A Time of Love and Tartan

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Pat made a dismissive gesture. “Come on,” she said. “Tell me.”

  Matthew seemed reluctant. “I tell you what,” he said at last. “Why don’t we go back to Big Lou’s? I know I’ve just come from there, but I only had one cup of coffee and I can have another. We can close up here for half an hour and I’ll tell you over a cup of coffee.”

  Pat agreed, and as they left the gallery to cross Dundas Street, she asked Matthew again to explain his behaviour.

  “I’ll tell you in Big Lou’s,” he said. “Just wait.” He paused, and then asked, “How did you get on at the dental hygienist’s?”

  “All right,” said Pat. “She said I had healthy gums.”

  “Good,” said Matthew. “Do you floss after every meal?”

  Pat said that she thought that was excessive. “Once a day is quite enough,” she said. “I floss in the night before I go to bed. And I use one of those water-pick thingies.”

  Matthew shook his head. “You should floss after every meal. Think of all that stuff in between your teeth being there all day.”

  “How do you know I’ve got stuff between my teeth?”

  “You will have,” said Matthew. “If you eat.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my gums,” said Pat stubbornly. “And what about you? What about your gums?” She sensed her advantage, and pressed home her attack. “How often do you go to the dental hygienist?” They had reached the other side of the road. Matthew looked away, as if keen to avoid the question.

  “Come on,” said Pat. “Do you even go at all? And I bet you don’t floss. Men are useless at flossing.”

  Matthew blushed; she could see that, and it gave her the answer.

  “You should go to the hygienist, Matthew,” she said, trying to avoid sounding prim, but failing. Nobody, she thought, can tell another person to go to the dental hygienist without sounding prim.

  Matthew defended himself. “Why should I go if I clean my teeth thoroughly?”

  “Because nobody,” said Pat, “can get plaque off by themselves. They need a dental hygienist with a pick. She has to pick it out – you know, to get that white stuff that she wipes off on a tissue on her work tray.”

  “White stuff?”

  “Yes, little white lumps of plaque – like tiny hard rocks. The hygienist picks them out with her little pick.”

  Matthew shivered. “I don’t know if I’ve got any of that,” he said. “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “Then let me look,” said Pat. “Let me look at your teeth, Matthew. I can tell, you know. I know what to look for between people’s teeth.”

  Matthew increased the distance between them. “I have no desire to show you my teeth in the middle of Dundas Street.”

  “Because you’re in denial, Matthew. You’re in denial about dental plaque.” She looked at him pityingly.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  “Then show me.”

  He turned to her suddenly and bared his teeth. “There,” he said. “Satisfied?”

  “Disgusting,” she said, giving an exaggerated shudder. “The gaps between your teeth are full of stuff, Matthew. If you went to the dental hygienist she’d need a pneumatic drill. A digger even.”

  “You’re a dental snob,” snorted Matthew. “You judge people by their teeth.”

  “So?” she challenged. “Teeth tell you a lot.”

  Matthew laughed. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  They had reached the steps down to Big Lou’s, and Pat led the way, descending carefully, because these were the steps down which one of Scotland’s greatest poets – perhaps her greatest poet since Burns – had stumbled. And they were the steps down which Lard O’Connor, the emerging Glasgow businessman, had fallen on that fateful visit he had paid to Edinburgh. These steps required caution.

  You Ran Away

  Big Lou welcomed them warmly. “Return custom,” she said, smiling. “Matthew had a cappuccino about half an hour ago, Pat. He’s addicted, I suppose.”

  “Addicted to your company, Lou,” said Matthew quickly.

  “Oh, haud your wheesht!” Big Lou retorted. “I’m not susceptible to flattery, Matthew. You should know that.”

  “And as for addiction,” Matthew continued, “my caffeine intake is very small – compared with some.” He looked at Pat, who loved having a cup of coffee on her desk at all times.

  “Most of the time I drink decaf,” said Pat defensively.

