He left the threat unfinished. They were now at the bowling alley and Barnabas led them to the lane which had been booked for them.
“I’ll show you boys how it’s done,” he said, picking up one of the heavy balls. “You take a few paces to build up some impetus and then you let go.”
The ball careered down the lane and collided with the skittles with a very creditable crash. The boys danced in their excitement. For Bertie, in particular, this was the most thrilling of moments. To send a ball off down a wooden lane like that to knock things over was the most splendid fulfilment of everything that a boy would wish to do. Noise. Action. Excitement. Destruction. As Melanie Klein would have pointed out…
After a half hour or so of bowling, they took a short break. The boys sat down and Tofu’s father opened the bag that he had brought with him.
“Carrots,” he said. “And delicious bean sprouts! Here we are.”
The boys reluctantly took the proffered snacks and nibbled on them disconsolately.
“Have you got any money on you?” Tofu whispered to Bertie.
“Two pounds,” said Bertie. “I keep it in my pocket for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency,” said Tofu. “Look over there. See that? That’s where they sell hot-dogs. Can you smell them?”
“Yes,” said Bertie, sniffing the air.
“Well,” said Tofu, “if you buy me a hot-dog, I’ll give you something in return.”
“Such as?” asked Bertie.
Tofu looked at his friend. “You see those pink dungarees of yours…”
“Crushed strawberry,” corrected Bertie.
“Whatever,” said Tofu. “I know you don’t like them. I’ll swap you my jeans for your stupid dungarees if you buy me a hot-dog. I’ve got plenty of other jeans at home.”
“Would you?” asked Bertie.
“Yes,” said Tofu. He glanced at his father and lowered his voice still further. “Here’s the plan. We say that we need to go to the bathroom. You go and get the hot-dog. Then you bring it to me in the bathroom and I give you my jeans in exchange for your stupid dungarees. How about that?”
Bertie thought for a moment. It seemed to him to be an unfair bargain–weighted in his favour–but it was irresistible. He had always wanted a pair of jeans and now here was an opportunity to acquire such a garment, at virtually no cost, and all within the next few minutes. It seemed to him to be a stroke of quite extraordinary good fortune.
“All right,” he said.
“Good,” said Tofu. “Now have you got everything straight? Good. Then let’s synchronise our watches.” He looked down at his wristwatch. “The big hand’s on…”
Bertie interrupted him. “I haven’t got a watch,” he said. It was a further humiliation, but he was accustomed to humiliations and generally took them in his stride.
“Oh,” said Tofu. “Well, let’s set off anyway.”
Tofu informed his father that they needed to go to the bathroom, and off the two of them went. After a few paces, Bertie deviated, and ran across to the counter where hot-dogs were being sold. Ordering a large one, he paid for it and squeezed a lavish helping of tomato sauce onto the top of the frankfurter. Then, his precious warm cargo wrapped up, he ran off to make contact with Tofu.
They completed the transaction beside a washbasin. Tofu quickly removed his jeans and slipped into the crushed-strawberry dungarees vacated by Bertie. And Bertie, his breath coming in short bursts from the sheer excitement of it, donned the jeans handed to him by Tofu. Both garments were a perfect fit on their new owners. Then, the exchange completed, Tofu wolfed down the hot-dog, licking every last drop of tomato sauce off his fingers. Then he belched with satisfaction.
“Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “That was really good. Now let’s get back to my dad.”
“Won’t he notice that I’m wearing your jeans?” asked Bertie.
“Never,” said Tofu. “He doesn’t care what I wear. He never notices. He’s too busy thinking about nuts and carrots.”
They rejoined the bowling group and enjoyed a further half hour of intensive bowling. Bertie did not do badly for one who had never bowled before, coming second to Tofu. Merlin came last, but said that this was because he had a sore wrist and he would probably have come first had he been uninjured. Hiawatha said nothing about the result.
