Love Over Scotland 4ss-3

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The policeman reached out to shake Bertie’s hand. “Well done, son,” he said. “We’ll do just that.”

  Stuart closed his eyes.

  32. Sirens and Shipwrecks

  Pat was worried. Her unnerving encounter with her flatmate Tessie – an encounter that had ended in a barely-veiled threat of dire consequences should Pat have anything to do with Wolf

  – had left her speechless. The threat, in fact, was the last thing that Tessie uttered before she walked out of the room, lips pursed, her expression calculated to leave Pat in no doubt of the seriousness of her intent.

  For a few minutes after Tessie had left, Pat had contemplated following her into her room and asking her precisely what she meant by the threat. Yet it had been unambiguous enough, and Tessie might well merely have repeated it. Perhaps, then, she should assure her that she had in no sense encouraged Wolf and that she had no intention of doing so. That would, no doubt, reassure the other girl, but it would also amount to a complete capitulation in the face of aggression. It was rather like giving in to blackmail: if you did that, then it would simply come back again and again.

  100 Sirens and Shipwrecks

  Her first instinct had been to telephone her father for advice.

  But then she decided that she could not go running to him over every setback. He would be supportive, of course, and patient too, but she could not burden him with this. What would he think of her if she confessed to him that she was attracted to a boy called Wolf who already had a girlfriend, and that girlfriend was her own flatmate? She could explain that she had not actually set out to attract Wolf (well she had, really: she had waited by the notice-board at the end of the seminar purely because he would walk past her). No, it would be better to talk to somebody else – somebody more her own age who would understand; somebody she knew reasonably well, but not too well; somebody like . . . Matthew.

  There were several good reasons why she should talk to Matthew, not the least of these being that she had been feeling guilty about misleading him over Wolf. She wanted to make a clean breast of that to Matthew, and she could take the opportunity to talk to him about the awkward situation that had arisen in the flat. Matthew was a good listener. He had always been kind to her and had, on occasion, come up with useful advice.

  And if she told him the truth about Wolf, then she could also Sirens and Shipwrecks 101

  convincingly tell him that she thought of him as a confidant and not as anything else.

  That day, following the confrontation with Tessie, she had a lecture to attend and planned to spend a couple of hours after that in the University Library. Matthew would be expecting her at twelve-thirty, so that she could look after the gallery while he went off for lunch, and she would stay there for several hours after he returned, as it was a Wednesday, and for some reason Wednesday afternoons in the gallery tended to be rather busy.

  She arrived in the lecture hall ten minutes early, and she was one of the first there. She picked a seat in the middle, behind a small group of students who were poring over a letter which one of them had received, and were laughing at the contents.

  She sat there, her pad of paper opened at the ready, as she paged through a photocopied article on proportion in the early Renaissance. It was a rather strange article, she thought, as the author was one of those people who believed that the ratio of phi would be found in every work of art of any significance.

  Even the human face could have lines superimposed on it in such a way as to come up with phi, and the more beautiful the face appeared, the more would the distance between the eyes and the length of the nose and such measurements all embody phi. Could this be true?

  Suddenly, she became aware of somebody beside her and looked up from her article. Wolf. He had slipped into the seat beside her and had half-turned to smile at her.

  “Phi,” he said.

  For a moment Pat was confused. Had Wolf said phi?

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I just said hi,” said Wolf, smiling at her. And she thought: those teeth.

  She tucked the article away in her bag. The hall was filling up now, and there was a hubbub of conversation.

  “It’s Fantouse again, isn’t it?” said Wolf. “Wake me up if I fall asleep.” He closed his eyes in imitation of sleep and Pat noticed that with his eyes shut he looked vulnerable, like a little boy. And his lips were slightly parted, and she thought 102 The Ethics of Dumping Others

  . . . this was very dangerous. It would be just too complicated if she became involved with Wolf. Tessie would be bound to find out, and if that happened the most appalling consequences could ensue. She would have to be strong. It was perfectly possible to be strong about these things, to tell oneself that the person in question meant nothing to one, that he was not all that good-looking and that one’s stomach was not performing a somersault and one’s pulse was not racing. That was what one could tell oneself, and Pat now did. But it did not work, and any private attempts at indifference which she might try to affect would be of even less use later on in the lecture, when Wolf’s knee came to rest against hers under the writing surface which ran shelf-like in front of each seat. The knee moved naturally, not in a calculated nudge, but with that natural looseness of relaxation, casually, and this, for Pat, was the defining moment. If I leave my own knee where it is, she thought, then I send a signal to Wolf that I reciprocate, that I consent to this contact. And if I move it, then that will be an equally clear signal that I want to keep my distance. And I should want to do that . . . I have to.

  Then she thought: there will be others. I don’t need this boy.

  This room is full of boys and plenty of them are as attractive as this boy on my right . . . She looked up at the ceiling. She knew that she should not look at Wolf, because that would be to look into the face of the sirens and face inevitable shipwreck; but she did. “Phi,” she muttered.

  “Phi yourself,” whispered Wolf. “Little Red Phiding Hood.”

