“Why?” He sounded resentful—he did not intend that, but that was how his question emerged.
She chose her words carefully. “Sometimes somnambulists can harm themselves … or others.”
The last two words were uttered softly, and Angus had to strain to hear them. He stared at Domenica mutely, wondering whether she thought him dangerous. The idea was an appalling one.
“Really?”
Domenica nodded. “It’s relatively uncommon,” she went on. “But I read that sometimes somnambulists can walk along narrow ledges—that sort of thing.”
“We haven’t got any narrow ledges,” said Angus.
“You know what I mean,” said Domenica. “There are plenty of ways of harming yourself. What if …” She hesitated. “What if you took a knife out of one of the drawers and cut yourself?”
“But I didn’t. You said that I just opened and closed them—as if I were looking for the Declaration of Arbroath.”
“Yes, but there have been cases …” She did not finish her sentence.
“What cases?”
“Cases where somnambulists have hurt others.”
It’s out in the open now, he thought. At least she has said it.
“Look,” Angus said. “Are you worried about this? Is this something I should be worried about?”
She took a few moments to consider his question. “I’m not sure,” she began. “I’ve made it my business to read up about it, but I’m no expert. Most of what I’ve read is quite reassuring, but there are one or two cases that people write about that might make one a bit more worried.” She paused, as if judging the effect of her words. “I think that it might be an idea to see somebody. Just for general reassurance. And there’s somebody in Edinburgh, apparently.”
He realised that she must have spoken to somebody to find that out. “Did you speak to our own doctor?” he asked.
Domenica said that she had. “He says that he can arrange an appointment for you with a sleep expert. He said you should come and see him first, and then he can refer you. There’s somebody at the Royal Ed.”
Angus bit his lip. The Royal Edinburgh was the local psychiatric hospital.
“The loony bin?” he asked.
Domenica looked disapproving. “Angus! You mustn’t call it that! Nobody uses that term any more.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “But that’s what it is. And that’s what you seem to be arranging for me—an appointment at the loony bin.”
Domenica shook her finger at him. “I don’t like that expression. Far be it from me to be PC—heaven forfend that possibility, but I really think there are things you shouldn’t say.”
“All right,” said Angus. “I won’t say them.”
“Good,” said Domenica. “It’s very childish to talk about loony bins—or funny farms, for that matter. It stigmatises.”
Angus was looking at his hands. “I’m really upset,” he muttered.
Domenica moved forward to comfort him. Placing an arm about his shoulder, she pulled him to her. “I’m sorry, Angus,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s only because I care about you. You’re very precious to me. I don’t want you …”
“Walking along any narrow ledges?” he supplied.
“Of course not.”
“I don’t see what this doctor—whoever he is—will be able to do for me,” he said.
“Well, I think he might be a big help,” said Domenica.
“He’s a shrink?” asked Angus.
“Yes,” said Domenica. “He’s a shrink.”
“What’s he called?”
Domenica made an effort to remember. “Dr. Macgregor,” she answered. “I think.”
9. In the Cumberland Bar
A dog will always sense when its owner’s spirits are low. With that uncanny canine ability to detect distress, Cyril crawled up to Angus like a soldier making his way through a minefield. It was his apologetic gait—belly hugging the floor, paws akimbo—the gait that a dog will use when guilt makes it want to keep its profile low, or, as in this case, when it hesitates to intrude upon its owner’s feelings of dejection.
Angus looked down at Cyril, at the dog’s wide, imploring eyes. “You know something’s wrong, don’t you?” he said.
Cyril whimpered, and inched forward.
“You wouldn’t understand, old boy,” said Angus. “If I’m looking a bit down it’s because Domenica has just booked me into the loon—the Royal Ed. That’s why.”
