“You say ‘a bit extreme,’ Stuart. Only a bit. So that means you see at least some truth in what I’m saying. And yet you let this situation continue. You let it go on and on and never, never do anything to stop it.”
She looked at her son. Now she felt sorry for him, and sighed. “Oh, darling,” she said. “Can’t you see what’s going on? I know you’re a lovely, nice man and you don’t like conflict, but can’t you see what’s happening?”
Stuart Reflects
He reached the top of Scotland Street and paused to look down the sharp fall of the road. Edinburgh was built on hills, on ridges of rock; if the land were the sea, then these ridges were like the spines of whales, or dolphins perhaps, protruding from the surface. George Street was one such spine from which the land fell away to the north, and Scotland Street was part of that decline.
It was a much wider street than many of the neighbouring streets, which gave it the feeling, Stuart had realised, of a courtyard that was not quite a courtyard, yet could so easily be one if the street were closed off at either end. His friend from university days, Neil, who was an architect, had explained to him once that people feel happiest living in a courtyard-type arrangement because they felt secure. “People like to face other people,” he said. “It’s as simple as that. Put them in a long line and they feel uneasy. Long lines aren’t friendly.”
“So houses in a row are . . . what? Uncomfortable?”
“Yes,” said Neil. “Go to any one suburban street where there’s a long line of houses and ask people if they know their neighbours. They may know the people on either side of them, but probably not those living three or four houses along.”
Stuart thought of Scotland Street; he knew – or recognised – just about everybody in their part of the street – and that included those on the other side.
Neil was warming to his theme. “Have you ever been in an American bar?”
Stuart had been to a statistical conference in America when he had been studying for his aborted PhD. That had been in Bloomington, Indiana, but he had spent several days in New York on his way there. He had been in a bar, he seemed to recall, but he did not remember the details.
“Well,” said Neil. “People sit in a line along the bar, all facing the bar-tender. It’s very difficult to talk to somebody sitting beside you if that person’s facing the same way as you are. And three people in that arrangement can’t hold a conversation involving all three of them – unless the one in the middle strains to sit back while the other two strain to sit forward.” He paused. “And the result? Loneliness. Isolation. Anomie.”
“The same with housing?”
“Yes,” said Neil. “Modernist architecture loved big shapes, but forgot about people. It erected buildings which paid no attention to people’s psychological needs. Those great blocks of flats out at Sighthill – the ones they’ve now blown up. Or the flats they put people into when they took them out of the Gorbals. No shared space, no connection with the people around you, nor with the landscape. Nothing – just enforced loneliness.
“And the loneliness went further,” Neil continued. “Not only were people made to feel lonely, but the new buildings themselves had an imposed loneliness, so to speak, because they themselves – the buildings – were designed not to talk to their surrounding buildings. In the past . . . ” Neil smiled. “Am I sounding old-fashioned? Am I sounding like one of those people who grumble on about new buildings?”
“Like Prince Charles?”
Neil laughed. “The thing about Prince Charles is that even if he may not be right about everything, there are things that he really is right about. People snipe at him and condescend to him – but if you look at what he actually says about the world about us, he’s often right. He’s right about climate change. And he’s right about the arrogance of some architects – and the people behind them. He’s absolutely right when he goes on about architectural brutalism, about buildings that ignore where they are and just want to make some great, ostentatious statement, or don’t care about anything – including statements – and just want to be as big and as brutally functional as they like. And that’s all about money, isn’t it? About making money without any regard to the effect that your actions will have on the lives of others. Look at China.”
“China?”
“Yes. All they’re interested in is making money – whatever the cost. So they’ve hurled themselves into feverish manufacturing. They suck people in from the countryside and put them in vast urban barracks. Then they belt out the goods and all the pollution that goes with that and now what happens? They find they’ve made their cities virtually uninhabitable because the air’s so bad. They can’t breathe – they can’t go outside because the air’s so poisonous.”
Stuart sighed. “Oh God, Neil, I hate to think about the future.”
“But we have to. That’s the problem – people aren’t thinking about the future. That’s why we’re destroying the planet.”
“Oh, I know that. What I meant was that I can’t bear to think about what sort of world my wee boys are going to be living in when they’re thirty or forty.”
Neil looked surprised. “I thought you had only one. Bertie, isn’t it?’
“You’re out of date. We have two. Bertie and Ulysses.”
“Ulysses! That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”
“My wife . . . ”
Neil had looked away, embarrassed. He had met Irene. “It’s an interesting name,” he said quickly.
“Homeric.”
“Of course.”
Stuart returned to the state of the world. “Did we worry about these things when we were at university? I don’t think we did.”
Neil shook his head. “Of course not. You look at things differently when you’re twenty. You’re pretty much immortal, for a start. And then you’re . . . you’re . . . ” He struggled to find the right way of describing what it was like to be twenty, but he was distracted by the thought that when you’re twenty you don’t know that there’s a way of looking at things that goes with being twenty; whereas when you reach thirty you begin to understand that there’s a way of looking at the world that goes with being thirty, and with being forty, and fifty, and so on.