  33. The Ethics of Dumping Others

  In the corridor outside, in the midst of the post-Fantousian chatter, Pat turned to Wolf and addressed him in an urgent whisper.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’ve thought about it. I really have. But we can’t . . .”

  The Ethics of Dumping Others 103

  Wolf reached forward and placed a hand on her arm. “Listen,”

  he said. “You don’t know what’s really happening. Just let me tell you.”

  Pat brushed his hand away. “I know exactly what’s going on,”

  she said. “You’re seeing Tessie. That’s it. You can’t see both of us.”

  Wolf smiled. “But that’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you about,” he said. “Tessie and I are . . . Well, I’m about to break up with her.”

  Pat stared at him. He was taller than she was, but he was bending forward now, his face close to hers. She noticed that he had neglected to shave at the edge of his mouth and there was a small patch of blonde stubble. And his shirt was lacking a button at the top. The small details, the little signs of being human; and all the time this powerful, physical presence impressing itself upon her, weakening whatever resolve there had been before. How could she resist it? Why did beauty set such a beguiling trap? The answer to that lay in biology, of course – the imperative that none of us can fight against. In the presence of beauty we are utterly reduced, made to acknowledge our powerlessness.

  “Does she know?” she asked.

  Wolf dropped his gaze, and Pat knew that he was ashamed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Pat had not expected this reply, and she doubted that it was true. If Wolf had told Tessie of his intentions, then he would not have felt ashamed.

  “You’ve told her?” she pressed. “You’ve told her that’s it over?”

  Wolf looked up again. The bottom of his lip quivered as he spoke. “Not in so many words,” he said. “Not specifically. But I have discussed with her the idea that we should h
ave a trial separation. We did talk about that.”

  Pat raised an eyebrow. “A trial separation?”

  “Yes,” said Wolf. “We talked about that a few weeks ago. I suggested that we might not see one another for three or four weeks and then we could see how we felt.”

  “And she agreed to this?”

  104 The Ethics of Dumping Others Wolf thought for a moment before he answered. “Not exactly.”

  Pat sighed. It was clear to her that Tessie was determined to keep hold of Wolf and that nothing had been agreed about their splitting up. Such cases, where one person was determined to keep the relationship alive, could only be brought to an end by brutality. He would have to dump Tessie, an action which, like the word itself, was unceremonious and unkind. It was not easy to dump somebody gently; and no wonder that somebody had started a service which involved other people doing the dumping for you. One contacted a company (the dumper) who then sent an e-mail to the dumpee that said, effectively: “You’re dumped.”

  In fact, the wording used was slightly more tactful. “The relationship between you and X is no longer in existence,” it said.

  “We advise you that you should not contact X about this matter.”

  She looked at Wolf. He was, she realised, more beautiful than anybody she had seen for a long time. He could step into a Caravaggio, she thought, and go unnoticed, and for a moment her determination somehow to make herself immune to his charms faltered. Most girls confronted with an approach from Wolf would consider themselves blessed; and here she was spit-ting in the face of her luck. And yet, and yet . . . He was the property of another, and one did not trespass on the property of another unless one was prepared for conflict, which was exactly what Pat did not want.

  A nun walked past. Pat had seen this woman before, and had been told by somebody that she was studying at the university and was in the second year of her degree. She did not wear a full habit, but had a modest black dress and white blouse, a uniform of sorts that set her apart from the run of female students, with their faded blue jeans and exposed flesh.

  Pat looked up at Wolf. “No,” she said. “And look, I have to go now. I really do. Let’s talk some other time. Later.”

  Wolf opened his mouth to protest, but Pat had turned away and was already walking along the corridor, following the nun.

  Wolf took a step forward, but stopped himself. “I won’t give up,” he muttered. “I won’t.”

  The Ethics of Dumping Others 105

  Pat followed the nun through the glass door and out into the purlieus of George Square. It had been raining when she had entered the lecture theatre that morning, but now the weather had cleared and the sun was bright on the stone of the buildings, on the glass of the windows. She saw the nun ahead of her, making her way towards Buccleuch Place, and she quickened her step to catch up with her.

  “Excuse me.”

  The nun turned round. “Hello.”

  The response was friendly, and Pat continued. “I’ve seen you around,” she said. “I mean, I’ve heard of you.”

  The nun smiled. “Gracious! Are people talking about me?

  What have I done to deserve that?”

  Pat had already placed the voice. One half expected nuns to talk with an Irish accent – the stereotype, of course, but then stereotypes come from somewhere – and yet this nun was Glaswegian or from somewhere thereabouts – Paisley, perhaps, or Hamilton, or somewhere like that.

  “Is it true you’re a nun?” asked Pat, and added hurriedly: “I hope you don’t think me rude.”

  “Not at all,” said the nun. “I don’t mind being asked. And, yes, it is true. I’m a member of a religious order.”

  The older woman – older by ten years, perhaps, if that –

  looked at Pat. She was due at a tutorial in five minutes, but something told her that she should not go, that she should talk to this rather innocent-looking young woman. At any time, in any place, a soul may be in need of help. She had been taught that, and she had learned, too, that the requests of those in need often came at the worst possible time.

