Angus looked thoughtful. “So it’s not … it’s not effeminate to use it? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Big Lou could not help but laugh. “Oh, Angus,” she burst out, “you’re very old-fashioned. Nobody worries about being effeminate these days. Those things don’t matter any more. If men want to wear make-up, they can. If they want to sit around talking about … about …”
“About moisturiser,” Matthew provided.
“Yes, about moisturiser, well they can. Nobody’s going to stop them. Men have been liberated.”
Angus narrowed his eyes. “They have? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Big Lou. “Men can be themselves now, without worrying about gender expectations. Those barriers came down years ago. You’ve been locked in that stuffy studio of yours and you’ve missed the news.”
Angus turned to Matthew. “Could you advise me where to buy it?” he said. “Or maybe you could go and get some for me.”
Matthew laughed. “And say to the woman at the cash register, ‘This isn’t for me, it’s for a friend’?”
Angus nodded. “Yes, something like that.”
They were silent. Matthew was thinking how sad it was that the news of the liberation of men should not have reached Angus before now; Angus was thinking of moisturiser, and wondering whether it would smell like shaving cream. And did one put it on before or after one shaved? And Big Lou’s thoughts had returned to the Braid Hills Hotel, and the hills beyond, whence came the Jacobites’ help.
74. The Jacobite Rally
The Braid Hills Hotel, of course, was more than a mere hotel – it was a symbol. Perched on the brow of a hill, it looked down over the rooftops of Morningside to the city and the hills of Fife beyond. It was solid, imperturbable, reassuring – always there, as was the Castle itself in the distance, and it spoke of the values that created the city that lay before it. Like the Dominion Cinema, it had not changed much – a fact that was much appreciated by those who used it. There was far too much change in the world, and fantoosh hotels and glitzy cinemas would come and go. What people wanted was places that had always been there, places they could trust, places that had become deeply embedded in the folk memory.
It had been the scene of many important events over the years: weddings, funeral teas, Rotary Club dinners and so on; and many people had individual memories of these occasions which would be triggered as they looked up at the hotel from the road below. For Betty Dunbarton, for instance, relict of the late Ramsey Dunbarton WS, the glimpse of the Braid Hills Hotel afforded her as she drove out each Friday to lunch with her friend Peggy Feggie, in Fairmilehead, reminded her of the evening when she and Ramsey had dined there after the last performance of The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre. Ramsey had played the role of the Duke of Plaza-Toro with great distinction and had ordered a bottle of champagne to mark the end of the run. And then, just as they embarked on their meal, the doors of the dining room had opened to admit the rest of the cast, who had decided to have their last-night dinner in the same place. Ramsey had looked surprised, and then embarrassed, and she had said, “But my dear, did you not know that there would be a cast party?” Without hesitation he had replied, “Of course I did, my dear, But I chose to dine with you instead.”
Later that evening, as they returned home, he had said, “I have to tell you, my dear, that I have lied to you. I did not know that there was to be a party. They did not invite me. I did not want you to be hurt.”
It was only the second time he had lied to his wife – and on both occasions he had done so to avoid causing her hurt or embarrassment. The first occasion had been when they were engaged and they had gone for a walk down at Cramond. They had seen the Gardyloo, the boat then used to take sewage out to sea, and she had asked, “What is that odd-looking boat carrying, Ramsey?” And he had told her that it must be gravel, going over to Fife, in order that he should not have to tell her its true mission. Two white lies – both of which had been confessed, and both forgiven.
But the occasion to which the Braid Hills Hotel was now unwittingly playing host was of a very different nature. As Angus and Matthew arrived in the bar with Big Lou, a small group of Jacobites were already there. Lou recognised some of them as friends of Robbie, and nodded a greeting, but did not join them. Angus glanced at them with interest: strange specimens, he thought – that character Michael and his ridiculous spotty acolyte who hung on his every word; the odd woman who claimed to be able to trace her ancestry back to the sixth century or whenever; they were a very motley group.
