The Unbearable Lightness of Scones: A 44 Scotland Street Novel

by Alexander McCall Smith

  But it was not with such thoughts that Todd now occupied himself. He frowned. Was that not the obnoxious young man he had fired? Anderson? Bruce Anderson. It was! That chin, that peculiar hair which for some reason always smelled of cloves; it was definitely Anderson.

  Now he was talking to the receptionist; flirting with her, no doubt. He was always doing that, and Todd remembered having to talk to him about a complaint from one of the secretaries. He was incorrigible.

  And then Todd saw the receptionist rising to her feet to bring Bruce over to his glass cubicle. He felt irritated, but at the same time intrigued. It took some nerve to come back to a place from which one had been decisively thrown out.

  ‘Mr Todd?’

  Todd nodded.

  ‘You remember me, perhaps? Bruce Anderson.’

  Todd reluctantly took the outstretched hand and shook it. He was Edinburgh; he was polite. ‘Yes. I remember you. How are things going for you? You went to London, I hear.’

  Bruce was invited to sit down. Todd was civil and there seemed to him to be less cockiness in Bruce’s attitude.

  Bruce swallowed. He had decided to be direct, but it was difficult. Todd was staring at him; he was civil but unsmiling.

  ‘I’ve changed,’ said Bruce simply.

  Todd raised an eyebrow. ‘Changed jobs? Not a surveyor any more?’

  Bruce blinked. ‘Changed inside. I’m a changed man.’

  Todd looked nervously over Bruce’s shoulder. Had this young man converted to something?

  ‘If you let me,’ said Bruce, ‘I’d like to explain. When I worked for you, I let you down. I was sloppy in my work. And then there was that incident with your wife, in the restaurant . . .’

  Todd stopped him. ‘I don’t want to go into that, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘But you must let me explain,’ said Bruce. ‘I know what you think of me - and I deserved everything that came my way. But when it came to that, I was innocent. There was nothing going on. It was just lunch. We had met in the bookshop in George Street and it was lunchtime. Purely social.’

  He finished, and looked at the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘I really am. I was a bad employee. I was full of myself. I was a real pain. But now I’m sorry.’ He paused. ‘And I want you to give me another chance. If you’ll have me back.’

  For a while Todd said nothing, but looked directly at Bruce. Bruce held his stare. He did not look away.

  Todd thought: he never spoke like this before. He’s a young man. Everybody makes mistakes. And he remembered, years before, when he was barely qualified, how he himself had . . . no, it was best not to think of that again.

  He made his decision. ‘So, you’re telling me you’ve turned over a new leaf? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Bruce nodded. ‘Yes. I have. And I’m not just saying it. I really have.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any openings at the moment?’

  Todd spoke reluctantly. ‘As it happens, we do.’

  ‘Well, would you consider me?’

  Todd pursed his lips. ‘What have you been doing since . . . since you left us?’

  Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. Then: ‘Wasting my time.’

  Todd’s eyes widened, but then he suddenly laughed. ‘That’s an honest answer.’

  ‘I’ve started to be honest,’ said Bruce.

  ‘Well, it’s good to hear that,’ said Todd. He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘All right, Anderson, we’ll take you back.’

  Bruce rose to his feet and took a step forward. He seized Todd’s hand. ‘I won’t let you down, Mr Todd. I promise you. It’ll be different.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Todd, smiling.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Bruce. ‘And now: how are you doing? You’re looking in great shape, by the way.’

  Todd inclined his head.

  ‘No, I mean it,’ said Bruce. ‘You don’t look a day older.’ Todd was pleased. ‘Well, I’m still playing a lot of golf. It’s good to get out on the golf course and get the wind into one’s lungs.’

  ‘But do you use moisturiser?’ asked Bruce.

  Todd looked puzzled. ‘On the greens?’

  ‘No,’ said Bruce. ‘It’s just you said something about the wind on the golf course. It dries out the skin.’

  Todd shook his head. He was not interested in such things.

