“Let’s talk about something else, Bertie. What’s that book you’re reading?”
Bertie turned it over so that his father could see the cover. Stuart read the title. The Odyssey.
“My goodness, Bertie,” he said. “That’s a very grown-up book.”
“It’s all about Odysseus,” said Bertie. “The Romans called him Ulysses, Daddy. Just like our Ulysses.”
“Well, there you are, Bertie.”
“Yes. He went on a very long journey, you see, and all sorts of things happened to him. You know there’s this person called the Cyclops, Daddy, and he was really tall. He only had one eye, you see, and Odysseus had to push a big stake into it to escape from the Cyclops’s cave. He hid under a sheep.”
“I believe I’ve heard of all that,” said Stuart. “You know it’s not true, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “It’s just a story. Mr. Homer made it all up.”
Stuart tousled his son’s hair. “Yes, Mr. Homer did,” he said, smiling. He closed his eyes momentarily; he loved this little boy, with his quaint expressions and his earnest manner. He loved him so much. People talked about loving others with all their heart, and this is what that expression meant. You felt it right there, in your heart, a feeling that was intense and unambiguously physical, as if something within you, roughly where your heart was said to be, was swelling with emotion.
But this situation – this living in a state of lovelessness when it came to his marriage – surely could not continue. He could not bear another day of it – not a single day. But then he thought: don’t be ridiculous, you have to, because this is the life that is given to you and you have to accept what is given to you. Half of human unhappiness, if not more, was due to the fact that people did not accept a certain measure of predestined, unavoidable unhappiness. He thought that, and then, for a few moments, wondered whether he really thought it, and whether it was true, or as fictional as The Odyssey. Unless The Odyssey was, in a sense true, and we were all Odysseus.
Irene Overheard
Stuart gave Ulysses his bath, dressed him in his candy-striped pyjamas, and put him to bed, while Irene attended to e-mails in her study at the end of the corridor. There had been a recent increase in e-mail traffic to Irene’s computer – the sort of thing picked up by intelligence agencies monitoring suspects – but Stuart had no idea about Irene’s correspondence and did not dare to ask. He had noticed her expression as she typed many of the messages – it was a sort of grim, determined look, accompanied by pursed lips, as if she were upbraiding the recipient for something, which she probably was. Sometimes there was also a look of satisfaction, suggesting that somebody had been corrected, disproved, or even put in his or her place, the Send button being pressed with an accompanying, even if unspoken, so there!
Ulysses, for all his tendency to regurgitation, never took long to fall asleep, and Stuart was free to devote half an hour or so to Bertie before Bertie’s own bedtime. This time was often spent reading or sometimes playing a board game. That evening Bertie asked Stuart to read part of his children’s version of The Odyssey, but became tired after fifteen minutes and was tucked up early.
Stuart sat for a while by his son’s bedside, holding Bertie’s hand; Bertie was sometimes nervous in the dark, and the presence of his father, and the comfort of his hand, helped him to drift off to sleep.
A small voice spoke in the darkness. “Do Cyclops really exist, Daddy?”
“No, Bertie. The Cyclops was a complete invention. There are no giants, whether or not with one eye – they just don’t exist. Not real, very tall giants.”
“I wouldn’t like to meet a Cyclops, Daddy.”
“No, but then it won’t happen, Bertie. We shouldn’t frighten ourselves too much about things that won’t happen.” Stuart remembered their earlier conversation, when Bertie had asked how they would look after Ulysses if Irene were to go. That was typical of the sort of insecurity children could experience – he remembered that when he was a boy, probably about Bertie’s age, he had been terrified that his father would die. And he remembered carrying out various superstitious rituals to forfend the possibility: making sure that his shoe-laces did not come untied – that was one of them; getting out of the bath before the last of the water had drained out, that was another. Your father could face mortal peril if you overlooked one of these observances, and as a result you made sure that you did not. Was Bertie worried that Irene would die? That must be it. And how did one tackle that, other than to say to the child that his parents would certainly not die, which of course any child could see through? Parents did die.
