44 Scotland Street 4ss-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  I’ve got my penknife.”

  Bertie was astonished: he had never been allowed a knife, but now Jock took a bulky Swiss Army penknife out of his pocket and showed it in the palm of his hand. “See,” said Jock. “See that.”

  Bertie gazed at the knife. There were numerous blades and devices on the knife; one could do anything with an implement like that.

  “Here,” said Jock, prising out a blade. “I’ll cut myself first, if you like. You have to do it here, in this bit of skin between the thumb and this finger. Then you squeeze the blood out into the palm of your hand and you shake hands with your friend. That’s how it works.”

  Bertie watched in fascination as Jock held the gleaming blade above the taut skin, and drew in his breath sharply as his new friend made a small incision. Small droplets of blood welled up, and were quickly smeared by Jock across his palm.

  “Now your turn,” said Jock, wiping the blade on the leg of his jeans.

  Bertie held out his right hand, the forefinger pulled back from the thumb, revealing the waiting stretch of skin. Jock steadied the blade and looked at Bertie.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “Do you want to close your eyes?”

  “No,” said Bertie. “I don’t mind. It won’t hurt, will it?”

  “No,” said Jock. “It won’t hurt.”

  And at that moment the door opened and Irene came out. For a moment she stood quite still, slow to absorb the extraordinary sight before her. Then she screamed, and rushed forward to snatch the knife from Jock’s hand.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she shouted.

  Bertie looked down at the floor. He struggled against the tears, but in vain; he did not want Jock – brave Jock – to see him cry.

  He had longed for a friend like Jock, and now he was being taken Lunch at the Café St Honoré

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  away from him, snatched away by his mother. It had been so close, that ceremony of blood brotherhood, and it would have made all the difference to have had a blood brother. But it was not to be.

  Bertie felt a great sense of loss.

  106. Lunch at the Café St Honoré

  Sasha had been shopping in George Street. She had spent more than she intended – over two hundred pounds, when one totted it up – but she reminded herself that money was no longer an object. A few days earlier, she had received a letter from a firm of solicitors to the effect that the residue of her aunt’s estate, which had been left to her, amounted to over four hundred and eighty thousand pounds. When she had been first told that she was the residuary beneficiary, Todd had explained that the residue was what was left after everybody else had taken their share.

  “It’s unlikely to be more than a couple of hundred pounds,”

  he had said. “The legacies are bound to swallow most of it up, not that the old trout had very much, I suspect.”

  The old trout, however, had been as astute an investor as her legacies had been mean. Five hundred pounds had been left to the Church of Scotland. Twenty-five pounds had been left to the Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; a further twenty-five pounds to the Ghurka Trust, and ten pounds to St George’s School for Girls. The residue was to go to Sasha, and now that the estate had been ingathered by Messrs Turcan Connell it amounted to almost half a million pounds after the payment of duty.

  It had taken some time for Sasha to accustom herself to the fact that she now had a considerable amount of money at her disposal.

  They had been comfortable enough before on Todd’s drawings on the partnership of Macaulay Holmes Richardson Black, but having these uncommitted hundreds of thousands of pounds was material wealth on a scale which Sasha had previously not experienced. She 310

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  was not a spendthrift, though, and this minor shopping spree in George Street had made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. If she spent two hundred pounds a day, every day, she wondered, how long would it take her to get through her fortune? About eight years, she calculated, allowing for the accumulation of interest.

  She thought for a moment of what eight years of profligacy might be like. She could buy a new pair of shoes every day, and have at the end of that eight-year period more than two thousand pairs of shoes. But what could one do with such a mountain of shoes? This was the problem; there was a limit to what one could do with money. And yet here I am, she thought, feeling guilty about spending two hundred pounds.

  She was thinking of this when she wandered into Ottakars Bookshop. Sasha was not a particularly keen reader, but she belonged to a book group that met every other month and she needed to buy the choice for their next meeting: Ronald Frame.

  At their last meeting they had discussed a novel by Ian Rankin, and one or two of the members had been slightly frightened.

  Sasha had been able to reassure them, though: nothing to worry about, she had said. Very well written, but nothing like that ever happens in Edinburgh. Or at least not in the Braids.

  She moved to the Frame section in Ottakars. There was The Lantern Bearers, and there was Time in Carnbeg, the book group’s choice. She picked it up and looked for a picture of the author. Sasha liked to know what the author looked like when she read a book. She did not like the look of Somerset Maugham, and had not read him for that reason. And she did not like the look of some of the younger woman novelists, who did nothing, it would seem, with their hair. If they do nothing with their hair, then will they do much more with their prose? she asked herself. And answered the question by avoiding these writers altogether. Such frumps. And always going on about how awful things were. Well, they weren’t awful – and certainly not if one had four hundred and eighty thousand pounds (minus two hundred).

