Espresso Tales (35 page)

97. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part VIII–I Play the Duke of Plaza-Toro

“From real dukes,” read Ramsey Dunbarton, “to stage dukes. And to that most colourful character, the Duke of Plaza-Toro, whom I had the particular honour to play at the Church Hill Theatre. Looking back on my life, which has been an eventful one by any standards, I might be tempted to say that that episode is probably one of the great saliences of my personal history.

“At the risk of sounding boastful, I have always had a rather fine voice. As a boy I sang in the local church choir, and had I auditioned for one of the great Edinburgh choirs, the choir of St Mary's Episcopal Cathedral, for example, I would probably have got in. But I did not, and so never sang in Palmerston Place. I did, however, join the Savoy when I was at university and was in the chorus of several productions. I am quite certain that I would have had principal roles were it not for the fact that the various producers who did those productions did not like me for some reason. It is very wrong when producers allow personal preferences to dictate casting. It happens all the time. People pick their girlfriends and boyfriends to sing the choice parts; it's never a question of merit. And I gather that you find exactly the same thing in the West End and on Broadway.

“After the Savoy, I joined the Bohemians, and appeared in a number of their productions, often at the King's Theatre, again in the chorus. There was
The Merry Widow
, which I always enjoyed very much,
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
, and
Porgy and Bess
, to name just a few. In
Porgy,
I was an understudy for one of the principals, but was not called upon to sing. I must admit that it is very difficult not to wish ill on a principal in those circumstances, but I shall never forget the story told me by one of the Bohemians about how, some time ago, he had been an understudy for somebody in
Cav and Pag
, and had wished that the other singer would fall under a bus. Which he did. I'm not sure which number the bus was, but I think that it might even have been the 23, the bus which goes up Morningside Road. Fortunately, he survived, although one of his legs was broken, and of course the understudy felt so bad about it that he could barely bring himself to sing the part.

“After a break from the Bohemians, I joined the Morningside Grand Opera, an amateur group which put on a range of performances at the Church Hill Theatre each year. They were ambitious and even did Wagner's
Ring Cycle
one year, to mixed reviews, but they also did a lot of the old favourites, such as
The Gondoliers
. And it was in
The Gondoliers
that I sang my first principal role, that of the Duke of Plaza-Toro.

“It was a wonderful role, and I would have enjoyed it far more than I actually did if the other singers had been slightly stronger than they actually were. Only a day or two before the first night, I could not help but notice that a number of them had not bothered to learn the words correctly, and there was one young man, who sang the part of Luiz, who just sang
la, la, la
when he came to a bit that he had not learned. And as for the woman who sang the part of the old nurse, she only had two lines to sing (where she reveals that Luiz was really the baby), but she could not even remember those!

“The young man who played Luiz was particularly irritating. My feelings over his behaviour became quite strong at an early stage in the rehearsals, when I overheard him saying to one of the gondolieri that he, rather than I, should have been cast as the Duke of Plaza-Toro.

“If the whole idea had not been so laughable I would have remonstrated with him. One needs a certain gravitas to play the Duke of Plaza-Toro, and I had that and he simply did not. I was a WS, after all, and he was not. He was also far younger than I was and it would have been absurd to see him pretending to be the leader of the ducal party.

“But it gets worse than that. He had a most annoying manner, that young man. I expected him to call me Mr Dunbarton (or perhaps ‘Your Grace' in the circumstances!) but he actually used my first name immediately after we had been introduced. And then he presumed to shorten it, and began to refer to me as ‘Ramps'. That was almost unbearable, particularly when he turned to me at one point in a rehearsal and said ‘That's a B-flat by the way, Ramps!'

“I must also admit my doubts as to the casting of the Duchess. The woman who had the part was very friendly with the producer. I shall say no more about that. However, I did feel that a more appropriate person might have been cast in that role. In particular, there was somebody in the chorus who had been Head Girl many years before of the Mary Erskine School for Girls, when it used to be in Queen Street, where it had that wonderful roof garden for the girls to play on. That sort of background would have equipped her very well to play the role of the Duchess of Plaza-Toro, but do you think that the producer took that into account for one single moment? He did not.

“But these were minor matters, when all is said and done. The final production was not at all bad, and a number of people said that my own performance as the Duke of Plaza-Toro was the best portrayal they had ever seen of that role. That was very kind of them. It's so easy to be disparaging of other people's efforts, and I must confess that there is a slight tendency in that direction in Edinburgh. But I am not one to criticise Edinburgh, in spite of its occasional little failing. We are very lucky to live here and I for one will never forget that, bearing in mind what so many people have to put up with when they live in other places.”

He put down his memoirs and looked at Betty. Her head was nodding in agreement, or, if one took the uncharitable view, sleep.

98. Younger Women, Older Men

Down the steps into Big Lou's coffee bar, the very steps down which Christopher Grieve had descended when books were sold there (in the days when coffee was instant, and undrinkable); down those steps went father and son, Matthew and Gordon. Gordon had arrived at his son's gallery without notice, had sauntered in, and indicated that he wanted to talk to his son. And Matthew, embarrassed by the memory of his churlish behaviour over dinner–behaviour which he somehow had seemed just unable to control–had said: “We must have coffee, Dad. I usually go about this time to a place over the road.”

