Espresso Tales (28 page)

77. Bruce Gets What He Deserves

George and Sharon arrived at Bruce's new shop in St Stephen Street shortly before six. They were slightly late, which irritated Bruce, and indeed caused him more than passing concern. But at last there they were, standing outside the door, peering in through the glass panel. And it was that girl with him, Bruce observed. He had been right. That girl from Crieff, Sharon McClung, had finally got her talons into George. He smiled to himself as he went to open the door to his friend. We all get what we deserve in this life, he thought.

Now that was tempting the intervention of Nemesis! For Bruce, of all people, to invoke the principle of desert was asking for any lurking Greek goddess, underemployed, perhaps, because of the caution of others, to strike in a demonstrable and convincing way. And indeed it was Bruce's bad luck that Nemesis had been stalking around that part of Edinburgh at precisely that time, hoping to detect members of the Scottish Parliament managing their expense accounts in a way which might be expected to attract her attention. She had failed to find anything but good behaviour, though, and so she was receptive to any reckless talk by the unworthy. And there it came in the form of Bruce's thoughts from St Stephen Street. Swiftly she turned the corner and poked her comely head into the basement premises into which a slightly fleshy couple had been admitted by the occupant. Nemesis took one look at Bruce and knew in an instant that here was one who had been in the long tutelage of her fellow myth, Narcissus. She rubbed her incorporeal hands with glee.

“George!” enthused Bruce. “Welcome to the shop!” He turned to Sharon. “And you, Sharon! It's amazing to see you after how long? Yonks and yonks! And you're looking great, too!”

And he thought: look at her hair! Poor girl. And that haggis-shaped figure. Imagine being married to her. Mind you, he thought, poor George looks like a mealie-pudding himself, so perhaps it's a good match.

He moved forward and gave Sharon a peck on the cheek. Poor girl. How she had longed for him to do that all those years ago when she had sat there in the chemistry class at Morrison's Academy and stared at him in utter longing (along with nine other girls–all the girls, in fact, except one, and Bruce knew the reason why she was cool towards him. Oh yes, he did. With her short hair and her lack of interest in him. It stuck out a mile).

He shook hands with George. “So you and Sharon are an item! You kept that pretty secret!”

George smiled proudly. “Actually, Bruce, you're going to be one of the first to know. Sharon and I are getting engaged.” He looked fondly in Sharon's direction and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “We decided yesterday, didn't we, Shaz?”

Shaz! thought Bruce. Shaz! And what would she call him? You couldn't do much with George's name.

“But that's really great!” Bruce said. “Engaged. And…”

“And we're going to get married in March,” George went on. “In Crieff.”

“In Crieff!” said Bruce. “That's great. You'll be able to have all the old crowd there.”

“With a reception at the Hydro,” said George.

“A good choice,” said Bruce, and thought: I suppose I'll have to go. He is my business partner, after all, and I'll be expected to be there.

He turned to Sharon. “Where are you living these days, Sharon?”

Sharon, who had been looking at George, now turned to Bruce. She looked him up and down in a way which he thought was a bit forward on her part. Who was she to look at him in that way, as if passing silent comment on his appearance?

“Crieff,” she said. “I've been working in Perth, but I've been staying with my folks. They're getting on a bit these days.”

There was something in her tone which discomforted Bruce. It was as if she was challenging him in some way–challenging him to say that there was something wrong with continuing to live in Crieff.

“And what do you do in Perth?” he asked. “I'm a bit out of touch. You went off to uni in Dundee, didn't you?”

Sharon nodded, fixing Bruce with a stare which suggested that again she was challenging him to say something disparaging about Dundee.

“I did law,” she said. “Now I'm a lawyer. I'm working for one of the Perth firms. I do a lot of court work.”

“Sharon goes to court virtually every day,” George said proudly. “The sheriff said the other day that she had argued a case very well. He said that in court.”

“He's a very nice man,” said Sharon. “He always listens very carefully to what you have to say.”

