Then there was the question of Matthew’s wardrobe. On the second day after their return from their honeymoon, while Matthew had gone off to the gallery, Elspeth, still clad in the silk dressing gown she had bought in Singapore, had looked through Matthew’s wardrobe and bedroom cupboard, examining his clothes. It had felt a bit strange at first, to be looking through the clothing of another like that, but she had reminded herself that they were married now and married people had no secrets from one another, or should have no secrets. And surely the most obvious place to start in this policy of sharing was the wardrobe.
She started with his sock drawer. There were no surprises there - in that few of the socks seemed to match. She smiled: that was a universal problem, connected in some way with the Bermuda Triangle which most washing machines seemed to possess and which swallowed socks, flushing them away to some unknown destination somewhere. She had the solution to that, though - those small rubber rings through which socks could be threaded in pairs, thus keeping them together in the wash, like swimmers sharing the same lifebelt.
She opened the drawer below that, and closed it again quickly. She was not ready for underpants. Not yet. After years of marriage perhaps, but not now. So she moved on: a sweater in a curious beige colour - Matthew’s distressed oatmeal sweater, as it happened. That would have to go. And folded underneath it a pair of crushed strawberry corduroy trousers. She took these out and examined them. Here and there the corduroy was worn; surely they could be thrown out now. She put them on the floor. Now for the jackets.
But by the end of her survey, Elspeth had made a large pile of Matthew’s clothes in the middle of the floor. The distressed oatmeal sweater; the crushed strawberry trousers; four jackets which looked as if they had lost all shape and will to live; three pairs of shoes in which the leather was wrinkled and cracked.
She went into the hall and looked up a number in the local directory. Deceased houses respectfully cleared, said the advertisement. Well, this was not a deceased house, but these were obviously people who would know how to get rid of old clothes. She dialled the number and was answered by a man who spoke respectfully, almost in sepulchral tones. Yes, they could come that morning, and yes, they could take anything.
She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. It was a very satisfying thing, she felt, this looking after a man. Men were so vulnerable, she thought; they need us so badly, poor dears. And think what they would look like without us. Just think.
97. Olive is Outraged
Bertie walked across the Meadows with his father after an eventful evening at the First Morningside Cub Scouts. Stuart had travelled up to collect him on the 23 bus, but had decided they should walk back to Scotland Street. It was a warm evening, and Bertie, it seemed, was still full of energy. The walk might use up some of that, though that was by no means certain: small boys, he had discovered, were possessed of a boundless reserve of energy barely sapped by even lengthy periods of exercise. Where does it go? Stuart asked himself. Why does it drain away as the years go past, to the point where even the decision to walk from Scotland Street to the Mound involves a certain determination, a supererogatory commitment? And, more worryingly, at what point am I on that inevitable entropic curve?
Bertie wanted to talk to his father about what had happened at cubs, but was still going over it in his mind, rehearsing the extraordinary sequence of events that had suddenly blown up and then played itself out with astonishing speed. It had all started when the various sixers were busy preparing trays of items for Kim’s Game. They had been told the basic rules - items were set out on a tray in random order. The tray was then covered with a cloth, which was then removed for a minute, during which time the contender had to try to memorise all the items that the tray contained. ‘It’s called Kim’s Game, boys and girls,’ said Akela.
Bertie put up his hand. ‘That’s after the novel by Rudyard Kipling,’ he said politely. ‘Kim was a little boy who got caught up in the Great Game.’
Akela looked at him with surprise. ‘That’s quite correct,’ she said. ‘Well done, Bertie. And have you read Kim?’
Bertie nodded. ‘I like Mr Kipling’s books,’ he said. ‘And I’ve read the Just So Stories and The Jungle Book, and one or two others. But my mummy doesn’t like them. She says Mr Kipling was a reactionary.’
‘And I bet Mr Kipling would say your mother’s a cow,’ whispered Tofu. ‘Only joking, Bertie.’
Olive’s hand shot up. ‘Akela,’ she called out. ‘I have something to report. Tofu’s just called Bertie’s mummy a cow. Yes you did, Tofu! I heard you!’