“I must say this is a very peculiar occasion,” said Angus to Big Lou. “Where’s the Pretender?”
“He’s going to arrive with Robbie,” explained Lou. “Then they’re going to set off from the car park. There’ll be a piper, apparently.”
A few more Jacobites had now joined the other party, which had swollen to about thirty. They all had glasses of whisky in their hands and were toasting one another enthusiastically. There was a hubbub of noise, and it was growing louder when, from outside in the car park, there arose the wail of pipes. Clutching their whisky glasses, the Jacobites all headed for the door, followed by Angus, Matthew and Big Lou.
The Pretender arrived in the side-car of an old motorbike driven by Robbie. As it made its way up the hotel drive, the Jacobites all gave a roar of welcome. Saltires were unfurled and waved above heads, as were standards bearing the lion rampant. Several home-made flags appeared with a white rose stitched upon them. The pipes continued to wail.
As the motorbike came to a halt, the top of the side-car slid back and the Pretender gingerly rose to his feet. He was wearing a tartan jacket and trews, a great white ruff around his throat, and red shoes topped with large silver buckles. When he stood up, his supporters gave a great throaty roar which sounded as if it came from a hundred throats, rather than thirty. Then the Pretender opened his mouth and shouted something, but his words were snatched away by the stiff breeze that had blown up. Some of the Jacobites leaned forward, trying to make out what he said, others merely punched the air and shouted back. Then the Pretender sat down, gave a signal to Robbie, and half closed the top of the side-car. At this point, Robbie waved to Lou, and she waved back.
The piper began to play “Will Ye No Come Back Again?” and the crowd took up the singing of the words: “Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’ …” and the motorbike moved off slowly, followed by several Jacobite children and an extraordinary tartan dog, who had appeared from nowhere. The tartan dog barked, and made a spirited attempt to bite the Pretender’s arm, now waving out of the side-car. But he was pulled away by one of the children, and the Pretender made his exit unharmed.
They did not go back into the hotel with the Jacobites, but walked slowly back to Matthew’s car, which he had parked near the end of the drive.
Angus glanced at Big Lou. “You’ll miss Robbie,” he said gently. “How long will he be away?”
She shrugged. “He hasn’t told me,” she said. “And aye, I’ll miss him.”
Matthew said nothing. He was thinking of what he had just seen. Was it real? Could such goings-on happen in a country other than Scotland? The answer was yes and no.
75. Bruce Discovers His Feminine Side
It was now a few days since Bruce had experienced his moment of insight in Leith. Thanks to the supportive presence of Nick McNair, the following day had been a productive one, in which he had further examined where things were going wrong – everywhere, it was decided – and who was to blame for this – nobody except him. Of course the defects in a personality are rarely entirely remedied by a bout of self-evaluation, but in some cases they may be; there are at least roads to Damascus on which astonishing moral progress may be made.
“Do you want me to go ahead with the project?” asked Nick, as they sat together in the kitchen of the flat. “The Face of Scotland business?”
Bruce looked down at the floor. Did he want to see his face on billboards? The old Bruce would h
ave said “Yes” to that without hesitation; the new Bruce was not so sure.
Sensing his hesitation, Nick gave a nudge. “I think you’re unhappy about it,” he said gently. “Not everybody likes that sort of exposure. It takes a certain sort of personality.”
Bruce looked up. “And you think I have it?”
Nick thought for a moment. “I did. When I met you in the Bailie, I did. And then when we had the session in the studio, I still did. But now … well, now I’m not so certain. Now I think that you’re not like that at all. And frankly, I’m rather glad.”
Bruce wondered what to make of this. Was this Nick’s way of letting him down gently? The photographer himself provided the answer to that. “No,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t think it would work. I think it would. It’s just that if you went ahead with it, you’d make yourself more and more unhappy.”
“And you don’t want that?”
