The Importance of Being Seven

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The taxi driver looked in his mirror. He was a driver of the old school – part social worker, part psychologist, witness and confidant to a thousand secrets.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Having picked her up at the Infirmary, he knew.

  ‘Are you going to live?’ It was a risky question; the answer might well have been no.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to live.’

  ‘So it’s not that bad, is it, hen?’

  He looked again in the mirror and winked. He was right. Of course it was not that bad.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not. It’s just that … just that I’m going to have triplets.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Oh, michty!’ he said. ‘I was wrong. It is bad!’

  34. Carnoustie Shortbread

  Elspeth decided that rather than going home to the flat she would go straight to the gallery and break the news to Matthew there. The taxi driver had been kind, as most Edinburgh taxi drivers were, and her tears had stopped by the time they reached Queen Street. As a result of this, when Elspeth spotted Big Lou’s café coming up on the right, she asked the driver to stop and let her off there. Several hours had passed now since her modest breakfast, and she thought that she might have a large, creamy cup of latte accompanied by a piece of Big Lou’s shortbread. That shortbread, which Big Lou made according to the recipe of her aunt from Carnoustie, was renowned for its calorific punch and its contribution, small but significant, to heart disease in the east of Scotland. But Elspeth said to herself, as she contemplated the shortbread ahead of her, I’m eating for two. No, three; no, four …

  The taxi paid off, Elspeth made her way down the steps to Big Lou’s basement. The rail, she noticed, was as rickety as ever; Matthew had said something, she recalled, about Hugh Mac Diarmid, the poet, having stumbled while descending these steps many years before, and it was here too, she remembered, that Lard O’Connor (RIP), Matthew’s Glasgow friend, had fallen. She steadied herself, the rail moving slightly as she took hold of it. She felt heavy again – much heavier than she had felt before she had been told of the triplets. That was psychological, of course; she could hardly have put on much weight over the last couple of hours. And yet, she would weigh more, surely, than most other pregnant women, because they only had one baby to carry about whereas she had four … no, it was three, wasn’t it?

  What if they had made a mistake? What if a fourth boy was hiding in there, having been missed by the scan? She had read in a magazine of people only finding out about twins in the delivery room, but she assumed that this was before ultrasound. It must be impossible nowadays to miss twins, or triplets, with all that sophisticated equipment. And yet mistakes were made in all branches of medicine, because sophisticated equipment had to be operated by mere humans, and mere humans, as everybody knew, were humanly fallible.

  No, there would be no surprise fifth, no, fourth, boy. There were few surprises in life today; no babies found in handbags (handbags!) at railway stations; no unexpected triplets; and few, if any, successfully concealed pregnancies. In the past, she thought, children must have been like rain; they were not planned – they simply occurred; no longer, at least in western Europe, where birth rates were plummeting. The same magazine article that had discussed unexpected twins had also commented on the decline in the number of Russians through their declining birth rate. Soon, they said, there would be none left at all, and Russia would return to being a land of vast, frozen forests. Could the same thing happen in Scotland? Don’t look at me, she thought; I’m doing my best to prevent that – not that I intended to.

  There was nobody in Big Lou’s, apart from Big Lou, of course, who was cleaning the steam spout of her coffee machine.

  ‘These things get awfully dirty,’ Big Lou said as she saw Elspeth come in. ‘They build up a crust of white if you aren’t careful. We used to call that sort of thing the coo’s breeks.’

  Elspeth eyed the shortbread that Big Lou had laid out on a display plate. ‘Has Matthew been in?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Big Lou. ‘In and out. Him and Angus, and that dug, of course.’ She glanced at Elspeth. ‘You all right?’

  Elspeth moved over to the counter. She looked at the shortbread again. ‘I really need a piece of that shortbread, Lou. I’m …’

  She swayed slightly, reaching out to steady herself by holding on to the counter.

  Big Lou reacted quickly. Dropping the cloth she had been using to clean the coffee machine, she moved round the counter to Elspeth’s side. Then, putting an arm round her, she led her to a chair.