It was easy to explain death to a child if one believed in an afterlife. “Granny has gone to heaven” is not too bleak a thing to have to say, and was certainly easier than saying, “Granny has ceased to exist.” Mind you, that was thinking of the parent’s ease – the child might be more capable of taking in the fact of non-existence than that of heaven, which was vague and difficult to define, short of resorting to a thoroughly old-fashioned description of Elysian fields or some cloudy place in the sky. His own father, he remembered, had been evasive on the issue, and questioning by Stuart when he was a boy had simply resulted in the matter being referred to his mother, who had confessed that she was unsure if heaven still existed but it was a nice idea even if it did not.
“Bertie,” he said carefully. “You aren’t worried that something will happen to Mummy, are you?”
Bertie was silent.
“Because,” Stuart continued, “there’s no reason to be worried about Mummy’s health. She’s very healthy, you know. And she takes lots of exercise.”
“I know she does,” said Bertie. “She has her Pilates-Tai Chi-Yoga Fusion classes.”
“Exactly,” said Stuart. “So you shouldn’t worry about her. I know that people sometimes worry that something bad will happen to members of their family, but they shouldn’t really worry, you know.”
“But bad things can happen,” said Bertie, through the darkness.
“Yes, bad things can happen. But they don’t happen all that often.” The only thing to do, he thought, was to allay anxiety by reassurance. “And I know all about the chances of bad things happening, because that’s what I do, after all. I’m a statistician – as you know.” He paused, waiting for the information to be absorbed. “So if I say that there’s not much chance of anything bad happening to Mummy, I know what I’m talking about. That’s not just any old person saying that – it’s one of the Scottish Government’s statisticians.”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “I understand all that, Daddy, but I was wondering . . . ” He broke off.
“Yes, Bertie? You were wondering?”
“I was wondering why Mummy might go to Aberdeen.”
This brought complete silence: nothing could be heard in the darkened room but the sound of the two of them breathing.
Eventually Stuart spoke. “Why do you ask that, Bertie? Has Mummy said to you that she might go off to Aberdeen?”
“Not to me, Daddy.”
“To somebody else then?”
Bertie shifted under the bedclothes. “I heard her talking on the telephone. I was reading in my room, but I heard Mummy talking on the telephone in the kitchen. I had my door open and I could hear.”
“Who was she talking to, Bertie?”
“I think it was Dr. Fairbairn. She kept calling him Hugo, and that is Dr. Fairbairn’s first name, Daddy.” Dr. Hugo Fairbairn, now Professor Hugo Fairbairn, had been Bertie’s first psychotherapist, and Bertie was convinced that he was mad. It was only a matter of time, thought Bertie, before Dr. Fairbairn was taken off to Carstairs, where he would almost certainly have to be put in a padded cell and be watched very closely.
Stuart lowered his voice. “And what did she say, Bertie?”
“She said: ‘I can’t wait to come to live in Aberdeen.’ That’s what she said, Daddy.”
Stuart closed his eyes. So she was ready to make her move. And it was, as he suspe
cted, connected with Hugo Fairbairn. He might have known.
Bertie had more. “She said that she had decided what she was going to do for her PhD, Daddy. I think she wants to do a PhD in Aberdeen.” He paused. “What’s a PhD, Daddy?”
Stuart did not answer; his mind was elsewhere.
“It’s interesting,” said Bertie, drowsily now, as sleep was overtaking him. “It’s interesting how Ulysses looks so like Dr. Fairbairn. It’s his ears mainly . . . ”
Stuart heard the note of Bertie’s breathing changing. He rose to his feet and quietly left the room.
At the VinCaffè
Irene had chosen the restaurant at which she and Stuart would have dinner that night.
“The VinCaffè,” she announced. “It’s a Contini place and they’re the Valvona & Crolla people.” Irene was a customer of Valvona & Crolla, where she took Bertie when she went to purchase sun-dried tomatoes, pasta, and occasionally, as a treat for Bertie, his favourite panforte di Siena.
