Espresso Tales

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Pat disagreed, at least in part. “And it’s often the strong women who suffer the most,” she said. “You’d be surprised, Matthew. Strong women put up with dreadful men.”

  “Anyway,” said Matthew, “the important thing is that Big Lou is happy.”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “That’s good.”

  Matthew looked at Pat. It made her uncomfortable when he looked at her like that; it was almost as if he were reproaching her for something.

  “And I’m feeling pretty happy too,” he said. “Do you know that? I’m feeling very happy this morning.”

  “I’m glad,” said Pat. “And why is that?”

  “That talk I had with my old man,” said Matthew. “It was…well, shall we say that it was productive.”

  Pat waited for him to continue.

  “I was wrong about Janis,” went on Matthew. “I thought that she wasn’t right for him.”

  “In what way?” asked Pat. “Too young?”

  “That…and in other ways,” said Matthew. “But I was wrong. And now I know that one shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “And you told him this?” asked Pat.

  “I did. And he was really nice to me–really nice. He said something very kind to me. And then…”

  Pat waited. She was pleased by this reconciliation–she liked Gordon and she had thought that Matthew had been too hard on him.

  Matthew seemed to be debating with himself whether to tell Pat something. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. But at last he spoke.

  “He was very generous to me,” he said. “He gave me some money.”

  “That’s good of him,” said Pat. “He’s done that before, hasn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, he’s done that before. But never on this scale.”

  Pat sighed. “My father gave me fifty pounds last week,” she said. “How much did you get? A hundred?”

  Matthew looked down at the desk and picked up a photograph of a painting. It was of a sheep-dog chasing sheep; the sort of painting that nineteenth-century artists loved to paint, on a large scale, for upwardly mobile purchasers. Nobody painted sheep-dogs any more, it seemed.

  “Four million,” he said quietly.

  There was complete silence. Matthew put down the photograph, but did not look at Pat. She was staring at him, her mouth slightly open. Four million.

  At last she spoke. “Four million is a lot of money, Matthew. What are you going to do with it?”

  Matthew shrugged. He had no idea what he would do with four million pounds, other than to put it safely away in the bank. Adam and Company would be the safest place for that.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He looked about the gallery. “I could put some of it into this place, of course. I could go to the auctions and bid for the expensive paintings. A real Peploe, for example. A Hornel or two. A Vettriano.”

  “You had a Vettriano,” said Pat. “And then…”

  “That was some months ago,” said Matthew. “There’s also Elizabeth Blackadder. People like her work. All those flowers and Japanese what-nots. Or Stephen Mangan, with those thirties-like people; very enigmatic. People like him. I could have all these people in here now if I wanted to.”

  Pat reflected on this. “It could become the best gallery in town.”

  Matthew beamed. “Yes,” he said. “There’s nothing to stop us now. The London galleries will be very jealous. Stuck-up bunch.”

  He looked down at the photographs on the table before them. The paintings seemed somewhat forlorn after the roll-call of famous artists he had just pronounced. Yet there was a comfortable integrity about these paintings, with their earnest reporting of domestic scenes and picturesque scenes. But they were not great art, and now he would be able to handle great art. It would all be very different now that he had four million pounds.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Matthew, “what a difference four million pounds makes? You wouldn’t think that it did, would you?–and yet it does.”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “I wouldn’t mind having four million pounds.” Then she added: “Are you going to buy a new car, Matthew?”

  Matthew looked surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “Do you think I need to?”

  Pat’s reply came quickly. “Yes,” she said. “You could get yourself something sporty. One of those little BMWs. Do you know the ones?”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Matthew. “I don’t know…”

  “But you must,” said Pat. “Can’t you see yourself in one of them? Shooting down the Mound in one of those, with the top down?”

  “Maybe,” said Matthew. “Or maybe one of those new Bentleys–the ones with the leather steering wheel and the back that goes like this. I wouldn’t mind one of those.”

  “Well, you can get one,” encouraged Pat. “Now that you’ve got four million pounds.” She thought for a moment, and then went on, “And just think of the trips you can make! French Polynesia! Mombassa! The Caribbean!”

  “That would be interesting,” admitted Matthew.

  “Well, you can do all of that,” Pat concluded. “All of that–and more.”

  They returned to their work, putting aside thoughts of expensive cars and exotic trips, at least on Matthew’s part. After about ten minutes, Pat looked up from her task of arranging photographs to look at Matthew.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked him. “Domenica’s having a dinner party and asked me. She said that I could bring a friend, if I wished. Would you…?”

  Matthew accepted quickly. He was delighted to receive an invitation from Pat, and had long hoped for one. Now, at last, she…He stopped. He stood up and walked over to the window to look out on the street. He looked thoughtful, for there was something very specific to think about here, something which sapped the pleasure that he had felt. There was something worrying to consider.

  103. All Goes Well for Bruce

  “So he’s going away,” said Dr Macgregor. “To London, you say?”

  Lying on her bed, talking to her father on the telephone, Pat gazed up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said. “He came back this evening looking tremendously pleased with himself.”