“Anywhere, son,” Gordon replied. “You know my feelings about coffee.”

Matthew frowned. “I don't, actually,” he said. “I didn't know you had views on coffee.”

“It's a racket,” said Gordon. “All these fancy alternatives. Skinny latte with vanilla. Double espresso. Americano. So on. It's all just coffee, isn't it?”

Matthew thought about this. “But what about your malt whiskies?” he said. “You go on about fifteen-year-old this and twenty-year-old that. It's all just whisky, isn't it?”

Gordon looked at his son with pity. “That's different, Matt,” he said, adding: “As you well know.”

Matthew had said nothing in response to this. He had never been able to argue with his father, whose tactic of defending a position was to imply that the other side knew full well that what he, Gordon, said was right. And there was no time for argument anyway, as they were now entering the coffee bar and Matthew had to introduce his father to Big Lou. A thought occurred to him, and made him smile: Big Lou would now be able to say of him,
I ken his faither
. This was a useful thing to be able to say in Scotland, as it could be used with devastating effect to cut somebody down to size. And cutting others down to size, Matthew knew, was at the heart of Scottish culture. What better way of suggesting that the other person was just a jumped-up wee boy than to say that one kent his faither?

Matthew did not choose his usual table, as he was concerned that they might be joined by Angus Lordie, if he came in, or that vague woman from the flat above the coffee bar, that woman whose name he could never remember and who tried, unsuccessfully, to appear mysterious. Matthew knew that he had to talk to his father. He had to express the fears which had been preying on him since he had first met Janis and which would not go away. He was convinced that the florist was primarily interested in his father's money, and Matthew wanted to protect him from this, but until then he had been unwilling to broach the subject with him directly. Yet it could not be put off forever. Used they not to say in marriage ceremonies:
Speak now or forever hold your peace
? He would have to speak now.

They sat down together while Big Lou prepared the coffee. She had smiled at Matthew's father and shaken his hand, and Gordon had responded warmly. “Nice woman, that,” he had whispered to Matthew. “Lots of hard work in her.”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “Lou has certainly worked hard.”

“There's nothing like hard work,” said Gordon thoughtfully. “That's what makes money, you know, Matthew. Hard work.”

Matthew pursed his lips. There was censure in his father's words, but he resisted the temptation to respond in kind. If they had an argument, then he would be unable to raise the issue of Janis. Of course, now that Gordon had mentioned money it gave him his opportunity.

“Yes,” said Matthew. “You've worked hard for your money. Everybody knows that. I do.” He paused, watching his father. Gordon sat impassively. Of course he had worked hard for his money, and he did not need his son to point that out to him.

“And that's why I wouldn't like to see anybody take it away from you,” Matthew went on. He spoke hurriedly, rushing to get the words out.

Gordon frowned. “Naturally,” he said. “But why do you think anybody would try to get my money away from me?”

Matthew's heart was thumping wildly within him. It was too late to stop now; he would have to complete what he had to say.

“Well,” he said. “There are some people who try to marry others for their money. Gold-diggers, you know.”

Gordon's eyes narrowed as Matthew finished. “I take it that you are referring to Janis,” he said icily. “Am I correct? Are you?”

Matthew lowered his eyes. He had always found it difficult to hold his father's gaze, and now it was impossible. And of course he knew that this made his father consider him shifty and elusive, which was not the case. But he could not look into those eyes and see the reproach which had just always seemed to be there.

“Look, Dad,” he began. “All I'm saying is that when a younger woman gets in tow with a…with a slightly older man, then one has to be a bit careful if the older man happens to have a lot of smackers. Which, I'm afraid, rather applies to you, doesn't it? You're not exactly on the bread line, are you? And the problem is that there have been one or two things in the press about how much you're worth. Eleven million, isn't it? Something like that? Janis can read.”

Gordon was about to reply, but was interrupted by Big Lou bringing their coffee to the table.

“Here you are, boys,” she said breezily. “One double espresso. One South American roast with double low-fat milk.”

Gordon reached for his coffee, thanking Big Lou politely.

“Does my son here patronise your business regularly?” he asked.

“Every day,” she said. “He comes in every morning. Sometimes stays for hours.”

Matthew tried to catch Big Lou's eye, but the damage was done.

“Oh yes?” exclaimed Gordon, glancing at Matthew. “Sits here for hours, does he?”

Big Lou realised her tactlessness and looked apologetically at Matthew. “Not really,” she laughed. “That's wishful thinking on my part. I'd like him to sit here for hours, but he doesn't really. Just a little joke.”

Big Lou now went back to her counter, leaving the two men seated opposite one another, one glaring at the other.

“Let me get this straight,” hissed Gordon. “Are you calling Janis a gold-digger? Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “I am.”

99. Janis Exposed

Now I've done it, thought Matthew. I've very specifically accused my father's girlfriend of being after his money, and the accusation has gone down more or less as I thought it would.