  Matthew shook his head. “Except it isn’t. A lot of these so-called decaffeinated coffees have quite a bit of caffeine left in them. They have to be treated with the Swiss water process, and then re-treated, if you want all the caffeine removed. With most decaffeinated coffee you end up getting quite a hefty shot of caffeine whether you like it or not.”

  “I don’t care if I’m addicted,” said Pat. “I like coffee.”

  “And you’re entitled to like it,” said Big Lou. “Dinnae listen to him, hen.”

  Big Lou set about preparing their coffees. While she was busying herself with this, Pat and Matthew made their way towards a table at the back of the room; there was nobody else in the café, but if somebody did arrive, they would still be able to avoid being overheard.

  “So,” said Pat, as she sat down, “tell me why I had to go through that ridiculous business with that poor woman. What’s her name, by the way?”

  “She’s called Mrs. Patterson Cowie,” said Matthew. “She used to be a teacher at Watson’s – she’s retired now, as far as I know.”

  “And you didn’t like her?”

  Matthew shook his head. “No, quite the opposite. I always rather liked her. She was a great teacher. She made us learn screeds of poetry by heart. I can still remember quite a bit of it. Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the nine gods he swore, that the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more . . . Do you know that one? It’s all about Horatio and how he defended the bridge over the Tiber. Or Wee sleekit, cowr’in, tim’rous beastie . . . She liked Burns. And a guy called Cecil Day Lewis who wrote a poem called Flight to Australia about two men who flew to Australia in a useless old plane, but somehow got there. I can remember most of that – except the bit where they actually reached Australia.” He paused. “And then there was D. H. Lawrence and his poem about the snake – you know the one where he throws something at the snake and feels that he’s done something petty. And Iain Crichton Smith and Norman MacCaig and Robert Frost . . . ”

  “Yes, yes,” said Pat. “But why did you want to hide from her? What had you done?”

  “Not done,” said Matthew forcefully. “I didn’t do it, Pat. Or, if I did, I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”

  “What was an accident?” asked Pat.

  “I was in a shop,” said Matthew. “And I stumbled – sort of – and knocked Mrs. Patterson Cowie down. I didn’t mean to, but there was a big fuss and . . . and I ran away.”

  Pat’s expression showed her astonishment. “You ran away? Why on earth did you do that?”

  Matthew did not answer, but looked down at the floor. Then, after a few moments he looked up and told Pat. “You heard about the incident.”

  “Me? About you knocking over . . . ” She trailed off. Now she realised what he was talking about.

  “So you were the perv in that shop,” she muttered. “It was you.”

  “I’m not a perv,” said Matthew, looking down at the floor again.

  “But you were trying to steal that Fifty Shades book. That’s a pretty pervy thing to do, isn’t it?”

  Matthew began to raise his voice. “I wasn’t trying to steal it,” he protested. “I had picked it up out of . . . out of curiosity, and then I saw Mrs. Patterson Cowie and I didn’t want her to see me reading it, so I slipped it into my trousers.”

  “Now that’s pervy,” said Pat, but corrected herself quickly. “I’m sorry, Matthew, I know you’re not a perv.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you’re in a serious mess, aren’t y
ou? My friend said the police were looking for you because they think you’re dangerous. And all it would need would be for Mrs. Patterson Cowie to see your face and identify you – which she would.”

  “I know,” said Matthew, miserably. “The police will never believe me.”

  Pat agreed. “Probably not. They’ll probably think you’re a perv.” She paused. “Sorry, Matthew, I didn’t mean that.”

  But Matthew was still miserable. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I really don’t.”

  “I’ll think,” said Pat. “There must be something – if you’re innocent.”

  “Which I am,” said Matthew. “I really am. You know me, Pat – I’d never go around knocking people over.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” said Pat. She now felt sorry for Matthew, and she reached out to pat his hand gently. And at that moment, the door of Big Lou’s opened and Mrs. Patterson Cowie came in.

