“Indeed,” said Roger. “But tell me, why does this circus call itself the Acceptable Circus?”
Dilly smiled. “It reflects their programme. Which is…” She began to tell them, and as she did so, the expression of incredulity on the faces of most grew more marked. “They have a vegetarian lion,” she said. “No, I’m not making this up. They have a special EU exemption certificate allowing them to show him. Then there are the clowns—the audience is asked not to laugh at them. The performing dogs behave naturally and do no tricks. Then there is the low-wire artist who performs at a height of six inches, on health and safety grounds. And one should not forget the weak man, who has difficulty tearing telephone directories in two but is not required to do so, anyway, as everybody’s gone digital. All presided over by a ring-mistress.”
“And a nominated person?” asked Matthew. “Does everybody attending the circus have a nominated person to deal with their needs?”
“Naturally,” said Angus. “It would hardly be acceptable if they did not.”
They all laughed, and then several conversations broke out at once in groups of two or three of them. Dilly asked Domenica if Angus had fully recovered from his defenestration, and was reassured to hear that he had. “There were some psychological consequences,” she said. “He went a bit peculiar for a few weeks—he started taking an interest in contemporary conceptual art. He’d never had any time before for that, of course. He found it utterly banal, and I’m afraid I agree with him. But all of a sudden he started making admiring remarks about installation art and the like and also about modernist architecture. He said that he actually liked the proposals for the St. James Centre. I was seriously worried about his sanity, you know.”
“You must have been,” said Dilly.
“But then suddenly he got better,” said Domenica. “He found Roger Scruton’s essay on modernist architecture. It’s called Building to Last and it brought him back to his senses.”
“What a relief that must have been,” said Dilly.
It was time to go in for dinner. They sat down at the table and the conversations that had started before dinner continued, or went in new directions, depending on the seating, but the tenor of all of them was the city they lived in and they shared, and the friendship that brought them together. There were no false notes, no uncharitable remarks—just good humour, and warmth, and the exchange of ideas. I hope Edinburgh goes on forever, thought Matthew.
And then one of the guests, James Thomson, who had been sitting opposite Angus, leaned across the table and said, “Angus, you usually write us a poem. Have you done so today?”
Angus looked down at his plate. “I don’t want to inflict anything on you.”
“But you must,” said James. “Quiet, everybody: Angus is going to read his poem.”
Angus stood up. He looked at Domenica, whom he loved. He looked at his friends, whose company and wisdom meant so much to him. His heart was full, and at first his voice faltered. But only for a moment. And then it became firmer, and every word, every word was received in appreciative silence by those in the room.
“Here’s my poem,” he said. And he began.
What we lose
A proper winter reminds us of the attractions of months
When it never gets truly dark, when newspapers
Might be read outside at midnight, or close enough,
If only the news of the day by then were not so stale;
A cold blast from a thoroughly northern quarter
Brings nostalgia for better-behaved winds from the south,
Winds which at the end of their journey
Still retain some memory of those regions
Where it is not quite so important
That windows should close-to with a tight fit.
What we do not have, we remember we once had;
Innocence glimpsed in others reminds us
Of the time when our own consciences were clear;
Birdsong heard on a still morning
Brings to mind the memory
That once the skies were filled with birds
And there were hedges and unruly places
For them to nest in; as the seas were full of fish
And there were fishermen with boats and songs
About fish and the catching of them.
What we lose, we think we lose forever,
But we are wrong about this; think of love—
Love is lost, we think it gone,
But it returns, often when least expected;
Forgives us our lack of attention, our failure of faith,
Our cold indifference; forgives us all this, and more;
Returns and says, “I was always there.”
Love, agape, whispers: “Merely remember me,
Don’t think I’ve gone away forever:
I am still here. With you. My power undimmed.
See. I am here.”
There was silence. The late evening sun sent a beam through the window, golden, gentle, after ninety-three million miles reaching the end of its journey. Angus felt its finger upon his cheek, a warm, comforting touch, like the touch of friendship itself. He wanted that for Scotland, he wanted it more fervently than he had ever wanted anything before.
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The Bertie Project Page 27