Sunshine on Scotland Street

by Alexander McCall Smith

  14. Bruce Meets Two Sporting Girls

  That had been a narrow escape, thought Bruce, as he approached the Forth Road Bridge. Of course there had never been any possibility that he would agree to his father’s proposal, but it had not been easy to explain to the olds, as Bruce referred to his parents, that he had no intention of returning to Crieff. His father had not given up easily, urging Bruce at least to have a word with Jock Blain, at least to look at the place. Meeting resistance, he had let drop the fact that the owner of the estate had a daughter and no son. This daughter, it seemed, was a few years younger than Bruce and could be, his father tactfully suggested, a possible friend for Bruce. “She’s very keen on horses, you see, and that’s why she hasn’t flown the nest, so to speak. Of course she’ll take over the estate, I suppose, in the fullness of time …”

  Bruce had paused at that, but only briefly, suddenly remembering that he had seen pictures of this daughter in Perthshire Life and, well, she may be a perfectly decent girl, and she may eventually be in possession of four thousand acres, but he had certain standards and …

  “Sorry, Dad. No deal. I’ve got too much to do in Edinburgh. Big plans. And, as you know, I’ve just bought a flat. Sorry.”

  His father had acknowledged defeat. “It would have been nice to have you back, but you must do what you want to do, Bruce.”

  And now filial duty had been done – a full two days had been spent in Crieff – and Bruce was free again, crossing the Forth Road Bridge with the Pentlands now in sight, and only half an hour or so away from the new flat of which he was to take possession that morning. Although it was a Saturday, he would be able to collect the keys from McKay Norwell, where somebody would be coming in specially to hand them over to him. He would go straight round to the flat and open it up for the delivery of the few items of furniture he had ordered: a bed, some chairs, and a table. The cooker and fridge had been left in place by the seller, alongside the curtains and the lightbulbs. Of course it would have been extremely mean to take the lightbulbs, although Bruce had heard of its being done. In Aberdeen, he believed, it was standard practice, and there were even cases there of floorboards being removed too, and glass from the windows. That was hard to credit, but they were certainly canny in that part of the world and one never knew …

  The traffic into town was light and in a very short time Bruce found himself in Rutland Square and parking in front of the McKay Norwell offices. The lawyers’ assistant handed over the keys with a smile and Bruce drove off again. His new flat was in Albany Street, just off Broughton Street – a part of town that Bruce knew from his time, some years ago, in a flat in Scotland Street. It was a step up from Scotland Street, he thought – a bit more room and slightly closer to the really prestigious addresses of the Edinburgh New Town. After all, Albany Street became Abercromby Place and Abercromby Place in turn became Heriot Row. And Heriot Row was probably the very smartest address in town, smarter even than Moray Place.

  This suited Bruce, who fancied the idea of moving in a slightly more elevated social set than was currently his lot. Bruce was not quite sure exactly who these people were, but he suspected they existed. They were people who went skiing regularly in France and Switzerland and did not stay in cheap hotels. They stayed in rented chalets, or, better still, owned them. Bruce could ski, and it was only a matter of time, he felt, before he received invitations to ski with people like that. And when they weren’t skiing in France or Switzerland, they went on weekend parties in East Lothian or Perthshire, where they had houses. In summer, they went to the British Virgin Islands, where they had yachts, and they also went to the Skye Ball, where they danced all sorts of complicated reels until the early hours and then came back to Edinburgh, quite danced-out. These people existed – Bruce was sure of it – and he felt that that was where he belonged. He did not belong to the world of his parents – to the world of Crieff and the Crieff Hydro and everything that went with that. Oh no, Bruce was a cut above all that.

  He drove through Charlotte Square and turned into Queen Street. Halfway along Queen Street, he stopped at a traffic light, in a rather long queue of traffic. The top of his car was still down and a car drew up beside him, also held up by the red light. Bruce became conscious that he was being observed, and he looked over to the neighbouring vehicle. Two young women, a few years his junior, looked over at him and exchanged comments that Bruce did not hear.

  Bruce smiled, and the young woman in the passenger seat smiled back.

  “Hallo, gorgeous!”

  This was followed by laughter from the driver.

  Bruce smiled back. “Any time, bella!”

  This led to delighted shrieks.

  Bruce made up his mind quickly. Leaning over, he shouted out his new address, adding, “Give me an hour to get everything ready.”

  The girls laughed, and the light changed. Bruce put his foot down on the accelerator and the sports car shot forward impressively, and in his rear view mirror he was able to make out the smiles on the faces of the two young women. You never know, he said to himself. You never know.

  He reached Albany Street and parked the car. As he got out, a man walking along the pavement slowed down. Bruce noticed the look – half concealed, half overt. It was a look of frank admiration.

  Bruce smiled, remembering the proximity of Albany Street to Broughton Street, Edinburgh’s gay headquarters. He was used to admiring glances from all and he did not in the least mind their source. He gave equal visual pleasure to women and to men. Why not? It was a calling, a noble vocation, and he accepted it as his lot.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the highly polished bonnet of the car. Perfection, he thought. Adonis. Utter perfection.

