Espresso Tales

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Of course, the terminology has changed,” Domenica went on, waving a hand airily. “In my day we used to refer to men as being musical. That was a code word. The other words came in, and now, of course, everybody spells it out. Is he, do you think?”

  “Is he what?”

  “You know. Cheerful?”

  “You mean gay?”

  Domenica blushed. “Yes.”

  “I don’t know,” said Pat. “I really don’t.”

  Domenica laughed. “But you must. Any woman can tell. We can just tell.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Pat. “Do you think men can tell when a woman isn’t interested in men?”

  Domenica did not hesitate. “Of course they can’t,” she said. “But that’s because men aren’t as perceptive as women. Men don’t pick these things up. They just don’t notice the obvious.”

  “And the obvious is?”

  Domenica picked her glass up off the table beside her chair. “Trousers,” she said. “Big, baggy trousers, and boots. Certain tattoos. Subtle clues like that.” She paused. “But tell me–is he available, so to speak?”

  “I think so,” said Pat. “I get the impression that he is, but…”

  Domenica’s eyes widened. “There was something?”

  Pat looked down at the floor. She would not emerge very well from this story, but she wanted to tell it to Domenica, and so she continued. “There was a photograph,” she said. “It had something written on the back–skinny-dipping in Greece with T. And I had a quick look at it when he was out of the room. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Entirely understandable,” said Domenica. “Anybody would have done the same. Anybody.”

  “Well, I did. And it was a picture of him, of Peter, standing in the sea. It looked as if it had been taken on a Greek island somewhere. He was a little bit off the shore and so the water came up almost to his chest. It was a perfectly respectable photograph.”

  Domenica sighed. “How disappointing.”

  Pat was not sure what to make of that. There was something racy about Domenica, something liberated. And yet at the same time, she was in no sense coarse. There was no scatological language of the sort that is so casually pumped out by the foulmouthed, for whom the obscene, predictable expletive is an obsessive utterance. And yet there was a complete lack of prudery. It was contradictory–and puzzling.

  “T must have taken it,” said Pat. “But I didn’t know who T is.”

  Domenica shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Well, I think it may,” said Pat. “If T is Tom, for example, then perhaps Peter wants me just to be a friend. But if T is Theresa or Tessa, then, well, it could be different.”

  “You should have asked him,” said Domenica.

  “I tried to. I made the photograph fall on to the floor and when he came back in I picked it up and said: “Oh! Who’s T?”

  “And?”

  “And he said, ‘Oh, that! That was on Mykonos.’ And then he said–and this is the bit that really surprised me–he said: ‘I’m a nudist, you know.’”

  For a moment there was complete silence. Pat watched Domenica’s reaction. In all the time she had known her, she had not seen her at a loss for words. Now she was. She looked beyond Domenica, to the bookshelf behind her. Margaret Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa; that was all about nakedness and the innocently carnal, was it not?

  And then there were the books on feral children that rubbed spines with Mead and Pitt-Rivers. Feral children wore no clothes. More nakedness. Why should her neighbour be surprised by nakedness in Edinburgh?

  Domenica herself supplied the answer to the unspoken question. “A nudist? In Edinburgh? Does he realise what parallel we’re on?”

  Pat smiled at that. This was vintage Domenica. Then she told her what Peter had said.

  “And then he invited me to something,” she said, dropping her voice as if others might somehow hear.

  “To?”

  “To a nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens,” she said. “Next Saturday night.” And then added: “Subject to confirmation.”

  58. Moray Place

  Domenica had just opened her mouth to speak when the doorbell sounded. She looked towards the door with evident irritation. She had been on the point of responding to the extraordinary disclosure that Pat had made of her invitation to a nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens, and now, with a visitor, her comments on that would have to be delayed.

  “Nobody is expected,” she muttered, as she rose to go to the door. “Please stay. We must discuss that invitation.”

  As she approached the door a loud bark could be heard outside. “Angus,” Domenica said. “Announced by Cyril.”