The restaurant was in a small street that ran off St. Andrew Square. This street was lined with fashionable shops of which Irene did not particularly approve, and she pointedly refrained from looking in the windows until she reached the restaurant itself. But then, in the warm embrace of Italian hospitality, she seemed to relax, using her Italian sufficiently loudly to attract glances from neighbouring tables.
“Allora!” she enthused. “Insalata Caprese made with genuine mozzarella di bufala. Mi piace molto questa.”
Stuart squirmed, noticing the expression on the face of a woman at a neighbouring table. “Buffalo mozzarella,” he muttered as quietly as he could. “Very nice.”
But Irene was just getting into her stride. A waiter had appeared and began to take their order. There followed a prolonged discussion, in Italian, of the merits of various items on the menu. The waiter was patient, and eventually choices were made and duly noted down.
“I rather like this place,” said Stuart. “Perhaps we should go out for dinner more often.”
“But we’re always going out,” said Irene.
Stuart stared at her. She was talking about herself, and her various activities. She went out a great deal, but he very rarely.
“Well, now,” said Irene. “What news from the office?”
Stuart hesitated. He had not told Irene of the possible promotion, but realised that he would have to do so. “There’s a vacancy coming up,” he said. “It’s a very senior appointment. I’m applying.”
Irene looked interested. “Well, that’s about time, if I may say so. How long have you been in your current grade? Four years?”
Stuart shook his head. “Five, coming up for six.”
“Then promotion is well overdue,” said Irene firmly.
“I’m happy enough doing what I’m doing,” said Stuart. “I’ve got nice colleagues. We get along well. There’s Morrison, for example. I like working with him.”
Irene smiled indulgently. She had met Morrison once or twice when he had called at the house with office papers. “Oh him,” she said. “Morrison . . . Un po’ noioso.”
Stuart was defensive. “What does that mean?”
“A little bit . . . well, sorry to say it, Stuart – which is why I said it in Italian – a little bit on the boring side.” She paused. “I imagine he belongs to a golf club.”
Stuart tried to contain his irritation. He liked Morrison, and, yes, Morrison did belong to a golf club – in fact he was on the committee of the Duddingston Golf Club, and often spoke about their meetings . . . but what was boring about that?
“But Morrison’s not the point,” Irene continued. “The real point is your career. You’re in a bit of a rut, Stuart. I don’t mean that unkindly, but you are, aren’t you? You need a new challenge.”
Stuart bit his lip. “I don’t think I am.”
Irene ignored this. “I take it the salary will be much improved?”
“Yes, it is better paid. It’s more senior. It’s several notches above where I am at the moment.”
Irene looked satisfied. “Then you must make sure you get it, Stuart. You are going to get it, I take it?”
“There are two other candidates,” said Stuart.
Irene reflected on this. “Who exactly? Not Morrison?”
“No, not him. Morrison’s going to retire quite soon, anyway. He’s been in the office for ages.”
Irene enquired further as to the identity of the other candidates.
“A couple of female colleagues,” said Stuart. “I don’t think you’ve met them. Elaine and Faith.”
Irene sat back in her chair. This required thought. The fact that the other candidates were women changed the picture a bit – one of them should, by rights, get the job on grounds of restorative justice, but Stuart needed the salary increase, especially with her plans being what they were. That trumped it. Any salary increase would benefit her and her work, and therefore weakened the claims – strong though they undoubtedly must be – of the two female candidates.
“You’ve got to get it, Stuart. Elaine and . . . what’s her name?”
“Faith.”
“Yes, Elaine and Faith will obviously be very strong candidates, but think of your experience. No, you have to go for this one, Stuart – really go for it.”
“I’m doing my best,” he said. “We have to write a sort of mission statement.”
“Leave that to me,” said Irene abruptly. “I’ll do that. I know what they’ll be looking for.”
Stuart said nothing. This discussion was all about the future, but what about Irene’s own future? What about Aberdeen? He looked at her. His heart was beating hard within him; his mouth was dry. He had to ask her.