Akela frowned. ‘Well, let’s not argue,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that Tofu would never say a thing like that, would you, Tofu?’ She clapped her hands. ‘Now each six has its tray, so you can all start.’
Olive took control of their tray and began to set out the random articles that had been provided. Old dominoes, a comb, a key ring and so on; all were laid out on the tray ready for memorising. The boys watched her intently, none more so than Tofu, who was glaring at her through narrowed eyes.
‘Why did you clype on me?’ he hissed.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Olive airily, as she continued to arrange the items. ‘If you’re asking me why I told Akela about that horrid thing you said about Bertie’s mummy, then it was because it was my duty as a sixer. And anyway, it’s not Bertie’s mummy’s fault, is it, Bertie? Your mummy can’t help being a cow, can she?’
Bertie looked down at the floor. He wanted only to play Kim’s Game; he did not want to discuss his mother. And it was then that Tofu, who had been sucking his cheeks in and out in a suspicious manner, suddenly spat at Olive, the spittle hitting her on the bridge of the nose, directly between the eyes. Had it been a bullet, it would have been a fatal shot.
Olive screamed and leapt to her feet, desperately wiping her face. Then she started to cry. Akela heard the commotion from the other end of the room and came running across to see what had happened. ‘Olive,’ she cried, putting an arm around the sobbing girl. ‘Are you all right? What on earth happened?’
Between her sobs, Olive explained that Tofu had spat at her. ‘Tofu!’ said Akela. ‘What is this? Cubs do not spit. Nor do they fight.’
‘She started it,’ said Tofu. ‘She scratched me really badly. I had to defend myself, Akela.’
Nobody had seen the quick work Tofu had done with a safety pin that had been among the things on the tray. Now he held up his arm and showed Akela the thin, red line of blood that he had discreetly gouged with the point of the pin. Akela gasped. ‘Olive! Did you do that?’
Olive looked outraged. ‘I didn’t, Akela! I didn’t.’
Akela turned to Ranald Braveheart McPherson, who was watching proceedings in astonishment. ‘Ranald? You tell me. Who started this?’
Ranald looked about in desperation. He glanced at Olive, who was glowering at him, and then at Tofu, who made a quick cutting motion across the front of his throat. Ranald made his choice. ‘Olive,’ he said. ‘Olive started it, Akela.’
‘There,’ crowed Tofu. ‘I told you.’
Akela looked at Olive. ‘Now, Olive,’ she said. ‘I’ve noticed that ever since you became the sixer, you’ve thrown your weight around. I’ve heard you criticising the boys. And now this. That is not the way I expect a sixer to act. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to demote you and appoint a new sixer.’
Olive stared in crumpled disbelief as Akela turned to the boys. ‘Now, one of you boys will have to be sixer.’
‘Me,’ said Tofu.
Akela shook her head. ‘Thank you for offering, Tofu, but I’m not sure that you’re quite ready for that. So I think I shall appoint you, Ranald. You be the sixer.’
Ranald Braveheart McPherson looked startled. He did not want high office, particularly with this group of unpredictable people; the only person he was not afraid of was Bertie. But there was to be no further discussion; Akela had returned to the other side of the room.
&
nbsp; Those were the events that Bertie wanted to relate to his father, but it all seemed to him to be too recent, and so he kept silent as they walked along Forrest Road and then past the statue of Greyfriars Bobby.
‘That’s a wonderful statue,’ said Stuart. ‘You do know the story of that dog, don’t you, Bertie?’
Bertie nodded. Greyfriars Bobby had been a great dog; a loyal, true friend to his master. Loyalty, truth and friendship: those were the things that Bertie admired, and that he wanted to find in the world. But it seemed to him that they were qualities that were in short supply: desiderata that one could only hope would one day come into their own, find their place. Until then he had Tofu and Olive and his mother, and the rest of the imperfect world.
98. The Lightness of Scones
Matthew and Angus walked smiling into Big Lou’s café. They were slightly earlier than normal, and they found Big Lou, her sleeves rolled up, washing the floor with mop and pail. Cyril, who had entered the café discreetly, always being worried about being made by Big Lou to sit outside, slunk off to find his favourite spot under his master’s favourite chair. Big Lou, to his relief, ignored him.