  77. Up for the Cup

  Angus was just about to telephone Domenica that morning when her call came through. ‘I take it that you are up and about,’ she began. ‘Up and about and at your easel?’

  Angus looked at the breakfast things on his table - the jar of marmalade, the crumbs from the toast, the plate that had contained his muesli, now scraped clean. Breakfast things were not a good subject for still life, he decided; they were just too prosaic.

  ‘I was just about to phone you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you about what happened at the Braid Hills Hotel yesterday. Vintage stuff.’

  ‘The Jacobites?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Big Lou’s Pretender set off for the Highlands.’

  ‘So he’s noo awa?’

  ‘Precisely. In the side-car of a motorbike.’

  There was silence while Domenica digested this piece of historical detail. ‘Well, that’s very interesting,’ she said. ‘And we must assume that Government forces are combing the hills even as we speak. But, listen, Angus, I need you down here mid-morning. Coffee time. Something has cropped up. What we may call a window of opportunity.’

  Angus agreed, and after a short morning of rather unsatisfactory work in his studio he attached Cyril to his leash and walked round the square to Scotland Street. Cyril was glad to be out and about, and strained at his lead, sniffing the breeze wafting up Scotland Street. Such a breeze contained valuable intelligence for a dog: it let everybody know which other dogs were having a walk at the time; which dogs had been that way earlier on and had made territorial claims; and it carried news, too, of human activities. For an urban dog, each area of town has its particular smell when it comes to human scents. In some areas of town, for example, the people themselves smell somewhat high; this is very rare in Edinburgh, of course, but occurs in some other places. In other areas, kitchen activities are the prevailing note: sun-dried tomatoes are prevalent in the New Town, a hint of quiche, notes of Medoc; Morningside dogs, by contrast, pick up the unmistakable odour of scones, that dry, slightly floury smell, and the smell, too, of cologne.

  Scotland Street that morning, however, smelled only of cat, and Cyril let out a precautionary bark. He detested the cats of Scotland Street; unpleasant, arrogant creatures who taunted him over his leashed state, parading themselves within feet of him in the knowledge that the lead prevented him from meting out immediate justice. Cyril growled, but he realised that Angus was not in a mood to linger, and he had no alternative but to make his way without any attempt at a show-down.

  Domenica had heard them coming up the stair and greeted them at her front door. Unusually, she admitted Cyril to the flat rather than suggesting that he stay out on the landing. Cyril stepped forward to give her an appreciative lick, which he felt was not adequately appreciated. She was a strange woman, this, he thought, but infinitely preferable, from the canine point of view, to that woman below, the one with the little boy he liked so much.

  ‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Angus,’ Domenica began. ‘We have work to do. Then I shall make you coffee.’

  Angus raised an eyebrow. ‘Please explain.’

  ‘Well,’ said Domenica, ‘by a marvellous bit of serendipity, Antonia has announced that the gas people are coming to read her meter this morning. She’s overpaid, she says, and they are having a big argument over it. So she doesn’t want to miss the appointment.’

  ‘I see.’

  Domenica rubbed her hands together enthusiastically. ‘She has to go out, and has left me the key to let the gas men in. So this gives us our chance to replace the blue Spode teacup.’

  Angus looked at her blankly.
‘Replace it? But we’ve just liberated it.’

  Domenica explained, and Angus started to smile as the story unfolded. ‘You’re in a mess,’ he said, at the end. ‘You shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.’

  ‘Well, we can sort the whole thing out now,’ said Domenica. ‘You can take it back.’

  Angus was prepared to help his friend, but he now began to feel slightly used. ‘Well, frankly, Domenica, I don’t see why you can’t do it yourself. You’ve got her key.’

  Domenica sighed. ‘Of course I could take it back, Angus,’ she said. ‘But the point is this: I don’t know where it came from.’

  ‘From the kitchen,’ Angus supplied.

  ‘Yes, yes. But where in the kitchen? If I go and put it back in some odd place then she’ll know, won’t she? She will assume that I’ve been in the flat, using her key - or, rather, misusing her key. If you go, you can put it back in exactly the place you found it.’ She paused, looking intently at Angus. ‘You do remember where you found it, don’t you?’

