthew watched her as she spoke. She has a lovely face, he thought; lovely, like one of those Italian madonnas; smooth skin. And I like her eyes. I just like them.

  ‘Come in and look at it,’ he pressed. ‘Most people who go into galleries have no intention of buying a painting. Please.’

  She hesitated for a moment and then agreed. ‘I’ve been shopping,’ she said, gesturing to a small bag she was carrying. ‘I’ve spent enough money.’

  Matthew ushered her into the gallery. ‘Shopping for things you need?’ he asked. ‘Or for things you don’t need?’

  She laughed. ‘The latter, I’m afraid. You’ve got such a nice antiques shop just down the road. The Thrie Estaits. Do you know it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Matthew. ‘I know Peter Powell. He’s got a very good eye. Everything in his shop is very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘And this is what I bought. Look.’

  She reached into the bag and took out a small vase, chalice-shaped, made of streaky, opaque glass. ‘It’s called slag-ware,’ she said. ‘He told me that the glassmakers put something into the glass to make it look like this.’ She traced a pattern along the side of the vase, following a whorl of purple. ‘Isn’t it lovely? He had three or four of these. I chose this one. It’s a present to myself. I know that sounds awful, but I really wanted it.’

  ‘It’s very attractive,’ said Matthew. ‘May I take a closer look?’

  She handed him the vase and he took it over towards the window, to look at it in the light. ‘The colours are really wonderful,’ said Matthew. ‘Look at these different shades of purple. And that lovely creamy white.’

  Then he dropped it. He had been holding it firmly enough – or so he thought – but the vase suddenly slipped through his hands and tumbled downwards. Matthew gave a shout – a strangled cry of alarm – and the glass broke, shattering into fragments which went shooting across the floor.

  Matthew stared at the floor for a few moments. Then he looked up at the young woman. She was gazing at the broken vase, her eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew. ‘Look what I’ve done. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

  He bent down to start picking up the pieces, and held two together, as if working out whether the vase could be put together again somehow. But it was far beyond repair; some of the pieces were tiny, little more than fragments.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘These things happen. Please don’t worry.’

  ‘But it’s broken,’ said Matthew. ‘I don’t know what to say. I feel so stupid. It somehow . . . well, it seemed to jump out of my hands. I . . .’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m always breaking things. Everybody does.’

  Matthew stood up, looking at his hands, to which a few tiny fragments of glass had stuck.

  ‘You must be careful,’ she said. ‘You must get those off without cutting yourself.’

  She reached out for Matthew’s right hand and carefully brushed at it with a handkerchief. Her touch was very light, very gentle.

  69. A Replacement – and an Extra Little Present

  She tried to stop him, but he would have none of her objections. ‘I insist,’ Matthew said. ‘I broke it, and I’m going to replace it.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ the woman said. ‘Anybody can drop things. You mustn’t think twice about it. It’s not the end of the world.’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Of course it’s not the end of the world,’ he said. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that I stupidly dropped your beautiful slag-ware vase. That was my fault and my fault alone. Fortunately, you happened to mention that Peter has others, and so I’m going to go down the road and get you one to replace the one I broke. And that’s that.’

  He moved towards the door. ‘You stay and look after the gallery for five, ten minutes at the most. Just stay. I’ll be back with the replacement.’

  She sighed. ‘You’re very insistent,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew, although he thought: nobody’s ever called me insistent before. Nor decisive. But that is what I’m going to be. He looked at her. I’ve decided, he thought. I’ve decided.

  He turned and walked out onto the street, looking back briefly to see the woman standing in the gallery, watching him. He waved to her cheerfully, and she smiled at him. It was, he t
hought, a smile of concession.

  Down the road, at the Thrie Estaits, Peter Powell welcomed him from behind his desk. In front of him, half on the desk and half resting on an upturned leather suitcase, was a Benin bronze of a leopard, teeth bared in a smile. A stuffed spaniel in a case stood on guard beside the desk, while on the wall behind Peter’s head, a large gilded sconce hung at a slightly drunken angle.

  ‘Slag-ware, Peter,’ said Matthew. ‘A slag-ware vase, to be precise.’

  Peter smiled. ‘As it happens, I have three,’ he said. ‘And I’ve just sold another. What is it about slag-ware that makes it suddenly so popular?’

  ‘I’ve just broken the one you sold,’ said Matthew. ‘And I want to replace it. I’ll take the best of the three.’

  Peter rose to his feet and went to a small cupboard. Matthew saw the three vases within and noticed, with relief, that they looked identical to the one which he had just shattered. Peter examined the price ticket.

  ‘They’re not too expensive,’ he said. ‘But then they’re not all that cheap. Are you sure that you want the most expensive one?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘And what about a small Indian puppet theatre?’ Peter asked. ‘Or a bottle with a sand picture of Naples in it?’

  Matthew laughed. ‘No thanks.’ He paused. ‘That woman who came in to buy the vase,’ he said. ‘Did she like anything else? Did she express an interest in anything other than the vase?’

  Peter thought for a moment. ‘Well, yes, she did, as it happens. She was very taken with that Meissen figure over there. You see, that one, the figure of the girl. She liked that. But it’s rather too expensive, I’m afraid. It’s very rare, you see, and quite an early example.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Matthew.

  Peter picked up the delicate figure of the girl and looked underneath it. ‘Prepare yourself for a shock,’ he said. ‘Sixteen hundred pounds.’