Pat was taken by surprise. She could imagine nothing worse than working for Bruce. “That’s kind of you,” she said. “But I think that I’m all right where I am. Matthew needs me.”
Bruce’s face took on a sneering expression. “He can’t cope, can he? What a disaster area that guy is. If it weren’t for his old man he’d go to the wall. Believe me.”
Pat remained calm. “Actually, he made a profit in the first part of the year. Eleven thousand pounds.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Eleven grand? How did he do that?”
“Buying and selling,” said Pat. “That’s what galleries do, you know.”
Bruce shrugged. “Running a gallery must be child’s play–if Matthew can make a profit. Mind you, eleven grand is not all that much these days.”
“You’ll make much more?” asked Pat.
“Sure,” said Bruce, spooning coffee into the cafetière. “Much more.” He turned to Pat. “You want to hear what I bought today? Well, I’ll tell you. Three cases of Chateau Petrus at just over fifty quid a bottle. Can you believe that?”
“Fifty?” exclaimed Pat.
“Yes,” said Bruce, smirking. “Remember that this is not the sort of stuff you take to parties. This is wine for the serious connoisseur. This will go down well in Charlotte Square and Moray Place.”
The mention of Moray Place reminded Pat of her invitation. Should she tell Bruce about it? Would he merely laugh at her, or would he be able to give her advice?
“Moray Place?” said Pat.
“Yes,” said Bruce. “That’s what I said. Moray Place. It’s a posh part of the New Town. Posh people live there. Toffs, you know. They like Chateau Petrus in Moray Place.”
Pat decided to tell him about the invitation. “I’ve been invited to a nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens,” she said. “I’m not sure whether I should go.”
Bruce stared at her in astonishment. “A nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens? Oh, Patsy girl, that’s really rich! Classic!”
Pat looked down at the floor. She might have known that he would not take it seriously. Now he started to let out strange whoops and began to take his shirt off, as if engaged in a striptease. “Moray Place!” he crooned. “Nickety, nackety, naked! Moray Place!” Dropping his shirt, he began to gyrate around the room, pausing to admire the reflection of his bare chest in the glass screen of the microwave.
Pat looked at him in disgust. “You’re ridiculous,” she said. “You’re…very immature, you know.”
“Moi? Immature?” crooned Bruce. “Who’s the nudist, Patsy-Patsy? Who’s the little blushing nudist? Hoop, hooop!”
Pat left the kitchen and stormed back into her room, slamming the door behind her. Bruce completed a few more steps of his dance and then completed his coffee preparations. Cradling his cup in his left hand, he sat down by the telephone and dialled his friend George.
“I’ve got the shop,” he said. “And it’s great. You must come and see it.”
At the other end of the line, George sounded cautious. “And the rent?” Bruce told him the figure.
“That sounds a bit steep,” said George. “For that size of place.”
“Steep, George?” exclaimed Bruce. “Do you know what Edinburgh commercial rents are like? Because I do, and I’m telling you that’s nothing–nothing, compared with what some people have to pay. We’re quids-in with that rent, I’m telling you.”
George listened.
“And here’s another thing, George,” Bruce went on. “I’ve already got a very good deal on some stock. Have you heard of Chateau Petrus?”
“As it happens, I have,” said George. “It’s a very good French wine, isn’t it? It sells for fancy prices.”
“It certainly does,” Bruce replied. “You can pay several thousand pounds for a bottle, if the vintage is right.”
“And you’ve found some?” asked George.
Bruce laughed. “It was more a case of the Chateau Petrus finding me. Three cases at an amazingly low price.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then George spoke again. “There’s usually a reason for low prices. You get what you paid for.”
Bruce stiffened. George was an accountant, he thought, and they could be such pedants. “What do you mean by that, George?”
George sounded unusually assertive. “I meant just what I said, Bruce. I meant that if you get something at a knock-down price it’s either stolen or it’s not what it claims to be.”