‘You’re looking very pleased with yourselves,’ Lou said to the two men.
Matthew and Angus exchanged mutually congratulatory glances. ‘Well,’ said Matthew, ‘there are occasions when one may feel a certain . . . how shall I put it? A certain satisfaction with the way things have worked out.’
Big Lou squeezed her mop into the pail. ‘You mean you’ve just sold a painting. For twice what it’s worth, no doubt.’
‘Nothing as simple as that, Lou,’ said Matthew.
‘We have pulled off a major coup . . . for the nation,’ said Angus.
‘Not that we wish to trumpet that from the rooftops. It’s just that you asked, Lou. And we’re telling you.’
Big Lou snorted. ‘I cannae imagine either of you doing anything for the nation,’ she said.
Angus smiled. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Lou. Sorry to be the one to point it out, but you’re wrong.’
Big Lou picked up the pail and put it behind the counter before washing her hands at the sink. ‘You tell me all about it then, boys,’ she said. ‘And I’ll let you know what I think of it.’
Angus and Matthew sat down at their table. ‘We’ll have scones with our coffee this morning, Lou,’ Angus said. ‘A couple of those rather sturdy scones of yours, please.’
‘Sturdy?’ snapped Big Lou. ‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that they’re not perhaps the lightest of scones,’ said Angus. ‘Not that I’m criticising you, Lou. It’s just that . . . well, those scones might go down well in Arbroath, but here in Edinburgh . . . people prefer, perhaps, a slightly lighter scone.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Lou. ‘Light scones are all air and nothingness. You can get your teeth into my scones.’
‘A scone can never be too light,’ said Angus. ‘Read the cookery books, Lou. They all say that.’
‘Not where I come from,’ retorted Lou. ‘But anyway, what’s this thing you’re so pleased about?’
Angus looked at Matthew, who indicated with a nod of his head that he should go on to tell the tale. ‘It’s all about Burns,’ he said, ‘and a Raeburn portrait.’
He told Lou what had happened. Frankie O’Connor, younger brother of the late Lard O’Connor, had arrived from Glasgow, as he had threatened to do. Not only had he come, though, but so had two of his friends.
‘You should have seen them, Lou,’ said Matthew. ‘They were straight from Central Casting. Glasgow hoods. Frankie’s pals.’
Matthew went on to narrate how Frankie had shown no interest in seeing his brother’s painting, but had said he was perfectly willing to sell it for GBP 200. Matthew had readily agreed, but asked, as he paid, about the painting’s provenance.
‘He claimed Lard had been given it in return for cutting a hedge,’ he said. ‘Such a wonderful explanation that it may even have been true. There was no mention of the aunt in Greenock or Gourock or wherever it was.’
‘Otherwise obtained,’ said Angus. ‘As we thought.’
‘So now?’ asked Lou.
‘Now we hand it over,’ said Angus. ‘And the powers that be let us know if it’s on their list of stolen paintings. Nobody has come forward, so it probably isn’t. So it goes to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.’
As this conversation proceeded, Cyril dozed beneath the table. As a dog, human speech was a mystery to him - a babble of sounds that was so hard to interpret, no matter how hard he strained. Tone of voice, though, provided a key: when the sounds were low and constant, all was well; when the pitch was raised, something was happening, and that might have consequences for dogs. Then there were the few words he really did understand - words laden with meaning, from the canine point of view. ‘Walks’, that rich and promising word, was of immense importance in the canine vocabulary; a word that activated every pleasure centre in a dog’s brain. ‘Good dog’, a more complicated phrase, standing, in its complexity, at the very outer limits of canine understanding, as obscure as the rules of quantum physics. That two words should combine to produce a single meaning - that was the conceptual challenge for a dog. So the canine brain ignored the word dog as a superfluous complication, and focused, instead, on ‘good’.