Cyril, now at Angus’s feet, nuzzled at his master’s right hand. The feel of the dog’s tongue moist and raspy against his skin, the warmth of his breath, the unmistakable and unconditional sympathy from the animal, lifted his spirits. If the world misunderstands us, as it sometimes does, or is indifferent to our sorrows, as it often is, then the loyalty of a dog may remind us that at least in one heart are we loved and admired without question and without thought of reward or advantage. For Angus, this reminder was timeous, and looking down on Cyril he stroked the dog’s head gently. “All right, Cyril, I shall avoid self-pity. There’s nothing more unattractive than self-pity, is there?”
Aware that he was being asked a question, but unsure of what it was or of what answer was expected of him, Cyril shook his head vigorously and then modulated the movement into a nod. At the same time he smiled, allowing his single gold tooth to catch the light and send out a little signal of warmth.
“Cumberland Bar?” asked Angus, glancing at his watch.
Now this was something that Cyril understood, along with a small list of key words and phrases: “walk, lead, stick, Turner Prize” (at the mention of which he would give a growl and lift his leg in vulgar protest), “stay, quiet, bad dog, good dog, Valvona & Crolla, and biscuits.” At the mention of the bar at the corner of Cumberland and Dundonald streets, Cyril leapt to his feet, uttered an enthusiastic bark, and went to fetch the lead from its new position—hanging on the back of the kitchen door.
It was a short walk to the Cumberland Bar but by the time he reached it Angus already felt more cheerful. It had been a shock to discover that he was a somnambulist, but now that he had had the opportunity to reflect on the information, he had begun to feel that of all the discoveries one might make about oneself, this one was perhaps not too bad. And it was not unusual, he thought, to find out something about oneself that one did not know. People found out things about their ancestry, for example, that could completely change their sense of who they were. Who, he asked himself, was that man in Australia who discovered that if the rules of succession had been properly applied—in so far as they discriminated against the illegitimate—then he would have been the rightful claimant to the throne. He had apparently been unaffected by this information, and had continued to lead his modest suburban life without affectation. Of course there were worse things to discover about oneself than that one was a Plantagenet.
He reached the door of the Cumberland Bar and released Cyril from his leash. The dog required no further command nor encouragement. Pawing at the bottom of the door, he succeeded in opening it and sauntered in with all the confidence of a regular entering his local bar.
The barman, seeing Cyril, immediately reached for the dog’s dish kept under the bar and held it under the Guinness tap.
“The usual, Cyril?” he asked.
Cyril wagged his tail in response and looked over his shoulder for Angus, who had followed him into the bar. Angus now ordered his own drink and then took that, together with Cyril’s dish, to a table in the corner. Several other customers, recognising Angus and Cyril, gave a nod in their direction, and one or two uttered words of greeting. Cyril was a popular dog, and had a wide circle of acquaintances who knew his name and would stop to ruffle his coat if they met him in the street. The story of his gold tooth was well known too, and regular customers at the Cumberland Bar would point it out to visitors or newcomers.
Angus sat down at his table. Down at his feet, Cyril slurped thirstily at his dish of beer, licking the plate once he
had drunk it all. Then he settled down at his master’s feet, dozing off, but keeping half an eye on the door in case anybody he knew should come in.
And somebody did. This was Matthew, who had just locked up his gallery in Dundas Street and had decided to spend half an hour or so in the Cumberland Bar before returning to the flat in India Street. When one is the father of triplets, as Matthew was, the prospect of returning after bath-time, rather than before it, was an attractive one. Not that he did not enjoy the company of his three young sons, Tobermory, Rognvald and Fergus; it was just that Elspeth seemed to be so much better at bathing the boys than he was and whenever he bundled them up in their nappies they seemed to wet them almost immediately, and they would cry when he started all over again. On balance, he thought, the Cumberland Bar was perhaps rather more congenial than India Street at six in the evening.
He swallowed, feeling a sudden surge of guilt. That was the trouble with being the father of triplets: there was no relief from the sheer burden of having three tiny lives dependent on one. That, of course, was what being a parent was all about—being the author of another life. Most people became accustomed to that, and managed it quite well when the duties were staggered, but suddenly to be responsible for three young children all at once was three times as onerous, thought Matthew. Entering a bar was never the solution to a problem, of course, but it could at least put it off, as any anodyne does, for a while.