  Angus had to admit that he did. ‘It was in a small cupboard above the sink,’ he said. ‘There were one or two other teacups there. Nothing very good, I’m afraid. An old chipped Minton Haddon Hall cup, I think.’

  ‘Those can be quite nice,’ said Domenica.

  ‘Yes, they can,’ said Angus. ‘William Crosbie had a set, as I recall.

  I was in his studio down south once, and we drank tea out of Minton cups. I remember, because he was painting one at the time. It was in a still life that he had set up.’

  He stared at Domenica. ‘You could put it back in that cupboard, now that I’ve told you where it is.’

  Domenica brushed the suggestion aside. ‘Far better for you to do it.’

  Angus decided not to argue: Domenica had made up her mind, and he would be the loser in any argument. Women always win, he thought. They just always win.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it. Are you sure that she’s out?’

  ‘She dropped the key in when she went,’ said Domenica. ‘She said that she’d be out for several hours. You’re perfectly safe.’

  Angus rose to his feet and took the key from Domenica. Then she passed him a plastic bag containing the blue Spode teacup.

  ‘I feel a bit like a burglar,’ he said.

  Domenica was dismissive. ‘Burglars don’t return property,’ he said. ‘They take it. You’re returning it.’

  ‘But what if a person who was returning property, clandestinely, were to be caught?’ asked Angus. ‘Wouldn’t he then look, to all intents and purposes, exactly like a burglar?’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive, Angus,’ said Domenica. ‘Now let’s not waste any more time.’

  78. Antonia’s Big Secret

  Domenica opened the door of her flat and Angus slipped out. He looked about him furtively, which was ridiculous, he thought; there was nobody about and he could open Domenica’s door with complete impunity. His errand was a simple one and would take a minute at the most. And it was a just one, he reminded himself: he had nothing to reproach himself for about returning to Antonia that which belonged to her.

  He turned the key in the door and pushed it open. Something was hindering it, and he had to push quite firmly in order to shift the obstruction: the post. Once the door was open, he looked down and saw that a letter had become trapped under the opening door and was slightly torn. He picked it up, examined it, and then put it down again in its original position. Then he closed the door behind him and began to make his way through the hall.

  He stopped. A painting had caught his eye; a small painting, a collection of objects against a bright background. Was it? He moved forward to peer at the painting and he saw the signature. Elizabeth Blackadder. Well, thought Angus, Antonia may have bad taste in men, as Domenica had reported to him, but she had good taste in painting. A Blackadder. Interesting. And what was this? A small pencil study of a boy’s head. By? He looked more closely and realised that he was looking at a sketch by James Cowie - the style was unmistakable. That was even more interesting. Cowie in his Hospitalfield days, probably. Well, well . . . Antonia must have a bit of money, he thought. Where would she get that from? Her estranged husband, he supposed. He was one of these Perthshire types; they often had funds.

  He moved out of the hall and went into the kitchen. Taking the blue Spode teacup out of its bag, he put it down on the draining board next to the sink. Then he opened the cupboard above the sink. There was the Minton, and there was the space in which the blue Spode teacup had stood, now unoccupied. Surely Antonia would have noticed that, he thought. And when she opened the cupboard the next time, there it would be. The poor woman would think that she was hallucinating. He smiled. It was a childish pleasure, and a silly one, but it was rather amusing to think of her confusion.

  He replaced the cup, closed the cupboard, and was sticking the empty bag into his pocket when he heard the front door open. He froze. Was this the gas man coming to read the meter? No, because he had the key that Antonia had given to Domenica. So it was Antonia, coming back.

  Angus did not have time to think. He looked about him wildly. There was only one door, and that led into the hall. He heard another door open and shut. The bathroom: she was going in there, and that at least gave him a few moments. He could dash out of the hall, open the door, and be gone by the time she emerged. But then, almost immediately, he heard the bathroom door opening again. The cupboard. There was a large broom cupboard at the end of the kitchen - Domenica had a very similar one in her kitchen. He would hide in that.

