The Revolving Door of Life

by Alexander McCall Smith

  He had offered the Duke the two most valuable paintings, leaving the least valuable for himself.

  “Well, that’s frightfully generous,” said the Duke. “But you take the Vuillard and the Fergusson. I’ll take the Cowie. How about that?”

  “No, you take the Vuillard and the Cowie,” said Matthew. “I’ll take the Fergusson.”

  “Fine,” said the Duke. “Except you keep the Vuillard. I’ll take the Fergusson and the Cowie.”

  “All right,” said Matthew. “I love the Vuillard. I love it. I’ll put it in my study. I’m very happy.”

  “My dear chap,” said the Duke. “That’s what happens when one begins to appreciate things for what they are, rather than for what they cost. One feels happiness.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, I was wondering about this recent difficulty I’ve had with the Lord Lyon’s people. I was wondering whether I should stop being the Duke of Johannesburg and become, instead, the ex-Duke of Johannesburg.”

  Matthew pondered this. Demotion to ex-duke was inappropriate if one were not a genuine duke to begin with; “soi-disant duke” or “alleged duke” might be better. He did not say this, though. Instead, he said, “That sounds very distinguished. It sounds rather like ex–King Constantine of Greece. A pretty grand moniker.”

  “Or ex–King Zog of Albania,” the Duke mused. “Do you know that when Zog travelled from the United Kingdom to Egypt in 1946 he took two thousand pieces of luggage? There were questions asked in the House of Commons about it.”

  “Imagine checking in at an airport with that,” said Matthew. “When they asked how many pieces to check in, you’d have to say ‘Two thousand.’ ”

  “Zog was a bit of an enigma,” said the Duke. “My grand-father met him, you know. He had his detractors who were somewhat harsh on him. They said he never really learned Albanian grammar and he only read two books in his lifetime, and both of them were about Napoleon. Probably not true. He had a difficult task trying to rule that place. Mind you, it probably is true what they said about the tutor Zog had as a boy; apparently the tutor was illiterate and a consummate schemer. Such a teacher would be bound to be suspended in Scotland today, don’t you think? We’re so censorious.”

  Matthew laughed. It was such a wonderful thing to say. “Please don’t stop being a duke,” he said. It was a heartfelt request; entirely meant, entirely intended.

  “Fine,” said the Duke. “Another dram?”

  63. In Valvona & Crolla

  Nicola had no such compunctions about taking Bertie to Ranald Braveheart MacPherson’s house. Indeed it was when she learned that Irene looked on Ranald’s family with disfavour that she made the firm decision to take him there.

  “Mummy doesn’t like me going to Ranald’s house,” Bertie said. “She gets cross if I ask her if I can go there. She says I should go to Olive’s house instead, but I hate going there because Olive makes me play Doctors and Nurses—and I always have to be the nurse.”

  Nicola listened sympathetically. “That’s unfortunate, Bertie,” she said. “You do know, though, that male nurses are often very kind; they help people a lot. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I know that,” Bertie assured her. “But I don’t want to play Doctors and Nurses anyway. I’d much prefer to play Cowboys and Native Americans.”

  Nicola raised an eyebrow. “Cowboys and Native Americans? That sounds interesting, Bertie. Who gave it that name, I wonder?”

  “Mummy calls it that,” said Bertie. “She also made different rules. The cowboys are meant to help the Native Americans establish community centres. It’s a bit boring, but it’s better than Doctors and Nurses.”

  “I see,” said Nicola, smiling grimly. “I think, though, that you should go to Ranald’s house, Bertie. I’d be very happy to take you next Saturday. We can go there in the afternoon after we’ve been to a pizza restaurant I’ve discovered on Rose Street.”

  Bertie’s eyes widened. “A pizza restaurant?”

  “Yes,” said Nicola. “We can go and have a pizza—lots of toppings—and then go on to Ranald’s house mid- to late-afternoon. You can wear your kilt if you like. You say that Ranald’s got a kilt—the two of you could both wear them.” She paused. “Would you like that, Bertie?”

  Bertie’s delight was very apparent—even without his saying a word. Pizzas were normally strictly forbidden by Irene, but since Nicola had arrived they had been included in the family diet at least twice a week. The thought of going to a restaurant dedicated to pizza was almost too delicious to bear—especially if he would be wearing his kilt for the outing.

