The Revolving Door of Life

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Stuart sighed. “It’s difficult to believe that this sort of thing still happens.”

  “Oh, it does,” said Nicola. “I read a book a few months ago on Barbary piracy—you know, the corsairs. They captured numerous people—snatched them from villages on the coast in the South of England. They even went up the Thames to take people into slavery. Whole villages in Italy and Spain were led off into captivity.”

  “And yet they gave us mathematics,” mused Stuart.

  “Mind you,” Nicola went on. “Barbary pirates flourished in the eighteenth century. It didn’t really go on into the nineteenth, let alone the twentieth.”

  “I did not consider myself a slave,” said Irene sharply. “I considered myself a guest.”

  “A sort of guest-concubine,” suggested Nicola. “Rather like a Gastarbeiter.”

  Irene shot her a glance. “Hardly the same thing,” she said. “And I was never a concubine. Nothing of that nature took place.”

  “Well, we’re so pleased to have you back,” said Stuart. “All of us.” He looked at his mother, who was staring fixedly at the floor.

  “Of course,” said Nicola. “It’s a great relief.”

  “I must thank you for looking after the boys in my absence,” said Irene. “It was very good of you to come all the way from Portugal.” She paused, and then turned to Stuart. “Have you checked tomorrow’s flights?”

  He paled. “Tomorrow’s flights?”

  “Yes, for your mother. To go home.”

  Stuart muttered something indistinct.

  “Well, Stuart?” pressed Irene. “You can book online these days. It’s terribly simple.”

  Nicola rose to her feet. She was trying hard; nobody noticed her clenched fists and whitened knuckles. For a moment—a glorious, irrational moment—she imagined herself lunging at Irene. She saw herself grabbing her hair—that ridiculous hairstyle of hers—and pulling hard, so hard that at least some hair would come out at the roots. She imagined scratching her—digging her nails in so that Irene shrieked in her…in her dreadful, politically correct way. A politically correct shriek? What on earth would that sound like?

  She hesitated. It would be easy, oh so easy, to succumb to the temptation. It would be easy to take the three steps that separated them and do exactly this. Irene so richly deserved it. She had had it coming to her for years and years and nobody had done what so many must have dearly wished to do. But the moment passed. This was Edinburgh. These things did not happen in Edinburgh, no matter how far the famed Caledonian antisyzygy made for a divide in the soul, a divide between respectability and the dark domain of violence.

  She left the room, muttering something about having to make a start on her packing. Bertie and Ulysses had been put to bed, but as she went past Bertie’s door she heard a noise, a small sound, a whimper perhaps. She pushed at his door; the night-light was on in his room, and she could make out the small figure of her grandson lying under the space-rocket duvet cover, his head on the pillow on which further space rockets passed by shooting stars and ringed planets. And she heard that he was crying.

  She crept in and crouched down at the head of his bed.

  “Dear Bertie,” she said. “You mustn’t cry.”

  But perhaps you should, she thought; perhaps that’s precisely what you should do; perhaps you need to cry.

  She wondered what she could say. The poor little boy had glimpsed freedom and a life untrammelled by all the things that had enclosed his world—the yoga, the psychotherapy, the Italian conversazione. Now all of that would return, and freedom, that blessed state of being able to be a little boy, would recede from his grasp.

  “Would you like me to tell you a Fersie MacPherson story?” she whispered. “It will help you to get to sleep and might cheer you up a bit.”

  He moved his head against the pillow—an attempt, in his misery, at a nod.

  She reached out to touch his cheek, damp with his tears.

  “Fersie MacPherson, the Scottish person, lived in Lochaber, as well you know. Sometimes he went out to stay with his uncle on South Uist when he was a small boy—a very strong small boy, remember—and he used to walk down to the machair—you know what that is, don’t you: the strip of sand and grass and shells between the water and the land—and he would pick up shells and listen to them and hear the sea in them…And he would think of the things that made him sad and realise that they would not last forever and that if he was unhappy now he was bound to be happy tomorrow, if he waited patiently enough…”

  69. In Drummond Place Gardens

  “I’m going out for a walk,” called Nicola from the hallway. She could not bring herself to enter the kitchen, where Stuart and Irene were. She was no coward, but she could not; not in her heart-sore state.

