The World According to Bertie 4ss-4

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Domenica thought for a moment. “But blue is often melancholy, isn’t it? Or that’s what I’ve always thought. Does that make me a synaesthetic?”

  Antonia hesitated briefly before replying: “No, I don’t think so. I think that is more a question of conditioning. We’re told that blue is melancholy and so we associate that emotion with it. Just as Christmas is red, and white, being the colour of snow and ice, is cold. In my father’s case, I suspect that when he was learning to read as a boy, he had a book which had the letters and numbers in different colours. The figure three was probably painted in red, and that association was made and stuck.

  Our minds are like that, aren’t they? Things stick.

  “The association between blue and melancholy,” Antonia continued, “is a cultural one. Somebody, a long time ago, a genuine synaesthetic perhaps, said: ‘I’m feeling blue,’ and the expression caught on.”

  “The birth of the blues,” said Domenica.

  “Precisely,” agreed Antonia. She took a sip of her coffee. “Of course there are so many associations in our minds that it’s not surprising that some get mixed up – wires get crossed. Whenever I hear certain pieces of music, I think of places, people, times.

  That’s only natural.

  54

  A Restoration in Prospect – and a New Suspicion

  “People are always doing that with popular music. They remember where they were when they listened to something that made an impression on them.”

  “If you’re going to San Francisco,” said Domenica suddenly,

  “be sure to wear some flowers in your hair . . .”

  Antonia stared at her.

  “A song,” explained Domenica. “Round about the late sixties, 1967, maybe. It makes me think not of San Francisco, but Orkney, because that’s where I was when I listened to it. I loved it. And I can see Stromness, with its little streets, and the house I was staying in over the summer while I worked part-time in the hotel there. I was a student, and there was another student working there, a boy, and I suppose I was in love with him, although he never knew.”

  Antonia was silent. She looked at Domenica. She had never thought of Domenica having a love life, but she must have, because we all fall in love, and some of us are sentenced to unre-quited love, talking about it over cups of coffee in flats like this, with friends just like this, oddly comforted by the process.

  17. A Restoration in Prospect – and a New Suspicion Domenica looked about her. Antonia’s flat was a mirror image of hers in the arrangement of its rooms. But whereas the original features of her flat had been largely preserved, Antonia’s had suffered a bad 1970s experience. The original panelled doors, examples of which survived in Domenica’s flat, had either been taken down in Antonia’s and replaced with unpleasant frosted-glass doors – for what conceivable purpose? Domenica wondered

  – or their panels had been tacked over with plywood to produce an unrelieved surface. That, one assumed, was the same aesthetic sense which had produced the St James Centre, a crude cluster of grey blocks at the end of the sadly mutilated Princes Street, or, at a slightly earlier stage, had sought the turning of Princes A Restoration in Prospect – and a New Suspicion 55

  Street into an urban motorway and the conversion of the Princes Street Gardens into a car park.

  One might not be surprised when some of these things were done by those with neither artistic sense nor training, but both the St James Centre and the plan to slice the city in two with a motorway had been the work of architects and planners. At a domestic level, these were the very same people who put in glass doors and took out old fireplaces.

  “Yes,” said Antonia. “I will have to do something about all this.”

  Domenica pretended surprise for a moment, but Antonia had intercepted her glances and knew what she was thinking.

  “Don’t imagine for a moment that this is my taste,” Antonia warned. “I’m every bit as Georgian as you are.”

  It was an amusing way of putting it, and they both laughed.

  Not everyone in the New Town lived a Georgian lifestyle, but some did. And of course Antonia and Domenica would find such people amusing with their insistence on period authenticity in their houses, although they themselves were equally inclined to much the same aesthetic.

  Domenica waved a hand about her. “What are you going to do?”

  “Just about everything,” said Antonia. “Those doors over there.

  The plywood will come off. Panels back. I’ll free the shutters.

  Free the shutters – that’s a rallying call in these parts, you know.”

  Domenica looked at her friend. But her own shutters had indeed been freed, she had to admit.

  “And then I’m going to take all the light fittings out,” Antonia went on. “All this . . . this stuff.” She pointed up at the spiky, angular light that was hanging from the ceiling. “And the fireplaces, of course. I shall go to the architectural salvage yard and see what they have.”

  “You’ll need a builder,” said Domenica, adding, with a smile,

  “We are mere women, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m ready for that. You know, people are so worried about builders. They seem to have such bad experiences with them.”

  “Perhaps it’s that problem that builders have with their trousers,” Domenica mused. “You know that issue of . . .”

  56

  A Restoration in Prospect – and a New Suspicion Antonia was dismissive of that. “Low trousers have never been a problem for me,” she said. “Nihil humanum alienum mihi est.*

  Although it is interesting – isn’t it? – how trousers are getting lower each year. Or is it our age?”

  Domenica thought for a moment. “You mean on young men?

  Young men’s trousers?”

  “Yes,” said Antonia. “It’s now mandatory for them to show the top of their underpants above the trouser waist. And the trousers get lower and lower.”

