The Unbearable Lightness of Scones (32 page)

Angus stroked his chin. “I don’t know. Maybe. But take a look at it. It’s ceramic, probably Chinese, or possibly Western chinoiserie. Lowestoft, for example, did some very Chinese-looking things. It could be from one of the English potteries.”

Matthew leaned forward to examine the painting more closely, and as he did so, Cyril gave a growl. Somebody was at the door of the gallery, peering in. A man of bulk; of stature. A Glaswegian. Cyril could tell, and he growled.

“So youses have been looking efter ra picture?” Lard O’Connor said as he entered the gallery. Cyril growled again, and then lifted his head up and gave a bark.

“That’s your dug, isn’t it?” Lard said, looking at Cyril. “I seen you wi’ him last time, Angus? Remember? Up at that fancy chippie. That place doon the road.”

“Glass and Thompson,” said Angus. “Indeed you have. Cyril was with me when you brought the painting over.”

“Cyril?” asked Lard. “What sort of a name is that for a dug? Cyril! My weans have dugs, but I wouldnae let any o’ them call a dug Cyril! Cyril’s a name for …”

Lard hesitated, and glanced at Matthew. You never know in Edinburgh, he thought, and these days you had to be careful what you said.

“Well, be that as it may,” said Angus breezily, “as you can see, Mr. O’Connor, Matthew is back from Australia. From his honeymoon.”

Lard smiled. “Honeymoon?” he asked. “Did you get any sleep?”

Matthew smiled – nervously. “We were in Perth, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Perth’s in Scotland,” said Lard. “I was in…I knew some boys in the prison there. They’ve got a big prison up there.”

“Yes, I believe that’s true,” said Matthew. “But you were in Barlinnie, I assume…I mean, you must have known some boys in Barlinnie. Wrongly convicted, of course.”

Lard laughed. “They werenae wrangly convicted,” he said. “Naebody who’s in ra Bar-L is wrangly convicted! Their problem was that they couldnae get Mr. Beltrami to speak for them. If you get Mr. Beltrami, then you get your story across, know what I mean?”

“Very interesting,” said Matthew. “But, anyway, there’s a Perth in Australia. That’s where we were.”

Lard raised an eyebrow. “I ken fine that Perth’s in Australia,” he said, a note of irritation surfacing in his voice. “You think that just because …”

“Not at all,” said Angus quickly. “Now, listen, Mr. O’Connor, I think I can tell you something very interesting about this painting of yours.”

Lard gave Matthew a final warning look and transferred his gaze to Angus. “Oh yes? What’s it worth? Couple of hundred?”

Angus smiled. “Considerably more than that. Very considerably. If it’s what we think it is, then you’re looking at a very large sum of money, Mr. O’Connor. Many thousands.”

Lard was interested now. “Do you mind if I have a wee sit-doon?” he said. “Then you can tell me all about my … auntie’s picture.”

He lowered himself onto the chair that Matthew had drawn up for him. The chair was of solid construction, but under Lard’s weight, the strainers creaked.

“Your auntie?” asked Angus. “So that’s where the painting is from?”

“Aye,” said Lard. “My auntie doon in Greenock. My mamie’s sister so she was. Deid now. But she left me and my brothers all her wee knick-knacks, you know. She had some gallus stuff. China. A statue of the Virgin Mary this high from over in Knock. That went to the wumman who used to take her to church every Sunday. We would have offered it to Archbishop Conti, you know, if she hadn’t taken it.” He was now warming to his theme and continued, “And there was some Lladró. You know that stuff? A Lladró statue of a couple having a snog. I think that’s what it was called. Really good stuff. My auntie had an eye, you see.”

“Like Mr. Burrell,” interjected Matthew.

“Aye,” said Lard. “Exactly. Like Mr. Burrell hissel.”

Angus rubbed his hands together. “Well, that’s all very interesting,” he said. “We can come back to that issue a bit later on. The important thing is to decide what you want us to do
with this painting. I take it that you want to sell it? Or is it of emotional value, having been your auntie’s?”

Lard looked up at the ceiling. “I think … I think I might just sell it,” he said. “I think that’s what my auntie would have wanted me to do. She knew that I liked to sell things.”

Matthew watched him as he spoke. It was difficult, he thought, not to smile while the lies were told.

