106. An Unexpected Development
Big Lou’s coffee bar was not full that morning–it never was–but at least Matthew, Pat and Angus Lordie were there, together with Cyril, of course, who lay contentedly beneath one of the tables. Cyril had one eye closed and one eye open, the latter fixed watchfully on Matthew’s ankles, barely eighteen inches away from him. It had been Cyril’s long-cherished ambition to bite Matthew’s ankles, not for reasons of antipathy towards him–Cyril quite liked Matthew–but because of the sheer attractiveness to a dog of that particular set of ankles. But he knew that he could never do this, and so he just watched with one eye, imagining the pleasure of sinking his teeth into that inviting target.
The conversation had ranged widely, but had been largely dominated by Angus, who was in an argumentative mood. From time to time, Matthew had thrown an anxious glance in the direction of Big Lou, about whom he was still worried. He had not yet had the opportunity to tell Angus about the trip that he had made to Glasgow with Stuart and about their conversation–if one could call it that–with Lard O’Connor. He had felt cheered by the trip, but now, seeing Lou still in a despondent state, he wondered whether he was putting too much faith in Lard’s agreement to help. He had tried to convey to him some sense of the urgency which he thought attended the issue, but Lard had been remarkably casual and had told Matthew not to fash himself. Now Matthew wondered if Lard would ever get round to coming over to Edinburgh.
They had finished their first cup of coffee and were on the point of ordering refills when Angus, who was sitting facing the doorway, noticed two shadows on the window which told him that somebody was coming down the stairway from the street. One of the shadows looked extremely large.
“Here comes a substantial customer,” he remarked.
Matthew turned round, as did Pat, just at the moment that the door was opened. Lard O’Connor stepped into the room, to be followed, immediately, by Eddie. Matthew gasped.
Seeing Matthew at his table, Lard nodded to him and then walked up to the bar, Eddie trailing behind him reluctantly.
“You’re the wummin they call Big Lou?” Lard asked.
“Aye,” said Lou. “That’s me.”
Matthew noticed that as she answered Lard, Big Lou was looking at Eddie. Her expression was a curious one: there was anxiety there, but also an expression that looked very much like regret.
“Hello, Eddie,” said Lou. “I hadn’t expected to see you.” Lard turned to Eddie and gestured for him to come up to the bar. “Eddie wanted to say something,” he said. “Didn’t you, Eddie?”
Eddie looked helplessly at Lou. Matthew noticed that there was a bruise on one of his cheeks, and one of his eyes, he thought, was badly bloodshot, the surrounding skin discoloured.
“Eddie?” Big Lou’s voice was strained.
Eddie looked at Lard, who nodded his head in the direction of Lou.
“Don’t keep us waiting,” muttered Lard. “You know fine what to say.”
“I’ve come to pay you back, Lou,” said Eddie. “I can’t manage the full thirty-four grand, but here’s twenty-five. That’s all I’ve got left.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out a folded cheque, which he pushed over the counter towards Lou.
“And?” said Lard, glowering at Eddie. “You have another statement to make, don’t you?”
Eddie looked down at the floor. Witnessing his humiliation, Matthew felt almost sorry for him, but then he remembered. Eddie did not deserve his sympathy. “That thing about the coffee bar,” he said. “That piece of paper you signed. I’ve decided to give my share back to you.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder, as if looking for an escape route.
“And?” said Lard menacingly.
“So here it is,” said Eddie. “I’ve put it in writing.”
“Always get things in writing,” said Lard, turning to address Matthew. “Every time. Never rely on gentlemen’s agreements. Some people just aren’t gentlemen, know what I mean?”
Matthew nodded. “You’re right there, Lard,” he said.
Big Lou reached out and took the document which Eddie had passed over the counter. She looked at it, nodded, and then slipped it into the pocket of her apron. “Thanks, Eddie,” she said.
There was a silence. Matthew looked at Eddie, knowing that he was staring at a broken man. Angus felt that too, and looked away in embarrassment. Pat busied herself with her empty coffee cup. She had never liked Eddie either, but the sight of him being obliged to behave like an errant schoolboy was not a comfortable one.