Nick laughed and put an arm around Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce stiffened, drew away, then stopped himself. Why should he reject this gesture of comfort?
“Sorry,” said Nick, and made to remove his arm.
“No,” said Bruce. “Leave it there. I find it … comforting.”
“We don’t like to touch one another,” said Nick. “Or men don’t. Women are much more tactile, aren’t they? They embrace their friends. They reach out to one another. They cry together. We don’t. We don’t allow ourselves.”
“We’re so busy being strong,” Bruce said.
Nick nodded. “Exactly.”
“And all the time we’re weak.”
Nick smiled. “Yes. Being human is being weak. Same thing.” He paused. “Do you remember the last time you cried?”
It was not an easy question to answer. For many women, the answer will be found by remembering the last time they saw a moving film; for men there is no such easy landmark. Few men allow themselves to cry in films, even if they want to; they swallow hard, fight the tears, smile indulgently at the woman crying beside them. And Bruce had not cried for a long time.
“No. I can’t remember. Years ago, I suppose.”
Nick shook his head. “Bad. Really bad. Do you want to cry now?”
Bruce said nothing for a while. Did he? If he did cry, what would he be crying for? He asked Nick that, and got an answer.
“You might want to cry out of sheer regret,” said Nick. “You might want to cry over the time you’ve wasted; over the hurt you’ve caused to others. Things like that. These are all good reasons for crying. Or you might want to cry simply because it’s emotionally cathartic to do so.”
Bruce digested this. “What about you? Do you cry?”
“Sure. Quite a lot. I sometimes cry from sheer frustration. When things go badly wrong with a set of photographs. Or sometimes when I get back to the flat and I realise that I’m on my own and I shouldn’t have broken up with Colleen in the first place and it’s too late to go back. When I realise that I really love her and that the way I speak about the bust-up is sheer bravado and nonsense and that if she appeared in the doorway over there and asked me whether we could try again I’d say, ‘Yes, oh yes, of course you can.’” He stopped.
“But this isn’t about me, Bruce. It’s about you. What do you want to do?”
Bruce now knew what he wanted to say. “No, I don’t want to go ahead with it. I don’t want to be the Face of Scotland. I don’t want to carry on looking at myself in every available mirror. And anyway …” He paused. “You can’t carry on looking good forever, can you? You get lines, don’t you? The years catch up on you.”
Nick was looking at him intently. “Yes, sure. But … you do use moisturiser, don’t you?”
Bruce’s hand went up to his face. “I do. Not every day, though. Just when I remember.”
Nick shook his head in disapproval. “You should use it every day, Bruce. Morning and evening. I’ve got some fantastic stuff. It’s really good. Do you want to see it? I’ll show it to you, if you like.”
“Please,” said Bruce.
And it was while Nick was out of the room fetching the jar of moisturiser from the bathroom that Bruce made his decision. He would go back to being a surveyor. He would forget about all his schemes and get back to some basic hard work. He would go back to Mr. Todd, his former boss, and make a clean breast of it. He would ask for a job, and then he would do it well.
Nick came back with a jar. “This is it,” he said. “You can get it either in tubes or in jars. I prefer jars.”
Bruce opened the lid and sniffed at the oily cream. “Nice smell,” he said.
“Yes,” said Nick. “Try some. Look, I’ll show you.”
Nick took the jar from Bruce and dipped his fingers into the cream. Then he smeared a thin layer across Bruce’s forehead and began to rub it in. Next, he applied some to the cheeks. Bruce closed his eyes. He began to cry. Small sobs at first, and then louder.
“That’s the spirit,” said Nick quietly. “That’s it, Bruce. Have a good cry. Let the tears come.” He replaced the lid on the jar of moisturiser and put it down on the table. Moisturiser and a good cry: two things for modern men to think about.