Lard turned to Matthew. “You can sell it, son? We could go haufers. Or do you want to buy it yoursel? If you give me a good enough price, we can dae business together, nice and discreet, know what I mean?”

Angus glanced at Matthew. “But why should you worry about discretion, Mr. O’Connor? If it’s your auntie’s picture, as you tell us, than surely it doesn’t matter how it’s sold.”

“It’s my auntie’s memory,” said Lard angrily. “I wouldnae want everybody to know that I was selling my auntie’s picture. You know what like folk are.”

“Of course,” said Matthew. He looked at his watch. It was time for coffee and he wanted Lard O’Connor out of the gallery. If they went over to Big Lou’s then they could leave him there when the time came. “I suggest that the three of us leave the painting here – it will be perfectly safe— and go over to Big Lou’s for coffee. You’ll remember her, I think. Big Lou.”

Lard’s face brightened. “I remember her. That nice wumman. Aye, that’s a good idea, Matthew. We can tak a dander over there and talk aboot it a’.”

They left the gallery, the Raeburn having been safely stored in Matthew’s strongroom. Then with Angus and Cyril leading the way, followed by Lard, and then Matthew, they crossed Dundas Street towards the steps that led down to Big Lou’s coffee house. And that is where Lard fell. There, on the very steps on which the late Hugh MacDiarmid had once stumbled, Lard fell forward; fell past Angus, who was immediately ahead of him, hit the stone with his head, and tumbled like a great, broken rag-doll, down to the bottom of the basement.

Matthew looked down. The sun was slanting across the street and fell in soft gold on the inert body below. In that curious moment of clarity that follows disaster, that moment of silence when the din of an accident is replaced by the quiet that preceded it, he saw that the angle of Lard’s head in relation to his body was an unnatural one. Matthew saw, too, that the great sides of the fallen man, barely contained in the stretched fabric of his shirt, were not moving, as one would expect, if there was breath in the body. But there was none; just stillness.

Later, Matthew was to have only a blurred recollection of the events that came in the immediate aftermath of the collapse of Lard O’Connor. He remembered standing at the top of the steps that led down to Big Lou’s coffee bar; he remembered the sound of Lard’s head hitting the stone, a sort of sharp crack, like a piece of wood being broken; and he remembered finding himself down at Lard’s side, reaching for the great, heavy arm that was poking through the railings, and moving it to a more comfortable position. But Lard, by then, was beyond comfort.

For his part, Angus had a clearer memory of everything that happened, down to the smallest detail. He remembered the sound of Lard’s breathing as the Glaswegian visitor followed him down the steps. Angus remembered stopping and half-turning to explain to Lard that the steps were hazardous and that it was in this precise spot that Scotland’s most distinguished poet of the twentieth century had almost brought his literary career to a premature end. But he did not say any of this because, as he turned, he heard a strange sound emanating from Lard’s mouth – a choking sound; the sound of one struggling for breath.

Then Angus saw that Lard’s face was quite white and that his vast bulk was beginning to sway. He’ll crush me if he falls, he thought, and moved to the side of the steps, pressing himself against the flimsy barrier of the badly maintained railings. That action saved him from sure and certain injury as Lard suddenly toppled forward and half-slid, half-bounced down the steep set of stone steps.

When Lard reached the bottom, Angus rushed forward, to be joined by Matthew at the side of the inert, prone figure.

“Tell Big Lou to call an ambulance,” said Angus quickly. “And then come back out here and help me shift him. We don’t want his head lower than his body. All the blood will drain down.”

Matthew stepped over Lard and dashed into the café. Big Lou had already abandoned the bar and was coming towards him. She had her cordless telephone in her hand.

“Call an ambulance,” shouted Matthew. “Quick.”

Cyril barked. He was standing outside, staring at Lard on the ground and at Angus kneeling beside him. Something had happened in the world of men, but he was unsure what it was and if he was expected to do anything. To be on the safe side, he raised his head and gave a howl. That would cover an eventuality that was looking increasingly likely to him.

Matthew and Angus now man-handled Lard’s trunk and legs down the last few steps so that they were at the same level as his head and chest. He lay there on the cold stone, his mouth open, his eyes staring up at the patch of sky above. There was no movement.

“Artificial respiration,” said Matthew. “I’m going to apply mouth-to-mouth.”

