44 Scotland Street 4ss-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  as he had imagined. Ian Rankin had recognised the painting for what it was and was holding onto his bargain. And who could blame him for that?

  Pat took a step forward and leaned over the edge of the tub.

  “Mr Rankin, there’s a story behind the painting. It’s my fault that it ended up in that shop. I was looking after it and my flatmate took it by mistake and gave it as a raffle prize and then . . .”

  Ian Rankin stopped her. “So it’s still yours?”

  “Mine,” said Matthew. “I have a gallery. She was looking after it for me.”

  “What’s so special about it?” Ian Rankin asked. “Is it by somebody well known?”

  Matthew looked at Pat. For a moment she thought he was going to say something, but he did not. So the decision is mine, she thought. Do I have to tell him what I think, or can I remain silent?

  She closed her eyes; the sound of the whirlpool was quite loud now, and there was a seagull mewing somewhere. A child shouted out somewhere in a neighbouring garden. And for a moment, incon-sequentially, surprisingly, she thought of Bruce. He was smiling at her, enjoying her discomfort. Lie, he said. Don’t be a fool. Lie.

  “I think that it may be by Samuel Peploe,” she said. “It looks very like his work. We haven’t taken a proper opinion yet, but that’s what we think.”

  The corner of Matthew’s mouth turned down. She’s just destroyed our chances of getting it back, he thought. That’s it.

  Ian Rankin raised an eyebrow. “Peploe?”

  “Yes,” said Pat.

  “In which case,” said Ian Rankin, “it’s worth a bob or two.

  What would you say? It’s quite small, and so . . . forty thousand?

  If it were bigger, then . . . eighty?”

  “Exactly,” said Pat.

  Ian Rankin looked at Matthew. “Would you agree with that?”

  “I would,” said Matthew, adding glumly, “Not that I know much about it.”

  “But you’re the dealer?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew. “But there are dealers and dealers. I’m one of the latter.”

  But of Course

  235

  “I’m just going to have to think about this for a moment,”

  said Ian Rankin. “Give me a moment.”

  And with that he took a deep breath and disappeared under the surface of the water. There were bubbles all about his head and the water seemed to take on a new turbulence.

  Pat looked at Matthew. “I had to tell him,” she said. “I couldn’t lie. I just couldn’t.”

  “I know,” said Matthew. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to lie.”

  He wanted to say something else, but did not. He wanted to tell her that this was exactly what he liked about her, even admired

  – her self-evident honesty. And he wanted to add that he felt strongly for her, that he had come to appreciate her company, her presence, but he could not, because she was in love with somebody else – just as he had feared – and he did not expect, anyway, that she would want to hear this from him.

  Ian Rankin seemed to be under the water for some time, but at last his head emerged, dark hair plastered over his forehead, the keen, intelligent eyes seeming brighter than before.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” he said. “But of course you can have it back. Go inside and I’ll join you in a moment. I’ll get it for you.”

  Matthew began to thank him, but he brushed the thanks aside, as if embarrassed, and they made their way into the house.

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  An Invitation

  “I didn’t think he’d do that,” Matthew whispered. “Not after you said what it could be worth.”

  “He’s a good man,” said Pat. “You can tell.”

  Matthew knew that she was right. But it interested him nonetheless that a good man could write about the sort of things that he wrote about – murders, distress, human suffering: all the dark pathology of the human mind. What lay behind that? And if one thought of his readers – who were they? The previous year, on a trip to Rome, he had been waiting for a plane back to Edinburgh and had been queuing behind a group of young men.

  He had observed their clothing, their hair cuts, their demeanour, and had concluded – quite rightly as their conversation later revealed – that they were priests in training. They had about them that air that priests have – the otherworldliness, the fastidiousness of the celibate. Matthew judged from their accents that they were English, the vowels of somewhere north – Manchester perhaps.

  “Will you go straight home?” asked one.

  “Yes,” his friend replied. “Straight home. Back to ordinary parish liturgy.”

  The other looked at the book he was holding. “Is that any good?”

