44 Scotland Street 4ss-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  I can’t imagine him doing an eightsome. The old boy would probably drop down stone dead. Then there’d only be five of us.”

  “There are other dances,” said Sasha quickly. “A Gay Tories, for example, I mean a Gay Gordons! You only need two for that.

  And there’s the Dashing White Sergeant. That needs three for each set, so there could be two sets.”

  Todd thought for a moment. “But don’t you go in opposite directions with the Dashing White Sergeant, and then meet up? If three of us went off in one direction and three in another

  – always assuming that Ramsey Dunbarton is up to it – then we would only meet once we’ve danced round the whole room. The band would have to adapt. They’d have to play on and on until we got all the way round the room and met up on the other side.

  Wouldn’t that be a bit odd?”

  “Some of these bands are rather good,” said Sasha.

  49. Tombola Gifts

  Todd left Sasha in the house while he went off to play golf. His golf partner had declined to buy a ticket for the ball, and Todd intended to reproach him for this, although he knew that there was no possibility of his relenting. He was reconciled now to the idea of a ball of six, which was, in his view, quorate. Even two would have been enough; had he and Sasha been the only people there, they would have persisted and danced in the face of adversity. That was the only way in politics. A ball with six people one year could be a ball with sixty the next year, and then six hundred the year after that. Political fortunes shifted, and 126

  Tombola Gifts

  it was no good throwing in the towel because of temporary set-backs. The Scottish Conservative Party would rise again and be the great force that it once had been in the affairs of the nation; it was only a question of time. And then people would be clamouring for tickets to the South Edinburgh Conservative Ball and he, Todd, would take great pleasure in turning them away.

  After her husband had left for the Luffness Golf Club (Gullane, but not Muirfield), Sasha made her way into the dining room, where the prizes for the tombola were laid out on and around the large, four-leaf table. The members of the local party association had been generous, even if they had declined to attend the ball, and there were at least forty prizes waiting to be listed.

  Sasha sat down at the head of the table and began to compile a catalogue and assign a number to each prize. These numbers would then be put into a hat, and those at the ball – and those alone – would then be permitted to buy the tickets.

  She dealt first with the items on the table. There was a Thomas Pink shirt, in candy stripes, with a collar size of nineteen and a half.

  Now this was a fine shirt, well-made and with double cuffs, but the collar size was rather large. Todd took size seventeen, and even that was sometimes a bit large for him; he was a big man and presumably this shirt would fit an extremely well-built man. Was there anybody in the Conservative Party quite that large? There was Mr Soames, of course, but he was probably the sort of man who had enough shirts already. So this might not be the most useful of prizes.

  She assigned the shirt a number and turned to the next prize.

  This was a set of six fish knives and forks, made by Hamilton and Inches, and a very handsome prize for somebody. This would be popular at a Conservative function, but would be useless at a Labour Party event. They had no idea, she believed, of the use MALCOLM RIFKIND & LORD JAMES: Sir Malcolm Rifkind (born 1946) is a prominent Conservative politician, living in Edinburgh, who served as Foreign Secretary in the government of Margaret Thatcher, later to become Secretary of State for Scotland. Lord James Douglas-Hamilton, after serving in the same government as a Member of Parliament at Westminster, is now a member of the devolved Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh.

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  of fish knives and forks and used the same cutlery for everything.

  That was part of the problem. The Liberal Democrats, of course, knew what fish knives and forks were all about, but pretended they didn’t care! Liberal Hypocrites, thought Sasha.

  There were many other fine prizes. A digital radio, still in its box; a round of golf at the Merchants Golf Course; a large caddy of Old Edinburgh Tea from Jenners; and, now, what was this? –

  yes, the finest prize of all: lunch with Malcolm Rifkind and Lord James at the Balmoral Hotel! That was a splendid prize and it occurred to Sasha that she would dearly love to win that herself.