Angus nodded. “And shouldn’t we thump his chest?” he asked.

“We could give it a try,” said Matthew. “But he looks a goner to me.”

They did their best. At one point Matthew thought that he
detected some movement within Lard, but it proved just to be a great belch, which came up from his stomach, a last protest against the Glaswegian diet that had been directed into that long-suffering organ. It was a posthumous belch, and it was followed by silence.

A few minutes later, the ambulance arrived, and two men, each carrying some sort of box, came dashing down the steps.

“All right, boys,” said one of the ambulance men. “We’ll take over.”

They worked on Lard for more than ten minutes, ventilating him and applying a defibrillator to his chest. When the current was switched on, Lard’s body gave a twitch, but nothing more, and was once again still. They tried several times, looked at the heart tracing on the machine, and then exchanged glances.

“Did you see what happened?” asked one of the ambulance men, feeling for a pulse under Lard’s chin and then shaking his head.

“He gasped,” said Angus. “He was just above me on the steps and he gasped. It was a strange sound. Then he tumbled over and hit his head on the way down.”

The ambulance man nodded. “His heart had probably stopped by the time he hit the ground,” he said. “Big chap like this. That’s the way they go.” He paused. “Friend of yours?”

Angus hesitated. Was Lard his friend? He knew very little about him, and what little he knew was hardly favourable. But now he was mortal clay – that which we all become sooner or later. And if there is such a thing as an immortal soul – and Angus thought there was – then Lard had had such a one as the rest of us; a flawed one, perhaps, but a soul nonetheless. He had said something about his weans. So there were children. And a Mrs. O’Connor. And a life of plans and ambitions and fears – just the same as the rest of us.

“Yes,” he said. “He was a friend of mine.” He looked at Matthew. “And of you too, Matthew?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes, he was my friend too.”

“I’m very sorry,” said the ambulance man. “But I can tell you, he won’t have known what hit him. Out like a light. If that’s any consolation.”

It was, and Angus thought of those words as he helped the ambulance men to roll Lard onto the stretcher and carry him up the stone steps. “We’re not meant to allow you to help,” said the other ambulance man. “Health and safety regulations, you know. But you boys were his friend and maybe he would have liked it.”

“He would,” said Angus. “He would have liked it.”

And he thought for a moment how stupid our society had become, that its nanny-like concern for risk should prevent one man helping another to take a dead friend up the steps of Big Lou’s coffee bar. How silly; how petty; how dehumanising. And when they reached the top, he looked up at the sky, which had been overcast earlier on, but which now was clearing. There was high cloud, white cloud banked up to wide expanses of blue, and Angus wondered, curiously, what an artist might have made of this scene, Bellini perhaps, or Moretto. The angels would descend – well-built, strong angels – to carry Lard upwards to his rest; a man who had been undeserving in this world welcomed into the next, where human wrongs are forgiven and the heaviest become light.

Matthew and Angus gave lengthy statements to the police. Photographs were taken, measurements made, chalk marks scratched on the steps to trace the overweight Glaswegian’s fatal plunge. And then the police, having been satisfied that they had all the necessary details, went on their way, leaving Matthew, Angus and Big Lou to comfort one another in the coffee bar.

At the end of an hour of going over what had happened, Big Lou announced that she did not wish to keep the coffee bar open that day. She wanted to go home, to recover from the shock. Matthew, looking at his watch, realised that he would have to go back to the gallery. The “Back Soon” notice was mildly misleading even on a normal day; now it was extremely so.

“Come and have lunch with me,” said Big Lou to Angus. “Come down to the flat. We can carry on talking there.”

This invitation was just what Angus wanted. He could not face going back to his own flat, to his empty studio; the witnessing of a tragedy, even a small one, makes us want the company of others, makes us want not to be alone.

“I’ll come,” he said to Big Lou.

They said goodbye to Matthew and began to make their way down Dundas Street towards Canonmills. Everything seemed so normal, so everyday, thought Angus, and yet only a few hours before they had seen a man snatched from this life without warning. In the midst of life we are in death. Angus remembered the words from the Book of Common Prayer – those grave, resonant words. “Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower …” Lard had been cut down like a flower, before his very eyes. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. That was as true of Lard as it was of anyone. Such powerful words – such true words; language – and life – stripped to its bare essentials.