“One last thing,” said Lard. “Then you can go.”
Eddie fixed his gaze on the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry, Lou.”
“Right,” said Lard to Eddie. “You can go now.”
Eddie tried to straighten himself up. It was as if he was attempting to salvage at least some shred of dignity, but he could not. He slumped back into his dejected position. For a moment he hesitated, then he turned round and walked out of the café.
“Well, that’s that all sorted,” said Lard cheerfully. “Now, how about youse fixing me up with a cup of coffee or something?”
Big Lou turned back to her espresso machine and soon had a large, scalding cup of coffee ready for Lard. Heaping several spoons of sugar into the cup, Lard quickly drained it and suggested another one.
“You single-handed here, hen?” he asked Lou.
Big Lou smiled at him. She had no idea who Lard O’Connor was, and why he had intervened on her part, but she felt profound gratitude to him. “Aye, I run the place myself,” she said. “But I’m not very busy most of the time.”
Lard looked around the café. “You could put in some music,” he said. “And maybe one of they fruit-machines. Cheer things up a bit.”
Hearing these remarks, Angus shot a glance at Matthew. “Let’s hope she doesn’t give this chap half the business,” he whispered.
Lard did not hear him. He was leaning across the bar, smiling at Big Lou, who was preparing a second cup of coffee for him.
“I don’t believe it,” said Matthew sotto voce. “I just don’t believe it.”
Lard and Big Lou were now deep in conversation and Lard, reaching out over the bar, had taken Big Lou’s hand in his.
“Oh no,” said Angus. “Worst fears realised. Close all ports. Prepare to abandon ship.”
107. Wur Planets are oot o’ alignment
Big Lou looked down at Lard O’Connor’s hand, resting on hers. Then, very politely, she lifted it with her free hand and placed it back on the counter. Lard O’Connor continued to smile.
“Thank you for what you’ve done,” she said. “But we hardly…”
“Aloysius O’Connor,” said Lard.
“Thank you, Mr O’Connor. I have no idea how you persuaded Eddie…” Lou’s voice tailed off. It was hard to utter the name. She had loved him, and in a way she still did. Why had he treated her as he had? She had imagined that she might change him, that he would not need to see those girls, but it had been hopeless. Everybody says that about these things, she told herself. They are just too deeply embedded. And he hadn’t cared about her feelings, not in the slightest.
Lard looked grave. “It’s amazing what direct talking will achieve,” he said. “The trouble with this side of the country is there’s not enough direct speaking. All that blethering. No direct speaking.”
“Well, you’ve been very helpful to me, Mr O’Connor.”
“Please…Aloysius.”
“Aloysius.”
“That’s better.”
Big Lou took a step backward. “Well, I have to get on with my work,” she said. “Maybe some day we’ll…”
“Aye,” said Lard. “Mebbe.”
From their table, Angus, Matthew and Pat watched as Lard left the coffee bar. He nodded curtly to Matthew as he made for the door, and shot a glance at Angus, who quickly looked away.
Lard was almost at the door when he hesitated and looked back towards Matthew. Then slowl
y he walked over to the table and leant down to whisper to him.
“Tell Stewie everything’s tickety-boo,” he said. “But wur still a wee bit skew-wiff on this deal, pal. No quite eexy-peexy. Wur planets are oot o’ alignment like. So I’ll be on your case for a wee bit of reciprocation. Understaund?”
Matthew sat quite still. He looked up at Lard and blinked. He was silent. Lard then winked at him and made for the door.
“That was a most interesting face,” said Angus. “I wonder if he might sit for a portrait one of these days. What a mug! Did you see it, Pat? Ever seen anything like it?”
“What did he mean by reciprocation?” asked Pat. “Do you think that…?”
Matthew waved her question aside. Reciprocation could mean only one thing: he would be expected to participate in something illegal–launder money, perhaps, or hide a weapon. He thought for a moment. Could he pay Lard off instead? Could he offer him ten thousand pounds instead of a favour, or would that just whet his appetite for more? And what if Lard got wind of the fact that he had four million pounds in the bank? It hardly bore thinking about.