  This thought made her abandon her task of cataloguing for a few minutes and ponder the implications of this tombola. If there were forty prizes and there were only going to be six people at the ball, then that meant that each person would get at least six prizes. That assumed, of course, that each person bought an equal number of tickets (which would be limited to forty in all). If that happened, then everybody present at the ball would do rather well, and would certainly win prizes which very much exceeded in value the cost of the ticket.

  In these circumstances, Sasha reasoned, it would be per-missible, perhaps, for the organiser – herself – to ensure that sensitive prizes were won by the right people. Now that would mean that the round of golf should not go to Ramsey Dunbarton, 128

  Bruce Prepares for the Ball

  who was pretty unsteady on his legs and who could hardly be expected to play. So that, perhaps, could be directed towards Bruce, as a reward for agreeing to accompany Lizzie. Or perhaps, even more appropriately, he could win the dinner for two at Prestonfield House and take Lizzie with him, to give them a chance to get to know one another a bit better. That would be very satisfactory, and indeed the fairest outcome. The Ramsey Dunbartons could win the tea, which would suit them far better.

  That left the lunch with Malcolm Rifkind and Lord James. In Sasha’s view, the best possible person to win that would be herself.

  This was not because she was selfish, and wanted the glamorous prize, but because she wanted to protect the two generous donors from having to put up with Ramsey Dunbarton. It would be too much for them; they simply shouldn’t have to face it. And for this reason – the best of all possible reasons – Sasha decided that she would have to ensure that she won this prize herself.

  50. Bruce Prepares for the Ball

  When Bruce received Sasha’s call that morning – to invite him to pre-ball drinks at the house – he was about to leave 44 Scotland Street to buy himself a new dress shirt. His previous one, which had been a bargain, had washed badly, and looked grey, even under artificial light.

  “There isn’t going to be a big crowd there,” said Sasha, “but the Braid Hills Hotel does a very good dinner, and I hear that the band is excellent.”

  “How many are coming?” asked Bruce.

  There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “Not many. Probably fewer than fifty.”

  Bruce was polite. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. And I don’t like those really big affairs. You can’t hear what you’re saying to anybody.”

  “We’ll have a lot of fun,” said Sasha.

  He doubted that – at least for himself – but did not say Bruce Prepares for the Ball

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  anything. With any luck, he thought, he might be able to get away shortly after twelve – Conservatives probably went to bed early – or at least Bruce’s parents, both members of the Crieff Conservative Association, tended to retire by ten. So if it all came to an end in reasonable time, he would be able to get to a club and see what was going on there.

  “One thing,” said Sasha, before she rang off. “We’re having a tombola. We’ve been given a lot of good prizes, but if you can bring a little something along to add to it, please do.”

  “I’ll try,” said Bruce.

  He left the flat, feeling slightly restless. He found his life rather unsatisfactory at the moment. He had finished all the institute examinations, and so he was free of that particular burden, but it seemed as if nothing much else was happening.

  Part of the trouble was the absence of a girlfriend. I need s
omebody to hang about with, he thought. I need company.

  There was that girl in the flat, of course – Pat – but he found her a bit irritating. She seemed cool, indifferent even, although he suspected that this was a bit of an act. She’s probably pretty interested in me, he thought. She probably wants me to take notice of her, but the poor girl’s got a long wait ahead of her.

  Far too young, too unsophisticated. Pretty green. As he walked up to George Street, he glanced at his reflection in the occasional shop window. What a waste, he muttered. There I am looking like that, and no girlfriend. What a waste.

  The shirt purchased, he returned to Scotland Street and spent the afternoon on his bed, watching videos of classic rugby matches. There was Scotland against Ireland at Murrayfield of a few years previously – a great Scottish victory, with a fine try from a player whom Bruce had known at Morrison’s Academy.

  Then there was the Springboks playing Fiji, a terrific game in which four players were taken off to hospital in the first half!

  And Scotland meeting France in Paris, when France scored seventy points and Scotland scored three. That was not such a good game, Bruce thought, and he turned it off at half-time.