  She opened the door. Angus Lordie, wearing a white linen jacket and with a red bandana tied round his neck, was standing on the doorstep, his dog Cyril sitting at his feet. Cyril looked up at Domenica and smiled, exposing the single gold tooth in his lower jaw.

  “Well,” said Domenica. “This is a rare pleasure. Is this a visit from Cyril, with you in attendance, Angus, or a visit by you, with Cyril in attendance?”

  “The latter,” said Angus. “At least from my point of view. It’s possible, of course, that the canine point of view on the matter is different.”

  He came in and was led through to Domenica’s study, where he greeted Pat warmly. Cyril licked Pat’s hand and then lay down at her feet, watching her through half-closed eyes. She thought that he winked at her, but she could not be sure. There was something deeply disconcerting about Cyril, but it was difficult to say exactly what it was. While Domenica fetched Angus a drink, Angus engaged Pat in conversation.

  “The reason why I’m here,” he said, “is artistic frustration. I’ve just been working on a portrait of an Edinburgh financier. I mustn’t give you his name, but suffice it to say that his expression speaks of one thing, and one thing alone–money. But that, oddly enough, is a difficult thing for me to get across on canvas. You see it in the flesh, but how to capture it in oils?” He paused. “Can you tell when somebody is rich, Pat? Can you tell it just by looking at them?”

  “I can,” said Domenica, as she came back into the room. “I find it easy enough. The signals are usually there.”

  “Such as?” asked Angus.

  “Self-assurance,” said Domenica, handing him a glass of wine. “People with money carry themselves in a different way from the rest of us. They have a certain confidence that comes with having money in the bank. A certain languor, perhaps.”

  “And their clothes?” suggested Pat.

  “Look at their shoes,” said Domenica. “The expression well-heeled says it all. Expensive shoes have that look about them.” She turned to Angus and smiled. “Speaking of clothing, Angus,” she said. “Pat has had a very interesting invitation. Do tell our visitor about it, Pat.”

  Pat was not sure whether she wanted to discuss Peter’s invitation with Angus, but could hardly refuse now. “I’ve been invited to a nudist picnic,” she said quietly.

  Angus stared at her. “And are you going to go?” he asked.

  Pat shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m not sure whether…”

  Domenica interrupted. “It’s not just any nudist picnic, Angus,” she said. “It’s to be held in Moray Place Gardens. Would you believe that, Angus? Isn’t that rich? Can you believe it?”

  Angus did not appear to be surprised. “Of course I can,” he said. “Moray Place has quite a few of them.”

  “Who?” Domenica demanded.

  “Nudists,” said Angus. “Moray Place may think itself very grand. It may be a frightfully smart address. But there are more nudists living there than any other part of the New Town! It’s always been like that. They meet in Lord Moray’s Pleasure Grounds.”

  Domenica gave a snort of disbelief. “I find that very difficult to swallow, Angus. Nudists in Moray Place? All those Georgian drawing rooms and grand dinner parties. Nudists? Certainly not!”

  Angus raised an eyebrow. “Of course I�
�m not saying that everybody in Moray Place goes in for naturism, but there are some of them who do. I believe they have some sort of association, the Moray Place Nudists’ Association. It doesn’t advertise, of course, but that’s because it’s Moray Place and advertising would be a bit, well, a bit beneath them.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then Domenica turned to Pat. “You do know, don’t you, to take whatever Angus says cum grano salis?”

  Pat said nothing. It seemed unlikely that there would be any nudists at all in Edinburgh, given the temperature for most of the year, but perhaps there might be in summer, when it could get reasonably warm, sometimes. Perhaps that brought them out. And, of course, Peter had declared himself to be one, and he had seemed to be serious when he issued the invitation.

  Angus frowned. “You may not believe me, my dear Pat, but this old trout here,” and at this he gestured towards Domenica, “is somewhat out of touch, if I may say so. No offence, of course, Domenica, carissima, but I’m not sure whether you understand just how deep is the Deacon Brodie streak in this dear city of ours.”