  “All right,” called Irene. “Enjoy yourself.”

  Nicola pursed her lips. How dare she! Enjoy yourself! For a moment she struggled with a strong impulse to turn round, storm back into the kitchen, and scream at Irene at the top of her lungs, like a Musselburgh fishwife. But she controlled herself and merely seethed for a minute or so. Then she thought: how unjust we are to fishwives. Presumably they were no more vocal than any other class of the community, and anyway it was an ancient form of words now. There were no fishwives left as far as she knew, which meant that a new expression needed to be developed, taking into account modern occurrences of shrill conduct. Who screamed in an unseemly way? She smiled as she thought of her candidates.

  She made her way downstairs and out onto Scotland Street. She would miss Edinburgh once she went back to Portugal. She would miss the stoniness of the buildings, the attenuated light, the rapidly changing skies. She would even miss the weather, the sudden squalls, the fleeting, weak sunshine, the way the light came at you at an angle, brushed against you, rather than fell heavily on you, as it did in Portugal. Scotland, she thought, has so much wrong with it, but it is my place, the place that will always be home to me, no matter how beguiling Portugal might become: coloured tiles, vineyards, arresting smiles, white dust were all very well but I, she thought, am a woman of our latitudes rather than theirs.

  She walked up the street. The Drummond Place Gardens were bathed in evening sunshine, and she had a key in her pocket. She would go there, she decided, and calm down. There was nothing like greenery to reduce anger, she felt. Green was the most calming of colours; red the most enraging.

  In the gardens she began to walk along the path that ran round the circumference. There was nobody else there and she was able to mutter under her breath without risking being overheard. Irene, she murmured. That woman. Unbelievable. Incredible. Ghastly.

  She stopped. Domenica Macdonald was approaching her on the path.

  “Well, good evening, Nicola,” said Domenica. “What a gorgeous sky. Just look at it. One might almost imagine angels flying across it. Or Time’s chariot—as in Poussin.” She paused. “Are you all right?”

  Nicola sighed. “No. I’m not, actually.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Domenica. “Can I do anything?”

  Nicola looked at her. She liked Domenica, and she felt she could talk to her.

  “My daughter-in-law has returned,” she said. “She’s been released.”

  She watched for Domenica’s reaction—and she was pleased with what she saw. Domenica’s face fell.

  “What interesting news,” said Domenica, in the tone of a general hearing of the rout of his army.

  Nicola managed a rueful smile. “I suppose she had to return.”

  Domenica was silent.

  “I’m not happy about it,” Nicola continued.

  “And Bertie?” asked Domenica. “Is he pleased?”

  Nicola shook her head. “The poor little boy. He’s putting a good face on it, but frankly I think he would have preferred her to prolong her absence. In other words, no.”

  “And the younger one?” asked Domenica. “Little Ulysses?”

  Nicola shrugged. “Hard to tell. He was cop
iously sick the moment he saw her. All over her dress. He hadn’t been sick for some time—but her return seemed to bring it on.”

  Domenica made a gesture of acceptance. “Well, what about you?”

  “She suggested that I leave more or less immediately. I suppose I have no alternative.”

  Domenica raised an eyebrow. “Really? She can’t tell you where you go. You can stay if you wish—not in her house, of course, but somewhere else.” She paused. “I have a friend who’s looking for a house sitter. She’s going to Sri Lanka for three months and is keen to have somebody look after her house. And her cat. Are you pro-cat?”

  “Unconditionally,” said Nicola. “If the dogs took over, I’d go to the wall for the cats.”

  “She has a flat in Moray Place. You know it?”

  “Very central,” said Nicola.

