Bertie Plays the Blues

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “It’s physical?” ventured Matthew, his voice lowered.

  62. The Use of Nominees

  Matthew knew immediately that he had offended Pat.

  “I didn’t mean to say that,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry.”

  She did not look at him as she replied. “Why is it that nobody comments if a man is attracted to a beautiful woman, but if a woman is attracted to a beautiful man, then she has somehow to apologise, to feel embarrassed about it?”

  Matthew blushed. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said. “I really didn’t.”

  Pat continued. “It’s still that we expect women not to confess to … to their needs – that’s it, isn’t it? We’re meant to pretend we don’t have any feelings about …”

  Matthew shook his head. “Not any more,” he said. “That used to be the case, but not any more.”

  “Then why shouldn’t I be attracted to Bruce?”

  He was struggling. “I didn’t say that you couldn’t. I just felt that … well, he’s not really your …” He waved a hand in the air. “Your equal. You’re a nice person and he’s … well, you know what Bruce is like, don’t you? He’s just so pleased with himself.”

  Pat was about to reply to this, but did not. A young man had come into the bar, and looked about him quickly before striding across to their table. Now he stood before them, his hair slightly dishevelled and wet, the rain having started up outside. He looked first at Matthew, and then at Pat.

  “You’re Pat?”

  Pat frowned as she tried to place him. She had seen him before somewhere – she was sure of it – but could not recall where or when.

  “Yes, I am.”

  The young man pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “You’re soaking,” said Matthew. “I didn’t realise it had started to rain.”

  “I missed a bus and so I started to walk,” said the young man. “My name’s Neil, by the way. I’m Bruce’s flatmate in William Street.”

  Pat was still trying to remember where she had seen Neil before. If he was Bruce’s flatmate, then she might have met him there, at the flat – except for the fact that she had never been in Bruce’s flat.

  Neil half-turned to glance in the direction of the bar. “I’ll buy you a drink in a moment,” he said. “But first, some bad news, I’m afraid.” He paused. Pat noticed a bead of moisture running down his cheek: the result of the rain. She wanted to reach out and mop it up; she wanted to smooth down his hair.

  “You see,” Neil continued, “Bruce has had an accident. He can’t meet you. He’s been taken off to the Royal Infirmary and he asked me to pass the message on to you. I went with him to casualty, and then came straight here.” He turned to Pat. “He didn’t have your mobile number – otherwise we would have phoned.”

  “Is he all right?” Pat asked.

  “He’s broken a leg,” said Neil. “And they’re worried he’s cracked his skull too.”

  Pat was silent. Matthew glanced at her. He felt sorry for Bruce – of course he did, but not as sorry as if this had happened to a hundred other people. And that, for a moment, made him feel guilty.

  It was a freak accident, Neil explained. Bruce had been taking a shower and then, when he came out, he had trodden on a tube of hair gel that had fallen off the edge of the washbasin. This had expelled a pool of gel, on which he had then slipped.

  “Any head injury seems to produce a lot of blood,” Neil went on. “You know how it is? I cut my scalp once when I fell off my bike. There was blood all over the place. Same with Bruce. Blood and hair gel. All mixed up.”

  Pat shuddered. “I hope he’s all right,” she said.

  “He’s fine,” said Neil. “He’ll have a leg in plaster for a few months, I suppose, but worse things have happened.” He smiled at Pat. “He said that he was going to take you out to dinner.”

  Pat nodded. “Yes. We were going down to Leith. To The Shore.”

  Neil glanced at Matthew briefly and then back at Pat. “That’s a great place. I wonder if you’d like to go with me. I had nothing on and I’d rather like to go out tonight after all that business with Bruce. Hospitals depress me.”

  Pat hesitated.

  “You should go,” said Matthew. “Go on.”

  “All right,” she said. “On one condition: I pay for myself.”

  Neil shrugged. “That’s fine.” Then he grinned. “Actually I was hoping you’d say that. Not that I wouldn’t like to pay for you …”

  Pat liked his grin. “I’m sure you would.” She liked his voice too. And his eyes …

  Neil was now looking at her with interest. “You know something?” he said. “I think we’ve met before. Maggie Henderson’s party?”