  ‘You sit down, hen,’ Big Lou said. ‘You need something to eat. And a glass of water?’

  Elspeth nodded weakly. ‘Sorry. I just felt a bit weak there. I’m fine now.’

  Big Lou gave her two pieces of shortbread, with a glass of milk for good measure. ‘Did you eat your breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Folk forget about breakfast. You need it.’

  Elspeth nodded. ‘I had oatcakes. And coffee.’

  Big Lou shook her head. ‘Not enough. Remember that you’re eating for two. Matthew told me, by the way, and I was very pleased for you. That’s good news.’

  ‘Four,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’m eating for four. I’ve just been told.’

  Big Lou sat down. ‘Four? Four bairns?’

  ‘No, three. Four including myself.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a few moments, Big Lou said nothing. She was remembering a woman in Arbroath. ‘There was a girl at home,’ she said. ‘Prinny Mackenzie. I was at school with her. She had a brother called Billy, I think, who fell into the Tay once on a school expedition and travelled a mile downstream before he was fished out – unharmed. Anyway, this girl had triplets. Three boys.’

  Elspeth looked at Big Lou weakly. ‘That’s what I’m having. Three boys.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Big Lou. ‘Keep you busy, of course.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Mind you,’ Big Lou went on. ‘I’ll tell you one thing about Prinny Mackenzie. She was the happiest girl you ever saw. After the triplets and all. Happy as they come. And the wee boys were real bonny. Everybody loved them. One was called Billy, after his uncle, and another was … Tom, I think. I forget the name of the third. No, he was called Mike, after his dad. Such a nice man.’

  Elspeth tackled the shortbread; Big Lou had given her generous slices. ‘They were all happy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Big Lou. ‘Very.’ She paused. ‘And that’s the important thing, isn’t it?’

  Elspeth looked at her. ‘Happiness?’

  ‘Yes. If you’ve got your health, and you’re happy, what else is there?’

  Elspeth thought about this. Was life quite that simple? Surely not, but then she looked at Big Lou, who was smiling, and who had taken her hand in a gesture of comfort and friendliness. She felt the roughness of Big Lou’s hand; work, all that work, had taken its toll. How vulnerable was a human hand, she thought, and how precious. With her free hand she took the last fragment of shortbread and ate it.

  35. Édouard Vuillard and the Interior Vision

  Matthew was surprised to see Elspeth. He looked up from his desk and saw her standing at the front door of the gallery, about to enter. She seemed to be hesitating, and it was a moment before she saw him looking at her from within. He rose to his feet and went to open the door for her.

  ‘I was worried you’d be busy,’ she said.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Never too busy to see you, my darling.’ He gestured at the empty gallery behind him. ‘And anyway, we’re not exactly run off our feet today.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Or any day, come to think of it.’

  He ushered her to the seat beside his desk. As she sat down, she glanced at the large volume lying open before him. ‘Vuillard?’

  Matthew pushed the book towards her. ‘Yes. Édouard Vuillard. Post-Impressionist. This is the catalogue raisonné – it has everything he did in it.’

&n
bsp; ‘I’ve seen some of his paintings,’ she said. ‘Women arranging flowers. Sewing. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Matthew. ‘They’re very peaceful. Take a look at this one.’

  The book was open at a picture of a woman watering a clump of indoor hyacinths. Elspeth read out the title. ‘Madame Vuillard with Hyacinths.’ She looked enquiringly at Matthew. ‘His wife?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘No, his mother. Read what they say about it. It’s his mother in her flat above the rue de Calais. It’s 1916 and they were living in Paris.’ He paused, reaching out to touch the photograph of the richly coloured painting. ‘So luscious. Those textures.’

  Elspeth’s eye moved to the commentary on the painting. ‘I see that they compare it to Dutch paintings. Why?’

