Espresso Tales 4ss-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  panic that had paralysed him during his recent foiled attempt to cross Dundas Street. Now, the ill-fitting rugby boots chafing against his lower ankles, he made his way blindly back towards Spylaw Road and the sanctuary of the Steiner School. It had been a terrible mistake, his break for freedom; he did not belong at Watson’s and he never would. And rugby, which he had so looked forward to playing, was a violent nightmare; a game in which even one’s friends would think nothing of tripping one up and kicking one in the ribs. There was none of that at Steiner’s, where aggressive ball games were not encouraged.

  By the time he reached the Steiner’s gate he was exhausted.

  Running all the way from Watson’s had given him a stitch, and the nagging pain from Jock’s kick was still present. He had hurt his wrist, too, in his fall, perhaps from clutching the ball as he went down. That was a sharp pain, that seemed to come and go, but which made him catch his breath and wince each time it made itself felt.

  He slipped through the gate and walked slowly to the shed at the edge of the garden. He did not bother about being seen now; there was no secret any more – or no secret worth keeping. Entering the shed, he kicked over the bucket under which his clothes were stuffed. There were his familiar dungarees and his checked shirt. But there were no shoes, of course, as he had left those in the changing room at Watson’s. Those were gone forever, then, as was his new plum-coloured blazer and his tie. Those at least he had no use for; it was different with his shoes – the loss of these would have to be explained to his mother.

  The rugby kit abandoned on the floor of the shed, Bertie made his way to his classroom. The door was closed, but through the glass panel he could make out the figures of his classmates, all seated in a circle. He took a deep breath and entered the room.

  Miss Harmony looked up as Bertie came in. She smiled, and indicated to the empty place which awaited him.

  “You’re a little late today, Bertie,” she said. “But no matter.

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  We’re doing some drawing and I know you’re good at that!”

  Bertie sat down and sank his head in his hands. He was aware of the interest of his fellow pupils – of Tofu’s stare, of Olive’s more discreet, and concerned, glance. They would have noticed his rugby boots, he thought, or heard them at least, as the studs had made a loud clicking noise on the floor. They would also be laughing at his dungarees, of course, once they had finished laughing at his boots.

  After a few minutes, he became aware of Miss Harmony crouching beside his table. She had bent down and was whispering in his ear: “We were very worried, Bertie. That funny note you sent me – that was very odd, you know.”

  Bertie looked up at her. She was smiling, and had placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered.

  “I won’t show it to anybody. I’m on your side, you know.”

  Bertie stared fixedly at the table surface. He had not expected this. He had thought there would be recriminations and a summons to the office. He had not expected sympathy.

  “You see,” went on Miss Harmony, quietly so that even the neighbouring tables could not hear, “this school is based on love and respect. We love one another and look after one another.

  So we all love you, Bertie, because you are one of us. And if there is anything wrong, then you can tell us about it, and we will try to help – because we love you.”

  “My mother . . .” Bertie began. But he did not know what to say, and so he stopped. And as he stopped, he felt the pressure of Miss Harmony’s hand tighten upon his shoulder.

  “I know,” she said. “Sometimes mothers make it difficult for their boys. They don’t mean to, you know. The trick is not to let it worry you.”

  “She makes me wear dungarees,” said Bertie. “And I feel so silly.”

  Miss Harmony nodded. “Would you like me to talk to her about that?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “But she won’t listen.”

  “Well, I can try,” said Miss Harmony. “There’s no harm in trying.” She paused, and looked down at Bertie’s boots. “We 146 Going Back

  have some spare shoes in a cupboard downstairs,” she said.

  “Should we go and have a look for a pair that fits you?”

  They left the classroom together and went downstairs, Bertie hobbling now from the pain in his chafed ankles. “Poor Bertie,”

  said Miss Harmony. “Here – take my arm. Lean on me.”