  When Saturday came, Bertie was scarcely able to contain himself. He was not sure that he would be able to survive until one o’clock when they were due to set off for the pizza restaurant, but a suddenly announced expedition to Valvona & Crolla with his grandmother and Ulysses in his pushchair would at least pass the time before they set off. Ulysses, of course, would not be going with them to the restaurant, but would be staying at home with Stuart.

  “There’s no point giving him pizza anyway,” remarked Bertie. “He’d just sick it up. He always does.” He paused. “And the other people in the restaurant wouldn’t like to eat their meal with all those rude noises he makes. It wouldn’t be fair on them, Granny—it really wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, it probably will be best for him to stay at home, Bertie,” said Nicola. “But the poor little mite can come with us to the delicatessen—he always loves that.”

  They left for Valvona & Crolla at ten o’clock, walking along London Street and then making their way up Broughton Street. As they walked up the hill, Ulysses pointed at the shop fronts excitedly, giving rise to comment from his brother.

  “Ulysses always does that in Broughton Street,” observed Bertie. “Do you think he’s gay, Granny?” Broughton Street was at the heart of the gay area of Edinburgh, and several cheerful-looking cafés and bars displayed the rainbow flag in their windows.

  Nicola smiled. “I have no idea, Bertie. I think you should just wait and see. It will be many years before Ulysses knows what he wants in life.”

  “I just want him to be happy,” said Bertie.

  Nicola nodded gravely. “That’s quite right, Bertie. Most people want other people to be happy, I think. Very few people actually want to make others unhappy, I suspect.”

  “Maybe they don’t think about it,” said Bertie. “Maybe they don’t realise how the things they say and do can make other people feel unhappy.”

  “Maybe they don’t,” said Nicola. “I think you’re right, Bertie.”

  In Valvona & Crolla they bought the staples: extra virgin olive oil, sun-dried tomatoes, star anise, Himalayan flower salt, and artisan seaweed flakes. Bertie knew where all of these were shelved, and after he had collected them, he pointed longingly to the generous display of panforte di Siena. The characteristic octagonal boxes, arranged in their various sizes, bore pictures of their factory of origin printed in the colours of Italian majolica; on the sides of the boxes, certificates of purity were displayed along with lists of contents.

  “Do you like panforte?” asked Nicola.

  Bertie nodded. He was allowed it only very occasionally, and even then in small, carefully rationed pieces.

  “In that case, choose one or two big ones,” said Nicola. “In fact, how about three, Bertie?”

  On the way back, Bertie nursed the boxes of panforte, all neatly wrapped, against his chest. His heart had rarely been so full: three boxes of panforte di Siena to be consumed, Nicola told him, at his discretion. “Not all at once, Bertie,” she said. “But certainly one a day—if you feel so inclined. But remember to leave room for pizza.”

  Back at the flat, they left Ulysses in the charge of Stuart. Bertie, now wearing his kilt, the new sporran given to him by Angus, and a dark green jersey that Nicola had knitted for him in Portugal, led the way to the bus stop where the 23 bus would take them into town. There they would interrupt their journey at a pizza restaurant on Rose Street be
fore re-boarding the bus to Church Hill.

  The restaurant was busy but they had no difficulty getting a table. Bertie was shown the menu and ordered a large pizza with seven toppings. Nicola chose a smaller one, but compensated for this with her order of a large gin and tonic.

  Bertie looked at his grandmother across the table. She smiled back at him, raising her glass in toast. “Here’s mud in your eye, Bertie,” she said. “Happy landings, my darling.”

  Bertie looked at her fondly. In his short life, he had never been so happy, and he felt now that he should tell her that. But what words could he use to convey what he felt; the sense of freedom that seemed to have come over him, the sense that somehow the boundaries of his world, previously so constrained, now embraced possibilities of which previously he had only dreamed? Three words came to the fore—three words that were not so much the product of the mind, but of the soul. “Please stay forever,” he muttered.

  She heard him, and her heart gave a leap. The young believe that forever is possible; the old know otherwise.