  “Ian Rankin. Very. I read everything he writes. I like a murder.”

  And then they had passed on to something else – a snippet of gossip about the English College and a monsignor. And Matthew had thought: Why would a priest like to read about murder?

  Because good is dull, and evil more exciting? But was it? Perhaps the reason the good like to contemplate the deeds of the bad is that the good realise how easy it is to behave as the bad behave; so easy, so much a matter of chance, of fate, of what the philosophers call moral luck. But of course.

  84. An Invitation

  Immensely relieved at the recovery of the Peploe?, Matthew and Pat returned to the gallery in a taxi, the painting safely tucked An Invitation

  237

  away in a large plastic bag provided by Ian Rankin. Matthew’s earlier mood of self-pity had lifted: there were no further references to failure and Pat noticed that there was a jauntiness in the way he went up the gallery steps to unlock the door.

  Perhaps the recovery of a possible forty thousand pounds meant more to Matthew than he was prepared to admit, even if the identity of the painting was still far from being established. In fact all they knew – as Pat reminded herself – was that she thought that it might be a Peploe, and who was she to express a view on such a matter? Her pass in Higher Art – admittedly with an A – hardly qualified her to make such pronouncements, and she was concerned at having raised everybody’s hopes prematurely.

  “It’s probably worthless,” she had said to Matthew in the taxi.

  “I don’t think Ian Rankin really believed that it was worth anything. That’s probably why he let us have it back.”

  Matthew was not convinced. “He gave it back because he thought it was the right thing to do. I could tell that he thought it was a Peploe too. I’m pretty sure you’re right.”

  “And what are we going to do with it now?” asked Pat. “I’m not sure if I should take it back to the flat again.”

  Matthew laughed. “That’s all right. I’ll take it back to my place.

  Or even to the old man’s place. He’s got a safe.” He paused.

  “Shall we have a celebration? What are you doing this evening?”

  Pat considered this for a moment. She had no plans for that evening, and there was every reason to celebrate, but she was not sure how Matthew would interpret an acceptance of his invitation. There had been a purpose behind his asking about her feelings for Bruce – she was convinced of that – and she did not want to encourage him. If he was falling for her, then that would be messy. He was her employer; he was some years her senior – almost thirty, was he not? – and there were was another major reason why it would not work. She felt nothing for him, or, rather, not very much. He was decent, he was kind; but there was no attraction beyond that. He would be perfect for somebody who wanted a reliable, undemanding boyfriend, for somebody in the crowd. Surely there must be a girl there who 238

  An Invitation

  would love Matthew to take an interest in her? They could go to the Dominion Cinema together and sit in the more expensive seats and then, on the way out, look at the kitchenware in the kitchenware shop on the corner of Morningside Road. Pat had seen young couples doing that – standing in front of that window and gazing at the st
ainless steel cafetières and the Le Creuset saucepans. What would it be like to stand there with somebody else – a man – and look at the pots and pans that seemed to be such potent symbols of future domestic bliss? What would it be like to stand there with Bruce . . .?

  With Bruce? She stopped herself. The thought had come into her mind unbidden, as delicious, tempting thoughts do. Bruce would be wearing his Aitken and Niven rugby sweater and his olive green mock-moleskin trousers, and he would have his hand against the small of her back, and they would be thinking of their kitchen . . . No! No!

  “Well?” said Matthew. “Are you doing anything tonight? I thought we could go to the Cumberland for a drink to celebrate.

  It’ll be on me.”

  Pat brought herself back from fantasy to reality. It would be churlish to refuse Matthew, and an outing to the Cumberland Bar would hardly be compromising. Plenty of people dropped in at the Cumberland with their workmates and nothing was read into the situation. It was not as if he was proposing an intimate diner à deux in the Café St Honoré.

  “And then we could and have dinner in the Café St Honoré,”

  Matthew said. “That is, if you’ve got nothing else on.”

  He looked at her, and she saw the anxiety in his eyes. But she could not accept; she could not.

  “Let’s just go for a drink,” she said. “I have to . . .” What lie could she come up with to put him off? Or could she tell the truth?