  At five o’clock he went into the bathroom, ran a hot bath, and after a few moments in front of the full-length mirror, 130

  Velvety Shoes

  immersed himself in the deep, soapy water. He felt more cheerful now. That Todd girl would cramp his style, no doubt, but there might be other girls to dance with there; he wouldn’t be stuck with her all night. And one of these other girls might be just right for him. There were stranger places to meet women than at a Conservative Ball. Such as . . . He wondered about that. Where was the most unlikely place to meet somebody? A dentist’s surgery? Warriston Crematorium?

  Bruce dressed himself with care. Gel was applied to the hair and cologne to exposed flesh. Then there was a quick inspection.

  Perfect. Great.

  He left his room and went out into the hall. It was at that point that he remembered Sasha’s request for a contribution to the tombola. This was irritating, but perhaps there would be some bric-à-brac in the cupboard. So he opened the door and looked inside. There were things which had been left there over the years by a succession of tenants. There might be something.

  He found the parcel, and opened it. He held the painting up to examine it under the light. He did not like it. The colours were too bright and there was not enough detail. This was the problem with amateurs – they couldn’t draw properly. You had to scratch your head to find out what they were trying to portray.

  Bruce liked Vettriano. He knew how to draw. Still, this would do for the tombola. It was obviously the work of somebody’s aunt, long forgotten and abandoned in this cupboard. But at least he would not arrive empty-handed. So he slipped it back into its wrapping, picked up his coat, and left for the Todd house in the Braids, the painting under his arm.

  51. Velvety Shoes

  Groaning inwardly, Lizzie Todd walked up the short path that led to the front door of her parents’ house in the Braids. She Velvety Shoes

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  had grown up in this house, but she felt little of the affection that one was supposed to feel for the place in which one spends one’s early years. Indeed, when she had left home to go to Glasgow Caledonian University to take her degree in Indeterminate Studies, she had done so with such a measure of relief that it was visible.

  “Do you think she’ll miss us?” Todd had said to his wife shortly after her departure. “She looked so happy. It was almost as if she was pleased to go.”

  Sasha sighed. “She’s a strange girl. I’m not sure if I understand her, but I’m sure she’ll miss us.”

  Todd had been silent. He had wanted a son, who would play rugby for Watson’s and who would in due course join the firm.

  But life rarely worked out as one planned it and when no further children had arrived he had accepted his lot, to be the father of a daughter who seemed each year to become more distant from him, and increasingly uninterested in his world. He looked to his wife for an explanation, and a solution, but it seemed that she was as incapable as he was of communicating with their daughter. It crossed his mind that it was dislike – as simple as that – a failure of the intricate, inexplicable chemistry that makes one person like or love another. But that was a bleak conclusion, and was only once, very briefly, articulated when Todd had said to the then sixteen-year-old Lizzie: “I suppose you’d like me more, wouldn’t you, if I were Sean Connery?”

  And she had looked at him blankly, perplexed, and had said: “But you aren’t,” before she added: “And I suppose you’d like me more if I were Gavin Hastings.” It had not been a profitable exchange.

  Years on now, Lizzie slipped her key into the lock and opened the parental door. She sniffed at the air. This was the familiar smell of home, but not a smell that she particularly liked. Her mother’s cleaner used a lavender-scented furniture polish and the smell of this pervaded the house. It had always been there, from the earliest days of Lizzie’s childhood, and it had ruined lavender for her, forever.

  From within the house there came the sound of a bath being

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  Velvety Shoes

  run. Todd was late back from the golf course and needed a bath before changing into his kilt. Sasha, by contrast, was always ready well in advance, and was making her way down the corridor, fully dressed, when she heard Lizzie come in. When the two of them met in the hall, Sasha glanced quickly at Lizzie’s dress.

  Had she made an effort? That was the issue. It would be typical of her to agree to come to the ball and then do nothing about looking her best for the occasion.