  Matthew had his back to her, but Pat was in full view. As Mrs. Patterson Cowie came in, she saw Pat and immediately recognised her from the gallery. She turned away, to place an order with Big Lou.

  “She’s just come in,” whispered Pat. “Mrs. Patterson Cow.”

  “Cowie,” corrected Matthew. “You mean, in here?” He did not want to turn around, but had he done so, he would have seen Mrs. Patterson Cowie, having ordered coffee, walk purposively across the room towards them.

  “Excuse me,” said Mrs. Patterson Cowie. “I really feel that you were extremely rude to me over the road and I thought . . . ”

  She stopped. She had seen Matthew, who, feeling her eyes upon him, looked up slowly and with overt dread.

  “You!” muttered Mrs. Patterson Cowie.

  Matthew rose to his feet. “Mrs. Patterson Cowie, please listen to me. I never meant to knock you over – I swear I didn’t. It was an accident, and it was all because I felt ashamed. I’d picked up this book, you see, Fifty Shades of Grey, and I was so embarrassed . . . ”

  “Oh that,” said Mrs. Patterson Cowie. “Did you read it all the way through? I did. And do you know, I really didn’t enjoy it at all. Not the finest prose in the world, and, frankly, somewhat far-fetched . . . I could have made a far better job of it, you know.”

  Shafts of Light

  Domenica had reached a decision. The previous few weeks had been a strange time for her – she had felt restless. This was unusual for her, as she was normally quite content to allow her life to follow its accustomed patterns, which were quiet and predictable, rather like a river that knows that it is going to reach the sea eventually and is in no particular hurry to get there. Such a river has no need to prove itself by suddenly erupting into rapids or, playing for effect, by becoming a waterfall. Such a river – and such a life – is satisfied with its own course, wants to be nothing else, and is, by and large, happy with its topographical fate.

  But then there had come a period in which she began to wonder whether the life she had created for herself – particularly her marriage to Angus – was just too settled, too devoid of excitement. She began to entertain a vague feeling that she should be doing something more; that rather than being content with the company of Angus, she should be seeking new people, encouraging new friendships, and, most unsettlingly of all, finding more passion in her life. It was a seditious, almost frightening thought, and it was one that married people most dreaded. Given oxygen, it could transform happiness and acceptance into misery, despair, and ultimately into disaster.

  And that realisation came to Domenica one morning in Scotland Street itself – not in the flat, not inside, but in the street itself. It was a curious moment of enlightenment, and it came to her as she was walking back along Royal Crescent, past the old marshalling yards, and found herself standing at the bottom of Scotland Street, looking up the urban brae towards the trees of Drummond Place Gardens.

  It was one of those Scottish summer mornings when it was not clear which way the weather would jump. The air was still, and the sky unthreatening, but there had been a slight fall of rain half an hour before and the street’s setts were still glistening. Domenica had been out early – it was still only half past seven – to buy a pint of milk and had slowly been walking back to the flat. She had been enjoying the freshness of the morning and the relative quiet: the city, it seemed, had yet to stir. Sometimes, she had noticed, it failed to stir at all – not all cities feel they have to get up every day, and this, she thought, might be one of those days. But then there drifted over from Dundas Street the resigned hum of a 23 bus making its way up the hill and she realised that people were beginning to go to work. This, she decided, would be a Tuesday like any other Tuesday.

  And yet, in a sudden moment of insight, she realised it was not – at least it was not for her. The thought came to her with great clarity: what she had was infinitely precious. She did not have to do anything to make her life more exciting; she did not have to change any aspect of how she lived; and, most importantly, she had no reason to be dissatisfied with Angus. This realisation struck her with an almost physical force as she stood at the bottom of the street. I am immensely fortunate. I am alive. In this vast cosmos of swirling planets, so many of them sterile and dead, baking or swathed in clouds of methane or whatever it is they are swathed in, I am alive in a dear green place . . . and there is somebody who actually loves me.