And in that, Matthew was right. Gordon's face had coloured with anger.

“Tell me exactly why you have this low opinion of my friend,” Gordon said. “If you're going to make allegations like that, then presumably you have some basis for them. Tell me, what is it? What evidence do you have? Or do you just throw things like that–insulting things–throw them about on the basis of suspicion or, and I'm sorry to say this, jealousy?”

Matthew thought. What evidence did he have? Now that he thought of it, none at all. So what was it? And at that point he realised that the reason why he took this view was simple. It was simple, but true. Janis did not love his father. You can tell when somebody loves another. It shows in the eyes; the attitude. There was none of that feeling in this case, thought Matthew. Any overt signs of affection on her part just did not seem to ring true. She was a gold-digger; it was obvious, and yet his poor father, infatuated because an attractive younger woman had shown an interest in him, simply could not see what her real motive was.

Matthew wondered whether he should tell his father this. It was a hard thing for anybody to hear–that love was unreciprocated. Many people would simply not believe that if they heard it. And yet, his father was an adult (offspring often have to remind themselves of that hard fact) and could not be protected from uncomfortable knowledge. So he looked at his father, met his gaze, and said: “Dad, she doesn't love you. I can tell.”

At first, Gordon did nothing. He stared at his son, as if uncomprehending, and then reached for his coffee cup and took a sip of his espresso. He's struggling, thought Matthew. He's struggling with his dented pride (poor man) and with his
amour-propre.
This is very painful. This is very hard.

“So,” said Gordon quietly. “So she doesn't love me, you say.”

Matthew nodded. “She doesn't love you.”

“And so when I asked her to marry me,” went on Gordon, “and she accepted–that meant nothing, did it?”

Matthew sighed. “You've gone and proposed?” he asked. “Oh, Dad, Dad, Dad! You're making a big mistake. Mega-disaster all round. Oh, no, no, no!”

“Give me your evidence,” said Gordon grimly. “Give me one single shred of evidence you have that she doesn't love me. Show me. Just show me.”

“But can't you see?” said Matthew, raising his voice. “Can't you see that there'll be no evidence as such? You sense these things. You know them. You can't necessarily find any evidence.”

Gordon held up a hand to stop his son. “Right,” he said. “You've said enough as far as I'm concerned. You've insulted the woman I love. I'm not going to stand for it, Matthew. I'm just not.”

“I'm only trying to help you,” protested Matthew. He reached out to touch his father, but Gordon sat back, out of reach. “Look,” went on Matthew. “Try to think. Have you told her about your money? Did she ask you?”

“I've spoken to her,” said Gordon. “She raised it with me.”

Matthew's eyes widened. “She raised it?” he asked. “She did?”

“That's correct,” said Gordon. “She asked me some fairly searching questions. And I gave her perfectly frank answers.”

“Well, there you are!” cried Matthew. “It's just exactly as I said. She's interested in getting her hands on your cash. It's glaringly obvious.”

Gordon shook his head. “You stupid boy,” he said. “Sorry, but that's what you are, Matthew. She raised the issue because she wanted to talk to me about divesting myself of a large part of it.”

“To her, I suppose,” observed Matthew wryly. “Great tactic.”

“No,” said Gordon patiently. “You're one hundred per cent wrong there, Matthew. You see, Janis has persuaded me to set up a charitable fund. I thought I might set one up for golfers in distress. Then she has urged me to transfer a considerable amount of money to
you
, as it happens. She's suggested that I should, in fact, give away about seven million. Three to the fund and four to you.”

Matthew was silent. He stared at his father. And then he bit his lip.

“Yes,” said Gordon. “Do you know, when you were a wee boy you used to bite your lip like that whenever you were in the wrong over something. You just bit your lip.

“And I see you doing it right now. It's funny, isn't it?–how we keep these little mannerisms over the years.”

“Dad,” Matthew began. “I didn't…”

“No,” said Gordon, “you didn't know. Well, as they say, ye ken noo.”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “I ken noo.”

“And can you think of any reason,” Gordon asked, “why I should not reverse my decision to transfer that money to you? After all, you have such a low opinion of my fiancée. I wouldn't want to force a decision of hers upon you, would I?”

“I'm sorry,” said Matthew. “I really am. I'm sorry.”

Gordon stared at his son. My son has never been a liar, he said to himself. He has been lazy, maybe, and a bit weak, but he has never been a liar. And so if he says that he is sorry for what he said, then he is. And the least I can do is to accept that apology.

Gordon stood up. “Stand up, Matthew,” he said. Matthew, shamefacedly, stood up, and Gordon walked round the side of the table and faced his son.

“That's fine by me,” he said. He leaned forward, so that nobody else might hear what he had to say. “And do you know something, Matthew? Well, here's something you should know: I'm proud of you. I never told you that, and I should have. I'm proud of what you are. I'm proud of the fact that, unlike me, you've never trodden on anybody else, or even considered doing that. And that makes you more of a man than I am, in my book.”

Matthew could not say anything. So he stood there with his father, and Gordon put his arm about his son's shoulder and left it there, to reassure him, to show what he felt but could not find the words to say.