  There was a pair of shiny brown shoes in the cupboard that fitted Bertie exactly, and once he was thus clad he began to feel somewhat more cheerful. He looked up at Miss Harmony and smiled.

  “I’m sorry I wrote you that letter,” he said. “I haven’t got an infectious disease, you know.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I didn’t think for one moment that you had. The important thing is that you should be happy. And you’ve said sorry to me, which is very important.” She paused.

  “You will be happy here, you know, Bertie. It’s a very happy school.”

  Bertie thought for a moment. She was right. He did feel happier here than in the din and rush of Watson’s, with all those hundreds of boys and girls with names he would never remember. Rugby was not for him, he decided, and it was a good thing that there was no rugby at Steiner’s. It was fine for Mr Gavin Hastings to play it, he thought, but he, Bertie, would find something else to do. Even learning Italian was better than rugby.

  Later that day, as he waited for his mother at the school gate, Tofu came up to him and asked him where he had found those boots. “Great boots,” he said.

  “Would you like them?” said Bertie nonchalantly. “You can have them if you like.”

  Tofu accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “You’re a real pal.”

  “And would you like me to bring a ham sandwich in tomorrow?” asked Bertie.

  “Yes, yes,” said Tofu quickly. “Two, even. If you can spare them.”

  “Fine,” said Bertie.

  Tofu slapped him on the back in a friendly manner and went on his way.

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  Bertie watched him walk away and thought about the events of the day. There had been several discoveries. One was that rugby was a rough game and another was that Jock was a false friend. But there were other things to reflect upon. Tofu was no longer a threat – and could even become a friend. And he suspected, too, that he might be happy at this nice school, which was a good place – even if it had been his mother’s choice. After all, there were some things which she might just get right.

  45. Dinner with Father

  If Bertie’s problem was with his mother, Irene – and that would seem to be the case – then Matthew’s problem was with his father, Gordon. Irene and Gordon would not have seen eye to eye on anything very much, but, in their own ways, they had each succeeded in bringing unhappiness into the lives of their offspring. So, while Bertie was trapped by a mother who was relentlessly ambitious for him, Matthew was aware that his father nursed no ambitions for him whatsoever. Gordon had decided that his son was a failure, and had come to accept this. The gallery in which he had set him up was not intended to be anything but a sinecure, a place to sit during the day while the rest of the world went to work. And if this was an expensive arrangement – for Gordon – then it was an expense which he could easily afford to bear.

  Matthew had accepted his father’s offer simply because it was the only one on hand. He understood that he was not a good businessman, but one had to do something, and running the gallery had proved rather more interesting than he had anticipated. This interest had made up for the discomfort that he felt over his father’s writing him off. It is not easy to accept another’s low opinion of oneself, and there were times when Matthew longed to show his father that he was made of sterner and more successful stuff. The problem, though, was that if 148 Dinner with Father

  he tried to do this, he thought it highly likel
y that he would fail.

  Now Matthew was preparing for an evening with his father.

  Gordon had called in at the gallery unannounced and invited his son to dinner to meet his new friend, Janis, who owned a flower shop. As he stood before the mirror and tied his tie, Matthew thought of what he might say to this woman, whose motives were, in his view, perfectly clear. It would be good to indicate to her that he understood exactly what was going on, and that no gold-digger could fool him. But how to do this?

  One could not say anything direct, especially since the dinner was taking place at the New Club – where one could hardly speak directly about anything – and it would be necessary then to give a mere indication – to allow her to read between the lines. But would a woman like that – a “challenged blonde” as Matthew imagined her – be able to read between these lines?

  Some such people had difficulty enough in reading the lines themselves, let alone what lay between them. “She’ll move her lips when she reads the menu,” Matthew thought, and smiled at himself in the mirror. Like this, he thought, and he mouthed the word money.

