The Unbearable Lightness of Scones (43 page)

He searched the pile of magazines on the waiting room table to see if there was a new copy of
Scottish Field
. There was, and he seized it eagerly. There was an eagle on the cover this time, and Bertie studied the plumage and claws with some interest. Tofu had said that he had seen an eagle in a tree in his garden, but Bertie doubted this.

Tofu lied about most things when it suited him, and it usually suited him to impress other people. He lied about his father, saying that he was a private detective, when Bertie knew that he was really a writer of books on vegetarian matters. He lied about his mother, whom he claimed had been eaten by a lion
while on safari in Africa, but who was, according to Olive, locked up in prison. Olive herself, of course, was not above lying. She had misled Akela with entirely false claims of previous scouting experience, but much more importantly she had deceived everybody at school with claims that Bertie was her boyfriend, which, as far as he was concerned, was most certainly not the case.

He opened
Scottish Field
and turned the pages. There was an article on a man who had turned an old byre into a house. There was an article about a man who restored old cars, and one about wolves and whether they should be reintroduced into Scotland. Bertie thought this would be a good idea, but that it would be best to reintroduce them into Glasgow first before they started to reintroduce them into Edinburgh. If the wolves did well in Glasgow, and didn’t bite too many people, then they could start by reintroducing them into Queen Street Gardens before they allowed them to make their lairs elsewhere.

He paused, and looked up at the ceiling. What would happen, he wondered, if they reintroduced wolves into Queen Street Gardens but did not tell his mother? And what would happen if he, Bertie, read about this in
Scottish Field
? Would he have to warn his mother if she told him that she was taking Ulysses for a walk in the gardens – as she sometimes did? If the wolves ate his mother, of course, they might take pity on Ulysses and raise him as one of them. Bertie had read about this happening, about feral children being brought up by wolves and such creatures, and he thought it would be fun to have a brother who lived with wolves, like Romulus and Remus.

Bertie skimmed through the article on wolves and reached the pages at the back where there were pictures of the latest parties and dances. This was the part of the magazine that he liked the most, as he now recognised some of the people in the pictures, and it made him feel part of everything to see them enjoying themselves.

He would go to these parties and dances himself when he was eighteen; he was sure of that; he would go without his mother. He looked at the pictures. There had been a dinner at Prestonfield House, he read, and there had been hundreds of people there. He scrutinised the pictures and saw some faces he knew: Mr. Charlie Maclean, in a kilt, talking to Mr. Humphrey Holmes; Mr. Roddy Martine talking to a lady in a white dress with a tartan shawl about her shoulders. Bertie’s eye moved over the captions. Annabel Goldie talking to Mr. Alex Salmond, and both smiling. He had read about them in the papers and he knew who they were. He was telling her a joke, Bertie thought, and it must have been very funny, because she was laughing a lot. And there were pictures of a band. Mr. David Todd playing the fiddle in his tartan trousers while a group of people danced. Bertie sighed; he had only ever been to one party, and that was Tofu’s, at the bowling alley in Fountainbridge. There were never any photographs of parties like that in
Scottish Field
.

Irene did not take forty-five minutes. Within ten minutes of going in, she came out again.

“You can go in to see Dr. Sinclair now, Bertie,” she said, rather tersely. “Mummy’s popping out to Valvona & Crolla, but will be back at the end of your session.”

Bertie went in and sat in the chair in front of Dr. Sinclair’s desk.

There was a silence, and out of politeness Bertie thought he would make a remark. “Do you ever think about wolves, Dr. Sinclair?”

The psychotherapist, who had been scribbling a note on his pad of paper, looked up sharply.

“Wolves, Bertie? No, I can’t say I think about wolves very often.” He paused. “Do you?”

Bertie nodded. “I think that wolves are going to come back,” he said.

Dr. Sinclair stared at him. “That’s interesting, Bertie. Does that worry you?”

Bertie thought for a moment. “A little bit. I wouldn’t like to be bitten by one.”

Dr. Sinclair said nothing. Freud’s Little Hans, he thought; he had been worried about being bitten by the dray horses. And then there was Freud’s wolf man. How strange that young Bertie should …

Bertie interrupted this disturbing train of thought. “Of course, we could always get the Archers to deal with them if they became too much of a problem in Edinburgh.”