  “I want to see Bruce later on,” she said. And as she spoke she realised that she had told the truth. She did want to see Bruce; she wanted to be with him again; it was physical, like a nagging pain in the pit of her stomach. And it alarmed her, for what he wanted was not what she wanted.

  In the Cumberland Bar

  239

  Matthew lowered his eyes. He’s disappointed, she thought; and it would have been so easy for me to have dinner with him and make him happy, and now I have disappointed him.

  “What about your crowd?” she asked brightly. “Will they be there?”

  Matthew shrugged. “They may be. Maybe not. One’s going off to London for a few days this week – he may already have gone. And another has a heavy cold. So if the crowd turns up there won’t be many of them.”

  He looked at her again, and she wondered what he was thinking. She had not lied to him, and so she could look back at him, meeting his gaze with all the satisfaction of one who has told the truth. She did want to see Bruce.

  “Why are you so keen on him?” Matthew asked. “I thought

  – from something you said some time ago – that he got on your nerves. Isn’t he vain? Didn’t you say something about that?”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “Yes, he’s vain.”

  Matthew looked impatient, as if there was something that was not being explained to him clearly enough. “How can you like him if he’s vain?” he asked. “Doesn’t that turn you off?”

  Pat smiled. “It should,” she said. “Yes, it should. But it doesn’t, you know.”

  “Very peculiar,” said Matthew. “Very peculiar.”

  Pat said nothing. She did not disagree.

  Sexual attraction, thought Matthew. The dark, anarchic force.

  More powerful than anything else. Always there. Working away, but not for me.

  85. In the Cumberland Bar

  Carrying the discreetly-wrapped Peploe? under his arm, Matthew escorted Pat to the Cumberland Bar for their celebratory drink. Any disappointment he had felt at the turning down of his invitation to dinner was, if still felt, well concealed. Matthew 240

  In the Cumberland Bar

  was used to being turned down by women, and had come to expect it. He was not sure why he should be so unlucky, but had a suspicion that it was something to do with his eyes. He knew that they had strange grey flecks in them and he feared that there was something about that which disturbed women – some primeval signal that warned them off men with grey-flecked eyes.

  He had noticed women looking into his eyes and then frowning; indeed, he had seen Pat do that when they had had that conversation on the way to their encounter with Ian Rankin.

  It was very unfair. There was Pat, who was attractive in every sense, throwing herself away on that vain flatmate of hers, who presumably had an insufferable conceit of himself. And there he was, Matthew, who only wanted to give Pat some fun and take her to dinner at the Café St Honoré and spoil her. Bruce would treat her badly – that was obvious – and she would be horribly upset. He would treat her well and maybe, just maybe, there would be some future in it for both of them. There would be no future with Bruce.

  He almost wanted to tell her, to warn her, but it would seem odd to speak like that, like an older brother, or even a parent.

  And so he was silent, at least on that subject, and she spoke no more of it either.

  The Cumberland Bar, when they reached it, was already filling with early-evening drinkers.

  “Busy,” said Matthew, scanning the heads for signs of the crowd. None of them was there, which rather pleased him. He wanted to be with Pat, and the presence of members of the crowd could distract her attention.

  They found a couple of seats together and Matthew went to the bar to buy Pat the glass of Chardonnay she had requested.

  Then, glasses in hand, he made his way back to their table and sat down beside her.

  “Do you know many of these people?” asked Pat, looking at the crush of figures that was forming around the bar.

  “A few,” said Matthew, raising his glass of Guinness in a toast.

  “Here’s to you. Thanks for getting the picture back.”

  “To Ian Rankin,” Pat replied. “What a nice man.”

  In the Cumberland Bar

  241

  “A real softie,” said Matthew.

  Pat was not sure what to make of this. Did Matthew consider him a softie because he had given the painting back? That was nothing to do with being a softie. That was to do with principles.

  For a few moments she felt irritated. Who was Matthew to call anybody a softie, when he so obviously was the softie? No, Ian Rankin was no softie, what with his designer stubble and the black tee-shirts.