Bertie was fetched and taken home by Irene, who remained tight-lipped about the outing and did not ask her son how it had gone. Bertie, realising that his presence at the party was a defeat for her and a victory for his father, tactfully made no mention of how much fun he had had, and talked instead of a saxophone piece he was preparing for his next music examination. Then, when they were driving back down Lothian Road, Irene suddenly said to Bertie: “This is very strange. I thought we had five gears on our car. This gear-lever seems to have only four.”
Bertie felt a cold knot of fear within him. “Does it matter?” he asked. “Isn’t four enough? Isn’t it a bit selfish to want five?”
67. Bruce’s Enterprise
Bruce took occupation of his newly-rented shop at nine o’clock on a Monday morning. His excitement over the move made him wake up at six, considerably earlier than he had been accustomed to waking up since the beginning of his enforced idleness.
He arose from his bed, opened the shutters, and looked out at the day. The sun was almost up, but not quite; autumn was round the corner and the days were starting to shorten. It was a good time of year to start a business, especially a wine dealership. He could expect a high volume of sales in November and December, as people stocked up for the frantic round of entertaining that marked the end of the year. Those were the months when people felt that they had to see their friends or somehow risk losing them. Nobody saw anybody in January and February, although Bruce thought by that time he would have built up a group of discerning customers who would appreciate his know-how and return for their normal requirements. So that would carry him through the dark months of the new year and then it would be spring, and time for large orders of New Zealand sparkling and light California whites!
He went through to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Is this the face of a surveyor, he asked himself, or is it the face of a wine merchant? Wine merchants were urbane, elegant, poised; all of which…well, false modesty aside, Bruce recognised all of those qualities in himself. He would fit the part admirably.
He showered, glanced in the full-length mirror, lingering a little perhaps, and then applied copious quantities of after-shower body-cooler skin-reviver, and, of course, a slick of clove gel to his hair. Ready, he thought. No: I must remember the clothes. So he got dressed.
He left Scotland Street at ten to nine and set off jauntily in the direction of St Stephen Street, in a basement of which his new business premises awaited him. Scotland Street was coming to life. There was the man who ran the historic motorcycle garage in the lane; Bruce nodded to him and received a wave in return; there was Mr Stephen Horrobin looking out of his window; there was Iseabail Macleod setting off to her work on the Scottish dictionary; such an interesting street, thought Bruce, and now a wine merchant to add to the mix!
He walked down Cumberland Street and crossed St Vincent Street. His shop was at the Stockbridge end of St Stephen Street, near the Bailie Bar, tucked under an antique dealer’s and a shop that sold paste jewellery. It was not quite as large as he would have liked it to be, but it was big enough, and there was always the possibility of opening up an old under-street cellar that might do for the storage of wine. The rent, though, was bearable, and flush with the agreed injection of funds from his friend George, Bruce was confident that he would have no difficulty in acquiring an impressive stock list. And he was confident that in time the shop would become a place of pilgrimage for the discerning Edinburgh wine-buyer. After all, he asked himself: is there much competition? There were certainly a few fuddy-duddy people here and there, but they were so middle-aged, and nowadays people want youth, vigour and good looks. All
of which I have, thought Bruce; that, together with a knowledge of wine and a good palate.
The agent from the letting solicitors was waiting for him at the door. He was a serious-looking young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a slightly-worried expression. “Oh no,” Bruce said to himself. “Yawn, yawn.” They shook hands, the young man wrinkling his nose slightly at the cloves.
“Essence of cloves,” said Bruce. “Like it?”
They moved inside.
“You should find everything in order,” said the agent. “We had a slight leak in the sink in the back room, but the plumber came in and fixed that. Everything seems in good order. Lights. Look.” He moved to the switch and turned it on.
“Lumière!” said Bruce.
The agent stared at him. “And I gather that you don’t need to do much to the fittings.”
Bruce looked at the shelves. They were exactly the right size for the display of wine bottles.
“Perfect for bottles,” said Bruce, taking the keys from the young man. “And will I have the pleasure of selling you wine in the near future? I’ll have an excellent range.”
