Love Over Scotland (31 page)

89. Irene Has a Shock

The following day was the day of the concert, which took place in a hall in the UNESCO building. The performance was to be in the evening, which left the day for sightseeing, including a boat trip on the Seine, a trip to the Pompidou Centre, and a walk round Île de la Cité. Bertie, guidebook in hand, enjoyed all of this a great deal, and ticked off each sight against a checklist in the back of his book.

The Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra was one of a number of youth orchestras which had been invited to perform in the UNESCO Festival of Youth Arts. The day before, there had been a concert performed by the Children’s Symphony Orchestra of Kiev, and the day afterwards was to feature the Korean Youth Folk Dance Company, which had recently danced in Rome, Milan and Geneva, before admittedly small, but nonetheless enthusiastic audiences. Now it was the turn of Edinburgh, and the orchestra had prepared a programme of predominantly Scottish music, including Hamish McCunn’s ‘Land of the Mountain and the Flood’, George Russell’s rarely-performed ‘Bathgate Airs for Oboe and Strings’ and Paton’s haunting ‘By the Water of Leith’s Fair Banks’.

This programme was well received by the audience of several hundred Parisians. In
Le Monde
the following week, it was to receive a mention in a feature on young people and the arts, in which the writer referred to the fact that while the youth of France appeared to be burning cars at weekends, Scottish youth seemed to be more engaged in cultural pursuits. This, the writer suggested, was the complete opposite of what one might expect, were one to believe the impression conveyed in film and literature.

After the concert, the members of the orchestra were given a finger buffet and listened to a short speech of thanks delivered by a UNESCO official charged with responsibility for youth culture. In the mingling that followed, Bertie attracted a circle of admiring concert-goers, who stood round him in wonderment while he charmed them with his frank answers to their questions. Then, the party over, the members of the orchestra made the short walk back to their hotel. The concert, the conductor declared, had been a great success and he was proud of everybody, from the oldest (a trumpet-player of nineteen) to the youngest (Bertie). Now it was time for bed, as everybody would have to get up at five the following morning in order to catch the flight back to Edinburgh.

When five o’clock came, there was a milling crowd of teenagers in the hotel vestibule. The bus was waiting outside, its coachwork shaking from the vibration of its diesel engine, which made it look as if it was shivering in the cold morning air.

“In the bus everybody,” called out one of the adult volunteers who had accompanied the orchestra. “And whatever you do, don’t forget your instruments!”

Nobody forgot their instruments–but they did forget Bertie. Max had awoken him and then made his own way downstairs. Bertie had sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and then flopped back again. He had been in a deep sleep, and he had not been properly roused. So it was not until nine o’clock that morning, halfway across the North Sea, that somebody in the plane asked the question: “Where’s Bertie?”

The question passed up and down the plane, and nobody was able to provide anything but one answer: wherever Bertie was, he was not on the aircraft. And once that conclusion had been reached, messages were rapidly radioed back to Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was possible that Bertie was still in the terminal somewhere and an immediate search should be instituted. But then further questions were asked and it became clear that nobody had seen Bertie on the bus to the airport. He was therefore still in the hotel.

Irene was at Edinburgh Airport to meet her son. When the first of the members of the orchestra appeared from behind the doors of customs, she readied herself for an emotional reunion. But then, grim-faced and apologetic, one of the volunteers rushed up to her and informed her of what had happened.

“He’ll be fine,” said the volunteer. “It’s a charming hotel and they were most co-operative. We shall phone through immediately and tell them to go and check his room and make sure that he’s all right. And I’m sure that they’ll put him on the next flight back.”

Irene stared at the well-meaning woman, mute with incomprehension. Then, when the significance of what had been said was absorbed, she sat down in a state of shock.

“I’m so sorry about this,” said the volunteer. “But look, I’m getting through to them right away. I’m sure that they’ll have Bertie on the line in no time at all.”