“And you?” he said. “What about Aberdeen?”
She gave a start, sitting bolt upright in her chair. “Aberdeen?”
“Yes. I gather . . . ”
She blushed. “I was going to tell you this evening. Or discuss it with you, rather.”
“So you haven’t made up your mind?”
Her blush deepened. “I’ve been thinking of doing a PhD, Stuart. In fact, I’ve pretty much decided. I’m going to start a PhD in Aberdeen.”
Stuart remained calm. “I see. And this will be with . . . with Dr. Fairbairn?”
She nodded, but he saw that she was averting his gaze. “He’s very kindly offered to be my supervisor. And he’s actually Professor Fairbairn now. He has a chair.”
Stuart waited for Irene to look at him, but she resolutely did not. “So you’ll need to move up there?”
She looked at him at last, and he saw several things very clearly. She did not love him. She wanted to go to Aberdeen. Her lover was in Aberdeen. And then, finally, he thought: Ulysses isn’t mine.
“I’ve thought about that,” said Irene. “I’ll need to go up there for much of the week. But I’ll come back at weekends. Some weekends.”
Stuart held her gaze. “And the boys?” he asked.
She hesitated, but only briefly. “There’s your mother,” she said. “I thought . . . ”
He took a deep breath. She had rejected his mother as a babysitter, and now here she was proposing her as substitute mother.
He leaned forward. “You know, Irene, I think this is the most wonderful idea. No, I really do. You’ve always wanted to do a PhD and you must do, you really must. And as far as my mother is concerned, I’m pretty sure she’ll leap at the idea of looking after the boys.”
The waiter appeared with a couple of plates. “Insalata Caprese,” he said, with a smile. “Buon appetito!”
We Stole It
While Stuart and Irene were at dinner at the VinCaffè, out at Nine Mile Burn, on the road to Biggar, Matthew and Elspeth were entertaining their neighbour, the Duke of Johannesburg, the former owner of the house in which they now lived, his own seat being Single Malt House, a converted farmhouse. Although the Duke described his house in those terms, he was not quite sure what it had been converted from or into.
“Lots of peop
le live in a converted something-or-other,” he once observed to Matthew, “but what exactly the converted doo-dah has been converted into may not be entirely clear – as I myself am right at the moment.”
Matthew tried to be helpful. “I think it means that the house has stopped being one thing and has become another. So a converted garage means it used to be a garage and now it’s . . . well, whatever it’s being used as.”
This reminded the Duke of something. “My friend, Paddy Auchtermuchty . . . ”
Matthew interrupted him. “The Earl of Auchtermuchty?”
The Duke laughed. “Well, I suppose he is. I find it very difficult to think of him as that. Personally, I think he’s a little bit on the bogus side, rather like myself. But the Lord Lyon appears to recognise him as the real thing, although Lord Lyon, like anybody else, can make mistakes.” He became thoughtful. “The criterion for membership of that particular slice of Scottish society, as far as I can work out, is that your ancestors bumped off more people than other people’s ancestors, or pinched more land than others. Not something to be terribly proud of, I would have thought.”
Matthew hesitated. The Duke was a very relaxed and agreeable man, and he felt that he could speak frankly to him; but he must have been sensitive about something. “Whereas, you’re not tainted by any of that?”
The Duke did not take offence. “Oh, heavens no. You know our story already, I believe – it’s pretty much an open secret. My grandfather – or it might have been my father, I’m a bit hazy on these details – promised to do the government of the time some sort of favour. Anyway, those chaps down in government said ‘Jolly good, roll it on and we’ll make you a duke or something like that.’ They may not actually have said duke; it may have been something a bit less impressive – an MBE, perhaps, not that there’s anything wrong with an MBE. But, of course, they didn’t really mean it because you know how these chaps are – they say whatever comes into their mind as long as they think it will please the voters and then . . . Well, they break their promises. That’s what they do with their manifesto promises, you know. So when push came to shove, they denied all knowledge of the bargain.
A Time of Love and Tartan Page 10