  “She’s next door to the Association of Scottish Nudists,” Domenica continued. “But she gets on very well with them, she tells me. Apparently they’ve been having internal issues recently—some sort of power grab by Glasgow—defeated by some deft footwork on Edinburgh’s part. They held a party to celebrate apparently—in the Moray Place Gardens, but it was the usual cold Edinburgh evening and several of them were carted off to the Infirmary suffering from frostbite. And exposure too, I imagine.”

  Nicola laughed. It was the first time she had laughed since she had heard the news of Irene’s return.

  “I might be interested,” she said. “I could stay there and see what I could do to help Bertie.”

  “You know what the best thing would be,” said Domenica. She spoke slowly, choosing her words very carefully. “Sorry to say this, but I think it’s the only chance. The best thing might be for Stuart to perhaps…”

  “Leave her?” asked Nicola.

  “Well…”

  “Oh, I’ve thought of that,” said Nicola. “And when I did, I felt guilty just to think of it. But you’re right, you know—she’s not going to change.”

  Emboldened, Domenica said, “We could perhaps introduce him to somebody. We could find somebody who appreciated him. Who would let him be who he wants to be without constantly lecturing him about his failings.”

  “Somebody who would love him,” said Nicola.

  “Yes. Somebody who would love him.”

  “But what about Bertie?” asked Nicola. “Wouldn’t she try to keep hold of him?”

  “I assume Bertie would divide his time. He’d be half-free, which is better than being completely unfree.”

  They continued on their walk together.

  “The more I think of spending a few months in your friend’s flat,” said Nicola, “the more desirable a prospect I find it.”

  “We could phone her straightaway,” said Domenica. “We could go round to meet her right now. Why not?”

  “Why not indeed?” said Nicola.

  70. In the Cumberland Bar

  “Do people have parties anymore?” asked Matthew.

  He was sitting in the Cumberland Bar with Angus Lordie and his dog, Cyril. Matthew and Angus were on bent-cane chairs round a small table, while Cyril lay contentedly under the table, one of his paws resting on his master’s foot in a gesture that, although entirely accidental, had a proprietary look to it. A few inches away from his head lay the small dish in which Cyril was served his ration of beer—no more than a few slurps really, but for Cyril the great treat of his life. He liked beer not for its intoxicating effect—and Cyril had only once been drunk, when he had been inadvertently served an excessive amount—but for the smell of hops. Rather like catmint, for which cats would readily commit murder, some dogs find it difficult to resist the smell of hops. Had they the vocabulary, dogs might say: hops was one of the smells of canine heaven—a place of corners yet to be investigated by any other dog; of fields of unflushed birds; of ancient cherished bones; the smell of loyalty and a warm fireside.

  “Parties?” said Angus. “I suppose they do.”

  “It’s just that there seem to be so few these days,” Matthew continued. “In the old days…”

  “Ah,” said Angus, “the old days! How often do we say ‘the old days’?”

  Matthew was undeterred. “In the old days, in Edinburgh, there were parties galore on Friday night. You heard them. If you walked along the street in a place like Marchmont, you heard the parties going on. And then people who were a bit more—how shall I put it—‘evolved’ perhaps—they had dinner parties. People went round for dinner at other people’s flats.” He took a sip of his beer. “They just did.”

  “Perhaps they still do,” said Angus. “It might just be that we’re not invited quite as much. Or not at all, maybe. Invitations decline, you know—not that that should affect people like you, Matthew. How old are you? Thirty? If that.” He paused. “Of course, in your case it may have something to do with your having triplets. I think it probably makes a difference if you have triplets. People must hesitate to invite those who have triplets. They must say to themselves: they won’t be able to come to anything—now they have triplets.”

  This conversation, conducted early on a Friday evening, seemed destined to take a melancholy turn, and would have done so, perhaps, had it not been for the arrival of Brian Taylor, a journalist and old friend of Angus’s. Joining them at their table, Brian looked at Angus and said, “Don’t ask me.”

  Angus demurred. “Of course not.” But then said, “Don’t ask you what?”