“Thank you,” said the young man. “But I don’t drink.”
“You could start,” said Bruce cheerfully. “Cut your teeth on something fairly light–a German white maybe. The sort of thing women go for.”
The young man pursed his lips. “No, thank you,” he said.
“You sure?” asked Bruce. “It’ll loosen you up a bit. You know what I mean?”
“Have you everything you need?” asked the young man. “If you do, I’ll be getting back to the office.”
He left, and Bruce shook his head. What a wimp! But even with such unpromising material he thought that he had made a fairly good impression with his sales pitch and he looked forward to being able to try his salesman skills on other customers.
He looked about the shop. All he had to do now was to give the place a bit of a dusting, order the stock, and arrange for the various bits and pieces to be installed. Then he would be in business! He looked at his watch. He could work until just before noon, when he was due to meet the wholesaler whom he had contacted. They were to meet in the Bailie, and they could go over the list there. The wholesaler, who was somebody Bruce had met once or twice at the rugby club, had promised to give him substantial discounts.
“I cut my margins to the bone when I deal with chaps from the club,” he had said. “You’ll get the stuff virtually at cost.” Then he had lowered his voice.
“And I’ve got some cases of Petrus, would you believe? Don’t spread it around, whatever you do, because everyone will want some and I can’t satisfy everybody. But I can get you a few cases at an unbelievably good price. Honestly, you’ll pass out when you hear the discount.”
Bruce had immediately gone to find out what Petrus was.
Then he had looked at the price. For a moment he thought he had misread the figures. But then he realised he had not: those noughts were meant to be there.
68. A Petrus Opportunity
Shortly before twelve, Bruce shut up the shop and made his way to the Bailie Bar at the end of the road. He was pleased with what he had achieved in the two hours or so that he had been working. He had dusted down all the shelves, swept the floor, and washed the front display window. That afternoon he would take delivery of furniture, including supplies of stationery and a filing cabinet. Then all he would need before he started selling would be the stock, which he was now about to arrange with Harry, his acquaintance from the rugby club and wholesaler of fine wines.
“Walked past your place,” said Harry as he came and joined Bruce at the circular bar. “Nice position. You’re going to clean up there, Bruce. No doubt about it.”
“You think so?” asked Bruce. He was pleased to receive this verdict from somebody in the trade. Of course he never really doubted it, but it was good to have it confirmed.
“Yes, but you’ve got to have the right stock,” said Harry. “You know what they say about retail? Position, position, position. Yes, that’s right, but you could also say: stock, stock, stock.”
Bruce listened carefully. “Could you?” he asked.
Harry reached out and punched him playfully on the arm. “That’s where I come in, Bruce, my friend! I’ll fix you up with deals that you just won’t believe. I’m telling you.” He paused. “But let me buy you a drink? What will you have?”
Bruce smiled. “A glass of Chateau Petrus 1982,” said Bruce.
“Ha, ha,” said Harry. “Very funny. But you obviously know what you’re talking about. That 1982 vintage was amazing. Really amazing.”
They were served their drinks and went to sit down at one of the tables. Harry had with him an attaché case, out of which he took a red folder. “Here’s the list,” he said. “It’s arranged geographically. Shall we start with France?”
“I’m more of a New World man,” said Bruce. “California. Oz. New Zealand.”
“Very discerning of you,” said Harry. “And I couldn’t agree more. But you mustn’t forget the Old World, you know. People still like French wine, and you’ll have to sell it. That’s where I come in. I can get you the stuff that sells. I know what people want.”
Bruce liked Harry. He liked his directness and his confidence. He was the sort of man who let you know exactly where you stood. There would be no shadow-boxing with him over price–Harry would come right out with it, man to man, and you would know that the price he was asking was a fair one.
Harry began to page through his list. “France,” he said. “Main choices: Bordeaux and Burgundy. I can do both for you at very good prices–including, since you mention it, Chateau Petrus. I did tell you about a Petrus opportunity, didn’t I?”