  Pat had been there. Maggie Henderson had been several years above her at school, but had been prepared to socialise with younger girls, and had been much admired for that. She had had a twenty-first birthday party at Prestonfield, in the marquee, and Pat had been invited.

  She stared at Neil. Had she danced with him, perhaps?

  “I was the piper,” said Neil. “You probably don’t remember me. But I was there and you and I chatted outside while you were waiting for your taxi.”

  It came back to her. There had been a piper, and she had talked to him, and she had wanted to spend longer with him but her taxi had arrived. That was Neil.

  “I remember now,” she said.

  Pat now realised that she had not introduced Matthew to Neil, and now did so. Neil nodded as she explained that Matthew owned the gallery she was temporarily working in. “Yes,” he said. “I know about that. You’re the person who sold Bruce that flat.”

  Matthew frowned. “Sorry, I don’t follow you.”

  “Bruce bought your flat in India Street. He was telling me about it.”

  Matthew struggled to deal with this disclosure. Bruce! He had sold the flat to a woman from Kelso who wanted to live near her daughter in Edinburgh; he had not sold it to Bruce. He started to explain this, but Neil just shook his head.

  “No, that’s not the case. Bruce uses nominees. It’s really him. He’s going to sell it on – at a profit.” He smiled. “And he will, you know.”

  63. Solastalgia Explained

  Pat and Neil left for their dinner together, but Matthew was not long by himself. After five minutes or so, during which Matthew brooded on Neil’s casual disclosure of Bruce’s perfidy, Angus arrived with Cyril in tow. Spotting Matthew at his table, Angus gave a cheerful wave and came over to settle Cyril while he went to the bar to buy a pint of beer for himself and the small dish of Guinness that Cyril enjoyed.

  “Well,” said Angus, as he placed Cyril’s dish under the table. “It’s very good to see you. Paternal duties, I take it, are suspended pro tem.”

  “Elspeth is at home,” said Matthew. “And we’ve got a helper now – an au pair from Denmark.”

  “Ah,” said Angus, taking a sip of his beer. “Pulchritudinous?”

  Matthew did not reply, but gave Angus a reproachtful look.

  Angus winced. “That was a joke, Matthew. Listen, are you feeling out of sorts? You look somewhat peely-wally, if I may say so.”

  This remark had the effect of making Matthew look even gloomier. “Everything’s going wrong,” he said.

  Angus took a sip of his beer. “Absolutely everything?”

  Matthew told him of Elspeth’s announcement.

  “Oh,” said Angus. “So she’s pining for India Street? I can’t say that I don’t understand and, to an extent, sympathise. One becomes very attached to one’s familiar place. It’s fundamentally unsettling to have to uproot oneself.”

  “But surely a move can be stimulating,” objected Matthew. “New surroundings. Not the same old view out of the window every morning. Surely that should be positive.”

  Angus was not convinced. “I don’t think so. In fact, most people, I’m convinced, want things to remain exactly the same. And when they don’t, when things change at too rapid a pace, I believe that we
can feel considerable distress.” He paused, and took another sip of beer. At his feet, Cyril, who had been noisily lapping up the beer in his dish, looked up in expectation. Sometimes he was allowed a second helping, but the dog had noticed that this only happened when he and Angus were in the bar by themselves; Cyril had noticed that when his master had company – as he now did – he seemed to forget to serve seconds. Cyril glared at Matthew, willing him to leave. This glare gradually slipped until it was focused on Matthew’s exposed ankles, which were only a foot or so from Cyril’s snout. Cyril had long harboured a desire to bite Matthew’s ankles, which were of an appearance and attractiveness that would tempt even the most iron-willed, self-controlled dog, let alone a dog who, emboldened by beer, was weighing up the pros and cons of allowing himself a nip. It would be easy, so easy, but Cyril had a keener sense of consequence than most dogs, and he knew that if he were to bite Matthew, he could expect to be walloped by Angus with a rolled up copy of The Scotsman.

  “In fact,” Angus continued, “there is a name for this condition of distress over change: solastalgia.”

