44 Scotland Street (9 page)

“One hundred and fifty pounds,” said Pat.

The man stood back and stroked his chin. “One hundred and fifty? A bit steep, isn’t it? But … but, maybe. It would be a nice little gift for my friend.” Then, turning to Pat, he said decisively: “I’ll take it. Wrap it up please. I’ll pay in cash.”

Pat hesitated. “On the other hand,” she said. “If it’s a Peploe, then one hundred and fifty might be a little bit low. Perhaps forty thousand would be more appropriate.”

The man, who had been crossing the floor towards the desk, stopped.

“Peploe? Don’t be ridiculous! Would that it were! But it isn’t. Out of the question.”

Pat watched him as he spoke. She saw the slight flush of colour to his brow and the movement of his eyes, which darted sideways, and then returned to stare at her. She was convinced now that she had taken the right decision. The painting was no longer for sale.

20. The Boys Discuss Art

Matthew arrived in the gallery just before it was time for him to cross the road for morning coffee at Big Lou’s. Pat started to tell him of the two visits of the would-be purchaser of the Mull/Iona painting, but he stopped her.

“This is big,” he said. “Come and tell me about it over coffee. The boys will want to hear about this. We’ll close the shop for an hour. This is really, really big.”

They made their way over the road to Big Lou’s, crossing the cobbled street down which the tall buses lumbered. At the bottom of the street, beyond the rooftops of Canonmills, lay Fife, like a Gillies watercolour of sky and hills. Matthew saw Pat pause and look down the road, and he smiled at her.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She nodded. She had not thought that he would notice something like that, but then she knew very little about him. Matthew was not like Bruce, who would never notice a view. There was something more to Matthew, a gentle quality that made her feel almost protective towards him.

They turned away from Fife and made their way down Big Lou’s dangerous stairs. Ronnie and Pete were already in the coffee bar, sitting in their accustomed booth. Matthew introduced Pat to his friends.

“This young lady has just made a major discovery,” he said. “There’s a very important painting in the gallery. I missed it. I would have sold it for one hundred and fifty and it’s worth …?” He turned to Pat. “Ten thousand?”

“Forty, maybe.”

Ronnie whistled. “Forty grand!”

Big Lou came over with coffee and set mugs in front of them.

“I’m reading Calvocoressi’s book about Cowie at the moment,” she said. “Very interesting.”

“Yes,” said Pete. “You bet. But this painting, how do you know that it’s whatever you think it is? How can you tell?”

Pat shrugged. “I can’t tell,” she said. “I don’t know very much about all this. I did Higher Art, I suppose, and we learned a little bit about Scottish painters. We learned about Peploe, and I think this looks like a Peploe.”

Ronnie said: “Lots of things look like something else. Lou looks like the Mona Lisa, don’t you, Lou? But you aren’t. You have to know about these things.” He turned to Matthew. “Sorry, pal, but you may be jumping the gun a bit.”

This remark seemed to worry Matthew, and he turned to Pat anxiously. “Well, Pat, how can you be sure?”

“I can’t,” said Pat. “I’ve just said that. But I’m pretty sure that this man who came in had recognised it as being something valuable. He was pretending – I could tell. He was pretending not to be too interested in it, and when I said that it might be a Peploe he almost jumped. I could tell that he was … well, he was annoyed. He thought he had a bargain.”

“Sounds good,” said Pete. “Remember when we bought that table, Ronnie, and that dealer pretended not to be interested in it? We saw him looking underneath it before he came to us and offered us twice what we’d paid. We could tell.”

“Yes,” said Ronnie. “You can tell.” He paused. “But how are you going to be sure? You can’t put it in the window as a Peploe or whatever unless you know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll get an opinion,” said Matthew. “I’ll take it to somebody who knows what they’re talking about.”

“Unlike you?” said Pete.

“I’ve never said that I know anything about art,” said Matthew. “I’ve never made any claims.”

Ronnie looked down at his coffee. “So who do we ask? Lou?”

“I know more than you do,” said Lou from behind the counter. “You know nothing. Both of you. You and your friend, Pete, you know nothing. You’re just
afa feels
. “

“Let’s not fight over this,” said Matthew quietly. “Even in the Doric. I think that what we need to do is to take this to somebody else on the street here – another dealer. And we’ll ask what they think.”