  “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” she asked.

  “If you wanted to talk, then we could do that over coffee. It’s easier that way, isn’t it.”

  “The Elephant House? “ said Pat. “Half an hour’s time?”

  “Yes,” said the nun. “Deo volente.”

  34. In the Elephant House

  They sat in the Elephant House, Pat and the nun, who had introduced herself simply as Sister Connie. They were at the very table which Pat had occupied with Wolf on their first proper meeting, and as Connie waited for the coffee at the counter, Pat thought about the strange turn of events that had brought her to this. One day I was here with a boy called Wolf, she said to herself, and now here I am with a nun called Connie. Why is that so strange?

  Sister Connie brought over the coffee and set the two mugs down on the table. “I suppose you’re wondering about me,” she said. “I suppose you’re asking yourself about how I can possibly be a nun.” She paused, stirring her coffee with the tip of her spoon. “Am I right? Are you wondering that?”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “It had crossed my mind.”

  “And quite reasonably,” said Sister Connie. “After all, how many members of religious orders do you see these days? Very few. I believe that it was very different not all that long ago.

  There were several convents in Edinburgh. More in Glasgow.”

  “I suppose it seems unusual,” said Pat. “At least, it seems unusual to my generation.”

  Sister Connie nodded. “And why do you think that is?”

  Pat shrugged. “Because . . .” She did not know how to say it. It was because of the me factor, she thought; because of the fact that nobody now was prepared to give anything up for the sake of . . . well, what was it for the sake of? For the sake of a God that most people no longer believed existed? Was that it?

  She noticed that Sister Connie had blue eyes, and that these eyes were strangely translucent.

  “Why don’t I tell you what happened?” said Sister Connie.

  “Would you like me to do that?”

  Pat nodded. Lifting her mug of coffee to her lips, she took a sip of the hot liquid. The feeling of strangeness was still there, but she felt comfortable in the company of Sister Connie, as one feels comfortable with one for whom the demands of ego are quiescent. “Please tell me,” she said.

  In the Elephant House 107

  Sister Connie sat back in her chair. “I was a very ordinary schoolgirl,” she said. “Just like everybody else. When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a dancer. I used to go to a modern dance class, and ballet too, and I was serious about dancing exams. I thought that it would be a wonderful thing to do. I imagined being picked for the Royal Academy of Dance, or somewhere like that, and appearing in London. I really thought that it would be that easy.

  “But then something happened – something which changed the direction of my life – changed my life, actually. It’s odd, isn’t it, how one little incident, one conversation, one experience, one thing you see or hear, can change everything? That’s odd, don’t you think?”

  Pat thought of her own life. Had there been something which had changed the whole course of her life? Yes. There had been.

  There had been something on that gap year, something which had happened in Australia, which had done that. If she had not gone to that particular interview, if she had not seen the notice in the West Australian, then she would not have met . . . Well, it would all have been so different.

  “We were from Gourock,” said Sister Connie. “We lived in a flat which looked out over the Firth. We were on the top floor, right up at the top, and there were one hundred and twenty-two steps from the ground floor up to our landing. I counted them. One hundred and twenty-two.

  “On the floor below, there was a woman who lived by herself.

  She wasn’t particularly old – I suppose she was hardly much more than six
ty, but at the time, when I was a teenager, that seemed old enough. She was a nice woman, and I liked her. I used to get messages for her from time to time, as she had difficulty with those stairs. Her breathing wasn’t very good, you see.

  People like that should live on the ground floor, but ground-floor flats are more expensive and I don’t think she could manage it.

  “She was frailer than I had imagined. She had given me a key to let myself in when I helped her, and one Saturday morning I used this key to let myself in when she did not answer my 108 In the Elephant House

  knock on the door. I went inside and found her on her bed, half in, half out. Her feet were on the floor, but her body was under the sheets. I thought that she was dead at first, but then I saw that she was watching me. Her eyes were open.

  “I rushed over to her bedside and looked down at her. I saw then that she was still alive, and I reached out to take hold of her hand. It felt very dry. Very cold and very dry. Then she pointed to a piece of paper on the side of the table and whispered to me. She asked me to phone the number on the paper and . . .”

  Sister Connie’s narrative tailed off. She had noticed that Pat was no longer looking at her, but was staring in the direction of another table, one closer to the door.

  “I don’t want to bore you,” said the nun. “Perhaps I should tell you the rest of the story some other time.”

  For a moment, Pat said nothing. Then she turned back to face her companion. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just seen somebody I’m trying to . . . Well, I suppose I’m trying to avoid him.”

  Sister Connie looked in the direction in which Pat had been staring. “That young man over there?” she asked. “That handsome young man?”

  Pat lowered her eyes. Wolf’s presence could have been a coincidence, but that seemed unlikely to her. “Yes,” she said.

  Sister Connie frowned. “Is he bothering you?” she asked.

  Pat hesitated. Was Wolf bothering her? Yes, he was. He must have followed her here and was presumably waiting until Sister Connie left so that he could talk to her. That was stalking, in her view, or something which was close enough to stalking.