10. Definite Articles et cetera
Matthew sat down beside Angus. Reaching down, he gave Cyril a pat on the head, which Cyril acknowledged with something between a sigh and a grunt. He liked Matthew, and the young man’s ankles, which had been such a temptation to him before, and, in a moment of weakness, he had eventually nipped, he could now face with equanimity—the benefit, perhaps, of that sagacity that comes to most of us, even to dogs, with the passage of the years.
“I can’t stay too long,” said Matthew, glancing at his watch. “Elspeth …”
Angus Lordie grinned. “Ah,” he said. “The wife.”
Matthew looked at him sideways. What was Angus doing talking about wives in that way, when he had been married for months rather than years? And should one ever say the wife? It was such an old-fashioned expression, redolent of every cliché of the married state: the shrew of a wife, the wife who kept her husband on a short leash, the husband who is sair hodden-doon. Matthew thought of a friend of his father’s, a man in his early fifties who, having always referred to the wife, after his divorce started to refer to the girlfriend. Definite articles could be complimentary, as in the Chairman, or the Earl of Auchtermuchty, or the Pope, but they could also be sarcastic or derogatory, as in “There he is with the friend,” there being no doubt but that the friend is not a good influence or has no right to be there.
“Does Domenica disapprove of the Cumberland Bar?” he asked.
Angus looked surprised. “No. Not as far as I know.”
“It’s just that sometimes wives don’t like their husbands going off to the pub,” said Matthew. “Avoiding the children’s bath-time, and …” He looked away guiltily.
Angus took a sip of his beer. “I don’t think that Domenica resents my having friends. Surely Elspeth doesn’t, does she?”
Matthew shook his head. “No.” He looked up at the ceiling of the bar, and thought. What exactly was Elspeth’s attitude to his friends? And, come to think of it, who were his friends anyway?
“Of course there are some women who won’t tolerate them, you know,” Angus continued.
“Their husbands’ friends?”
Angus nodded. “Particularly if the friends are women.”
Matthew frowned. “But that’s different. A wife feels threatened if her husband has women friends. And you can see why.”
Angus was reluctant to exclude the possibility of a man’s having women friends. He was friendly with Big Lou, for instance, and with … He paused. Did he have any other women friends? There were women in the Scottish Arts Club, but did they count as friends or were they simply people he occasionally met in the Scottish Arts Club? It was difficult to decide. “I think it’s sad,” he said. “Why shouldn’t we have friends of the opposite sex?”
“It’s because of what’s lurking in the background,” Matthew said. “It’s always there in relationships between men and women, whether you like it or not. There’s always the possibility of a romantic dimension, no matter how unlikely it is in the particular circumstances. And both parties know it. But there’s no problem if you’re gay. Then you can have bags of women friends. They’ll like you because anything other than friendship isn’t on offer.”
Angus thought about that. It was true. And it was unfair. “How many women friends have you got, Matthew?” he asked, adding, “Other than Big Lou.”
Matthew smiled. “I don’t see why we should exclude Big Lou, but in answer to your question …” He looked up at the ceiling. Then he said, “None, really.”
Angus was moderately surprised by this. “Pat Macgregor?”
Matthew conceded that Pat was a friend. “I wasn’t thinking of her. She’s been an employee, you see, and …”
“But you were in love with her, weren’t you? Once.”
Matthew glanced at Angus, and then looked away. “Maybe. But yes, she’s a friend. And then there are a couple of girls who were in my year at school. Well, in my year in the sixth form, because the Academy only took girls for the last two years in those days. They had been at St. George’s. And then there were some women friends from St. Andrews, and …”
“So you have lots of female friends,” interrupted Angus.
“Whom I never see. Never.” He felt a sudden sadness as he spoke. He was losing contact with his friends, he thought, and that was why he had so quickly said he had none. He had been wrong, but he had been right—as we often are, he thought. He looked down at the floor.