And what was the view from twenty? It was that people weren’t a problem – it was as simple as that.
“You like everybody when you’re twenty,” said Neil. “You trust them. You make friends at the drop of a hat. It’s all great.”
Stuart thought about this. Neil was right. “And then?”
“Cynicism sets in. Or perhaps we should call it realism. Very slowly, but it sets in. You stop being a puppy – you know how puppies lick everybody? You stop that.”
“And you start being a cat? Selfish – self-interested?”
Neil laughed. “Precisely. Cats are the quintessential psycho-paths, you know. Every one of them.”
“And dogs?”
“Enough metaphors,” said Neil.
Second Chances
When Stuart reached 44 Scotland Street, he fished in his pocket for the key of the stair door. The old bell pulls were still there, along with the names of the earlier occupants of the various flats. An Edinburgh doorway could be a palimpsest, with layer upon layer of the building’s history displayed in the names accompanying each bell-pull or more modern invention: push buttons from the nineteen-sixties, oblong boxes with automatic opening devices, and in some cases unblinking fish-eye camera lenses allowing scrutiny of those who sought entry. The newer technology tended, like all newer technology, to isolate, and certainly discouraged the public exchanges of the past, when a caller might tug on a bell-pull, a window above might open, and “Who’s there?” might be shouted. To which the proper reply, it seemed, was “Me”; and then, “You?”, “Aye,” “Well, I’m no in.”
Stuart glanced at the names. He saw his own, of course, or rather Irene’s. She had commissioned a small plastic name-plate inscribed with Irene Pollock. There was no mention of Stuar
t’s name, which he would not have wanted, anyway, as the appropriate legend should simply have been Pollock. Why then did it say Irene Pollock? He had been hesitant to ask her directly, but had once muttered, “I live here as well, you know.”
This had brought the retort, “I heard that, Stuart. I know you live here – I never said you didn’t. I’m just making the point that there is no such thing as a head of the household. People always say – and they still say this, unbelievably – that the man is the head of the household. Well, not this household.”
“I don’t think they say that,” said Stuart. “They used to, but not any longer.”
Irene made a dismissive gesture. “You have a touching faith in the capacity of society to change. The reality of the situation is that many men – probably the vast majority – still think of themselves as the head of the household.”
He protested again. “I don’t think they do, you know. Men and women share these things now.”
“Not sufficiently. Some men have adjusted; others haven’t.”
“Oh well, I suppose you’re right.”
“I am right, Stuart.”
That had been the end of the discussion, and the name-plate had remained in place. Below it was a small brass plate stating Macdonald and Lordie. That was newer and was by far the most aesthetically pleasing of the various name-plates, but Angus was, after all, an artist and could be expected to appreciate these touches. Then there were name-plates from the past: Abbot, Michie, Donaldson . . . These were people who had lived at No. 44 between the nineteen-fifties and the nineteen-eighties. Stuart had heard of Michie, who had been a photographer, he had been told, and who had served with Hamish Henderson in Sicily during the War. He was long gone, as was Donaldson who, according to tradition, had been an amateur racing driver and had for a brief period kept his racing cars in the Scotland Street tunnel.
Immediately above Irene Pollock, reflecting the physical layout of the stair, and next to Macdonald and Lordie, was a badly tarnished name-plate with Collie on it. Stuart rubbed at it with his finger, trying to remember how long ago it was that Antonia Collie had left Scotland Street to join that convent in Italy. He had never had very much to do with Antonia, and he had only heard indirect reports of what had happened in Italy. She had contracted some sort of condition, he seemed to recall; Angus had said she had gone off her rocker, as he put it, and had added that her rocker was probably never very firmly fixed to the ground anyway. Where was she now, he wondered? In a warmer place, no doubt – some Tuscan valley with olive trees and thyme-scented air and . . . well, there were consolations to going off one’s rocker in such surroundings.
He entered the stair and began to make his way up to his flat. As he did so, he thought: “Am I happy to be coming home?” He did not answer his own question immediately, but let his thoughts follow their own course for a while. There were people at the office – most of them, in fact – who positively looked forward to getting home in the evening. They said as much; they referred to the bliss of having a day off.
Did he feel that? The answer came rather quickly. No, he did not. He did not relish the thought of talking to his wife. And this evening they were due to go out to dinner for the first time in ages and he was not looking forward to it. He had tried to persuade himself that he would enjoy it, but he had failed. He did not want to go. He would far prefer to nip round to the Cumberland Bar and meet up with old friends, none of whom Irene showed any interest in seeing, but who were his lifeline.
He reached his doorway, and took out his key. There were voices emanating from within: there was Bertie. And then there was a gurgling sound, which was Ulysses, and this was followed by Irene saying something. He could not work out what it was.
He stood there and listened. Bertie spoke again. He was telling Irene about something that Ranald Braveheart Macpherson had said to him; it was something to do with rockets and with Mars. Irene said something in reply and Ulysses emitted a strange squeaking sound.
Stuart sighed. He felt strangely disconnected – as if he were listening to a play on the radio, not to the voices of his own family. I’m an actor, he thought. I have my role and my lines, and the play is using up my life . . .