  Matthew cocked his head, to look at the painting from a different angle. ‘Light, I suppose. There’s that wonderful light coming in the window, isn’t there? The Dutch liked to capture light like that in their paintings. And there’s a window – we’re in a room looking out of a window. That’s another Dutch thing.’

  ‘Vermeer?’

  Matthew touched her hand gently; an unexpected gesture. ‘Yes. Vermeer. Remember the Woman in Blue Reading a Letter – that light flooding in from the window. That’s why those paintings are so arresting. They just make you stop. Like that. Just stop.’

  ‘And?’

  He moved the book away. ‘And you think, that’s just so beautiful. It’s something to do with taking a moment and capturing it and distilling all the beauty it contains.’

  She sat back in her chair. She would tell him now. ‘Matthew …’

  But he was not listening. Reaching into the drawer of his desk, he took out the Sotheby’s catalogue. ‘There’s something else I want to show you,’ he said as he began to leaf through the glossy pages.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He turned the catalogue over to show her the cover. ‘A sale of Impressionist and post-Impressionist paintings in London. See?’

  She read the inscription on the cover. ‘Day sale,’ she said.

  ‘That means it’s not as important as an evening sale,’ Matthew explained. ‘The day sales are when they sell the middle-ranking stuff. You won’t find any Rembrandts or Matisses being sold during the day. It’s the evening for that sort of thing – greater theatrical possibilities.’

  She tried again. ‘Matthew, I went …’

  ‘But look at this,’ Matthew went on. ‘It’s somewhere here. Lot number … sixty-two. Yes, here it is. Look at this.’ He passed her the catalogue. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

  Elspeth sighed. There was no point in trying to tell him now, she thought. And there would be time – there would be plenty of time. She could tell him this evening, back at the flat. It might be better to do it there, anyway, as it would give him the time to react – in whatever way he was going to react. She turned her attention to the catalogue. A woman on a sofa in the small drawing room. 1922.

  The painting was undeniably beautiful. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘But … but look at the estimate.’

  Matthew seemed unconcerned. ‘Eighty thousand. High enough to be in an evening sale.’

  ‘But it says eighty to a hundred thousand pounds.’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘Nobody else may be interested. I could get it under the bottom end of the estimate. Maybe seventy-five, something like that.’

  ‘Seventy-five thousand pounds?’

  His tone remained casual. ‘And I suppose I need to remember the auction house’s commission. They add twenty-five per cent to that.’

  Elspeth gasped. ‘So that means it could cost a hundred thousand anyway – even if you get it at the bottom of the estimate.’

  Matthew made an insouciant gesture. ‘That’s what Vuillard costs. He’s a very great artist, you know. You don’t get great artists for peanuts.’

  ‘But what are you going to do with it – if you get it? Who’s going to buy it?’

  ‘I’ll sell it to a client.’

  She pressed home her objection. ‘Who? Which client?’

  Matthew frowned. ‘I’ll find one. I’ll put it in the window. Somebody will walk past who likes Vuillard.’

  Elspeth stared at him. ‘Yes, probably a lot of people who like Vuillard will walk past, but how many of them will have a hundred thousand pounds – more, in fact, because you’ll have to add something to make a profit. A hundred and twenty thousand pounds?’

  ‘There are a lot of wealthy people in Edinburgh,’ said Matthew. ‘Somebody will buy it.’

  Elspeth closed her eyes. This was all going wrong. She had not come to the gallery to get into an argument with Matthew about whether or not he could sell post-Impressionist paintings. He could not, she thought, but that was not the point.

  She had wanted to tell him about the triplets, which was, after all, the most important news that they, as a couple, had ever received. And he had started to talk about Vuillard and auction prices and clients who she thought really did not exist at all.

  She felt Matthew’s hand on her arm. ‘Elspeth?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  She opened her eyes. She felt her tears returning. ‘I’m having triplets,’ she said.

  Matthew remained quite still. His eyes opened wider, she thought, and one corner of his mouth moved downwards. But otherwise it was if he had suddenly frozen. Then suddenly his eyes turned upwards, and his eyelids closed.