  64. At St. Fillan’s

  “Did Fersie MacPherson ever come to Edinburgh?” asked Bertie as he and Nicola resumed their journey to Church Hill.

  Nicola thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe he did,” she said. “He came one summer when he was about eighteen, I think. He had been at the Pitlochry Highland Games and decided to come down for a quick visit.”

  “And did they like him here?” asked Bertie.

  Nicola nodded. “They liked him very much. He was a big success in Edinburgh.”

  “Did they know how brave he was?”

  “Oh yes, they knew. His visit was a bit like the visit that Robert Burns paid to Edinburgh. You know that Robert Burns came to Edinburgh, Bertie?”

  “Yes, I know that. He read his poems to all the Edinburgh people and they thought they were very good. They liked him, I think.”

  Nicola smiled. “Well, it was much the same with Fersie MacPherson.”

  Bertie looked out of the window. “Did they ask him to go and biff some of the people down in England?” he asked.

  Nicola made an effort to control herself. “Not exactly, Bertie. In fact, they asked him to go and biff some people over in Glasgow.”

  “And did he?”

  Nicola closed her eyes. She liked Fersie MacPherson and was rather glad she had invented him.

  “No, Fersie MacPherson didn’t like that sort of thing,” she said. “He liked the people in Glasgow, as long as they didn’t make too much noise. He found Edinburgh a tiny bit on the stuck-up side—just a tiny bit, hardly noticeable, but there we are. He thought that everybody was doing their best and the Edinburgh people couldn’t really help it if they were a bit that way, because that was the way they had been brought up.” She paused. “But let’s not talk too much about Fersie MacPherson. Would you like to go to some Highland Games, Bertie?”

  Bertie said that he would, and they spent the remainder of the journey talking about which of the trials of strength he would prefer. Then it was time to alight from the bus and walk the short distance to the nineteenth-century stone villa, St. Fillan’s, in which Bertie’s friend, Ranald Braveheart MacPherson, lived with his father, who opened the door to them when they arrived, and his mother, who appeared shortly thereafter with a tray of lemonade, scones and Tunnock’s Tea Cakes.

  The adults retired to the drawing room while Bertie and Ranald went out into the garden. Ranald, forewarned that Bertie would be wearing his new kilt, had his kilt on as well.

  “Shall we play Highlanders?” Ranald asked.

  Bertie frowned. “I’d like to,” he said. “But I’ve never played it before.”

  “It’s quite easy,” said Ranald. “The lemonade can be pretend whisky. You drink the lemonade and then you start singing.”

  “Is that all?” asked Bertie.

  Ranald looked thoughtful. “You can do a bit of fighting if you like.”

  “Is that all?” repeated Bertie.

  Ranald scratched his head. “We could apply for a grant,” he said. “My Dad said that grants come into it. He said something about grants, but I don’t know what they are.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to play,” said Bertie. “Couldn’t we build a gang hut instead?”

  Ranald looked doubtful. “We could play Jacobites,” he said. “You can be Bonnie Prince Charlie, Bertie. You can go and hide and I’ll come looking for you. I’ll be a Campbell, if you like. I’ll even be the Duke of Argyll. I’ll come and catch you.”

  Bertie agreed, but insisted that Ranald Braveheart MacPherson should close his eyes while he went to hide behind a California lilac bush in the far corner of the garden. He heard Ranald counting to one hundred, and then running across the lawn directly to his hiding place.

  “You must have looked, Ranald,” said Bertie. “You cheated.”

  Ranald looked down at the ground. “I’m meant to be a Campbell, Bertie.”

  From the window of the St. Fillan’s drawing room, George Balerno MacPherson watched the two boys playing in the garden. “They get on very well,” he observed. “Ranald and Bertie look like two peas in a pod, out there in their kilts, playing whatever it is they’re playing.”

  “It looks like fun,” said Nicola. “And how nice for Bertie to have the chance to play some real, rough-and-tumble games. You know what his mother was trying to persuade him to play a few months ago? You’ll never believe it.”

  Sensing an identity of attitude towards Irene, George Balerno MacPherson raised an eyebrow. “She’s a most unusual woman, I think.”

  “Thank heavens,” said Nicola. “I would hate her to be the norm.”