“Great,” said Bruce. He looked at George. “Now, I must show you the ropes round here. I've spent the day putting in stock. See. It took me hours. And see that section over there, Sharon, Wine for Her. See it?”

Sharon glanced at the four shelves pointed out by Bruce. Then she turned round and glared at him. “Why have you put Wine for Her?” she asked. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that these are wines that women are more likely to enjoy,” said Bruce.

Sharon glanced quickly at George, who shifted slightly on his feet. Then she turned back to face Bruce. “And why do you think women would want different wines from men? Have they got different taste buds?”

Bruce met her stare. He was not going to have this haggis talking to him like that. And he knew what sort of wine she would like: Blue Nun! Perhaps he would give her a bottle of it as an engagement present.

“Yes,” he said. “Women like sweeter wine. And they like wine bottles with more feminine labels. Everybody knows that.” He paused. This was a waste of time talking to Sharon. He needed to talk to George about business. “Anyway, George, we have to talk about this place. I've spent a bit of money on the stock, so that if we could talk about that side of things for a mo…”

Sharon said: “George has changed his mind, Bruce. Sorry. Now that we're getting married. We're going to buy a house in Stirling. We'll need the money for that. Sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce said nothing for a moment. At the door, the faintest stirring of air, a slight shift of light, was all there was to indicate a triumphant Nemesis returning in satisfaction to the street outside.

78. Old Business

“You gave me your word,” said Bruce, chiselling out the sentence. “You gave me your word, George. You told me that you would come in on this business with me. It was in the Cumberland Bar.”

The words the Cumberland Bar were uttered with all the solemnity with which one might invoke the name of a place in which commercial promises are scrupulously observed–the words
the floor at Lloyds,
for example, might be spoken in the same tone. But on this occasion, even the mention of the locus of the conversation failed to have the desired effect.

“Actually, Bruce,” said George, “actually, I didn't promise. I said that I was interested, but we didn't make any firm arrangements, did we? We agreed that we would draw up a partnership agreement, but you never showed that to me and I never signed it. We were talking about the prospect of going into business, not the actual mechanics. We didn't do a proper deal, you know.”

“There's no proper deal,” chipped in Sharon. “No contract. No deal.”

Bruce turned round and glared at her. “Do you mind keeping out of things that don't concern you? This is between me and my friend, George. So please don't interfere.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sharon. “So what my fiancé does is no business of mine? Is that what you're saying? Well, I've got news for you: it's very much my business!”

Bruce bit his lip. He looked at George, but George was looking down at the floor, staring at his shoes. It was typical. A woman came in and tried to take over. And now this ghastly girl had taken control of this useless man and was twisting him around her pudgy little finger.

Bruce looked at her. “So you're calling the shots now,” he said. “Little Sharon McClung has at last got hold of a man and is calling the shots big time! Pleased with yourself, Sharon? Pity you couldn't do any better.”

George looked up from his shoes. “What do you mean by that, Bruce?” he asked. His voice was strained and his eyes were misty, as if he was about to cry.

Bruce sighed. “No criticism of you, George,” he said. “It's just that you're letting Sharon push you around a bit, aren't you?”

“But you said: ‘It's a pity you couldn't do any better,'” George insisted. “What did you mean by that, Bruce? What did you mean?”

“Yes,” said Sharon. “What exactly did you mean by that, Bruce? Did you mean that George isn't much of a catch? Well, if you did, I can tell you what I think of that. I think that he's ten times, twenty times nicer than you. Nobody–nobody in her right mind–would look at you, you know. You do know that, don't you?”

Bruce sneered. “Don't make me laugh,” he said. “Just don't make me laugh. You were happy enough to look at me back then in Crieff. Oh yes, don't think that I didn't notice you sitting there staring at me, along with all the other girls, mentally undressing me. I noticed those things, you know.”

Sharon shrieked with indignation. “What? What did you say? Mentally undressing you? Are you mad?”