  Fortunately the cupboard was virtually empty, and Angus had no difficulty in fitting in and closing the door behind him. He was just in time: from the darkness of his hiding place he heard Antonia enter the kitchen. He heard a tap being turned on and something - presumably a kettle - being filled with water. She’s making tea, he thought, and that means that she’ll soon make the discovery.

  He heard her open the cupboard above the sink and then there was a silence. After a few moments it was broken by a muttering. In spite of his circumstances, Angus found himself grinning. That had been her making the discovery and wondering how she could possibly have missed the cup.

  The kettle boiled quickly and there was the sound of water being poured. Then a further silence and a rather different noise, a clicking. The telephone: Antonia was making a telephone call. I wish she would get on with it and go back into her study, thought Angus. Then I could make my escape.

  He heard Antonia’s voice quite clearly through the door of his hiding place.

  ‘Maeve? This is me. Yes, fine. I was going out to get my hair done but my hairdresser was ill. One of the assistants offered to do me but I never trust those girls. Most of them look as if they’re straight out of school. They don’t have the experience, if you ask me.’

  There was a silence as the other person spoke.

  ‘Yes, I know that they have to get experience somehow, but not on my hair, if you don’t mind. I like my own person. He’s called James. He’s got really long fingers and he goes snip, snip with tremendous panache. Quite the lad. He comes from Lochgelly, of all places. You don’t expect hairdressers to come from Lochgelly, for some reason, but there you are. He tells me that a lot goes on in Lochgelly.

  ‘But listen, Maeve. Listen. Have you got the stuff?’

  Angus stiffened. Got the stuff? The person at the other end of the line was saying something and Antonia was silent.

  ‘Can you get me a decent amount this time?’ Antonia went on. ‘And good quality. I’ve got quite a few people waiting for theirs. And, tell me, is it cut the way I like it?’

  Angus drew in his breath, almost unable to believe what he had just heard. But there was more to come.

  ‘And be careful about the law,’ Antonia said. ‘Be discreet. We don’t want to end up in prison.’

  Something was said at the other end of the line, and then the receiver was put down. This was followed by footsteps leaving the kitch
en and the slamming of a door in the distance. Very gingerly Angus pushed the door of the cupboard open and peered out into the kitchen. She had gone into her study, he decided, and he could safely leave.

  Within a minute he was back in Domenica’s flat.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re back,’ said Domenica. ‘I saw her coming up the stair. Did she see you?’

  Angus shook his head. ‘She’s a drug-dealer,’ he said, his voice lowered. ‘A big-time drug-dealer.’

  79. On the Way to a Funeral

  Feeling uncomfortable in his dark suit - the trousers were a bit tight - Angus sat back in the seat of the ten-thirty ScotRail express to Glasgow. He had never felt at ease in suits, apart from the generously built one he had inherited from his father. That suit, a voluminous green affair made of tweed woven on the hand-pedalled loom of a Harris weaver, had eventually fallen to bits from sheer old age, and was greatly regretted. The suit he was wearing now, by contrast, was sparing in its use of cloth, and felt like it.

  ‘This suit of mine,’ he said to Matthew, who was seated opposite him on the train, ‘is mean-spirited. Just like the age we live in.’

  Matthew glanced at his friend’s outfit. ‘You could have it let out. You could speak to Mr Low at Stewart, Christie.’

  Angus shook his head. ‘I’d be ashamed to show it to Mr Low,’ he said. ‘I bought this suit on Princes Street about ten years ago. And you know how awful Princes Street is now. It’s like some muckle grand souk. It really souks.’

  When Angus burst out laughing at his own joke, a few other people in the carriage threw glances. They were both so obviously going to a funeral, with their dark suits and black ties: laughter, surely, was unseemly.

  ‘You drew a few disapproving looks, there,’ said Matthew sotto voce. ‘You’re not meant to laugh on your way to these solemn occasions.’