“I know that this stuff’s not hot,” said Bruce quickly. “The person I bought it from is in the rugby club. He doesn’t go in for dealing in stolen property. And how could it not be what it claims to be? I’ve looked at it. The labels say Chateau Petrus–complete with a picture of the man himself, Saint Peter.”
George let him finish. Then he said: “Have you heard of wine frauds, Bruce?”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing. He swallowed. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Wine frauds? Forgery?”
“Yes,” said George. “Everybody knows about those fake watches and designer jeans. But not everybody knows that there are gallons of fake wine out there. There’s been a big problem with it in the Far East. I’ve read all about it. There are gangs that make replica bottles and labels and slap them on bottles of French plonk. Then they sell it to the victim. The patsy, they call him.”
Bruce looked at his reflection in the microwave again. Do I look like a patsy? he asked himself. And then it occurred to him that he had just called Pat “patsy”. And he was the real patsy all along.
70. Cyril Howls
Matthew was the first to arrive at Big Lou’s that morning. Big Lou, standing at her coffee bar, wiping the surface with a cloth, nodded a greeting to him.
“You know, Big Lou,” said Matthew, “you’re a bit like Sisyphus with that cloth of yours. Wiping, wiping, wiping.” He paused, and smiled at her. “Do you know who Sisyphus was?”
Big Lou bristled. “As it happens, I ken fine well who he was. He had to push a rock up a hill until it rolled down again and then he pushed it up. And so on.” She gave the counter a furious wipe. “Do you know who Albert Camus was?”
Matthew shook his head. “Some Frenchman, I suppose.”
“Well, before you start condescending to me, Matthew, my friend, you might go and look him up. He wrote a book called The Myth of Sisyphus. Have you read it?”
Matthew held up his hands in surrender. “Nope. Never read it. But you have, Lou? You must have.”
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “I’ve read it. And it’s all about finding meaning in life and getting through this world without committing suicide. Camus says that we can find meaning in a limited context and that is enough. He says we shall never be able to answer the really big questions.”
“I never thought we could,” said Matthew, taking his accustomed seat. “I’ve never even been able to find out what the really big questions are.”
Big Lou tossed her cloth aside and began to prepare Matthew’s cup of coffee. As she did so, the door opened and Angus Lordie walked in, accompanied by his dog, Cyril.
“Lou, my love, make one for me too,” said Angus. “Very strong. I have to paint a tricky sitter today, and I need my strength.”
“And what’s wrong with him?” asked Lou.
“Actually, it’s a woman,” said Angus. “And that’s the problem. She’s got three chins too many and I don’t know what to do about them.”
“Leave them out,” said Lou. “No woman would object to that.”
“I could do that,” said Angus. “But then will it look like her at all? People expect one to get a fair likeness.”
“You’ll think of something,” said Lou. “Here’s your coffee. And don’t let that dug of yours drink out of my saucer. I don’t want any of his germs to end up on the crockery.”
“There’s nothing so healthy as a dog’s mouth,” said Angus Lordie defensively. “Cats’ mouths are full of all sorts of dreadful beasties, but a dog?
??s lick is positively antiseptic. That’s well-known.”
Angus moved over to the table where Matthew was sitting and took the seat opposite him. Cyril, released from his leash, lay down at his master’s feet, his tail curled about him, his nose tucked into the hair of his stomach, but one eye half-open, looking at Matthew’s right ankle, which was just a few inches away.
“You went for that dinner with your father?” asked Angus. “Weren’t you rather dreading it?”
“I was dreading it,” said Matthew. “But I went along.”
“And?”
“And it wasn’t a roaring success. He brought his new…” it was an effort for him to say the word, but he said it nonetheless, “…mistress.”
“How interesting!” said Angus.
Big Lou raised an eyebrow. “Mistress? What do you mean by that, Matthew?”
“Well, that’s what she is,” he said. “She’s his mistress.”
“But he’s a widower, isn’t he?” Big Lou persisted. “You shouldn’t call her that! That’s downright insulting.”
Angus Lordie shook a finger at him. “Yes, Matthew! You should be ashamed of yourself! She’s his partner, that’s what she is. That’s the approved term these days. Tut, tut!”