  “But that’s not unusual for that young man,” said Dr Macgregor. “The narcissistic personality is like that. Narcissists are always pleased with themselves. They’re very smug.” He paused. “Have you ever come across anybody who always looks very smug? Somebody who just can’t help smiling with self-satisfaction? You know the type.”

  “Yes,” said Pat.

  “Apart from Bruce, that is,” said her father.

  Pat thought for a moment. There had been a boy at school who had been very smug. He came from a smug family in Barnton. All of them were smug. And what made it worse was that he won everything: the boys’ 100-metre dash; the under-sixteen 50-metre breaststroke; the school half-marathon…

  “Yes,” she said. “There was somebody like that.”

  “And did you feel envious?”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “We all felt envious. We hated him. We wanted to prick him with a pin. Somebody actually did that once.”

  “Not surprising,” said her father. “But it really doesn’t help, you know. These people are impervious to that sort of deflation. They’re psychologically tubeless, if I may extend the metaphor.”

  “Bruce is exactly like that,” said Pat. “He’s undeflatable.”

  Dr Macgregor laughed. “So he announced his departure? Why is he going?”

  “It’s a bit complicated,” said Pat. “He lost his job, you see. Then he started a business, a wine dealership. He says that he was let down by somebody who had promised to invest. He bought some tremendously grand wine at a knock-down price. He sold most of it today at a wine auction in George Street.”

  She remembered Bruce’s triumphant return to the flat earlier that evening, brandishing the note of sale from the auction house.

  “He made over thirty thousand on the wine,” she went on. “He was very ple
ased. He said that he wouldn’t bother with the wine trade now and would go down to London instead. He would live there for a while on the proceeds of the auction and then get a job. He said that he was keen to try commodity trading.”

  “And what about the flat?” asked Dr Macgregor.

  “I’m afraid he’s selling it,” said Pat. “He’s going to put it on the market next week.”

  “Which means that you’re going to have to move out.”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “That’s the end of Scotland Street for me.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. The world was a lonely place, a place of transience, of change, of loss; only the bonds, the ties of friendship and family protected us from that loneliness. And what parent would not have wished his daughter to say: “Yes, I’m coming home”, and what parent with Dr Macgregor’s insight would not have known that this would have been quite the wrong answer for Pat to give him?

  “You’re always welcome to come back here,” he said. “But you’ll want somewhere with other students, which would be much better. Will it be hard to find somewhere?”

  “I’ve got a friend in Marchmont,” said Pat. “She says that there’s a place in her flat. It’s one of those big flats in Spottiswoode Street.”

  “You must take it,” said Dr Macgregor.

  After they had concluded their conversation, Pat got up and went through to the kitchen. Bruce was sitting at the table, a newspaper spread out on the table in front of him. He looked up and smiled at Pat.

  “Do you realise how much this place is going to go for?” he asked her. “I’m looking at some of the prices of places nearby. I’m going to make a packet, you know.” He sighed. “Pity you can’t afford to buy it, Pat. Then you could stay here instead of moving out to some obscure street on the South Side. Acne-Timber Street, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Acne-Timber Street?”

  “That’s what I call Spottiswoode Street,” Bruce said. “Where’s your sense of humour?”

  “Of course, if you buy something in London,” Pat said, “then you’re going to have to pay through the nose for it, Bruce. You won’t get anything in Fulham for what you get for Scotland Street, you know. You’re going to be in some dump somewhere, Bruce. Or Essex. You might even end up in Essex.”

  Bruce laughed. “No danger of that for me! I’m moving in with somebody in Holland Park. You know it? Just round the corner from that nice restaurant, Clarke’s. You know the place? You can get a Clarke’s cookbook. Everybody goes there. All the creative people. You get noticed there. I saw Jamie Byng there once.”

  Pat stared at him. They might part company on bad terms or good. If it was to be bad terms, then she could tell him now, before it was too late, what she thought of him. But what would be the point of that? Nothing could dent Bruce–nothing; it was just as her father had said. Bruce was perfection incarnate in his own eyes. It would be good terms, then. She was big enough for that.

  “You’re going to love London, Bruce,” she said. “And you’ll do pretty well there.”

  “Thanks,” said Bruce. “Yes, I think it’s going to go rather well. And this flat I’m moving into, very bijou–I’ll be sharing with the girl who owns it. Her old man’s pretty well-off. He likes me, she says. And she’s got her views on that, too, if you know what I mean. She’s a stunner. English rose type. Long, blonde hair. Job in PR. Who knows what lies ahead? Who knows?”

  Pat nodded. “That’s very nice for you, Bruce.” She paused. “And thanks, Bruce, for everything you’ve done for me. Letting me live here and so on.”

  Bruce rose to his feet. Taking a step forward, he reached out and placed both his arms lazily on her shoulders.

  “You’re not a bad type, Pat,” he said. “And you know what? I reckon I’m going to miss you a bit when I’m down there. And so…” He bent forward and then, to Pat’s astonishment, planted a kiss on her lips, not a gentle kiss, but one that was remarkably passionate, for Edinburgh.

  Drawing back, he looked down at her and smiled. “There,” he said. “That’s what you’ve been wanting for so long, isn’t it?”