He unlocked the door and entered the flat. Irene and the boys were in the kitchen, and so he was alone in the hall. He put down his briefcase. There were no papers in it – just his lunchbox and a copy of the Scotsman with its half-finished crossword. He was particularly proud of solving one of the clues that day, 3 across, which had been A Scotsman followed by another Scotsman – of the Middle East. It had come to him suddenly, from some strange part of the subconscious mind that does crosswords. Arabian. Rab and Ian.
He sighed. How long was this going to last? How long would his unhappiness continue? Some people were unhappy for their whole lives, which was terribly sad, he thought, since we have only one chance. Or did we? Could we not do something about it? Could we not somehow or other find a second chance?
Homeric Thoughts
Irene said to Stuart, “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
Stuart pretended to look blank. “Forgotten what?”
She drew in her breath. “So you have. Really, Stuart . . . ”
Stuart smiled. “Only joking. Of course I haven’t forgotten. We’re going to the cinema.”
There was a further intake of breath, and he quickly brought his joke to an end. “No, I know: how could I forget? Dinner. We’re going out for dinner. You and me . . . ”
“I, Stuart, you and I.”
He bore the correction. “You and I are going out for dinner – as per long-established plan. And my mother will be babysitting.”
Irene looked away. “Actually, Stuart, I’ve rearranged things. I thought it better.”
He looked at her enquiringly. “Thought what better?”
Irene’s manner was casual, as if this were a matter of little importance. “Oh, I cancelled your mother. I thought it more convenient to have that girl from over the road – you know the one who’s at St. Mary’s Music School. Teenagers always like to earn a little bit of money, and I thought I’d give her a chance. She has a babysitting certificate, and Ulysses seems to like her.”
Ulysses seems to like her. That meant that he refrained from being sick when she picked him up, in contrast to his reaction to Irene. But Stuart said nothing of this; he was thinking of the insult to his mother.
“But my mother agreed. She probably had to cancel something to do it. Isn’t it a bit rude to call off like that?”
Irene shrugged. “I don’t think she’ll mind. She probably has lots to do. You know how old people seem to be so busy these days, doing all sorts of things. The University of the Third Age, for example. She’s spoken about that. Bridge, or whatever it is she plays. She’s got lots of things to do.”
Stuart bristled. “My mother isn’t old,” he said. “And I don’t think you should condescend to her.”
Irene glanced towards the kitchen. “Stuart, the boys are in there. Please don’t pick a fight within earshot. I’ve changed our arrangements – it’s as simple as that. There’s no need to make an unholy fuss over it.”
“She’s my mother, and she has her feelings.”
Irene put a finger to her lips. “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Go through to the kitchen and say hello to the boys. They’re dying to see you.”
He swallowed hard. He knew that Nicola would be offended by having been cancelled – he was sure of that – but equally he knew that he would not get anywhere in an argument with Irene: he never did. So he made his way into the kitchen where Bertie was sitting at the table with a book open in front of him; Ulysses, perched in his high chair, was toying with a piece of toast and peanut butter.
Ulysses waved his hands about enthusiastically when he saw his father and uttered an unintelligible babble. Bertie looked up at Stuart and grinned.
“Ulysses isn’t talking English yet, Daddy,” he said. “Do you think he may be talking s
ome other language altogether? Gaelic, maybe?”
Stuart bent down to kiss Ulysses on the top of his head. He caught a faint whiff of vomit; Irene must have picked him up.
“He’ll start soon enough, Bertie,” he said. “Children start to talk in their own time. Some people don’t begin until they’re quite a bit older than Ulysses is.” He remembered something about Thomas Carlyle – hadn’t he said nothing for year after year, until he was seven? And then had said, when a woman inadvertently scalded him with hot water and enquired how he was: “Thank you, madam, the agony has abated”? Or what about the German child who had been silent for years before, and, when asked why he had not spoken until then, replied, “Because up until now, everything was satisfactory.”
Bertie was looking up at him. “Why are you smiling, Daddy?”
“I was thinking of something, Bertie. I was thinking of people who didn’t speak until they were much older.”
“Tofu says that he knew the alphabet by his first birthday.”
Stuart looked doubtful. “Highly unlikely, Bertie. Tofu has a vivid imagination.”
Bertie was looking at Ulysses. “I was wondering about something, Daddy,” he said. “I was wondering how we’d look after Ulysses if . . . ” He hesitated. He was fingering the spine of his book, twisting the cover. “I was wondering how we’d be able to look after Ulysses if Mummy weren’t here.”
Stuart frowned. “But, Bertie, Mummy is here.”
“But if she weren’t. What then?”
“I don’t think we should bother about things that aren’t the case, Bertie. Mummy is here and she looks after Ulysses very well, and we give her all the help we can. He has everything he needs, doesn’t he? And he’s a very happy little boy, don’t you think?”
They both looked at Ulysses: Stuart inadvertently, Bertie deliberately. Ulysses stared back, his mouth full of toast and peanut butter. There was peanut butter on his chin and a certain amount in his hair.
A Time of Love and Tartan Page 9