  It was while she was examining the Carnbeg book for a picture of Ronald Frame that she became aware of another customer Lunch at the Café St Honoré

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  standing on her right, examining a shelf of wine books. And a further glance revealed that it was Bruce, the young man from the firm who had come to the Edinburgh South Conservative Association Ball at the Braid Hills Hotel. She had liked him even before the ball and his courteous behaviour on that evening – he had been extremely polite to Ramsey Dunbarton when he was going on about having been the Duke of Plaza-Toro in some dreadful operetta back in the year dot – had endeared him further to her. And he was terribly good-looking too, bearing in mind that he came from somewhere like Dunfermline, or was it Crieff?

  She moved towards him and he looked up from the wine atlas he had been studying.

  “Mrs Todd!”

  “Please, not Mrs Todd,” she said. “Please – Sasha.”

  Bruce smiled. “Sasha.”

  “You’re looking at wine books,” she said, peering at the atlas.

  “I wish I knew more about wine. Raeburn is quite informed, but I’m not.”

  Bruce smirked. Raeburn Todd would know nothing about wine, in his view. He would drink – what would he drink? Chardonnay!

  “I find the subject very interesting,” said Bruce. “And this atlas looks really useful. Look at this map. All the estates are listed in this tiny section of river bank. Amazing. Pity about the price, though. It’s really expensive.”

  Sasha took the wine atlas from him and glanced at the back cover. Eighty-five pounds did seem like a lot of money for a book, but then the thought crossed her mind. Eighty-five pounds was not a great deal of money if you had over four hundred thousand pounds.

  “Let me get it for you as a present,” she said suddenly. And then she added: “And then let me take you for lunch at the Café St Honoré. Do you know it? It’s just round the corner.”

  “But I couldn’t,” protested Bruce. “I couldn’t let you.”

  “Please,’ she said. “Let me do this. I’ve just had wonderful good fortune and I want to share it. Please let me do this – just this once.”

  Bruce hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Women 312

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/>   were always doing this sort of thing for him. They couldn’t help themselves.

  “All right,” he said. “But at least let me buy us a bottle of wine at the restaurant. What do you like?”

  “Chardonnay,” said Sasha.

  107. Confidences

  They sat at a table for two, near the window. Bruce, who had completed a survey earlier than he had expected, was pleased to spend the few hours that he had in hand having lunch, and if this was in the company of an attractive woman (even if slightly blowsy) and at her expense, then all the better. The survey in question had been a singularly unpleasant chore – looking around a poky flat off Easter Road. The flat had been modernised by a developer in shim-sham style, with chip-board cupboards and glossy wallpaper. Bruce had shuddered, and had written in a low valuation, which would limit the price which the developer got for the property. Now, in the considerably more pleasing surroundings of the Café St Honoré one might almost be in Paris, and he sat back and perused the menu with interest.

  “I’m rather glad I bumped into you,” said Sasha, fingering the gold bracelet on her wrist. “I had been wanting to talk to you.”

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I enjoyed the ball,” he said. “Even if there were very few people there. More like a private party.

  Good fun.”

  Sasha smiled. “You were very good to poor old Ramsey Dunbarton,” she said. “It can’t have been much fun for you, listening to him going on about being the Duke of Plaza-Toro.”

  Bruce smiled. One could afford to be generous about the boring when people found one so fascinating. “It meant a lot to him, I suppose,” he said. “Who was the Duke of Plaza-Toro anyway? Was he in the Tory Party?”

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  Sasha laughed. “Very droll,” she said. “Now listen, did you talk to my daughter at all?”

  “I did,” said Bruce. “We got on rather well.”

  Sasha frowned. “That surprises me,” she said. “She’s been so contrary recently.”

  “I didn’t notice that,” said Bruce.

  “Well, quite frankly, she worries me,” Sasha went on. “And I wondered if you had any suggestions. You’re in her age group.

  You might see something I’m missing.”

  Bruce scrutinised the menu. He was not sure whether he liked this line of conversation.

  “Let me give you an example,” Sasha went on. “At the ball, Lizzie won dinner for two at the Prestonfield Hotel. Now any normal girl would ask a friend along to join her. Lizzie didn’t do that. No, she telephoned the hotel and asked them whether instead of a dinner for two she could have two separate dinners for one. Can you believe that?”

  Bruce thought for a moment. “Perhaps she wasn’t in the mood for company,” he said. “We all feel like that sometimes.”

  “But that’s how she seems to feel all the time,” said Sasha, showing some exasperation. “She seems to make no effort to get friends. Or a decent job, for that matter.”

  “People are different,” said Bruce. “She’s not into drugs, I take it? She’s not running around with a Hell’s Angel, is she?

  Well then, what have you got to complain about? What do you want her to do anyway?”

  “I want her to find a circle of friends,” said Sasha. “Nice young people. I want her to have a good time. Maybe get a boyfriend. An outgoing type, who’d take her places. Give her some fun.”

  Bruce looked down at the table and moved his fork slightly, to make it parallel with his knife, as an obsessive-compulsive might do. She means somebody like me, he thought. Well, if the point about all this is to see whether I’m available, the answer will have to be no. There are limits to what one should do in the line of duty.

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  “She’ll meet somebody,” he said airily. “Give her the space.

  Let her get on with it.”

  “But she does nothing,” said Sasha. “How can she meet somebody suitable if she won’t go out with people? She needs to get into a group. You wouldn’t be able to introduce her . . .”