  Pat could not speak. Cloves, she thought. Now I smell of cloves.

  104. Preparing Dinner

  “Porcini mushrooms,” intoned Domenica. “Place dried porcini mushrooms in a bowl of hot water and allow the mushrooms to reconstitute. Keep the liquid.”

  “Why?” asked Pat. “What are we going to do with it?”

  “We are going to cook the Arborio rice in it,” explained Domenica. “In that way, the rice will absorb the taste of the mushrooms. It’s the same principle as in the old days when people in Scotland ate tatties and a pass. The pass was the passing of a bit of meat over the tatties. The father ate the meat and the children just got a whiff of it over their tatties.”

  “Life was hard,” said Pat, slitting open the packet of mushrooms.

  “Yes,” said Domenica. “And now here we are, descendants of those very people, opening packets of imported mushrooms.” She looked out of the window, down onto Scotland Street, to the setts glistening after the light evening rain which had drifted over the town and was now drawing a white veil over Fife. “And to think,” she went on, “that the woman who lived in this house when it was first built probably had only one or two dresses. That’s all. People had very few clothes, you know. Even the wives of well-to-do farmers–they might have had only one dress. Life was very different.”

  “It’s hard to imagine,” said Pat.

  “Yes,” said Domenica. “But we need to remind ourselves. We need to renew that bond between ourselves and them, our great-great-grandparents, or whatever they were. It’s what makes us a people. It’s the knowledge of what they went through, what they were, that brings us together. If we lost that, then we’d be just an odd collection of people living on the same little bit of land. And that would be my nightmare, Pat–it really would. If our sense of ourselves as a group, a nation, as Scots, were to disappear.”

  Pat shrugged. “But nobody’s going to make that disappear,” she said. “Why would they?”

  Domenica spun round. “Oh, there are plenty of people who would be quite happy to see all that disappear. What do you think globalisation is all about? Who gains if we’re all reduced to compliant consumers, all with the same tastes, all prepared to accept decisions which are made at a distance, by people whom we can’t censure or control?

  “I, for one, refuse to lie down in the face of all that,” went on Domenica. “I want to live in a community with an authentic culture. They may sound trite, but I can find no other words for it. I want to have a culture that is the product of where I am–that engages with the issues that concern me. It’s the difference between electronic music and real music. Between the predigested pap of Hollywood and real film. It’s that basic, Pat.”

  Domenica reached for her recipe book. She sighed.

  “I sometimes feel very discouraged,” she said. “You must forgive me. I look out at our world and I just get terribly discouraged. And if I ever turn on a television set, which I try to avoid if at all possible, it only gets worse. All that crudity, that dumbing-down. Inane, mindless game shows. People laughing at the humiliation and anger of others. The most basic, triumphalist materialism, too.

  “And the crassness, the sheer crassness of the characters who are paraded across the national stage to be jeered at or applauded. The vain celebrities, the foul-mouthed bullies. What a wonderful picture of our national life all this presents!

  “And what voices are there in all this…all this noise? What voices are there to say something serious and intelligent? When the justice minister went to her own constituency to try to do something about the selling of alcohol to young teenagers, she was barracked and sworn at by teenage boys, and nothing was done to stop it. Did you see that? Did you see that shocking picture? That poor woman! Trying to do an impossible job as best she could, and that’s her reward.

  “I don’t know, Pat. I don’t know. I ha
ve the feeling that we’ve seen the dismantling of civilisation, brick by brick, and now we’re looking at the void. We thought that we were liberating people from oppressive cultural circumstances, but we were, in fact, taking something away from them. We were killing off civility and concern. We were undermining all those little ties of loyalty and consideration and affection that are necessary for human flourishing. We thought that tradition was bad, that it created hidebound societies, that it held people down. But, in fact, what tradition was doing all along was affirming community and the sense that we are members one of one another. Do we really love and respect one another more in the absence of tradition and manners and all the rest? Or have we merely converted one another into moral strangers–making our countries nothing more than hotels for the convenience of guests who are required only to avoid stepping on the toes of other guests?”

  Domenica put down her recipe book. “I’m so sorry, Pat,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to listen to all this from me. I know that one could argue the exact opposite of what I’ve just said. I know that one might point out that moral progress of all sorts has been made–and it has. In many respects we are more aware of others’ feelings than we used to be. And, of course, there’s the ready availability of porcini mushrooms…”

  They both laughed, and Domenica looked at her watch. “The guests will be here in an hour,” she said. “And we still have a great deal to do. Open the wine, will you, Pat? We must let it breathe. It’s very kind of you to bring those bottles.”

  “I found them in the cupboard,” said Pat. “They belong to Bruce, actually, and I didn’t have the chance to ask him. But he’s always helped himself to my wine and replaced it later with cheap Australian red. So I thought I’d do the same.”

  “Quite right,” said Domenica.

  Pat stood up and went over to the table where she had placed the three bottles of wine.

  “Chateau Petrus,” she said, reading the label. “I wonder if they’ll be any good?”

  “No idea,” said Domenica. “Never heard of it.”