As Irene stared dumbly at the ceiling, the volunteer spoke quickly into her mobile phone. Then she paused, smiled encouragingly at Irene, and waited for a response. When it came, her face clouded over. “I see,” she said quietly. And then, again: “I see.”

“What did they say?” said Irene. “Let me speak to Bertie.”

The volunteer put the mobile away. “They said that he’s not in his room,” she announced apologetically. “They said that he appears to have gone out.”

Irene sat back in her seat, her head sunk in her hands.

“I’m sure that he’ll turn up somewhere,” said the volunteer, looking anxiously about her. “In the meantime, I suggest that we just…that we wait.”

Irene stared at her. “I can’t believe I’m hearing all this,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “I can’t believe that you could take a six-year-old to Paris and leave him there. I just can’t believe it.”

“But you’re the one who insisted that he go,” said the volunteer. “It was explained to you that it was a teenage orchestra and yet you…”

“So now you’re blaming me?” said Irene. “Is that it?”

The volunteer sighed. She had been at the audition where Irene had insisted on Bertie being given a hearing. She had heard Irene dismiss the argument that Bertie was far too young. If he was incapable of coping with the arrangements, then it was hardly anybody’s fault but his mother’s.

“Well, now that you mention it,” she said, “yes. Yes. I do happen to think that it’s your fault. Sorry about that. But I really do. You insisted that he should be included. You really did. But he was far too young. That’s all there is to it.”

90. Stuart Lends a Hand

Matthew had seen Stuart several times in the Cumberland Bar. They had exchanged a few words on occasion, but neither had really worked out exactly who the other was. Matthew knew that Stuart lived in Scotland Street and had a vague idea that he might have lived on the same stair as Pat. He also thought that he had seen him with that impossible woman–the one whom Cyril had once bitten in the ankle–and that strange little boy. Somebody had said, too, that he worked in the Scottish Executive somewhere; but that was all that Matthew knew. And for his part, Stuart knew that Matthew had something to do with one of the galleries in Dundas Street, or that he was an antique dealer or something of the sort.

On that evening, though, when Matthew went into the Cumberland, Stuart was standing at the bar ordering a drink, and the circumstances were right for a longer conversation. And this was particularly so when Angus Lordie came in and suggested that they all sit at one of the tables, under which Cyril could drink his dish of beer undisturbed.

The conversation ranged widely. Matthew had seen a picture in an auction catalogue which he was thinking of buying and he wanted advice from Angus. It was a Hornel–a picture of three girls sitting in a field of flowers.

“I don’t really like it,” he said. “Flowers all over the place.”

Angus agreed. “I never put flowers in a painting,” he observed. “Not that I’m disrespectful of flowers. Far from it. I have no wish to upset them.”

Matthew laughed. “Are you one of these people who talk to plants?”

Angus shook his head. “I have nothing to say to plants,” he replied. “Although you may be aware of Lin Yutang’s lovely essay on conditions that upset flowers.”

Stuart stared at Angus. One did not come across people like this when one worked in the Scottish Executive.

“I have a lot of time for Lin Yutang,” Angus went on. “People don’t write essays any more, or not many of them do. He wrote beautifully about tea and flowers and subjects like that. He said that flowers were offended by loud conversations. One should talk softly in the presence of flowers.”

“Very nice,” said Matthew. “I’ll remember that.”

“And then there’s Michael von Poser’s essay, ‘Flowers and Ducks’,” Angus continued. “Another lovely bit of whimsy. But back to Hornel, Matthew. People like him, and I’d buy it. Look at how art has out-performed other investments. Imagine if one had a few Peploes about the house. Or Blackadders. She’ll be the next one.”

“I had a Vettriano,” said Matthew, thoughtfully.

Angus looked down at the floor. That had been an incident in which he had unfortunately put a rather excessive amount of paint-stripper on Matthew’s painting, obliterating all the umbrellas and people dancing on the beach. It had been most regrettable, and it was inconsiderate of Matthew–to say the least–to bring the subject up again.