  “To analyse the situation.”

  This brought a laugh from Matthew. “I understand. It must get a bit much.”

  Angus smiled. “I was just about to ask you: What do you think of the old days?”

  Brian smiled. “Oh, I think they were terrific. We had such fun in the old days. Didn’t you? When somebody says ‘the old days’ I think of St. Andrews. I suspect a lot of people do.”

  “We each carry our particular old days within us,” observed Angus. “Even Cyril down there. He had quite a time—before he went to the vet. Remember those days, Cyril?”

  Cyril looked up and flashed a grin. His gold tooth, inserted all those years ago by an obliging dentist who happened to be at a particularly raucous party in the Scottish Arts Club, momentarily caught the light.

  “I have yet to find anybody,” said Matthew, “who disliked being at St. Andrews.”

  “They might have existed,” said Brian. “But I didn’t meet them.”

  Angus nodded. “Art College dances,” he said, looking into his beer. “They were legendary. Parties that went on until…however long was deemed necessary. Exhibitions that got people talking. The sense of the world’s possibilities.”

  “Yes, it was full of possibilities,” said Brian. “It still is.”

  “Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive,” muttered Matthew.

  “I went to Dublin once,” said Angus. “Back in the old days…”

  Brian smiled. “Ten years ago?”

  “About that,” said Angus. “I went to a splendid bar—you know, one of those marvellous Dublin bars, complete with brewers’ mirrors and snugs and a barman with a white apron. Everything. This was called the Palace Bar—it was near Trinity. It had strong literary associations—they all went there, including Brian O’Nolan—or Flann O’Brien as he called himself. Or Myles na gCopaleen. The funniest writer there ever was. His picture was on the wall.”

  “And?” asked Matthew.

  “Well, we went there,” Angus went on. “It was just me and a friend from Glasgow. We both had a painting in a show of contemporary Scottish art—or it was contemporary then—somehow I feel that nobody would regard me as contemporary today.”

  “But you are contemporary, Angus,” said Brian, loyally. “It’s just that some people these days are a bit more contemporary than you. That’s all it is.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Angus. “As always. But anyway, we had this wonderful conversation with somebody who worked for the Irish Times. It’s their bar, you see—their office isn’t far away. And he said:
‘There’s a party on at such and such a place. Would you care to come?’ He then said, ‘All the fellows will be there. Racing correspondent. Economics editor. Literary editor. All of them, so they will.’ Those were his exact words. The Irish like to add things like ‘so they will’ to what they say.”

  “And this party?” pressed Matthew.

  “Well, we said that we thought it would be a great idea. So we piled into a taxi and the Irish Times chap gave the driver the address. But the driver said, ‘But isn’t it a bit early to be going along to a party like that? Sure, wouldn’t you be better to be going to another party first?’ So the Irish Times chap said to him, ‘You wouldn’t happen to know of a better party, would you?’ And the driver said, ‘As it happens, I do. Should I be taking you fellows along there first?’ ”

  Matthew was intrigued. “So you went?”

  “Of course we did,” said Angus. “Those were the old days. You did that sort of thing.” He paused. “How about a party in Scotland Street? Right now? We’ll get a few people along.”

  Matthew looked doubtful. “You’re married now, Angus. What about Domenica? Wives don’t like parties being sprung on them.”

  “But we’ll invite her too,” said Angus. “Why should the Irish have all the fun?”

  71. Friendship, Camouflage, Love

  But while Angus and his two friends sat in the Cumberland Bar and talked of the past, of the talent of the Irish for parties, and of other matters that are an antidote to the pressing concerns of the day, Domenica Macdonald, anthropologist and observer of the ways of Edinburgh and the world, author of that seminal paper “On the Home Life of Contemporary Pirates in a Malaccan Coastal Community,” was drinking China tea in Scotland Street with her old friend, Dilly Emslie, and discussing conceptual art and the return of Irene Pollock from her ill-starred trip to the Persian Gulf.