  Ranald’s father smiled. “And the game?”

  “Scottish Enlightenment,” said Nicola. “Bertie told me. She organised a game of Scottish Enlightenment in Scotland Street. Apparently the children sat around on chairs and were meant to pretend to be Enlightenment figures. Bertie had to be David Hume. Really, I ask you…”

  “One despairs,” said Ranald’s mother.

  “Indeed,” said George Balerno MacPherson. He looked at his watch. “Sun’s over the yardarm, I believe. Would you care for a G&T? Or even a martini?”

  Nicola clapped her hands together. “A martini would be divine,” she said.

  “George makes killer martinis,” said Ranald’s mother.

  “It’s an offshoot of the Scottish Enlightenment,” said George.

  Nicola laughed. She liked these MacPhersons. She liked their assessment of Irene. She liked the freedom that Ranald was given. She liked the absence of holier-than-thou piety and attendant disapproval. These were her sort of people.

  “Here’s tae us,” said George as he raised his martini glass a few minutes later. “Wha’s like us?”

  “Damn few,” said his wife.

  “And they’re a’ deid,” finished Nicola.

  Ranald’s mother looked at Nicola. “The thing about that toast, you know, is that George actually believes it.”

  And it was then, just as Nicola took her first sip of martini, a taste so redolent of past happiness, that her mobile telephone rang. Apologetically she answered it.

  It was Stuart. “She’s back,” he said.

  65. A Nice Surprise for Bruce

  Bruce felt pleased with himself. This was not an uncommon situation; Bruce had felt pleased with himself since early boyhood, probably from the very first time he was conscious of the fact that somebody had passed an admiring remark about his appearance. The creation of personality is a process of accretion: small things, minor events, the most subtle of human currents, lay down the solum on which the personality is nourished; in Bruce’s case, it had been the compliments passed by his mother’s friends, by people in the street—by just about everybody, in fact—that had made him aware that he had the power to charm—just by being. That was a powerful discovery, dimly glimpsed as it might have been by the immature mind, and it set the stage for the development of narcissism. So there was no incident
beside a pool when, watched by some shy Perthshire Echo, he peered down into the pool at his own reflection and fell in love; rather there were numerous moments in the High Street in Crieff when holding his mother’s hand, the young Bruce became aware that some passing woman was crouching down to gaze at him and mutter, “How bonnie!” Believing that such compliments were his due, he came to expect them, and if heads failed to turn, then there was something wrong with the heads in question.

  Now, opening the shutters of his flat in Abercromby Place, he reflected with some satisfaction on his behaviour the previous evening. Pat’s dinner party had, in his view, been a success, even if the whole purpose behind it had been thwarted by a sudden change of plan. Bruce, primed to tempt Anichka to reveal herself to Dr. MacGregor as the gold digger that Pat suspected she was, had, in military terms, been stood down.

  That had been mildly irritating, but what pleased him was that he had responded in such a self-effacing way. He had found Anichka attractive—even if she was well into her thirties—and there had been moments when he had been tempted to ignore Pat’s request to call the whole thing off. But he had not done that, and had not even given Anichka his telephone number. That was an achievement on his part, and he felt justly pleased with himself for it. Pat should be grateful to him; Pat owed him now, as he might point out to her at some point. She, after all, was not so bad, and if old fires could be stoked up occasionally—just for those occasions when the dance card, so to speak, was not particularly full, then there was no harm in that. As long as she didn’t cling…That was the problem with women, Bruce thought—they clung. Or was it clang? No, clung. Sometimes they failed to realise it, but they were clinging, slipping their emotional hooks into some poor man who was just trying to get by without being unduly clung to. Give them an inch, thought Bruce, and they take a mile.

  Standing at his window, he contemplated the day ahead. It was a Saturday and he had no plans beyond a vague arrangement to meet the boys at the Cumberland Bar early that evening. That could lead to something—there was always a party that somebody knew about, and that could go in all sorts of interesting directions. Bruce had never felt unwelcome at any party—even those to which he was not actually invited in the full sense of the word invited: invitations were for…well, for those who needed them, whose looks did not mean they were always welcome—it was a subtle distinction.