  Bruce did not allow her to finish her sentence. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very much involved with an American girl at the moment.

  I’m not really socialising in a crowd. I used to. But not now.”

  For a few moments the disappointment registered on Sasha’s face, but she quickly recovered her composure. “Of course,” she said. “I hadn’t intended to ask you. I just wondered if you knew of anybody she might get to know. Parties, perhaps. That sort of thing.”

  “Sorry,” said Bruce.

  “Well, let’s not think about it any more. I’m sure you’re right.

  She’ll sort herself out. Now, what are you going to have?

  Remember this is on me!”

  They ordered their lunch, and a bottle of Chardonnay. They talked, easily, and in a friendly way. Sasha told a most amusing story about a scandal at her tennis club, and Bruce passed on a piece of office gossip which Todd had not mentioned to her –

  something about one of the secretaries. Then they talked about plans for the summer.

  “Raeburn was thinking of going to Portugal,” said Sasha. “We have friends with a villa there. It has a tennis court too.”

  “I like tennis,” said Bruce. “I used to play a lot.”

  “I bet you were a strong player,” said Sasha. She pictured him for a moment in tennis whites. His arms would be strong; his service hard to return.

  “Moderately,” said Bruce. “I need to work on my backhand.”

  “Don’t we all!” said Sasha. “But look at your wrists. They’re ideal for tennis. Look.”

  She reached out and took hold of his wrist playfully. “Yes,”

  she said. “A real tennis player’s wrist. You should keep up your game.”

  It was at that point that Todd came in. He had arranged to meet a colleague from another firm for lunch, to discuss,

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  very tentatively, a possible merger. He did not see this colleague, who was late, but he did see his wife, sitting at a table in the window, holding hands with that young man from the office.

  For a moment he did not move. Bruce looked up, and saw him, and pulled his wrist away from Sasha’s grasp. She looked round in astonishment and saw Todd, who was beckoning to Bruce.

  Bruce stood up, shocked. ‘I’ll explain to him,” he mumbled.

  Todd stared at Bruce as he came towards him. Very slowly, he lifted a hand and pointed directly at Bruce.

  “You’re history,” he said quietly. “You’re history.”

  “It’s not what you think,” said Bruce. “We were talking about tennis.”

  Todd did not seem to hear this. “You have an hour to clear your desk,” hissed Todd. “You hear me? An hour.”

  “You can’t dismiss people like that,” said Bruce, his voice faltering. “Not these days.”

  “You listen to me,” said Todd. “Some time ago you did a survey of a flat and said that you had looked into the roof space.

  Well, I went and checked – and you hadn’t. You lied. I’ve been keeping that up my sleeve. You’re history.”

  Bruce stood quite still. It was a strange feeling, being history.

  108. Action Is Taken

  One of Matthew’s problems, thought Pat, was that he seemed unwilling to make decisions. The way he had behaved over the Peploe? – now the non-Peploe – was an example of his chronic lack of decisiveness. Had it not been for the fact that Big Lou had met Guy Peploe, with the result that Matthew had been pushed into action, it was doubtful whether they would have identified the painting as being by somebody other than Peploe.

  Nor would they have discovered that it was probably an overpainting. That had been established by Guy Peploe himself, who had spotted the shape of an umbrella above a mountain.

  Now that some progress had been made with the painting, the matter should be taken further. If it was indeed an overpain
ting, then what lay underneath could be of some interest

  – although still probably no more than the work of some gauche amateur. Pat had asked Matthew whether he was planning to do anything about it, but he had simply shrugged.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I can’t think of who would paint an umbrella.”

  “A French impressionist?” suggested Pat. “They were always painting people with umbrellas. There’s that famous one in the Art Institute of Chicago. I saw it when we went there with the Academy Art Department. They were very good, you know, the art people at the Academy. Mrs Hope. Mr Ellis. Remember them?

  They took us to all sorts of places. They were inspirational. That’s where I learned to love art.”

  She saw Matthew shift in his seat as she spoke. There was something funny about Matthew. He had got up to something at school – she was sure of it. But what? So many people had their secrets – secrets that we are destined never to find out.

  People had a past – she had Australia, but the least said about that the better. It was not her fault – she had never thought that

  – except for one or two people who had said that she should not have spoken to that person in the café and that she should have realised that the man with the eye-patch was not what he claimed to be. She reflected for a moment – now that she was home, it Action Is Taken

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  did not seem quite so bad. Indeed, it had been something of an adventure. Perhaps she should tell Domenica about it one of these days. She liked stories like that.

  Matthew had changed the subject and nothing more was said about the non-Peploe until that afternoon, when the doorbell rang and Angus Lordie came into the gallery, followed by Cyril.

  When he saw Pat, Cyril wagged his tail with pleasure and winked.

  “Passing by,” said Angus Lordie. “I was taking Cyril for a stroll and I thought I might pop in and see what you have on the walls. Interesting stuff. That over there is a worth a quid or two, you know. You didn’t? Well, I think it’s a James Paterson.”

  Matthew stood up and joined Angus Lordie in front of a large painting of a girl in a field. “Are you sure?” he said.