44 Scotland Street (18 page)

46. Humiliation and Embarrassment

Pat did not stay long at the Hot Cool after Chris had made his self-pitying declaration. It had not surprised her that he had been offended by her dismissal of him – any dismissal was offensive to the one on the receiving end – but there was something uncomfortable about the way in which he had included her in his blanket condemnation of the Edinburgh art world. She realised that he must have imagined her to be part of that world – and she was part of that world, in a very attenuated sense – but he had no right to make such sweeping statements about the attitudes of other people. How did he know anything about her views, other than that she did not think that there was much chance of developing a relationship with him, and this on the grounds of her objection to the use of the expression
hah, hah
? Anybody might object to that, just as they might object to any overused phrase, and it seemed quite unreasonable for him to accuse her – and so many others – of being snobbish. It was not snobbish, she thought, to object to those who said
hah, hah
. That was an entirely personal reaction, and we were entitled, surely, to personal reactions to a mannerism. We did not have to like the way other people walked, or talked, or the way they drank their coffee or combed their hair. Or did we have to like everything? Was it
inclusive
to like everything?

They had parted in a civil fashion. After a small amount of rather stiff conversation, Chris had looked at his watch and remembered another commitment, just seconds before Pat had been planning to recover from a similar lapse of memory.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” he had said, looking dubiously around at the décor of the wine bar and at the other customers. “You never know.”

“Maybe,” said Pat. “And I’m really sorry if I offended you. I really am …”

He raised a hand. “Water under the bridge. Don’t worry. It’s just that this place gets me down from time to time. It’s not your fault. Maybe I should go back to Falkirk.”

“You can’t go back to Falkirk,” said Pat. She said this and then stopped: it sounded as if she was expressing a major truth about life, and about Falkirk, which was not the case.

Chris looked at her quizzically. “Why not?”

“Well, maybe you can. Maybe Falkirk’s all right to go back to, if you come from there to begin with, if you see what I mean. What I wanted to say was that in general, in life, you can’t go back.”

He looked at his watch. “I actually do have to see somebody,” he said. “I really must go.”

After Chris had gone, Pat stood by herself at the bar for a short while. The barman, who had observed the scene, came over towards her, casually wiping the bar with a cloth.

“Chris gone?” he asked.

Pat looked down into her glass. “He did hear,” she said quietly. “He heard what I said about his laugh. I feel terrible.”

The barman reached over and touched her lightly on the wrist. “You shouldn’t. That was nothing. You should hear some of the things that are said in this place. Horrible things. Cruel things. What you said was nothing.”

Pat looked at him. “But he was upset. He said that’s how people are in this city.”

“He’s a bit marginal if you ask me,” said the barman. “I see all types in this job, and I know. He’s a cop, by the way. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I did. But how did you know? Had you met him before?”

The barman winked at her. “I can tell a mile off. And it’s not a good idea to get too involved with cops. They can be difficult.” He paused. “Anyway, you see that guy at the end there, the one in the cord jacket? He’s been wanting to talk to you all evening. But take my advice, don’t.”

Pat glanced at the young man, who had remained at his place further down the bar throughout her ill-fated encounter with Chris.

He was picking at a small dish of olives before him, looking ahead, although now he glanced at her quickly, and then looked away again.

“Why?” asked Pat.

“Just don’t,” said the barman. “I know. Just don’t.”

The barman turned away. He had customers to deal with and Pat, left by herself, finished the last of her drink, and walked out of the wine bar. She noticed that the young man in the cord jacket watched her as she left, but she kept her eyes on the door and did not glance in his direction. It was fine outside, and night was just beginning to fall. She looked up at the sky, which was clear. It was still blue, but only just, and in minutes would shade into darkness.

47. Irene and Stuart: A Breakfast Conversazione

It was a Saturday, and there was no need for Stuart to rush to catch the bus to work, yet he was an early riser and by the time that Irene got up he had already chopped the nuts and sliced the bananas for the Bircher muesli. He had also gone out to the newsagent for the papers, and was reading a review when Irene came into the kitchen.

“Anything?” asked Irene, making for the pot of coffee on the edge of the Aga.

“Practically nothing. A new biography of James the Sixth,” said Stuart. “It’s getting a good review here from somebody or other.”

Irene opened the kitchen blind and looked out onto Scotland Street.

JAMIE SEXT: James VI of Scotland, James I of England (1566-1625), son of Mary Queen of Scots. Became the infant King of Scotland on the forced abdication of his mother in 1567. When Elizabeth of England died in 1603, he became King of England, being the great-grandson of James IV’s English wife, Margaret Tudor.

“I have no idea,” she said, “no idea at all why people continue to write royal biographies. They go on and on. Even about the Duke of Windsor, about whom there was nothing to be said at all, other than to make a diagnosis.”

Stuart lowered the paper. “Some of these kings were influential,” he said. “They ran things then.”

“That’s not what history is about,” snapped Irene. “History is about ordinary people. How they lived. What they ate. That sort of thing.”

Stuart looked down at the review. “And ideas,” he said, mildly. “History is about ideas. And monarchs tended to have some influence in that direction. Take Jamie Sext, for example. He had ideas on language. He was quite enlightened. He would have enjoyed the newspapers, if they had been around.”

Irene stared at him. “Which newspaper?” she asked. But he did not answer, and she continued: “What a peculiar thing to say!”

“No,” said Stuart. “Not really. In fact, it’s quite interesting to speculate what people would have read if these papers had existed. Queen Victoria, for example, read
The Times
, but what would Prince Albert have read?”

“The
Frankfurter Allgemeine
?” ventured Irene.