He looked at his watch. “It’s time to get back to the gallery,” he announced. “Let’s go, Pat.”
They crossed the road, Matthew still deep in thought.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” said Pat.
Matthew nodded. “It’s occurred to me that I’ve already broken the law,” he said miserably. “I incited this awful man to beat Eddie up. If Eddie goes to the police, then I’m implicated.”
“Eddie won’t go to the police,” said Pat. “They would want to know why Lard beat him up. He would have to tell them that he took Big Lou’s money.”
“But she gave it to him,” said Matthew. “Eddie’s done nothing illegal.”
“He won’t go,” said Pat. “Eddie probably has other things to hide from the police. There’s that club of his. And the girls and the rest. He won’t go.”
They opened the gallery in silence. Pat was aware of Matthew’s anxiety and was worried about what she had to do next, which was to tell him that she was moving out of the flat in India Street. There was a good reason for this, of course, and she could not put off telling him any longer. That afternoon, a friend was coming to help her move her things back to her parents’ house in the Grange, and she would have to let Matthew know about this before she made the move.
She waited. One or two people came into the gallery and one of them bought a painting. That seemed to cheer Matthew up, and Pat decided that the moment had come.
“Matthew,” she began. “There’s something I must tell you.”
Matthew stared at her. I should have realised, he said to himself. I should have realised that it could never last. It never does. How long has it been? Three days? Four days?
“I’m going to have to move out of India Street,” Pat said. “I’m going this afternoon.”
Matthew’s face crumpled. “This afternoon? Today?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “I’m sorry.”
Matthew nodded. Pat noticed that he was looking at the floor, tracing an invisible pattern on the carpet with the toe of his shoe.
“You see…” Pat began to say.
Matthew cut her short. “It’s all right,” he said flatly. “I understand.” And he thought: girls just don’t like me. Well, they may not actively dislike me–they tolerate me–but they don’t find me interesting, or exciting, or anything really. And there’s nothing I’ll ever be able to do about that. I really like this girl–really like her–but she doesn’t like me. And who can blame her?
“I don’t think you do understand,” said Pat. “What I was going to say is that since you and I…well, since you and I are an item, then I don’t think that we should be flatmates too. It complicates matters, doesn’t it? And I need my space, just as you do.”
Matthew stared at her. When people talked about needing space they usually meant that they wanted the maximum space between you and them. This was different. Was it still on?
“You mean that you’re not wanting to get rid of me?” he stuttered.
“Of course not,” said Pat, moving over to his side. “I don’t want that. Do you?’
“No,” said Matthew. He looked at her and thought: I have found myself in you. Bless you. And then he thought: what a strange, old-fashioned thing to think. Bless you. But what other way was there of saying that you wanted only good for somebody, that you wanted the world to be kind to her, to cherish her? Only old-fashioned words would do for that.
108. On the Stairs
Now that Domenica had indicated that she was returning to Scotland within a few days, Antonia Collie took steps to conclude the lease on the flat across the landing–the flat once occupied by Bruce and Pat and which had been sold to a young property developer. This person had developed the property by painting it and by installing a new microwave and a new bath before deciding to offer it for rent. Antonia was indifferent to the fresh paint, the microwave and the bath, but keen on the view from the sitting room and the prospect of having Domenica as a neighbour. Negotiations for the lease had been swift and Antonia now had the keys to the flat and could move in at any time she wished.
Antonia, having gone out to purchase one or two things for the kitchen, returned to No 44 to discover a small boy sitting on the stone stairs, staring up into the air. She had seen this small boy once or twice before. On one occasion she had spotted him walking up the street with his very pregnant mother (he had been trying to avoid stepping on the lines and was being roundly encouraged by his mother to hurry up), and on another she had seen him in Valvona & Crolla, again with his mother, who was lecturing him on the qualities of a good olive oil. She knew that he belonged to No 44 and she thought she knew which flat it was, but apart from that she knew nothing about him, neither his name, nor how old he was, nor where he went to school.