  Pat glanced at Domenica. She wondered whether she would take offence at being referred to as an old trout, but her neighbour simply smiled. “You may call me an old trout,” Domenica said. “But if there’s anybody fishy around here, Angus, it surely is you. And let me tell you that I do understand the whole issue of social concealment and its place in the Scottish psyche. But let’s not waste our time in idle banter. My question to you, Angus, is this: how do you know that there are nudists in Moray Place? Have you seen them? Or is it just gossip that you’ve picked up in the Cumberland Bar?”

  Angus took a sip of his wine. His expression, thought Pat, was that of one who was about to produce the clinching argument.

  “I’d like it to be true,” he said. “Moray Place and nudists. Can’t you just see it?”

  “No,” said Domenica. “I can’t.”

  “Bob Sutherland would have loved it,” mused Angus. “My goodness, he would have loved it.”

  Domenica looked puzzled. “Bob Sutherland?” she asked.

  “Robert Garioch,” said Angus. “A great makar. And one of our neighbours, you know. He lived in Nelson Street. Lived. Dead now, alas.”

  “Garioch,” mused Domenica. “At Robert Fergusson’s Grave?”

  “You’ll make me weep,” said Angus quietly.

  59. Robert Garioch

  “Yes,” said Angus. “At Robert Fergusson’s Grave. Such a wonderful poem. I could recite it to you, you know, all fourteen, heartbreaking lines. But I won’t do that.” He paused. “Tell me, Pat…and Domenica, for that matter, how important is poetry to you?”

  Pat thought for a moment. She had read some poets, but now that she came to think of it, who had they been? Chaucer had been forced on her at school–the respectable parts, of course–and there had been Tennyson too, and MacDiarmid, although she could not remember which bits. And then Yeats: something about an Irish airman, and towers, and wild swans. But how important had that been to her? She had stopped reading it after she had left school, and had not gone back to it. “Not very important,” she said. “Although…”

  Angus nodded. “I’m afraid I expected that answer,” he said. He looked at Domenica.

  “I find comfort in it,” she said. “But why bring up Garioch? And why would he have been so amused by nudists in Moray Place?”

  Angus laughed. “Because he had a fine sense of the contrast between grandeur on the one hand (not that I’m suggesting for a moment that Moray Place is overly grand) and the ordinary man in the street on the other. He’s the heir to Fergusson, you know. Just as Burns was. An awful lot of Burns is pure Fergusson, you know.”

  “What a tragedy,” said Domenica. “Do you know how old Robert Fergusson was when he died, Pat? No, of course you don’t. Well, he was just a little bit older than you. Just a few years. Twenty-four.”

  “And he died alone in his cell in the Bedlam,” said Angus. “That bonny youth.”

  “That seems to be the lot of so many poets,” said Domenica. “To die young, that is. Rupert Brooke.” She glanced at Pat. The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke had been the ploy to bring Pat and Peter together–and where had that led? To an invitation to a nudist picnic in Moray Place.

  “Don’t talk to me about Brooke,” said Angus dismissively. “Or at least don’t talk to me about Brooke in the same breath as Fergusson. What a pain that young man was. Have you read his letters to Strachey? Ghastly egotistic diatribes. Full of upper-middle-class swooning and posturing. The Cambridge Apostles! What a bunch of twerps–and so pleased with themselves. All deeply damaged by the English boarding school system, of course, but still…”

  Domenica was more tolerant. “They were gilded youth,” she said. “One must allow gilded youth a certain leeway…And, anyway, they were all doomed, weren’t they? They knew that once they were sent to France they didn’t stand much of a chance.”

  “Fergusson was the real thing,” Angus interrupted. “He had a real feeling for what was going on in the streets and taverns of Edinburgh. And he suffered. Brooke and his like are all too douce. That’s why their poetry is so bland.”