  She decided not to say anything about this. “And now what?”

  she said. “What do we do about that painting? Shouldn’t we get an opinion on it now?”

  Matthew agreed with her. He was not sure, though, who they would get to do this. That would require some thought because he did not like the idea of being humiliated by some condescending art expert. He had already secretly imagined the scene in which the expert, looking down his nose, would sneer at him. “Peploe? You must be joking! What on earth makes you think this is a Peploe?”

  She was waiting for Matthew’s reply when she looked up to see a familiar figure coming towards her. For a moment she had difficulty placing him, but then she remembered: Angus Lordie, the man she had talked to at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery after the lecture. He had come into the bar, looked around him, and seen her at the table. She noticed, too, that it was not just him, but his dog as well – a black collie with a lop-sided ear and sharp eyes.

  Angus Lordie had entered the Cumberland Bar in low spirits, but seeing Pat he broke into a wide smile.

  “My dear!” he exclaimed, as he approached their table. “Such a perfect setting for you! Even a bar in the St Germain could do no more justice than this simple establishment! And at your side, your young gallant . . .”

  “This is Matthew,” said Pat quickly. “I work with him at his gallery.”

  Angus Lordie nodded in Matthew’s direction and extended a hand. “I would normally not shake hands with a dealer, sir,” he said with a smile. “But in your case, I am happy to do so. Angus Lordie.”

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  In the Cumberland Bar

  Matthew rose from his seat and shook the outstretched hand.

  Pat noticed that he did not seem to be very enthusiastic, and for a moment she felt pity for him. Their private celeb
ration, it would seem, was over.

  “And now,” said Angus Lordie, handing his dog’s lead to Pat,

  “if you wouldn’t mind holding Cyril for a moment, I’ll go and get myself a drink.”

  Pat took the end of the lead and tugged gently to bring Cyril towards the table. The dog looked at her for a moment and then, to her astonishment, gave her a wink. Then he took a few steps forward and sat down next to her chair, turning to look up at her as he did so. Again he winked, and then bared his teeth in what looked like a smile. Pat noticed the glint of the gold tooth which Domenica had mentioned at the reception.

  Pat leant over towards Matthew. “This is a very strange dog,”

  she said. “Do you see his gold tooth?’

  Matthew looked down into his Guinness. “I had hoped that we would be able to have a celebration. Just you and me. Now it looks as if . . .”

  Pat reached out and touched him gently on the forearm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t ask him to join us.”

  “Well, now we’re stuck,” said Matthew sulkily. “And that dog smells.”

  Pat sniffed. There was a slight smell, she had to admit, but it was not entirely unpleasant – rather like strong mushrooms.

  Angus Lordie returned now, a glass of whisky in one hand and a half-pint glass of darkish beer in the other. He put the whisky down on the table and then set the glass of beer on the floor next to the dog.

  “Cyril drinks,” he explained. “It’s his only bad habit. That, and chasing after lady dogs, which is more of a call of nature than a bad habit. Here we are, Cyril – make it last.”

  Pat and Matthew watched in astonishment as Cyril took a few sips of beer and then looked up and gave Pat a further wink.

  “Your dog keeps winking at me,” said Pat.

  On the Subject of Dogs

  243

  “Yes,” said Angus Lordie, pulling a chair across from a neighbouring table. “Mind if I join you? Thanks so much. Yes, Cyril has an eye for the ladies, don’t you, Cyril?”

  86. On the Subject of Dogs

  “On the subject of dogs,” said Angus Lordie, taking a sip of his whisky, “I’ve just discovered the most marvellous book. I came across it quite by chance – The Difficulty of Being a Dog. It’s by a French writer, Roger Grenier, who was a publisher apparently. He knew everybody – Camus, Sartre, Yourcenar – all of them, and he had a wonderful dog called Ulysse. The French title was Les Larmes d’Ulysse, The Tears of Ulysses, which was rather better, in my view, than the one they used in English. But there we are. You don’t know it, by any chance?”