“Good idea,” said Ronnie. “Just take it down to that what’s his name – that one on the corner there. Ask him.”

“I can’t do that,” said Matthew. “He’d laugh at me. And he’d tell everybody else that I don’t know what I have. No, we need to get somebody else to do it.” He looked at Pat. “Pat? What about you? You take the painting down to him and say that it’s yours. Ask him for an opinion. Is that all right with you? Do it tomorrow?”

“I suppose so,” said Pat. This involved her telling a lie, even if it was a small one. But she was truthful by inclination, and the thought of telling any untruth made her feel uncomfortable. And she did not feel easy in the company of Ronnie and Pete. There was something unsettling about them, something of the late afternoon perhaps, even if not quite something of the night.

21. A Daughter’s Dance Card

It was not a particularly busy day at the offices of Macaulay Holmes Richardson Black, Chartered Surveyors and Factors. The senior partner, Gordon, had gone to London to look at a commercial property in Fulham which a client of the firm had just inherited from a relative. The client wanted to sell the building, but distrusted London agents, a view with which Todd had readily agreed.

In Gordon’s absence on this inspection trip, the firm was run by his younger brother, Raeburn Todd, who was spending the day going through the files in his brother’s filing cabinet. Bruce pretended not to notice. It was information which he could perhaps use one day, if it were necessary. One never knew when one might be in a tight corner, and it was useful to have some
cover
.

Bruce had very little to do that day and he was bored. After twenty minutes of the newspaper, he rose to his feet and went to look out of the window. It had turned into a wet day outside, although the showers were light and sporadic. From their offices, on the fourth floor of a building in Queen Street, they could look out over the roofs of Heriot Row and Great King Street, down to the distant greens of Trinity, and beyond. Although he was a relatively junior member of staff, Bruce had a room with this view, and he was staring at it absently when the telephone rang and he was summoned to Todd’s room. He’s finished snooping, thought Bruce. Now he wants to interfere with my work.

He picked up a file on a Lanarkshire fencing project and walked through.

“How is Gordon getting on in London, Todd?” asked Bruce.

“Fine, as far as I know,” said Todd. “He’ll probably phone me at lunchtime. He’ll have taken a look at that Fulham place by then. Three thousand square feet in a good part of London, just off a main shopping street. Do you know what that’s worth?”

Bruce shrugged. “I haven’t looked at the recent tables,” he said. “I don’t deal with anything in London. I can tell you what that would be in Edinburgh or Glasgow. But not London. Lots of boodle, though. Lots.”

Todd frowned. “You should keep an eye on things, Bruce. You should read the trade press. You should keep an eye on London.”

Bruce thought: he’s brought me here for a lecture, and his eyes glazed over.

“Yes,” said Todd. “It’s important to keep abreast of changing values in London, because that affects us. Business relocation is all about comparing prices. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Bruce, patiently, and then: “Have you been busy yourself, Todd? Catching up on paperwork?”

Todd looked at him warily. “A bit of reading,” he said. “Keeping current, you know.”

Bruce smiled. “Good policy,” he said.

Todd stared at him for a moment, and then continued: “But I didn’t ask you in here to discuss work,” he said. “This is a personal matter. I hope you won’t mind if I raise it.”

Bruce was intrigued. “I don’t mind at all. Fire away.”

“You know that Mrs Todd and I enjoy quite a full social life.” There was a note of pride in Todd’s voice.

“Yes. I saw your picture in
Scottish Field
. A party somewhere.”

“Indeed,” said Todd. “A party. Max Maitland-Weir’s fiftieth. But that wasn’t the only one we’ve been to. We go out a great deal.”

Bruce nodded politely. He was not sure where this conversation was going, but it seemed to him that a proposition was about to be made.