  He fell forwards, taking with him the catalogue. Elspeth let out an involuntary scream. She reached forward, but he had slipped past her and hit the floor. There was a bumping sound, like the knocking of wood on wood.

  ‘Matthew!’

  He did not move. The catalogue was underneath his head, the picture of the Vuillard painting directly beneath his jaw, the paper crumpled.

  36. Fear a’ Bhata

  Since the departure of Miss Harmony, Bertie had had two new teachers. The loss of Miss Harmony had been keenly felt by the children, no more so than by Bertie, who had completely sympathised with her when, driven to distraction by Olive, the teacher had momentarily lapsed and pinched Olive’s ear. That, he thought, was something that anybody having contact with Olive could be forgiven for doing, and it seemed to him very unjust that she should leave simply on account of that. He had been pleased, though, when she had married Matthew and all the children had been invited to the wedding. Olive had been included in this invitation, which struck Bertie as an exceedingly and unnecessarily generous thing to do. It offended him that Olive had expressed no regrets over the incident – in which he felt she was entirely to blame – and indeed had made a number of exaggerated claims as to what had happened.

  ‘I liked Miss Harmony,’ Olive was heard to say. ‘It’s just a pity that she tried to tear my ear off.’

  ‘But she didn’t,’ protested Bertie. ‘It was just a little pinch, Olive. I saw her.’

  ‘It’s a pity she didn’t tear it off,’ Tofu interjected. ‘You deserve it, you little cow.’

  ‘I forgive you for those crude words,’ said Olive. ‘I forgive you, Tofu, but I’m afraid that God won’t. He’s going to really sort you out when you die. Just you wait.’

  Bertie sighed. He was used to this sparring between Olive and Tofu, but he wished that it would not happen. Miss Harmony was gone, and he believed she was happy enough in her new life. There was no point, he thought, in raking over old coals, and of course they had their new teacher to get used to now that the temporary stand-in had been replaced.

  Miss Harmony’s replacement was one Miss Maclaren Hope, like all the staff at the school a well-trained and committed teacher. She came from the Isle of Skye, by way of Aberdeen University, and had about her that gentleness and slight dreaminess that is often associated with the Hebrides, both Outer and Inner. She was fluent in Gaelic and played the clarsach, which enchanted the children and even managed to put a thoughtful expression on Tofu’s face. She was keen on singing, too, and soon had the entire class singin
g Gaelic songs such as ‘Fear a’ Bhata’ and ‘Braigh Loch Iall’. Even Tofu sang, sitting quite still – which was unusual for him – staring up at Miss Maclaren Hope as she led them through the lovely, liquid sounds of the Gaelic.

  “ ‘Fear a’ Bhata”,’ she explained, ‘is a song sung by somebody who is thinking of her friend, who is a boatman. Will he come to see her? Will she see his boat approaching over the water, or will she close the door with a sigh, realising that she will have to wait until the following day before she sees his boat?’

  ‘Couldn’t he phone her?’ asked Olive.

  Miss Maclaren Hope smiled. ‘This song was written before people had mobile phones, Olive. Or even ordinary phones, for that matter. So no, he couldn’t phone her and tell her whether he was coming to see her or not. She would have to wait, down by the seashore, where the kelp is strewn by the tides. She would have to wait, with the soft evening breeze from the outer islands, gentle upon her brow.’ She paused. ‘That is why she is singing this lovely song, you see.’

  One of the innovations introduced by Miss Maclaren Hope was a weekly Show and Tell session. This involved one of the members of the class bringing in an object of some sort – a photograph, a book, an ornament or picture – and discussing it with the others. It had been a great success. Hiawatha had brought in a crystal radio set that his father had built as a boy, and this had enabled the class to look up crystal radios and discuss how radio waves worked. Pansy had brought in a book on flower arranging, which her mother used for the class on that subject that she ran in the local church hall. When it came to Tofu’s turn, he had brought in the wheel of a vintage motorcycle that his father had been restoring, which he had stopped doing.