  The verdict was positive. “That’s a very pretty dress, dear,”

  said Sasha. “And those shoes . . .”

  They were standing at the entrance to the drawing room and Lizzie now turned away and walked towards the window that looked out over the distant rooftops of Morningside.

  “They hurt my feet,” she said. “I’m going to have to take something else with me.”

  “I can lend you a pair,” Sasha said brightly. “I bought them just a few weeks ago. They’d go very nicely with that dress.”

  She went off to fetch the shoes, while Lizzie stared moodily out of the window.

  “Here,” said Sasha, holding out the shoes. “Slip into these.

  They’ll be much more comfortable.”

  Lizzie looked at the pair of velvety, bejewelled shoes which Velvety Shoes

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  Sasha was holding out to her. There was a slight movement of her nose, almost undetectable, but insofar as it could be detected, upward.

  “Where did you buy those?” she asked. And then, before Sasha could reply, Lizzie continued, “I saw a pair just like that in Marks and Spencers the other day. Did you get them at Marks?”

  Sasha froze. “Marks? Marks?” Her voice wavered, but then became steely. “Certainly not. I got these from a shoe boutique in William Street. If you care to look at the label, you’ll see exactly where they’re from.”

  Lizzie reached out and took the shoes from her mother.

  She looked inside and shrugged when she saw the boutique’s label.

  “Not really the sort of shoe I like to wear,” she said. “Of course, they might suit you. In fact, I’m sure they do. Don’t get me wrong.”

  “I’d never force you to wear my shoes,” Sasha retorted.

  Lizzie smiled. “Just as well,” she said. “I’m a six and you’re, what are you – size eight?”

  Sasha did not reply. In one sense she was an eight, but she could fit perfectly well into a six-and-a-half, provided she did not have to walk. But she was not going to be drawn into a discussion with Lizzie about shoe sizes. It was typical of her daughter, she thought, just typical, that she should walk into the house on a day like this, a special day when they should all be getting ready to enjoy themselves, and start an argument about shoe sizes. It was all so unde
rmining of her, and so unfair. She had never criticised her daughter’s dress sense, in spite of obvious temptations, and yet all she could do was reject every attempt that she made to help and advise her. Lizzie was beyond pleasing, she concluded, and this meant, she thought grimly, that she would never find a man, as no man was perfect; far from it, in fact –

  just look at Raeburn.

  52. Silk Organza

  Todd glanced at his watch. Bruce might arrive at any moment, but there was time for a whisky before that. He had picked up some of Sasha’s anxiety over the evening, which was inevitable, he supposed, in view of the fact that they were the organisers; a whisky would reassure him. He poured himself a small glass of Macallan and wandered into the drawing room where Lizzie was standing by the window.

  “I’m very grateful to you,” he said quietly. “I know that you don’t always enjoy these things. But it means a lot to your mother that you’re coming tonight. So thank you.”

  Lizzie continued to look out of the window. “I don’t mind,”

  she muttered. “I didn’t have anything else on.”

  “Even so,” said Todd. “It’s good of you.”

  He heard a door close behind him and he turned round to see Sasha coming into the room, holding a plate of sliced brown bread and smoked salmon. She put the plate down on a table and came to his side.

  “You look so good in your kilt,” she said, turning to Lizzie.

  “Your father does look good in it, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Lizzie, without any great enthusiasm.

  Todd shot her a glance. He did not mind if she was lukewarm about what he was wearing, but it would be nice, would it not, if for once she complimented her mother.

  “And your mother looks good too, doesn’t she?” he said. “With that magnificent dress. And the shoes.”

  Lizzie looked Sasha up and down. “Silk organza. Fish-tail hem, I see,” she said.

  “Fish what?” asked Todd.

  “Fish-tail hem,” repeated Lizzie, pointing at Sasha’s dress.

  “You’ll see that it’s higher in the front – shows her knees – and then goes down at the back like a fish tail. Very popular among the twenty-somethings.”