They both laughed. This was undoubtedly very funny.

“And was she amused by
The Times
?” asked Stuart.

“No,” said Irene. “She was not.”

Irene joined him at the table.

“Enough levity,” she said. “We must talk about Bertie. We have to do something. I can’t face going back to that awful Macfadzean woman. So Bertie’s going to have to go elsewhere.”

“Couldn’t he wait?” asked Stuart. “He knows a great deal as it is. Couldn’t we give him a gap year?”

“A gap year?”

Stuart seemed pleased with his suggestion. “Yes, a gap year between nursery and primary school. So what if he’s only five? Why not? Gap years are all the rage.”

Irene looked pensive. “You know, you might have something there. It could be a year in which he did his Grade seven theory and one or two other things. It would take him out of the system for a while and allow him to flourish. We could make a programme.”

“Send him abroad? Perhaps he could work in a village in South America, or Africa even.”

Irene thought for a moment, as if weighing up the suggestion. “Hardly. But it would be a rather good way of letting him develop without having to look over his shoulder at other children. I’m sure he’d benefit. And perhaps I could take him to Italy – to perfect his spoken Italian.”

Stuart laid aside his newspaper. “I was thinking of taking the pressure off a bit, rather than adding to it. I thought of a year out, so to speak. Perhaps we should leave Italian for the time being.”

This suggestion did not go down well with Irene. “It would be a criminal waste of everything we’ve done so far if we let his Italian get rusty,” she said coldly. “And the same goes for the saxophone and theory of music. For everything in fact.”

“But perhaps at this age we should concentrate on his
langue
maternelle
,” said Stuart. “Italian is a very beautiful language, admittedly, but it isn’t his
langue maternelle.
”

“Neither here nor there,” said Irene dismissively. “There is evidence – ample evidence – that the development of linguistic skills in the early years leads to much greater facility with language when one’s older. Every minute is precious at this age. The mind is very plastic.”

Stuart opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and was silent. He knew that he could not win an argument with Irene, and nine years of marriage to her had convinced him that he should no longer try.

“I’ll think about it further,” said Irene. “The only decision we have to make now is not to take him back to that woman and her so-called nursery school. And I don’t think we should.”

“
D’accordo
,” said Stuart.

Irene looked satisfied. “In that case, I shall have a look around and see what’s possible. I’ll do this after we’ve started his therapy.”

Stuart gave a start. This was new information. Had therapy been discussed before? He could not recall anything being said

about it, but then sometimes he stopped paying attention when Irene was talking. He might have missed the discussion.

Irene, noticing his puzzlement, explained. “The Scottish Institute of Human Relations,” she said. “We have an appointment there on Monday. A Dr Fairbairn. He’s been highly recommended and he’ll be able to advise us on why Bertie has suddenly started playing up.”

“Do we really need all this?” asked Stuart.

Irene stared at him. No response was necessary, or at least no verbal response.

48. Plans for the Conservative Ball

On the other side of the city, in their house in the higher reaches of the Braids, Raeburn Todd and his wife, Sasha, had finished their breakfast and were now drinking a cup of coffee in the conservatory. This was where they liked to sit after breakfast at weekends, particularly on a fine day, such as this was. The Braids could be cold, with their extra three hundred feet or so, but that morning the weather was warmer than normal and they had even opened a window of the conservatory. It was the day of the South Edinburgh Conservative Ball, and Todd, who was the chairman of the ball committee, was reviewing the prospects for that evening’s entertainment. He had made a list of things to do and was going through this with Sasha.

“First thing,” he said in a businesslike fashion. “First thing is hotel bits and pieces. Meal and ballroom.”

“All fine,” said Sasha, who composed the rest of the committee, the other members having sent their apologies. “The menu’s approved and the hotel said they would look after the flower.”

Todd smiled. “Flower? Only one?”

Sasha nudged him playfully. “You know what I meant. Flowers. The fact that we have very few people coming doesn’t mean we’re only going to have one flower.”

Todd looked down at the list in front of him and shook his head. “On which subject,” he said, “this is really very disappointing. Nothing’s come in this morning, I take it? Nobody else signing up?”

Sasha shook her head. “When the phone went before breakfast I hoped that it would be somebody. But it was the dress shop about my dress. So it looks like that’s it.” She paused. “Are you still sure that we should go ahead? Couldn’t we come up with some other explanation for a late cancellation?”

Todd’s reply was firm. “No. Absolutely not. We’ve been through this before. And, anyway, other parties have their problems with parties, so to speak. Have you ever been to a Labour Party do? Awful. Dreadfully dull events. Like a primary school parents’ evening, but not quite so much fun. And the Liberal Democrats have these terrible dinners where everybody wears woolly pullovers and rather shabby dresses. And as for the SNP, well, everybody’s usually tight at their events, rolling all over the floor. Ghastly. No, we don’t do too badly, I’m telling you!”

“Even with … how many is it?”

Todd consulted his list. “I make it six,” he said. “You, me, Lizzie, that young man from the office, and Ramsey and Betty Dunbarton. They’ve confirmed, so that’s six.”

Sasha picked up her coffee and took a sip. “We could have just one table, then,” she said. “We could all sit together.”

This idea did not appeal to Todd. “No,” he said. “I think we should have two tables. Table One and Table Two. This is because it would look rather odd just to have one table, and then I’m not sure if we want to spend the whole evening with the Dunbartons, charming company though they undoubtedly are. It’s just that he’s such a bore. And I’m sorry, but I can’t stand her. So, no. Let’s have two tables. We’ll be at Table One, and they can be at Table Two.”