  Domenica rose to her feet to refresh the glass which Angus was holding out to her. “I’m not sure where this is going,” she said mildly. “But then I never am with you, Angus. Your thoughts…well, they do seem to drift a bit.”

  “Along a very clear path,” said Angus. “I was speaking about Garioch and how he would have appreciated the contrast between the outward respectability of Moray Place and the desire of at least some of the inhabitants to practise nudism. That’s just the sort of thing that he liked to write about.

  “He wrote a wonderful poem, you know, called ‘Glisk of the Great ’. The narrator sees a group of people coming out of the North British Grill, ‘lauchan fit to kill’. Then the party climbs into a ‘muckle big municipal Rolls Royce’ and disappears off towards the Calton Hill. The narrator thinks how grand this is, although the rest of us can’t join in. It gives the town some tone, you see.”

  He paused. Pat and Domenica were looking at him expectantly. Cyril, who had raised his head, appeared to be listening too, one ear cocked towards his master. Cyril had no idea what was going on–which is the lot of dogs for most of the time. But he did know that he had been enjoying a pleasant dream before his master’s voice disturbed him. In this dream he had been biting Matthew’s ankle, something he had wanted to do for a long time. And he was getting away with it too.

  “Well,” said Domenica, after a few moments, “be that as it may. Robert Garioch is not here to write about this invitation of Pat’s. We have to decide–or, rather, Pat has to decide–whether to go. And I would say certainly not.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Angus. “They’ll all be perfectly respectable. These nudists are a very tame lot, you know. They don’t practise nudism for any lascivious reasons. It’s all very pure and aboveboard.”

  “That may be so,” said Domenica. “But doesn’t it strike you as a bit strange that this young man should have invited Pat, who is not currently a practising nudist, to join them?”

  “They have to recruit somehow,” said Angus. “It’s like people inviting you to come along to a church service or an amateur orchestra. They’re hoping that you’ll join. People are recruiters at heart, you know. It makes them feel more comfortable to see the ranks of their particular enthusiasm swelling.”

  Pat listened to this with interest. She had been intrigued by what Angus had to say, but felt at heart that any advice he gave was bound to be wrong. Angus was harmless enough, she thought, but his view of things was such a strange one–almost a poetical turning upside-down of the world. Domenica, by contrast, seemed to understand things as they were, and if she were to listen to anybody, she should listen to her. Of course, there were other people she could ask. There was Matthew, but she sensed that he would be jealous and resentful if she even told him about Peter’s existence, let alone his b
izarre invitation. Then there was her father. He had a profound understanding of the world, but it would embarrass her to talk to him about something like this. Finally, she could make her mind up for herself; she could follow her instincts. But what were her instincts? She thought for a moment. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the scene in the Moray Place Gardens. Then she opened them again. She wanted to go.

  60. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part IV–Legal Matters

  High above the city, in their house in the Braids, Ramsey Dunbarton was embarking on a second reading of excerpts from his memoirs to his wife Betty. They had finished with his account of their courtship and early years in Craiglea Drive before they moved to the Braids. Betty had enjoyed the reading, although she had detected a number of inaccuracies in her husband’s recollection of events. He had confused the place of their first meeting and had got his age at the time quite wrong. He had also mixed up the name of the late Duke of Atholl, whom he had described as Angus, but who had actually been called Iain. These were little things, of course, although the cumulative effect of a number of errors of that nature could make for a narrative which was perhaps less than reliable, but she had refrained from correcting him. Ramsey had many virtues, but he also had a slight tendency to become peevish when it was pointed out to him that he was wrong about something. So Betty had remained silent in the face of these mistakes and had confined her reaction to nods of agreement and small exclamations of appreciation. And she reflected on the fact that nobody was ever likely to read Ramsey’s memoirs, even if he found somebody prepared to publish them. That was not because they were intrinsically irrelevant, but because these days people seemed to be interested only in reading about vulgar matters and violence. And there was no vulgarity or violence in Ramsey’s memoirs…at least so far. Betty sighed.