Matthew shrugged. “Whatever you say. But I think of her as his mistress.”
“Well, you need to think again,” said Big Lou. “What’s she like, anyway?”
“A gold-digger,” said Matthew.
Big Lou stared at him. “How do you know she’s a gold-digger? Did she say or do anything that made you think that?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” said Matthew. “There she is, at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger than him, probably more, and she’s all over him. She must know that he’s not short of the readies.”
“Maybe she likes him,” said Big Lou. “Ten years isn’t all that big a gap.”
While this discussion was raging back and forth, Cyril had edged slightly closer to Matthew’s ankles. He was now no longer curled up, but was lying flat on the ground, his front paws extended before him, his chin resting on the ground between his legs, his eyes fixed on the exposed flesh above the top of Matthew’s socks.
Cyril was a good dog. Although he liked to drink beer in the Cumberland Bar and to wink at girls, he had few other vices, and in particular he was not aggressive. He liked people, in general, and was always happy to lick any hand which was extended to him in friendship. If people insisted on throwing sticks, Cyril would always fetch them, although he found this tedious and pointless. But he liked to oblige, and he knew that it was obliging to do the things that people expected dogs to do.
But there was something about Matthew’s ankles that was just absurdly tempting. They were not fat ankles, they were average ankles. Nor were they any different in colour from most of the other ankles that dogs usually saw. In smell, they were neutral, and so there was no olfactory clue to their attractiveness. It’s just that they were immensely attractive to a dog, and at that moment Cyril could think of nothing else that he would prefer to do than to bite them.
But he could not. He knew the consequences of succumbing to the temptation. There would be the most awful row and he would be beaten by his father, as he thought of Angus. There would be raised voices and words that frightened him. And worst of all there would be disgrace, and a feeling that the human world did not want him to be part of it. There would be rejection and exclusion in the most unambiguous sense.
Suddenly, Cyril stood up. He turned away from Matthew’s ankles–put them beyond temptation–and began to howl. He lifted his head in the air and howled, pouring into the sound all the sadness of his world and of the canine condition. It was a howl of such regret and sorrow as to melt ilka heart, ilka heart.
And none of those present knew why he cried.
71. Crushed Strawberry
Trudging up Dundas Street with his mother, deep in thought, Bertie reflected on the dire course of events over the past few days. He had enjoyed Tofu’s party immensely–and had decided that when he turned eighteen, and became free of his mother, he would go to as many parties as possible. He understood that when one was a student one did not even need to be invited to parties–one just went anyway. That prospect appealed to him greatly, as he doubted whether he would get many invitations. Indeed, the invitation to Tofu’s party had been the only invitation he had ever received.
But if the party had been a conspicuous success, the same could not be said of its immediate aftermath. When Irene had picked him up in the car, Bertie had been worried that she would immediately notice the fact that he was wearing the pair of jeans which he had obtained from Tofu in exchange for his crushed-strawberry dungarees and a hot-dog. The jeans fitted him perfectly and they were just right in every respect. There were faded patches at the knees and the hems at the bottom of the leg were ragged. There were several pockets on each side, which were undoubtedly useful, although Bertie had nothing to put in them. He had always wanted a penknife, and had been consistently refused one by Irene; if he were ever to get one, then there was a place for that in the right pocket.
“What do you want a penknife for?” Irene had asked when Bertie had raised the subject some months earlier.
“They’re useful for cutting things,” said Bertie. “They have lots of blades, Mummy, and some of them have those things for taking stones out of horses’ hooves.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Bertie,” said Irene. “You’ve never even been near a horse, and you don’t need to cut anything. If you do, then just ask Mummy to cut it for you with her nice scissors.”