Bruce nodded. “I must confess I’ve never had a bottle of that,” he said.
“Bottle!” said Harry. “Most people would count themselves lucky to get a glass! But…” He lowered his voice, although the bar was quite empty. “But I have my sources, and I can get you three cases, yes, three cases of the 1990! It’ll drink well in a few years, but it will keep for at least thirty. Not that it’ll be keeping on your shelves, Bruce! You put that stuff on your shelf, word gets round, and in no time at all you’ll have half of Scotland beating a path to your door.”
“What makes it so great?” asked Bruce.
“Oh, please Louise!–as our non-rugby-playing friends would say. That stuff is perfection. Balanced just right. Subtle aromas. Deep purple. Bags of complexity. Everything, all in one bottle. You taste it, Bruce, and you’ll think that you’ve died and gone to heaven. It’s the stuff the Pope drinks. Fantastic!”
“So that’s why it’s expensive?”
Harry nodded. “Look at the wine auction records. That wine goes through the roof. Two thousand pounds a bottle–easy!–if it’s the right vintage. The 1990 goes for eight hundred a bottle. That’s not per case, Bruce, that’s per bottle. So nine thousand quid a case, for starters. Unless…”
Bruce, who had been looking at the floor, now looked up. “Unless…”
Harry lowered his voice again. “Unless you have contacts. And I do. I have friends out there in Pomerol. Old friends. They see me right.”
“You’re very lucky,” said Bruce. “Contacts are important.”
“Well, you have contacts yourself, Bruce,” said Harry. “You’ve got me. I’m a contact of yours. I’ve got contacts of my own. My contacts are your contacts. And that’s how I can get you your three cases of Petrus. Simple.”
Bruce looked doubtful. “I’m just starting,” he said. “I’m not sure if I’ve got the money.”
“Money’s not a problem,” said Harry quickly. “I’m going to sell you this at a price you won’t believe. It’ll be my gesture of support for your new business.”
Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in a brewer’s mirror on the other side of the room. The sight encouraged him.
“How much?” he asked.
“All right,” said Harry. “Three cases of the 1
990 at eight hundred quid a case. Three times eight hundred makes two thousand. No, it doesn’t, ha, ha! Deliberate error! Two thousand four hundred. But…but there’s an additional discount of four hundred since you’re starting up. And then you take off the three hundred that I always take off when it’s somebody from the rugby club on the other side. That makes seventeen hundred! Can you believe that? Seventeen hundred for three cases of 1900 Petrus!”
Bruce thought about it for a moment. He had hoped to keep his initial stock purchases as cheap as possible and then to branch out into more expensive wines later on, but this seemed to be too good an offer to turn down.
“When can I get them?” he asked.
“They’re in the car,” said Bruce. “Round the corner in Royal Circus.”
Bruce hesitated. Harry looked at him.
“You’re never going to get an offer like this again, Bruce,” said Harry gravely. “You know that, don’t you?”
“You’re on,” said Bruce.
69. The Best Laid Plans o’ Mice and Men
Pleased beyond measure by the purchase of three cases of Chateau Petrus 1990 Pomerol at a price which could only be considered a steal, Bruce returned to the flat in Scotland Street that evening in high spirits. He saw that Pat’s door was closed and knocked on it to offer to make her a cup of coffee. She was a strange girl, in his view, but she had proved to be a reasonably congenial flatmate and a reliable tenant.
She opened the door in her stockinged feet.
“I’ll make you coffee if you like,” said Bruce generously. “Unless you’ve got any better plans.”
Pat accepted his invitation and followed him into the kitchen. She asked him if he had started his new business.
“Today,” said Bruce. “I collected the keys of the shop. And I bought some wine.” He paused. The thought had suddenly occurred to him that he might need some help from time to time. Pat might well be interested. He would not have to pay her too much and she was at least a known quantity. “You wouldn’t by any chance like a part-time job, Patty-girl?”