“Listen,” said George mildly. “I don't think there's much point in talking like this…”

“Yes, there is,” snapped Sharon. “I'm not going to stand here and listen to this self-satisfied creep saying things like that. I've got some more news for you, Bruce. The girls back in Crieff hated you, you know. They hated you. They really did. You should have heard the sort of things they said about you! You would have died of embarrassment if you had heard half of them. Did you know that there was something about you written on the wall of the girls' toilets for two years? Two years. And every time the cleaners rubbed it out, somebody wrote it back, and in the end they just left it there. And do you know what it was? You would hate what it said, I promise you. You'd just hate it. But I can't tell you–I'm too embarrassed.”

“Was it written with one of those marker pens?” asked George. “Those can be quite difficult to rub off.”

Both Bruce and Sharon looked at him. Sharon did not answer.

“You're a liar,” said Bruce. “I would have heard about it. I never heard anything.”

Sharon arched an eyebrow in amazement. “Do you think that anybody would actually tell you something like that?”

“It depends what it was,” cut in George. “And anyway, I don't think that it's very fair not to tell him, Shaz. You've got him all upset now. You should tell him.”

“No, Georgie,” said Sharon. “I'm not going to tell him.”

“Would you tell me then?” asked George.

Sharon thought for a moment. Then she leant over and cupped a hand around George's left ear and whispered to him. George's eyes widened. Then he let out a laugh. “Really?” he asked. “Did it really?”

Sharon nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, it did. Funny, isn't it?”

“Do you think it's true?” asked George.

Sharon shrugged. “Who knows?” She paused. “So that's it, Bruce. That's what we thought of you.”

Bruce looked at George. “You're marrying this person?” he asked quietly. “You're actually going to go ahead and marry this person? This…this
haggis?
”

It was as if George had been given an electric shock. Pulling himself up to his full height–and he was considerably shorter than Bruce, and Sharon–he poked a finger in the direction of his erstwhile friend. “You are not to call my fiancée a haggis,” he said. “Don't ever let me hear you call her a haggis.”

And with that, he turned to Sharon, took her arm, and nodded in the direction of the door.

“Goodbye, Bruce,” he said. “I'm sorry that this has happened. But you've only got yourself to blame. Come, Shaz. We must go.”

Sharon gave Bruce a look of triumph. “Would you really like to know what was written on the wall? Would you?” She paused. She had spotted a piece of paper and a pencil on the counter and she went over to this and scribbled a few words. Then she folded the paper, passed it to him, and quickly rejoined George at the door.

After they had gone, Bruce sat down. He held the piece of paper in his hands, fingering it for a moment before he opened it and read what she had written. He crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room.

79. At the Gallery

Matthew came back from Big Lou's eager to tell Pat about what had happened. “Cyril bit somebody,” he said, grinning. “There's a woman who lives in Scotland Street. One of your neighbours, I believe. She's got a little boy who looks as if he's seen a ghost most of the time. He was patting Cyril and Cyril was lapping it up and then this hatchet-faced woman said something to Cyril that he didn't like, and he bit her in the ankle! Not a serious bite. A nip really. I don't think he even broke the skin. But she howled and tried to kick him but Cyril backed off. It was the funniest sight. And we had to keep a straight face through all this. And Angus Lordie had to say how sorry he was and gave Cyril a wallop with a rolled-up copy of the
Scotsman
. Poor Cyril.”

“I know her,” said Pat. “Domenica can't stand her. She says that she pushes that little boy an awful lot. She makes him learn the saxophone and Italian. Domenica says that he's going to rebel the first chance he gets.”

“Mothers can be like that,” said Matthew. “They create a lot of problems for their sons. Anyway, it was a very amusing incident.”

They returned to the business of the gallery. An auction catalogue had arrived with the morning's post and Pat had already perused it, noting down the lots in which she thought Matthew might have an interest. There were early twentieth-century studies of Kirkcudbright Harbour which she thought he might go for, and Matthew was busy looking at photographs of these, wondering about the price at which he would be able to sell them if he were to bid for them, when the door opened and a woman came into the gallery. For a moment he did not recognise her, but then he realised who she was. This was Janis, his father's new girlfriend, the florist with whom he and his father had enjoyed a somewhat less than satisfactory evening in the New Club. He rose to his feet and greeted her. He tried to sound warm, but it was difficult.