“We’ve got tickets to a ball,” said Todd. “I’m not so wild about it, but my wife is dead set on getting a party together. My

elder daughter’s keen, too, but the problem is, well, we don’t exactly have anybody to partner her. And so I wondered whether you would be good enough to join us and perhaps have the odd dance with my daughter.” He paused, and for a moment Bruce felt a surge of sympathy for him. Poor man! That awful wife of his and that dreadful daughter of his. They were very heavy going – Bruce was well aware of that – but it seemed as if he would have to accept the invitation. It would not be easy to say no.

“I’d be honoured,” said Bruce. “What ball is it?”

“The South Edinburgh Conservative Association,” said Todd. “I’m convener of the ball committee, and we’re having a bit of a battle getting enough people to come to it. We’ve hired the hotel, so it’s going to have to go ahead, but we’re a bit thin on the ground. In fact, it’s only going to be the four of us so far.”

Bruce stared at him mutely. Was this a social problem, he wondered, or was it a political one?

22. Bruce Comes Under Consideration

After Bruce had left his office, Todd sat back in his seat and stared at the ceiling. For a few minutes he did nothing, but then he reached for the telephone, pushed a memory button labelled
domestic bliss
and called his wife.

Todd had married Sasha when they were both in their midtwenties. She had just completed her training as a physiotherapist and had been one of the most popular and sociable students at Queen Margaret College. At their first meeting, Todd had decided that this was the woman whom he wished to marry, and, as he said to his brother, he had never regretted the decision for one moment.

“Really?” Gordon had said. “Are you sure?”

The question had not been intended as a slight, even if it had sounded like it. It had made Todd think, though. Was his wife as attractive and compelling a personality to others as she was to him? People had different tastes, and it might be that there were those who found her too … well, what could they possibly object to in her? Sasha had opinions, of course, but that was far better than being a passive, reflective sort.

Of course there was jealousy to be taken into account. Sasha was undoubtedly attractive, with her blonde hair in bouffant style and her trouser suits. She never looked anything but well turned-out, and this could attract envy. That is the problem with this country, thought Todd. We sneer at people who do well, and who want to make something of their lives. Look at the remarks which a certain sort of person makes about Bearsden. What is wrong with living in Bearsden, or, indeed, with having the sort of attitudes that go with living in Bearsden? Nothing.

The people who ridicule people like us, thought Todd, are making up for their own failure. And there are plenty of people – Labour politicians, for example – who
want
people to remain thirled to poverty, who do not want them to have any spirit or independence. These are the sort of people who think that there’s something good about having a limited life.

As he pondered these matters of political philosophy, Sasha picked up the telephone at the other end.

“Honey bunch?” she asked.

“Sugar,” replied Todd.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I’m sitting here in my office thinking. Things are a bit quiet. Gordon is in London looking at a building down there, and nothing much is happening in the office.”

“Come home, then.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave the office in the hands of the staff. On which subject, that young man, Bruce Anderson. You’ve met him.”

“The one in your office?” said Sasha. “The good-looking one?”

Todd paused, tripped up by the taboo that prevents one man from commenting, except adversely, on the looks of another. You couldn’t say it – you just couldn’t.

“Hah!” he said. “I suppose the girls might say that. I don’t know about these things.”

“He is rather dishy,” said Sasha. “Dark hair. Lovely shoulders. Well-shaped …”

Todd felt slightly irritated. “Well-shaped what?” he asked. “He’s got a well-shaped what?”

“Nothing. I just said well-shaped.
He’s
well-shaped. That’s what I meant to say.”

Todd moved the conversation on. “Anyway, that’s the one. I’ve asked him about the ball. He says that he can come. He’ll be happy to dance with Lizzie.”

“That’s wonderful! Lizzie met him once at that Christmas do and I think he made a bit of an impression on her. Good.”

Todd sighed. “But there’s still this wretched problem with the tickets. Has anybody else said that they can come?”

“No,” said Sasha. “I phoned around again this morning. A lot of people are tied up in one way or another that weekend. Archie and Molly said that they might think about it, but I hear he’s just been carted off to hospital again and so that’s them out. Perhaps we should call it off.”

“No we won’t,” said Todd firmly. “That’s the last thing – the last thing – we’ll do. It would be a total admission of failure. We have the prizes for the tombola and the band booked. Deposits paid. We’re going ahead, even if it’s only us. That’s it.”