But when Cyril awoke from his brief nap, the problem that confronted him was not one of understanding what was being said over the table, but what he saw underneath, down at dog level, close to the floor. For there before him, only inches away, were Matthew’s ankles; half clad in socks, half exposed. It was a sight of which Cyril had dreamed, and in some of his dreams he had acted. This was Cyril’s temptation, and it was an immensely strong one. Indeed, had Mephistopheles himself concocted a challenge for Cyril, he could not have come up with a stronger, more tempting enticement. Matthew’s ankles were Sirens, and they beckoned from the rocks of his ruination.
He could not resist. For years he had gazed upon these ankles and restrained himself. But now he knew he could do that no longer. His life would soon be over; dogs did not last all that long, and he wanted to do this before he passed beyond temptation. So, suddenly, and without giving Matthew any warning, Cyril moved forward and nipped Matthew’s right ankle; not too hard - he liked Matthew - but enough for Matthew to give a start and look down.
Cyril looked up, his jaws still loosely fixed around the ankle; he looked up into Matthew’s surprised eyes. This was the end; Cyril knew there would be shouting and he would be beaten with a rolled up copy of The Scotsman. He would be in disgrace, perhaps forever. This was truly the end.
Matthew stared at Cyril. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, to shout out in outrage even, but he did not. He looked down upon Cyril and then, reaching down, he gently pushed him away. He did not want Cyril to be punished. He said nothing.
Thus we forgive one another; thus reconciliation and healing begin.
99. A Civilised Menu
Domenica rose early that Saturday and dressed with care. She liked the idea of dressing with care, a notion she had come across in a Michael Longley poem addressed to Emily Dickinson, in which he described her as ‘dressing with care for the act of poetry’. She would dress with care for the social act that lay before her: the entertaining of her friends to dinner.
The choice of courses was an important one. Domenica was not an enthusiastic cook, in the sense that she did not derive a great deal of pleasure from cooking; but she was a good one. And the meal her guests would be given that evening would give them no cause for complaint. It would have an Italian flavour, of course; that was the cuisine with which she felt most comfortable and the one for which the ingredients were the most readily available in Valvona & Crolla.
And the guest list was chosen with equal care. There were several invitations that had to be repaid, and others that would be allocated purely on the basis of merit. James Holloway would come, of course; and Judith McClure and Roger Collins; an
d Michael and Mona Shea; and the Duke of Johannesburg; Pippa and Hugh Lockhart from round the corner; and Andrew and Susanna Kerr; and . . . She paused. She had noted down on a piece of paper the names of those who were invited and hoped that she had forgotten nobody; Angus, of course - no dinner party in Scotland Street would be complete without him; and Matthew and Elspeth. That would be enough; her table in the kitchen, when extended at each end with the addition of a bridge table, could seat up to sixteen in conditions of elbow proximity.
She had arranged to meet Angus in Valvona & Crolla that morning.
‘I shall help you to choose the wine,’ he had said. ‘Not that you can’t choose it yourself, it’s just that one can make so many mistakes when it comes to wine.’
She had accepted his offer. Wine was something Angus knew about, and she trusted his judgement. At Valvona & Crolla, though, when inspecting a range of obscure Puglian wines, Angus turned to her suddenly and said, ‘Domenica, why are we doing this? Why are we having all these people round to dinner?’
It might have been another occasion on which Mallory’s reply would have been called for: because they’re there, but she said instead: ‘Friendship.’
He had not expected that answer. ‘Just that?’
‘Yes. Because a dinner party provides the ideal opportunity to sit with people. To talk to them.’
‘You don’t think, then, that it’s simply a bourgeois ritual?’ Domenica smiled. ‘I might have thought that in the past,’ she said. ‘No more, though. I now realise, I think, how important these bourgeois rituals are. Or all rituals, for that matter, bourgeois or not.’ She reached out and took from him the bottle he had extracted from the shelf to show her. ‘Bari, I see. Do you know what you can find in Bari, Angus?’
Angus shrugged. He knew little of the Italian south, even if he liked its wines.
‘The bones of Father Christmas,’ said Domenica. ‘Santa Claus, no less, or Saint Nicholas of Myra, to give him his full title. He was the basis of the Santa Claus legend, and they keep his relics in a candy-striped box in the Church of San’ Nicolo in Bari.’
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