“So this is your gallery,” said Janis, looking around her.

Matthew nodded. He wondered about her tone. Had she sounded a little bit dismissive? He was determined that he would not be condescended to by this woman, whatever her relationship with his misguided father was.

“Yes,” he said, his tone becoming noticeably colder. “This is where I work.”

“I hope you don't mind my dropping in like this,” said Janis.

Matthew shrugged. “You're very welcome,” he said, adding: “I might drop into your flower shop some time.”

“Oh, please do,” said Janis. “Any time at all.” She cast an eye around her. “Not that we have much to interest you up there. Unless you're particularly keen on flowers.”

“I don't mind flowers,” he said. “In their place.” It was an enigmatic remark, capable of interpretation at many different levels. In one reading, it suggested that one should not concern oneself too much with flowers; that there were better things to think and talk about. In another sense, it could be taken to mean that flowers should remain where they grew, and should not be picked. And in another sense altogether, it could be taken as implying that people who dealt in flowers should not take up with the fathers of those who dealt in pictures, especially when the father was considerably older than the florist.

“Well, I'm not sure,” said Janis evenly. “Flowers bring a lot of pleasure to people–ordinary people.”

This was itself an enigmatic observation. At one level, it might have been self-deprecatory: working with flowers made no claims to being anything special, unlike dealing in art, which gave pleasure to a slightly grander set of people. That was one interpretation. Another was this: at least people who sell flowers to people who buy flowers have no pretensions; they get pleasure from flowers and that is justification enough.

Whichever meaning Janis had in mind, she did not pursue it. Smiling politely at Pat, whom Matthew had not bothered to introduce to her, she made her way over to the far side of the room and began to peer closely at a painting of a girl picking flowers in a field.

“My father's girlfriend,” whispered Matthew to Pat. “The florist. Note how she goes straight for the picture of flowers. Typical.”

“I don't know,” said Pat. “She seems nice enough to me. And that's a nice enough painting.”

“You don't understand,” hissed Matthew. “Can't you see the pound signs in her eyes? Can't you see them?”

“No,” said Pat.

Matthew cast his eyes upwards in an expression of frustration, but said nothing, and returned to his catalogue. After a few minutes, Janis came over to his desk.

“You've got some nice paintings,” she said. “That Crosbie over there is very pretty.”

Matthew glanced at the painting in question. “Somebody may like it,” he said grudgingly. “You never know.”

“I thought that I might buy it,” said Janis. “That is, if you'll sell it to me.”

“You're welcome to it,” said Matthew. “It's for sale.”

“Then I'll take it,” said Janis, adding: “It's a present for your father. I'm sure that he'll appreciate it.”

Matthew hesitated. The purchase of the painting as a gift for his father was a sign of intimacy between the two of them. One did not purchase paintings for those with whom one had a casual relationship.

“He's not a great one for paintings,” muttered Matthew. “Are you sure?”

Janis nodded. “I'm very sure, Matthew. I've got to know him quite well, you know.”

Matthew said nothing. He rose from his desk and walked over to the place where the painting was hanging. Lifting it off its hook, he brought it back to Janis. He looked at the scene which Crosbie had captured so swiftly–a harbour-side scene with several fishermen sitting on upturned fish-boxes. It was a deft painting, a confident painting, of a subject that could so easily have appeared posed and trite. But that had been avoided.

Janis looked at the painting and smiled. “He'll like that, you know.”

“I hope so,” said Matthew.

Janis hesitated. “Would you mind if I did something?” she asked. “Would you mind if I told him that you chose it for him?”

It was Pat who answered the question. “You'd be very pleased with that, Matthew? Wouldn't you? Yes, he would.”