76. A Changed Man
Raeburn Todd, generally known as Todd, joint senior partner of the firm of Macauley Holmes Richardson Black, Chartered Surveyors, had not expected that morning to see Bruce sitting in the reception room of the firm’s new offices at the Fountainbridge end of the Union Canal. The architect who had designed these offices was of the school that did not believe in walls, except where utterly necessary to prevent the ceiling from falling down. As a result, it was possible from anywhere within the firm’s premises to see clients who came into the waiting room as they entered it; just as it was possible for everybody in the office to observe who was doing what in the coffee room, or indeed anywhere, except, of course, the washrooms, where the architect had reluctantly agreed to provide walls of smoked glass. Even so, with the light in a certain direction …
Todd and his brother, Gordon, had talked about this matter of walls and dividers with the landlords’ designers, who had been responsible for the internal arrangements of the office, but these designers had simply become glassy-eyed, as designers do when confronted with people who clearly know nothing about design. They had got nowhere. The designers knew that people eventually became accustomed to open plan arrangements and stopped complaining. Of course there were some clients afflicted with a nostalgia for walls, but for the most part they knuckled under, which Todd and his brother eventually did, although they reflected on what both Macauley and Richardson would have thought, had they still been in harness. If old-fashioned Edinburgh had enjoyed a reputation for being tight and closed, then Macauley embodied those qualities to a striking degree. He always kept his coat on in the office, and indeed Todd had been in the firm for some months before he finally saw Macauley’s face, which had until that point been largely concealed behind scarves, screens and newspapers. And as for Richardson, he locked himself into his room at the office and had to unlock the door to admit anybody to the room. Edinburgh in those days was not an inclusive place.
But it was not with such thoughts that Todd now occupied himself. He frowned. Was that not the obnoxious young man he had fired? Anderson? Bruce Anderson. It was! That chin, that peculiar hair which for some reason always smelled of cloves; it was definitely Anderson.
Now he was talking to the receptionist; flirting with her, no doubt. He was always doing that, and Todd remembered having to talk to him about a complaint from one of the secretaries. He was incorrigible.
And then Todd saw the receptionist rising to her feet to bring Bruce over to his glass cubicle. He felt irritated, but at the same time intrigued. It took some nerve to come back to a place from which one had been decisively thrown out.
“Mr. Todd?”
Todd nodded.
“You remember me, perhaps? Bruce Anderson.”
Todd reluctantly took the outstretched hand and shook it. He was Edinburgh; he was p
olite. “Yes. I remember you. How are things going for you? You went to London, I hear.”
Bruce was invited to sit down. Todd was civil and there seemed to him to be less cockiness in Bruce’s attitude.
Bruce swallowed. He had decided to be direct, but it was difficult. Todd was staring at him; he was civil but unsmiling.
“I’ve changed,” said Bruce simply.
Todd raised an eyebrow. “Changed jobs? Not a surveyor any more?”
Bruce blinked. “Changed inside. I’m a changed man.”
Todd looked nervously over Bruce’s shoulder. Had this young man converted to something?
“If you let me,” said Bruce, “I’d like to explain. When I worked for you, I let you down. I was sloppy in my work. And then there was that incident with your wife, in the restaurant …”
Todd stopped him. “I don’t want to go into that, if you don’t mind.”
“But you must let me explain,” said Bruce. “I know what you think of me – and I deserved everything that came my way. But when it came to that, I was innocent.
“There was nothing going on. It was just lunch. We had met in the bookshop in George Street and it was lunchtime. Purely social.”
He finished, and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “I really am. I was a bad employee. I was full of myself. I was a real pain. But now I’m sorry.” He paused. “And I want you to give me another chance. If you’ll have me back.”
For a while Todd said nothing, but looked directly at Bruce. Bruce held his stare. He did not look away.
Todd thought: he never spoke like this before. He’s a young man. Everybody makes mistakes. And he remembered, years before, when he was barely qualified, how he himself had … no, it was best not to think of that again.
He made his decision. “So, you’re telling me you’ve turned over a new leaf? Is that what you’re saying?”
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones Page 26