  Matthew stared into the mirror at the tie he had chosen. It had linked red squares on a blue background. It was wrong. He reached for another one, a blue one with a slight jagged pattern in the background. These jagged lines looked vaguely like lightning, Matthew thought. That would be appropriate. If Janis looked at his tie she would receive a subliminal message: back off. Yes, he thought; that would be just the right note to strike.

  He would be distant and cool, which would send to her exactly the message he wanted to convey: I know what you’re about; it doesn’t really matter to me, of course, but I know.

  Satisfied with his appearance, he moved away from the mirror and fetched his coat from the hall. Matthew lived in India Street, in a flat bought for him by his father, and the walk up to Princes Street and the New Club would take no more than fifteen minutes. As he left the front door and made his way up the hill, he realised that it was not going to be easy to be distant and Dinner with Father

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  cool. Indeed, he already felt hot and edgy. It was not going to be simple: this woman is taking my father away from me, he thought. It’s as simple as that. She’s taking him away from me

  – and he’s mine.

  He stopped at a corner and composed himself, telling himself that it did not mean that much to him. How often did he see his father? Less than once a month, and yet here he was persuading himself that he felt possessive. I shall be mature about this, he told himself. I shall see the whole thing in perspective.

  Janis is a passing phase – an entertainment. She was no more than that. And as a passing phase she could be tolerated.

  He arrived at the New Club, making his way up the sombre, cavernous staircase that led into the lobby. Everything was very quiet and measured – a world away from the bustle outside, and the chewing-gum-encrusted mess that had been made of Princes Street. As Matthew stood at the window of the drawing room, looking out across the dark of the gardens to the illuminated rock of the Castle, he thought for a moment of how his father would be feeling about this meeting. He would be feeling anxious, no doubt, because it was always awkward for a parent to introduce a lover to a child. It was all wrong. Parents did not have lovers as far as their children were concerned.

  Matthew turned round. His father was approaching him from the doorway, walking round the imposing leather sofas that stood between his son and himself. They shook hands.

  “Janis will be through in a moment,” said Gordon. He dabbed at his nose. “Powdering . . . you know.”

  It was intended to be a moment of shared understanding between men, but it did not set Matthew at his ease. He did not smile.

  Gordon looked at his son, and frowned. “This is important to me, Matthew,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’m . . . I’m very fond of Janis, you know. Very fond.”

  Matthew closed his eyes, and swallowed.

  “You’re going to be all right about this?” his father continued.

  “Of course,” said Matthew, quietly. “Why should I not be all right about this?”

  150 The Language of Flowers

  Gordon tried to hold his son’s gaze, but Matthew looked away, down to the floor.

  “You’re all tensed up,” said Gordon. “Look at yourself. All tensed up. She’s not going to bite you, you know.”

  “I never said . . .”

  Gordon raised a hand. “Here she is.”

  46. The Language of Flowers

  Matthew felt the satisfaction that comes with knowing that one has been right about somebody, at least in anticipating appearance. He had imagined Janis to be blonde, and she was certainly that. He had thought of her as petite, and again he was right.

  It was true that he had not envisaged her mock endangered-species shoes, but that was simply because when picturing her he had not got as far as the feet. Had he done so, then he would perhaps have thought of faux snakeskin, or so he told himself as he watched her arranging herself demurely on the chair opposite him. He tried not to make his stare too obvious – he was, after all, striving for an effect of coolness and distance – but he took in the details nonetheless.

  Gordon glanced at his son, but only briefly. He was smiling at Janis in a way which Matthew thought revealed just how smitten he was. This was not his guarded, cautious father; this was a man in thrall to another.

  Janis commented on the view of the Castle. “That castle has so many moods,” she said. “But it’s always there, isn’t it?”

  Matthew looked at her, resisting the sudden temptation to laugh. What an absurd thing to say. Of course the Castle was always there. What did she expect?

  “Yes,” he said. “It would be odd to wake up one morning and discover that the Castle wasn’t there any more. I wonder how long it would take before people noticed.”