Dr. Sinclair looked puzzled. “‘The Archers,’ Bertie? Who are these archers?”

“They wear a green uniform,” explained Bertie. “And they have a hide-out on the edge of the Meadows. I’m not sure if they’d be able to hit the wolves, though …”

Dr. Sinclair made a note on his pad, but kept his gaze on Bertie. I have almost made a major mistake, he thought. I was on the point of discharging this poor little boy, on the grounds that he did not need therapy. And now this … a complicated neurotic structure, complete with wolf and archer fantasies, and I missed it entirely, until it revealed itself, unfolded before my eyes.

I owe his mother an apology, he thought. It just goes to show how professional arrogance and its attendant assumptions can lead one up entirely the wrong path.

Bruce’s invitation to dinner at the Todds’ house in Braid Hills had been delivered to him by Todd’s secretary. It was written on a correspondence card tucked into a white envelope: “Dear Bruce, Sasha and I would love to have you round for dinner next Saturday. Free? I hope so. Raeburn.”

Bruce spent some time analysing the precise wording of this message, and the mode of its delivery. The fact the envelope
had been brought to him by Todd’s secretary was significant, but he could not yet work out exactly what that significance was. Was Todd embarrassed to ask him face-to-face? Was he concerned Bruce would find it easier to refuse if he delivered the invitation personally? Or was it a case of his not being overly enthusiastic and therefore issuing the invitation as a casual note, dashed off and tossed across the desk to his secretary? It was hard to tell.

And then there was the wording, which was capable of as many readings as there were words. “Sasha and I”: did that mean Sasha was the originator of the invitation, with Todd being added merely for politeness’s sake? He could hardly have written: “Sasha would love to have you round for dinner,” as that would have made clear his own indifference, or indeed antipathy, to the idea of entertaining him.

The words “would love to have you round” were also problematic. Todd would never say he would love anything to happen; that did not sound at all like him. He would say, “I would like to have you round,” or, possibly, “Would you care to come round for dinner?” He would not say, “I would love to have you round.” That was the language of the thespian, the man in touch with his feminine side; it was not the language of men like Todd. So this meant, perhaps, that the wife was the real author of the note.

But then, just a word or two further on, the presumption changed. “Free?” had the ring of the authentic Todd: he was always saying things like that. “See?” “Agree?” “Problem?” He liked single-word sentences with a question-mark at the end. And “I hope so” was also quintessential Todd. It was an expression he used when he wanted to preclude further discussion. “Free? I hope so” meant: you had better be.

So Bruce concluded this invitation as the work of two minds. The words used at the beginning were those dictated by Sasha; those at the end were Todd’s. They both wanted him to come to dinner then. And Bruce, still grateful to Todd for his kindness in giving him his job back, had written a note saying he
would be delighted to accept. “Saturday great,” he wrote. “Can’t wait. Bruce.”

Even if he had not expected to be invited for dinner quite so soon, Bruce had anticipated some gesture from Todd. Since he had started in the firm once more, Bruce had been assiduous in the performance of his duties. His reports had all been models of their type: hedged about with all manner of exclusion clauses, as was standard surveyor practice, but clear and concise, and, what was most important, delivered well on time. One client, in fact, had been so pleased by the speed with which Bruce had completed a survey that he had specially drawn Todd’s attention to it and asked him to compliment Bruce.

Bruce accepted Todd’s words of praise with modesty. “I do my best,” he said. “It was an unusual place.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes,” said Bruce. “It underlined how heated the market’s become: a quarter of a million for a very small studio apartment in Great King Street.”

Todd shrugged. “Fashionable area.”

“I know that,” said Bruce. “But this was actually a converted cupboard. A large one, but still a cupboard.”

“That’s taking it a bit far,” said Todd.

Bruce nodded. “They had a very clever architect. He managed to get a mezzanine floor in and a sunken bath. Pretty amazing.”

“And windows?”

“No,” said Bruce. “The original cupboard had no windows. It was just a cupboard, you see. But they put in really good hidden lighting. Quite a place.”