  As an anthropologist, there was little for Domenica to puzzle about in this. Male adornment occurred in all societies, although it took different forms. It was perfectly natural, she thought, for young men to display; the only question of interest was what limits society would put on it. And could one talk about society anymore when it came to clothing? T-shirts proclaimed the most intimate messages and nobody batted an eyelid. There were, she reflected, simply no arbiters.

  Domenica decided that the issue of trousers had been explored enough. “And these builders,” she said. “Where will you get them?”

  “My friend Clifford Reed is a builder,” Antonia said. “And a very good one, too. He’ll help me out. He said he will. He has a Pole he’s going to send over to take a look at what needs to be done, and then to do it. There are lots of Poles in Edinburgh now. All these builders and hotel porters and the like. All very hardworking. Staunch Catholics. Very reliable people.”

  Domenica thought for a moment. “You’ll have to get a large mug to serve your Pole his tea in,” she said. “None of this Spode for him. He’ll want something more substantial.”

  She watched Antonia as she spoke. It was a somewhat obvious thing for her to say, she thought, a bit unsubtle, in fact. But she watched to see its effect on Antonia. Of course the true psychopath would be unmoved; such people were quite capable of telling the coldest of lies, of remaining cool in the face of

  *Lit: nothing about humanity is alien to me; a common Edinburgh way of saying: I’ve seen it all.

  A Restoration in Prospect – and a New Suspicion 57

  the most damning accusations. That was why they were psychopaths – they simply did not care; they were untouched.

  “Of course not,” said Antonia flatly. “I keep my Spode for special occasions.”

  Domenica was completely taken aback by this remark and was not sure how to take it. I keep my Spode for special occasions. This could mean that she kept her Spode (as opposed to stolen Spode) for such occasions, or that her own visit was such an occasion and merited
the bringing out of the Spode. It must be the latter, she told herself. It must be.

  Their conversation continued in a desultory fashion for a further half hour. There was some talk of the early Scottish saints – Antonia’s novel on the subject was not progressing well, Domenica was told – and there was a brief exchange of views about the latest special exhibition at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. Then Domenica looked at her watch and excused herself.

  She rose to her feet and began to walk towards the door. As she did so, something lying at the foot of the kitchen dresser caught her eye. It was a slipper, a slipper embroidered in red, and it was remarkably similar to one that she had. She glanced at it quickly and then looked away. What were the odds that two people living on the same stair in Scotland Street would both have identical pairs of red Chinese slippers? Astronomically small, she thought.

  18. Bruce Finds a Place to Stay – Just Perfect Since he had returned to Edinburgh, Bruce had been staying with friends in Comely Bank. These people were a couple whom he had known in his earlier days in Edinburgh; Neil had been at school with him at Morrison’s Academy in Crieff, and he had known Caroline slightly before she met Neil. Both Neil and Caroline were keen skiers who had met on a skiing trip to Austria.

  Not all romances which start in the chalet or on the ski slopes survive the descent to sea level, but this one did. Now they were married and living in Comely Bank in a Victorian tenement halfway up the hill towards the heights of the west New Town.

  “Not quite Eton Terrace,” Bruce had observed. “Nor St Bernard’s Crescent, for that matter. But nice enough. If you like that sort of thing.” Comely Bank was comfortable and was only a fifteen-minute walk from the West End and Neil’s office, but, in Bruce’s words again, it was “hardly the centre of the known universe.”

  In fact, even as he passed these somewhat dismissive comments, Bruce was trying to remember a poem he had heard about a man who died and who had “the Lord to thank / For sending him straight to Heaven from Comely Bank.” Or something along those lines. Bruce smirked at the thought. Comely Bank was fine for Neil and Caroline, but not for him. He still wanted some fun, and in his view all the fun was to be found in the New Town in places like . . . well, in places like Julia Donald’s flat, for instance.

  Julia had quickly agreed to his suggestion that he might move in with her for a while.

  “But of course you’re welcome, Brucie,” she had said. “I was going to suggest it, anyway. In fact, I’ll probably stick around for a while. London can wait. You know what? I think Edinburgh’s where it’s at. I really do.”

  Bruce had smiled at her. It’s where I’m at, he thought, which perhaps amounted to the same thing. He looked at her. Nice girl, he thought. Not a feminist, thank God. More interested in

  . . . well, not to put too crude a point on it, interested in men.

  Bruce Finds a Place to Stay – Just Perfect 59

  And why not? Why should girls not be interested in men? You could talk to girls who were interested in men; they liked to listen; they appreciated you. Those others, those feminists, were always trying to prove something, he thought, trying to make up for something that was missing in their lives. Well, he knew what was missing, and he could show them if they liked! What a thought! Thank heavens for girls like Julia and for her offer of a room in her flat.

  “That’s really great, Julia,” he said. “Can you show me the room?” He winked.

  She led him to a room at the back of the flat. “This is the guest room, Brucie,” she said. “You can keep your stuff in that cupboard over there – it’s empty. And I’m right next door.” She gestured at a door behind them. “When you need me.”

  Bruce clicked his tongue appreciatively and gave her a playful pinch. “Good girl,” he said. “This is going to be fun.”