  Gordon turned slightly and looked at his son, as if he had heard something slightly disagreeable. Then he turned back to The Language of Flowers

  151

  face Janis. “Yes, it’s a marvellous view, isn’t it? Edinburgh at its best.”

  No, thought Matthew. Edinburgh is far more than that. The Castle was the cliché; nothing more.

  “I don’t really like the Castle,” he said airily. “I wouldn’t mind if they replaced it.”

  Gordon made a sound which might have been a laugh.

  “Replaced it with what?”

  “Oh, one of these large stores,” said Matthew. “The sort that you get in Princes Street. A chain store of some sort. People could park on the Esplanade and then go shopping inside.”

  Janis was watching Matthew as he spoke. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “You’d approve of that, Dad,” Matthew interrupted. “You could invest in it.”

  Gordon drummed his fingers on the low table in front of him. “Matthew runs a gallery,” he said to Janis. “You should drop in and see it sometime.”

  Janis looked at Matthew and smiled, as if waiting for the invitation.

  “Of course,” said Matthew. “Sometime.”

  “Thank you,” said Janis. “I like art.”

  “Oh?” said Matthew. “Any particular painters? Jack Vettriano?”

  Gordon turned to his son. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “Why do you mention Vettriano?”

  Matthew eye’s did not meet his father’s gaze. He continued to look at Janis. “Vettriano’s very popular. Lots of people like his work.”

  “But you don’t?” asked his father. “I take it you don’t?”

  Matthew looked up at the ceiling, but said nothing.

  Gordon addressed Janis. “You see, there’s an awful lot of snob-bery in the art world. Look at the people who win that prize, what’s it called – the Turner. Pretentious rubbish. Empty rooms.

  Piles of rocks. That sort of thing. And then along comes a man who can actually paint and, oh dear me, they don’t like that.

  That’s what’s hap
pened to Vettriano. I certainly like him.”

  Janis nodded politely. “I’m sure he’s very good,” she said.

  152 The Language of Flowers

  “Anyway,” said Gordon, “it’s time for dinner.” He shot a glance at Matthew, who had risen to his feet with alacrity.

  They made their way into the dining room and took their seats under a picture of a highly-plumaged Victorian worthy.

  “Such beautiful portraits,” said Janis brightly, as she unfolded her table napkin.

  “In their own grim way, perhaps,” said Matthew. “They don’t look terribly light-hearted, do they?”

  “Maybe they weren’t,” said Gordon. “The Victorians were serious people.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Matthew. “But I wouldn’t care to sit underneath one of these scowling old horrors for too long.”

  Gordon ignored this remark. “Busy today?” he asked Janis.

  “Yes,” she said. “We ran out of roses by midday. A good sign.”

  “Oh?” said Matthew. “Of what?”

  Janis took a sip of water. “Oh, that romance is in the air.”

  Matthew saw his father react to this. He saw him look down and finger the edge of his plate, as if slightly embarrassed, but pleased, by what Janis had said. And she had looked at him as she spoke, Matthew noted. How corny! How . . . well, there was a certain distastefulness to the whole performance – late-flowering love, so inappropriate for these two middle-aged people, although she was far younger than he was, hardly middle-aged. What was she? Late thirties? Who did she think she was? A coquettish twenty-year-old on a first date? And did his father not see how ridiculous it was for a man of his age to be interested in . . . the carnal? It wasn’t even sex. It was carnality.

  “Of course there’s the whole language of flowers, isn’t there?”

  asked Gordon. “Each flower has a meaning, you know, Matthew.

  Janis knows them all.”

  Excuse me, Matthew said to himself. I feel nauseated. The language of flowers! Is this really my father speaking? The pillar of the Watsonian Rugby Club? The Rotarian? He listened as Janis began to say something about the symbolism of variegated tulips. He had the opportunity to study her more closely while she talked, and he began to stare at her eyes and then at her Information