Bertie had said nothing more, knowing that there was no possibility of getting Irene to change her mind once she had made a ruling. She just did not understand, he concluded, and he thought she never would. Boys need to do certain things–to have penknives, and secret clubs, and bikes–but Irene would never accept this. That was because she had no idea of what it was like to be a boy. Irene thought that boys and girls were the same, or could be made to be the same. But that was wrong. If you were a boy, you just felt differently. It was as simple as that. For his part, Bertie was prepared to accept that girls felt differently about many things. He understood, for example, what it was like to be Olive. He understood why Olive hated Tofu, and why Tofu hated Olive. He understood why Olive hated to have her pigtails pulled by boys and why she thought that Hiawatha’s socks smelled. Bertie could empathise with all this. Why, then, could his mother not see things from his point of view?
For a few moments after getting into the car after the party, Bertie had held his breath. But his mother, for come reason, did not seem to notice the jeans he was wearing and made no mention of them. When they arrived home, though, as they were walking up the stair at 44 Scotland Street, Irene suddenly let out a cry.
“Bertie!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you wearing?”
Bertie’s heart gave a lurch. “Jeans, Mummy,” he said. “Do you like them?”
“Jeans!” shouted Irene. “Where are your dungarees? What have you done with your dungarees?”
Bertie swallowed hard. He had wondered whether he could tell her that they had been stolen and that he had been given the jeans by a kind passer-by, but he was a truthful boy and did not like the idea of lying, even to his mother. So he had decided that he would tell her exactly what happened and throw himself on her mercy. After all, she could hardly get the dungarees back now that property in them had legally passed to Tofu.
“I exchanged them with Tofu,” he said. “He liked my dungarees and so I gave them to him in exchange for his jeans. I’m sure that the jeans cost more than the dungarees did. So it was a pretty good bargain.”
Irene shook her finger at him. “You naughty, naughty boy, Bertie! Mummy is very, very displeased. Those were your best dungarees and you have no business letting some horrible rough boy, this Toffee person…”
“Tofu,” corrected Bertie.
“This Tofu person take them off you,” concluded
Irene.
“I’m sorry, Mummy,” said Bertie, looking down at the stairs below his feet. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“You certainly will not!” said Irene, as they resumed their climb up the stairs. “And the first thing we’ll do is telephone them when we get in and arrange to go round and collect your dungarees.”
“But we can’t do that,” wailed Bertie. “Everybody knows you can’t take things back. That’s the law, Mummy. You can’t take things back once you’ve given them away.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Irene. “Those dungarees cost a great deal of money and they still belong to you. Toffee had no business getting round you like that.”
Bertie hardly dared imagine the scene that was being prepared. It would be the ultimate humiliation to be dragged round to Tofu’s house, to have to surrender his newly-acquired jeans, and to have to don, once more, his crushed-strawberry dungarees.
“Do I have to go?” he asked, his voice small and discouraged. “Can’t we ask them just to drop them round?”
“No,” said Irene, firmly. “We have to face up to the consequences of our acts, Bertie. You have created this situation and now you are going to have to get out of it again–like a man.”
Bertie looked up at his mother. He wanted to act like a man–oh, how he wanted to act like a man. But men did not have to wear crushed-strawberry dungarees. Men did not have to go to yoga and psychotherapy. Men did not have mothers like Irene. And in the result, it was every bit as humiliating as he had feared. His mother referred to Tofu as Toffee throughout the encounter, and she even shook a finger at him. Bertie wanted to die. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep and never have to open them and see crushed-strawberry dungarees again.
72. Ink and the Imagination
Dr Fairbairn sat at his desk, a small bottle of ink in his hands. “Now, Bertie,” he said. “I thought that today we would do something different. This is a bottle of ink.”
He held up the small black bottle and shook it in front of Bertie. Bertie, wide-eyed, stared at Dr Fairbairn. It must only be a matter of days, thought Bertie, before Dr Fairbairn was taken to Carstairs, and he wondered how they would do it. Perhaps they could have men with a net drive into Edinburgh and they could throw the net over Dr Fairbairn while he was walking down Dundas Street in that blue jacket of his. Then they could bundle him into a van and take him off. Bertie had located Carstairs on a map and had seen that it was not far away. It would not take them long to get him there, and they would probably arrive in time for tea, which would be nice.