  Julia gave a little laugh. “You bet. When do you want to move in?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Suits me fine.”

  “And in the meantime,” said Bruce. “Let’s go somewhere this evening. A wine bar? A meal afterwards?”

  This suited Julia very well, and they made their arrangements to meet. Bruce then left and went out into the street. He smiled.

  This was perfect, just perfect. He had found himself somewhere to stay – somewhere where he would not have Neil and Caroline cooing away in the background. Really, what a pair of lovebirds – gazing into one another’s eyes for hours on end and going to bed early, pretending to be tired. Sickening, really, and if that was what marriage was like, then he counted himself lucky still to be single. Of course, if he wanted to get married, then he could do so – any day. All he would have to do would be to click his fingers – like that – and the girls would be lining up.

  But there would be plenty of time for that.

  He walked down Northumberland Street and turned into Dundas Street. It was good, he thought, to be back in this familiar 60

  Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story part of town, amongst his old haunts. A few blocks down the hill was the Cumberland Bar, where he had spent so many good evenings, and just beyond that Scotland Street itself. When he went down to London, he imagined that he had put all that behind him; it was almost as if he had wanted to forget it all. But now that he was back in Edinburgh, his memories of that period of his life were flooding back, and it had not been a bad time in his life, not at all. He thought of the girls he had known – that American girl, the one he met in the Cumberland; she was a stunner, but then she had proved rather unreliable in the long run. He frowned.

  And of course there was Pat herself, his little flatmate as he called her. She fell for me in a big way, he thought, poor girl. But she would have been inexperienced and emotionally demanding, and she would have clung to me if I had started anything. Nothing worse than that – a girl who clings. That can get difficult.

  He continued to walk down Dundas Street. He realised that he was close to the gallery that she worked in, the gallery owned by the rather wet Matthew. He was one person he could do without seeing again, and yet he would probably still be hanging about the Cumberland Bar hoping for something to turn up. Sad.

  He glanced towards the gallery window, and at that moment Pat looked out. Bruce stopped. She was staring at him and he could hardly just ignore her. He could wave and continue down the street, which would give her a very clear message, or he could go in and have a word with the poor girl.

  He looked at his watch. There was no point in going back to Comely Bank and sitting in Neil and Caroline’s kitchen until it was time to go out to dinner. So why not?

  He pushed open the gallery door and went in.

  19. Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story

  “London,” said Pat. Bruce winked at her. “Fantastic place. London’s just great. You should go there some time, Pat. Move on.”

  Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story 61

  Pat looked at Bruce. He had not changed at all, she decided.

  There was the same slightly superior look – a knowing expression, one might call it – and the hair . . . yes, it was the same gel, giving forth the same faint smell of cloves.

  “How was the job down there?” she asked. “What did you do?”

  Bruce ran a hand through his hair; cloves released. “Two jobs, actually. I left the first one after a week. The second one was more . . . how should I put it? More to my taste.”

  She was interested in this. Bruce would never admit to being fired, but if he left the job after a week, then that must have been what happened. “Oh. What went wrong?” she asked.

  Bruce began to smile. “You really want to know?”

  Pat nodded. She did want to know.

  “All right,” said Bruce. “I went for an interview for a job handling the commissioning of a portfolio of service flats. Not just any service flats – these were high-end places, Bayswater and so on. Diplomats – ones from serious countries, not Tonga, you know. Saudi, Brunei, places like that. Big Arabs. Fancy Japs.


  Eurotrash. Serious money.

  “This firm was doing the decorating, installing the bits and pieces – everything, really. And money was going to be no object.

  Persian rugs – large ones – all the stuff you put in these places, you know – busts of Roman emperors, Hockney drawings, and so on. We were going to do the whole thing.”

  Pat raised an eyebrow. “But you’re not a decorator, Bruce.

  You’re . . .”

  He did not let her finish. “Questioning my versatility, Patsy-girl? I’ve got an eye, you know.”

  Pat shrugged. Bruce had known nothing about wine, but that seemed not to have stopped him being a success in the wine business. So perhaps it was confidence that counted, and he was definitely not short of that.

  Bruce sat down on Pat’s desk. He adjusted the crease in his trousers. Chinos, Pat thought.

  “So anyway,” he continued, “I went for the interview with 62

  Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story this guy. You should have seen him. Mr Colour Co-ordination himself. He knew how to match his trousers with his jacket. He was very nice. He asked me how I thought I could contribute, and I told him that I had managed properties in Edinburgh.

  Then he showed me a picture of an empty room and asked me what I’d put into it. He fished out this catalogue full of antiques and said I should pick something from there. I did, but I had a feeling there was something else going on. He was looking at me, you see. Like this.”

  Bruce turned sideways to Pat, glanced at her with widened eyes, and then looked away.

  “Oh,” said Pat.

  Bruce smiled. “See what I mean? What do you think a look like that means? Well, you’ll find out. The next thing he says is this: ‘Let me guess, Bruce – you’re Aries, aren’t you?’ Just like that. Coming on hard.”