The conversation drifted on in this vein, and then Angus mentioned his discussion with Big Lou that morning.

“Big Lou is pretty miserable,” he said. “I saw her this morning.”

Matthew, who had been unable to go for coffee that day, frowned. “Miserable? Why?”

“That man of hers,” said Angus. “That Eddie character.”

“Not my favourite person,” said Matthew.

“Nor mine,” said Angus. “I never liked the cut of his jib. From the moment I met him. Well, we were right. You and I were absolutely right.”

“He’s left her?” asked Matthew.

He thought that this would be sad for Big Lou, but only in the short term.

“Not as far as I know,” said Angus. “But the penny’s dropped anyway. She realises that he’s no good. I didn’t ask her how it happened, but I suspect that she found out about the girls he gets mixed up with. You know what he’s like in that department. But that’s not the point. The point is money.”

“This club of his?” asked Matthew.

Angus nodded. “He’s taken her for thirty-four thousand pounds.”

Matthew whistled. Turning to Stuart, he explained the background. “Eddie wants to set up a club. Lou has a bit of money. It was left to her by some old farmer in Aberdeenshire or somewhere. It’s the answer to this character’s dreams.”

“I wonder if it was a loan,” asked Stuart. “Would she have any way of getting it back?”

“Fat chance!” snorted Angus. “She can kiss that money goodbye.”

Stuart was silent. He was a very fair man, and it caused him great distress to hear of dishonesty or exploitation. That this should happen under his nose, round the corner, to somebody who sounded like a good woman, angered him. It was awful, this lack of justice in the world. We believed that the state would protect us, that the authorities would pursue those who preyed on others. But the truth of the matter was that the authorities could set right only a tiny part of the injustice and wrong that was done to the weak. Justice, it seemed, was imperfect.

It would be wonderful to be able to bring about justice. It would be wonderful to be some sort of omniscient being who saw all, noted it down, and then set things right. But that was a wish, a wish of childhood, that we grew to understand could never be. Except sometimes, perhaps…Sometimes there were occasions when the bully was defeated, the proud laid low, the weak given the chance to recover that which was taken from them. Sometimes that happened. “When I was young,” he said. “I used to read stories about people who sorted this sort of thing out. The end was always predictable, but very satisfying.”

“Sorry to have to tell you this,” said Angus. “But the comic-book heroes aren’t real. They don’t exist.”

Stuart laughed. “Oh, I’ve come to terms with that,” he said. “But I have a friend who does exist. He’s quite good at sorting things out, I think.”

Matthew looked at him. “He could get Big Lou’s money back? Unlikely. Eddie’s not going to reach into his pocket and disgorge it.”

“But this friend of mine has a way of getting round difficulties,” said Stuart.

“Is he a lawyer?” asked Angus.

Stuart smiled wryly. “No, he’s a businessman.”

“Who is he?” asked Matthew. If he was a businessman, then it was possible that he would know Matthew’s father.

“He’s called Lard O’Connor,” said Stuart. “And I could have a word with him if you like. He’s very helpful.”

91. Pat and Matthew Talk

Shortly before seven o’clock that evening, Matthew left the Cumberland Bar and returned to his flat in India Street. He had enjoyed his drink with Angus and Stuart. Angus, as ever, was amusing, and Stuart struck him as being agreeable company. It was good to have friends, he thought. He himself did not have enough friends, though, and he thought that he should make a bit more of an effort in future to cultivate friendships. But where would he find them? He could hardly make all his friends in the Cumberland Bar. Perhaps he should join a club of some sort and make friends that way: a singles’ club, for instance. He had heard that there were singles’ clubs where everybody went on holiday together. That would be interesting, perhaps, but what if one did not take to the other singles? Besides, the very word single sounded a bit desperate, as if one suffered from some sort of condition, singularity.