“Well,” she said as she drew level with him on the stairs, “here you are, sitting on the stairs. And if I knew your name–which I don’t–I would be able to say hallo whoever you are. But I don’t–unless you care to tell me.”
Bertie looked up at Antonia. This was the lady who lived upstairs, the woman whom his mother had described as “yet another frightful old blue stocking”. Bertie had been puzzled by this; now here was an opportunity for clarification.
“I’m called Bertie,” he said politely.
“And I’m Antonia,” said Antonia.
Bertie squinted at Antonia. “I think my Mummy must be wrong about you,” he said.
“Oh yes?” said Antonia. “What does Mummy say about me?”
“She said that you wear blue stockings,” said Bertie. “But I don’t think you do, do you?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Antonia. “Oh really?” she said. “You’re right. Mummy has got it wrong.” She paused. “Tell Mummy that you asked me about that, and I said to tell her that I don’t wear blue stockings. Will you tell her that?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “If she listens. Sometimes she doesn’t listen to what I say. Or what Daddy says either.”
Antonia smiled. “That’s sad,” she said. “But surely somebody listens to you, Bertie. What about at school? Surely your teacher listens to what you have to say.”
Bertie looked down at his feet. “Miss Harmony listens sometimes,” he said. “But not always. She didn’t listen to me when I said that I didn’t want to be Captain von Trapp in The Sound of Music. She made me be Captain von Trapp.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Antonia. “But perhaps there wasn’t anybody else who wanted to play the part. Maybe that’s why you had to do it.”
“But there were plenty of people who wanted to be Captain von Trapp,” said Bertie. “There’s a boy called Tofu. He really wanted to be Captain von Trapp. But she wouldn’t let him.”
“But I’m sure that he would understand.”
Bertie shook his head. “No,” he said. “He didn’t. And there’s a girl called Olive. She wanted
to be Maria, but wasn’t allowed to be. She didn’t understand either.”
“Dear me,” said Antonia. “But I’m sure everything will go well in the end.”
“No it won’t,” said Bertie. “And now Tofu and Olive both hate me.”
Antonia stared down at Bertie. He was a most unusual child, she thought; rather appealing, in a funny sort of way, and she found herself feeling sorry for him. These little spats of childhood loomed terribly large in one’s life at the time, even if they tended to disappear very quickly. It was not always fun being a child, just as it had not always been fun being a medieval Scottish saint. Poor little boy!
“Well, cheer up, Bertie,” said Antonia. “Even if things aren’t going well in The Sound of Music, isn’t Mummy going to have a new baby? Doesn’t that make you excited? You and Daddy must be very pleased about that.”
Bertie shook his head. “I don’t think that Daddy is pleased,” he said. “He said that the new baby is a mistake. That’s what he said. I heard him telling Mummy that.”
Antonia raised an eyebrow. “Oh well,” she said. “Everybody will love him or her. I’m sure they will.”
“And then Daddy said we should call the new baby Hugo,” went on Bertie.
“That’s a nice name!” said Antonia quickly.
“Because that’s the name of Mummy’s friend,” said Bertie. “He’s called Dr Fairbairn. Dr Hugo Fairbairn.”
Antonia bit her lip. Oh goodness! One should not encourage this sort of thing, but she could not resist another question, just one more question.
“And Dr Fairbairn,” she asked. “What does he think of all this?”
“He’s mad,” said Bertie. “Really mad.”
“I see,” said Antonia. “Well I suppose that…” She tailed off. It was easy to imagine him being angry, he probably did not plan for things to work out this way.
Now Bertie, who was enjoying his conversation with Antonia, came up with a final piece of information. He had been told of his mother’s pregnancy one day in the Floatarium. Irene had been in her flotation chamber, speaking to Bertie, who was sitting outside, and that was where she had told him of the imminent arrival of a new sibling. Bertie, whose understanding of the facts of life was rudimentary, had misinterpreted her and had concluded that his mother had become pregnant in the flotation chamber itself.