  “Solas-what?”

  “Solastalgia. It’s a neologism,” Angus explained. “But unlike many neologisms, this is a useful one. It was coined by an Australian professor who was convinced that rapid or dramatic change naturally leads to unhappiness. And of course he was spot-on. Of course it does.”

  Matthew stared into his glass of beer. “I thought it would be good for both of us,” he said. “It could get us out of our rut.”

  “Nothing wrong with ruts,” said Angus. “The happiest people I know are in deep, deep ruts.”

  Matthew sighed. “And now, I just don’t know what to do …”

  Angus returned to solastalgia. “I’ve found this whole idea very interesting. I’ve always felt that people who said that we should embrace change were arrogant in their assumptions. People can’t cope with too much change, you see. Change can hurt. People like the familiar. They like the things they’re used to.”

  “But things can’t remain the same,” said Matthew. “If you don’t adapt to changing conditions, then …” He made a throat-cutting gesture. “Then you’re done for.”

  “Why?” asked Angus.

  “Because the world is competitive. We have to work out new strategies for survival. Things have to change.”

  Angus looked at Matthew. “Even if we end up being unhappy? Even if we end up losing any sense of who we are or where we come from? Even if we end up with a world about us that we feel uncomfortable with because it’s alien and featureless and confusing?”

  “Economic necessity …” Matthew began.

  Angus spluttered. “Don’t talk to me about economic necessity! Money has no conscience, Matthew! Surely you understand that. Capital doesn’t care what it does to people – it’s driven by greed. Look at how it’s slaughtered industry in Scotland. And elsewhere too. Even the United States. Look at the ruination of places like Detroit because capital has gone off to cheaper places. It never cared about them – those car workers or steel-men or whatever – it never cared. Not really. It left them high and dry. And it’s the same everywhere.”

  “So what do you propose?” asked Matthew.

  Angus shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m an artist, Matthew – and artists don’t always have solutions. We can show people what the world is like, I suppose. We can encourage them to think about spiritual possibilities. We can paint the just city – but we can’t necessarily show people how to get there.”

  Matthew looked at his hands. “I only wanted Elspeth to be happy,” he muttered.

  “Oh really!” said Angus. “Stop going on about it. Move back there. A flat’s bound to come up in India Street sooner or later.”

  “It has,” said Matthew.

  “Then buy it,” said Angus.

  Suddenly Cyril growled, attracting the attention of both Matthew and Angus.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Matthew.

  Angus looked down at the dog, who seemed to be staring at Matthew’s ankles. “He can’t stand self-pity,” Angus said. “He picks these things up, you see.”

  “It’s all very well for you,” Matthew retorted. “Everything’s going fine for you. And for Cyril too.”

  Angus shook his head. “Except it isn’t,” he said. “I’ve discovered something, you see. I’ve discovered something about Domenica.” He paused, as if uncertain whether to continue. Then he went on, “I’ve discovered that she loves somebody else, Matthew. Not me. Somebody else.”

  64. A Prospect of Glasgow

  It was Ranald Braveheart Macpherson who undertook the planning of the expedition to Glasgow. The briefing, as Ranald called it, took place during an interlude in a cub scout meeting.

  “Now listen to me, Bertie,” he whispered. “This is how we’re going to do it. We’re going to go tomorrow, right? When your mummy drops you off at school, don’t go inside, understand? Hide in the bushes. I’ll do the same at my school. Then run out the gate and meet me at the edge of the Meadows, near the Brunstfield Hotel. You know that place?”

  Bertie shivered with fear at the thought of the deception. Ranald’s plan, he thought, was fraught with danger, but it was now too late to withdraw. “I know it,” he said. “And then what, Ranald?”

  Ranald glanced around him. Not far away, surrounded by a small knot of girls, Olive could be seen watching them.

  “Try to talk out of the side of your mouth, Bertie,” said Ranald. “Like an American.” He pointed discreetly in Olive’s direction. “That way Olive won’t think we’re saying anything.”

  No sooner had Ranald said this than Olive, followed by Pansy and Pansy’s friend, Angela, a small girl with round glasses, a snub nose, and plaits, approached the two boys.