But for the moment, Matthew had no desire to find anybody else; not now that he had Pat living in India Street. It was a wonderful feeling, he thought, this going home to somebody. Even if she was not in, then at least her things were there. Even Pat’s things made Matthew feel a bit better; just the thought of her things: her sandals, those pink ones he had seen her wearing; her books, including that large book on the history of art; her bookshop bag that she used to carry her files up to the university. All of these were invested with some sort of special significance in Matthew’s mind; they were Pat’s things.

He walked back along Cumberland Street, past the St Vincent Bar and its neighbouring church, and then round Circus Place to the bottom of India Street. It was a warm evening for the time of year and the town was quiet. Matthew looked up at the elegant Georgian buildings, at their confident doors and windows. Some of the windows were lit and disclosed domestic scenes within: a drawing room in which a group of people could be seen standing near the window, talking; down in a basement, a kitchen with pans steaming on the cooker and the windows misting up; a cat asleep on a windowsill. These were people with ordered, secure lives–or so it seemed from the outside. And that was what Matthew wanted. He wanted somebody who would be waiting for him, or for whom he could wait. Somebody he could share things with. And wasn’t that what everybody wanted? he thought. Wasn’t it? And how cruel it was that not everybody could find this in their lives.

He reached his front door and went in. He had hoped that she would be there, and his heart gave a leap when he saw the light coming out from under her door. He went through to his room and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then he went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. He had stocked up with dried pasta; that would do. And there was a good block of parmesan in the fridge and some mushrooms.

He put the pasta on to boil and started to grate the parmesan. Then Pat came into the kitchen while Matthew’s back was turned, so that he was surprised when he saw her.

“I’m cooking pasta,” he said. “Would you like some? I’ve got plenty.”

He had hardly dared ask the question. He was afraid that she would be going out, and that he would be left by himself, but she was not.

“That’s really kind,” said Pat, perching herself on a kitchen chair.

Matthew told her of what Angus had said about Big Lou, and Pat listened, horrified.

“That horrible man,” she said, shuddering at the thought of Eddie.

“Poor Lou,” said Matthew. “But there was somebody there who said that he might be able to help her.”

Pat listened as Matthew explained about Stuart’s suggestion. It seemed unlikely to her that anything could be done, but they could try, she supposed. Poor Lou. She rose to her feet and offered to prepare a salad. “I can’t sit here and do nothing,” she said.

“Yes, you can,” said Matthew. “Let me look after you.”

The words had come out without really being intended, and he hoped that she would not take them the wrong way. But what was the wrong way? All that the words meant was that he wanted to make her dinner, and what was wrong with wanting to make somebody dinner?

Laughing, Pat said: “No, you do the pasta. I’ll do the salad.” Matthew opened the fridge and took out a bottle of white wine. He poured Pat a glass and one for himself. The wine was probably too chilled, as the glass was misting. He thought of the misting panes in the basement kitchen he had seen round the corner, and of the people standing in their window.

Pat told him about a seminar she had attended that day. He listened, but did not pay much attention to what she was saying. The seminar had been on Romantic art and somebody had said something very stupid, which had made everybody laugh. Matthew did not listen to the stupid remark as she retold it; he was thinking only of how nice it would be to be in a seminar with Pat. He wanted to be with her all the time now. He closed his eyes. I can’t let this happen to me, he thought. I can’t fall so completely for this girl, because she won’t fall for me. I’m just a friend. That’s all. I’m just her friend.

And then, suddenly, Pat passed behind him, and brushed against him, her arm against his, and he gave a start and half-turned. She was right behind him and he looked at her and she said: “Oh, sorry…”

He took her hand. She looked at him, and then lowered her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew, reckless now. “I really am. I didn’t mean to fall for you. I didn’t actually make a decision. It’s not like that. That’s not the way it works.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Pat.

“But it does.”

There was a brief silence. “But I like you too.”

“You do?”

A further silence. The pasta bubbled.

“How much?”

“Lots.”

Matthew sighed. “But…but not like that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said.

And it seemed to Matthew that all the bells of Edinburgh, and beyond, were ringing out at once, in joyous, joyous peals.