“It’s often the address that counts,” mused Todd. “A cupboard in Great King Street is worth a three-bedroomed flat in Easter Road. But well done, anyway. They seem pleased with what they’ve got.”

“I hope there’s only one of them,” said Bruce. “I don’t think there would be room for two.”

Now, standing before Todd’s house, glancing at his wristwatch to check he was neither too early nor too late, Bruce took a deep breath. It would not be easy seeing Sasha again, after that unfortunate misunderstanding, and as for the daughter … Had Todd said anything about her?

Todd answered the doorbell. “It’s you,” he said.

“Yes,” said Bruce. “Me.”

Todd ushered him into the hall. It had been all of four years – maybe a bit longer – since Bruce had last been in the house, but as he stood there, it all seemed remarkably familiar. The views of the Edinburgh skyline, which could be seen from the front windows, were reproduced in prints on the wall. And then there were the golfing prints: “Hole in One,” “The Old Course at St Andrews,” “On Course for a Birdie” and so on.

“The ladies are through here,” said Todd, indicating the door that led into the living room. “You’ll remember my daughter, Lizzie, won’t you? That dance we all went to?”

Bruce tried to ensure that his expression did not give him away. Lizzie Todd! There had been nothing about her on Todd’s invitation, and had there been Bruce would not have been standing there that evening. What a disaster she was, Bruce started to think, and then stopped himself. That was the old Bruce; the new Bruce said: “Lizzie? Of course I remember her. How nice.”

They entered the room. Sasha stood by the window, while Lizzie sat on a sofa, her shoes on the carpet below her, her feet tucked under her. They both looked at Bruce as if he had interrupted a conversation.

“There you are,” said Sasha, moving to shake Bruce’s hand. “You remember Lizzie, don’t you?”

Bruce swallowed. It was eight o’clock. If dinner was served reasonably quickly he could be away by eleven-thirty at the latest. But then … The new Bruce smiled. “Lizzie,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

She was looking up at him he as he spoke. He remembered
her sneering, but she did not do so now. And her face, from this angle at least, was extremely beautiful, like that of a Madonna in the first blossom of pregnancy; full, satisfied, expectant.

“So,” said Bruce to Lizzie Todd. “What are you doing these days?” A strand of blonde hair had fallen over Lizzie Todd’s brow and she swept it aside before she answered. Bruce wondered: Had she been a blonde when he had met her last? He had a vague memory to the contrary, but it had been years ago. His eyes, though, followed the strand of hair. It was highlighted, he thought; highlighted, at the least.

“Me?” said Lizzie. “I left Glasgow last year and came back through here. I’ve got a flat in Woodburn Terrace. You know that place just after the Dominion Cinema?”

“Of course,” said Bruce. “I surveyed a flat there once. It was rather a nice flat – ground floor. But the people had cats, and you know what they can do to a place. And there were student neighbours.”

“Not all students make a noise,” said Lizzie. “I’ve got some students in the flat next to me, and I hardly ever hear them.” She paused. “Mind you, we made a noise in our student flat over in Glasgow. You could probably hear us in Edinburgh.”

Bruce laughed. “Who didn’t? I suppose that it’s because you’re selfish at that stage.” He heard himself speaking; selfish – he was not selfish any more. Not since four weeks ago.

He looked at her. I could do worse, he thought; a lot worse. But did he want to get involved? There had been no girlfriend since he had split up with … at first he could not bring himself to mention the name, but then he thought – new Bruce, and he uttered it silently: Julia Donald.

“What did you study at uni again?” he asked.

“Indeterminate studies,” she said. “It was a great course. You
could design a lot of it yourself – hence the name. You had parameters, of course.”

Bruce nodded. He had never been out with a girl who understood the word parameters. It was a useful word for a girl, he thought, especially at the beginning of a relationship. Now here are the parameters …

“You’re smiling.”

He looked at Lizzie. “I was just thinking of something,” he said.

In the background there was the sound of ice being taken from an ice bucket and put into a glass.

“Was it something I said?”

He smiled, more openly now. “Yes. The word ‘parameter.’ It’s a great word. Like perambulator. That’s all.”