  “What are you talking about, Ranald Macpherson?” asked Olive peremptorily.

  Ranald was silent.

  “I could see that you were talking to Bertie,” continued Olive. “We’re not blind, are we, Pansy?”

  “No, we’re not,” said Pansy. “I saw your lips moving, Ranald. You were talking to Bertie. Anybody could tell that.”

  Ranald glanced imploringly at Bertie. He might have been a good planner of trips to Glasgow, but he did not relish confrontation, particularly with Olive, who was noted for her sharp tongue and forceful manner.

  “It was a private conversation, Olive,” Bertie said mildly. “I was talking to Ranald, which was our business, and you were talking to Pansy and Angela, which was your business. Fair’s fair, Olive.”

  Olive turned on him sharply. “Oh yes? Fair’s fair, is it? Well I’ve got news for you, Bertie Pollock. There are going to be more girls in the cub scouts than boys. Did you know that? Well, it’s true, and that means it’s going to be the end of the road for you boys!”

  Angela now joined in, her small eyes bright with triumph. “Yes, Olive’s right, Bertie. There are going to be so many girls that we’ll be in the majority. And then you boys are finished, understand – finished.”

  “And not just in the cub scouts,” interjected Pansy. “My mummy read an article from the paper that said that there are already bags more girls going to university than boys. That’s a fact. So soon boys will just get the rubbish jobs. So you’re going to have a rubbish job and Ranald you’re going to have an even more rubbish job than Bertie. That’s another fact.”

  “Exactly,” said Olive.

  Bertie looked at Ranald, who seemed crestfallen at this news. “Why should Ranald have a more rubbish job?” he asked. “How do you know that, Pansy?”

  “It’s because of his legs,” announced Olive. “That’s why, isn’t it, Pansy?”

  “Yes,” said Pansy. “That’s why.”

  “What have Ranald’s legs got to do with it?” asked Bertie.

  “They’re very thin and spindly,” said Olive, pointing at Ranald’s legs. “And he calls himself Braveheart! The real Braveheart had big, strong legs. That was in the days when men were men. That’s what
my mummy says. She says that those days are over now.”

  The girls continued in this vein for some time, but did not succeed in winkling out of the two boys the topic of their conversation. At length Olive and her cohort retreated, leaving Bertie and Ranald with a vague threat to watch them very closely and to inform the authorities if there was any sign of their doing anything.

  This exchange dispirited both Bertie and Ranald, but it did not prevent their later agreeing on the finer details of the plan and resolving to put it all into operation the following morning. Bertie returned home in a state of considerable excitement – and trepidation. He had very rarely gone off on an expedition of his own, and in each case it had ended ignominiously. There had been the occasions when he had run away from the Steiner School in order to enrol himself in Watson’s and to play rugby; that had ended in his being pushed to the ground and kicked by Jack, whom he had previously thought of as a friend. Then there had been his ill-fated attempt to cross Dundas Street by himself; that had come to an end when he had frozen in the middle of the street, transfixed by the sight of the traffic hurtling down the road towards him. Had it not been for the extraordinarily courageous intervention of the then First Minister of Scotland, Jack McConnell (later given a life peerage for this very act), who had dashed out into the traffic and had rescued him, then the result of that outing could well have been tragic. So this trip to Glasgow, although carefully planned by Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, was taking place against a not particularly propitious backdrop.

  That night he lay in his bed, willing himself to sleep so that the morning would come more quickly, and yet unable to do so through sheer excitement. Glasgow! Even the name had a more exciting ring to it than Edinburgh’s. Edinburgh sounded so ordered and dignified by comparison – Glasgow sounded so much noisier and more exuberant. And quite apart from the thrill of the journey, there was the excitement of going to the adoption agency and registering himself for adoption. He wondered whether it would take long, whether he would have to wait while they telephoned some new parents to come in and pick him up, or whether there would be some prospective parents sitting in a waiting room. Bertie knew all about waiting rooms, of course; he regularly sat in Dr St Clair’s waiting room in Queen Street; that had copies of Scottish Field in it. Would there be Scottish Field in the adoption agency waiting room?