“May I give Cyril some of my beer?” he asked.
Angus glanced at Matthew’s glass. “He normally drinks stout, but you could try him on lager. Not too much, though. He only has a very little bit.”
Matthew bent down and poured some of the beer from his glass into Cyril’s dish. The dog, surprised at this sudden largesse, rose to his feet, his tail wagging enthusiastically.
“He’s very pleased,” said Matthew.
“It’s been a rather frustrating day for him,” said Angus. “He saw several particularly smug-looking cats in Drummond Place today. He would have liked to have sorted them out, but he was on his lead at the time. Unfinished business. He probably feels he needs a drink.”
Matthew had intended to pour only a small quantity of beer into Cyril’s dish but had inadvertently filled it with what amounted to half a pint. Cyril, unaccustomed to such a large amount of beer, and rather taking to the unfamiliar taste of Matthew’s lager, lost no time in lapping up what was before him. Then he sat down, looked up at Matthew, and uttered a loud bark of joy.
“Rather vocal,” said Angus. “I think he liked that.”
“I might have given him a bit too much,” said Matthew. “I didn’t mean to.”
“He’ll be all right,” said Angus. “He’ll quieten down.” He looked sternly at Cyril. “No barking in the Cumberland Bar,” he said. “It calls attention to the fact that you’re a dog.”
Matthew said nothing. He was watching Cyril, who was now beginning to execute what appeared to be a small dance. And then there was another bark—this time even louder than the previous one. Then Cyril sat down and looked about him, grinning, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his gold tooth catching the light.
“I think he’s drunk,” said Matthew. He turned to Angus. “Look, Angus, I’m very sorry. I’ve made your dog drunk.”
11. Cyril Draws Attention to Himself
Angus understood, of course.
“You didn’t mean to,” he said. “And it’s my fault, really. I told you that you could give him more beer. It’s my fault.”
Matthew was watching C
yril. The dog, who had been sitting, was now back on his feet and appeared to be dancing some sort of Irish jig. He did this for a moment, then, after a brief pause, began to chase his tail. That did not last long, and the jig was resumed.
By now one or two of the other customers in the bar were looking on with interest. There were smiles, not to say similes.
“See that dog,” said one of the regulars. “Angus gives him a dish of beer. He’s had too much. He’s fu’!”
“Drunk as a dog,” said his friend. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“No, sick as a dog. Drunk as a lord,” corrected the other. “Sober as a judge, but drunk as a lord.”
“Great metaphors.”
“You mean analogies.”
“Perhaps.” But this was followed by a pause. “A metaphor is a sort of analogy.”
“Yes it is. But a metaphor says that something is something else. An analogy says that something is like something else.”
Angus decided that it was time to remove Cyril. The Cumberland Bar was a respectable bar, and the spontaneous dancing of an Irish jig was not conduct that would be viewed with favour. Irish jigs were all very well in their place, which was in Ireland, but not in an Edinburgh bar. Indeed Angus was of the view that Irish dancing, in general, was to be discouraged, along with faux Irish bars called Donohue’s or McGinty’s and decorated outside with shamrocks and copious quantities of green paint. And now here was Cyril, on whom faux Irishdom might have been expected to have no real cultural impact, descending to the performance of an Irish jig. He would have to remove him before matters became even more embarrassing.
“We’re going to have to get Cyril out of here,” he said, gesturing to the dog. “A couple of brisk circuits of Drummond Place might sober him up.” He turned to Matthew. “Fancy a walk?”
Matthew glanced at his watch. It was turning into a guilty evening: guilt over his avoiding the triplets’ bath-time and guilt over getting his friend’s dog drunk. “I should get back,” he began, but then faltered. No. Cyril’s intoxicated state was his fault and he should keep Angus company while he tried to sober the dog up. He would give his explanations to Elspeth when he returned to India Street and of course she would understand. Elspeth always understood. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “Who knows what a drunk dog might do. Two people may be needed.”
Bertie's Guide to Life and Mothers Page 4