  The words dear green place came to her unbidden. They were almost an act of cultural, or geographical, appropriation as they have been used most often to describe Glasgow rather than Edinburgh. But they were the right words, exactly the right words, to describe this world: for all its problems, it was dear; for all its wars and hatreds and poisons, it was dear because we loved it and did not want to lose it. Most of us did not want to die; most of us wanted to wake up each morning and find we were still here; most of us did not want to say goodbye to the friends we had and the places we went and the things we did. Most of us wanted the place we lived in to carry on being the place it had always been. Most of us wanted to live under the modest standards of love and acceptance rather than under the strident banners of dislike and rejection.

  As she stood there, looking to any who might have seen her, like one who was undecided as to whether to walk any further or to turn back the way she had come, she raised her head and saw shafts of light descending on Scotland Street. They were not part of any heavenly manifestation – not the shafts of light depicted in those paintings where the skies open to reveal choirs of angels and cavorting, gravity-defying putti – these were ordinary shafts of light of the sort that might fall anywhere and at any time of the day, but that were somehow this morning unusual and unexpected, and, in Domenica’s viewpoint, overwhelmingly significant.

  She closed her eyes briefly. She felt heady at the moment of mystical insight that she had experienced, but now was sober once more, and needed to get back to the flat. Once there, she opened the milk, pouring a dash into the two blue Spode tea-cups lined up on the kitchen table, and switched on the kettle. She stared at the two tea-cups, and smiled. They were just two ordinary blue Spode tea-cups, but they meant so much. They represented domesticity. They represented companionship, and the compromises of marriage – one tea-cup was hers and one belonged to Angus. Angus’s tea-cup had a chip on the rim, hers did not.

  Now she had to see him. He was still in bed, and Cyril had not yet stirred from the blanket on which he slept on the kitchen floor. She poured the tea, making sure that his was of just the strength that he preferred. These things were so important. They were everything.

  She went through to the bedroom. Angus was awake now and was reading a book.

  “I’ve brought you your tea,” said Domenica. It was what she always said, and he said, in reply, what he always said, which was, “Thank you, Domenica.”

  She placed the cup on his bedside table, and he said, again, “Thank you.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m the one who must thank you.”

  And then she leaned forward and kissed him on the
forehead. And Angus, although surprised, understood that this was a kiss of peace.

  Cyril Thinks

  Over breakfast, Domenica said little about the mystical experience she had been vouchsafed at the foot of Scotland Street. Moments of mystical insight are difficult enough for the recipient to understand, let alone explain to others. She had started to speak to Angus about it but had not found the words, and had ended up making a bland remark about the light in Scotland Street at that time of the morning being particularly . . . The right adjective failed to come to mind. Illuminating? No, all light was illuminating. Revealing? Again no: revealing light surely discourages rather than encourages that particular sort of insight.

  “Tight?” suggested Angus. “At this time of year light in Scotland can be tight in the morning and then, in the afternoon, it gets . . . well, a bit more elastic.”

  Domenica sighed. She knew that she would be unable to convey the feeling she had experienced. Angus, however, was an artist and was interested in light.

  “Have you ever noticed,” he began, “the difference between the light in the east of Scotland and the light in the west?”

  Domenica would have preferred to talk about her mystical experience, but, faute de mieux, would settle for light.

  “I suppose I have. It’s softer over there,” she said. “Bluer, perhaps.”

  Angus reached for a slice of toast. “Yes, I think of it as gentler. We have this very clear light here in the east. Sharp. But . . . ” He began to butter his toast. “But it’s different again from the sort of clear light you get in Greece – or Australia. It’s less powerful.”

  Domenica looked out of the window. The sun was on the roofs on the other side of the street, yellow on the grey of the slates; beyond that, the sky; a dash of low cumulus, lonely against the blue.

  “Do you know the reason?” asked Angus.

  “What reason?”

  “Why over in the west – in Argyll and places like that – they have this soft, rather blue light. Or is it white? Sometimes I think it’s white. The sort of white you see in a veil of rain. Glowing a bit – in a white sort of way.”