  15. Bruce Meets Mike Snazz at Watsonians Rugby Club

  Bruce manhandled his suitcase up the common stair of his flat in Albany Street. It was heavier than he had imagined, and seemed to become weightier with every floor. It was not the clothes that weighed it down, rather it was the personal grooming products – the bottles of shampoo, of hair conditioner, hair gel, pre-shaving balm, post-shaving restorative, aftershave lotion, eyebrow conditioner, heavy-duty hand moisturiser, light facial moisturiser (for masculine skin), skin toner, eyeliner (manliner), neck and shoulder conditioner, leg and groin conditioner. These were essentials, of course, and had to be moved in with Bruce, along with his iMac, iPod, iPad, and iPhone, together with their appropriate i-chargers, i-supports, and i-keyboards. Once all that was in the flat, along with his Nespresso coffee machine and his Nespresso coffee-pod dispenser, Bruce felt fully at home and ready to begin this new phase of his life.

  He looked at his watch. That brief encounter with the two girls in Queen Street had taken place about twenty minutes previously. That gave him forty minutes to have a necessary cup of coffee, unpack his clothes and products, and have a quick shower before the girls arrived – if they arrived. They had laughed when he had shouted out the invitation, but it had been, he thought, a laugh of delight rather than a dismissive laugh. And putting himself in their shoes, Bruce thought it highly likely that they would at least be tempted to come. After all, he said to himself, how often do you get somebody who looks like me inviting you to drop by?

  The previous owners had thoughtfully left the electrical appliances switched on and ready for him. The fridge was running and spotlessly clean, the stove responded when he tried the switches, and, most important of all, the hot water system disgorged a good flow of piping hot water when Bruce turned on a tap; all of which buoyed Bruce as he walked about his new flat, savouring the sheer pleasure of ownership.

  Of course, there is ownership and ownership. While Bruce was the person whose name was on the deeds that gave title to all three bedrooms, living room, kitchen, and bathroom, the reality of the situation was that this ownership was qualified by an 80 per cent standard security that entitled the bank, in the event of non-repayment of mortgage payments, to move in and deprive Bruce of his home. He understood that, as do all thos
e who live with a mortgage, but he saw no reason to think that this eventuality would ever arise. His current salary was good enough – even if partnership prospects were distant – and Bruce had, as he put it, a “serious iron in the fire.” Property development beckoned: it was a good time to get property cheaply, as long as one could lay one’s money, and by the time the development was ready the market would have almost certainly picked up. And Edinburgh was ripe, Bruce thought, for some really imaginative schemes. It was full of old buildings, most of which had long since served their purpose. These could be replaced with imaginative, high-rent developments – luxury apartments, office suites, perhaps a spa or two, and, of course, any number of hotels and bars. Of course there were those fuddy-duddy conservationists – those gloomy killjoys who wanted nothing to change – but there were ways round them, thought Bruce. Look at what was going to be done behind Waverley Station. What vision! What understanding of what made this city important! That’s what this city lacks, Bruce said to himself: commercial vision, a sense of economic possibility, a bit of can-do spirit.

  And it was not just pipe dreams. Bruce had met a man in the rugby club who had big plans for doing something with Princes Street Gardens. They had been sharing a beer after watching a game between Watsonians and a Kelso club (66–3 to Kelso). (“There’s no shame in losing to a Borders side,” said Bruce. “It’s in their blood down there.”) The man, Mike Snazz, had asked Bruce what he did for a living and was interested to hear that he was a surveyor. When Bruce then went on to give an account of his various spells of employment with a number of Edinburgh property companies, Snazz’s interest had increased.

  “As it happens, I’m in property myself,” he said. “I do a bit of development. It’s a company called Forward Looking Developments.”

  Bruce had heard of them. “You did that rather nice shopping centre down in Leith, didn’t you?”

  “That was us,” said Snazz proudly. “We were pretty pleased with that. And we’ve got this plan to build twenty-five storeys just behind Charlotte Square.”

  “Great,” said Bruce.

  Snazz looked at him. “We’re expanding,” he said. “Everybody else is contracting, but we’re expanding. Stands to reason somebody can expand – it’s like breathing: in, out, in, out. One person inflates while the other deflates.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Bruce. “You just need to seize the moment. Have the courage to get in there.”

  Snazz leaned forward. Nobody was listening, but he was always careful when it came to discussing sensitive plans.

  “You know Princes Street?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You know those gardens?”

  Everybody knew Princes Street Gardens. Everyone knew the Ross Pavilion; the floral clock; the lawns on which people sprawled during the long Scottish summer (July 18th to 25th) and gazed up at the Castle, that great towering edifice, the symbol of Scottish resilience and solidity.

  “Yes, I know the gardens.”

  Snazz dropped his voice even lower. “We can get them,” he whispered.

  Now, standing beneath the steaming shower in his still somewhat uninhabited bathroom, Bruce remembered this conversation with a frisson of excitement. Most businessmen talk about the single golden opportunity that comes one’s way in life – the single real chance – and this, Bruce thought, was his. He had arranged to meet Snazz again next week to talk about a job. “You’ll be in on the ground floor,” said Snazz. “But I expect one hundred and ten per cent commitment. You on for that?”

  Bruce was.

  He lathered himself with shower gel – sandalwood, ideal – and gazed at his reflection in the glass panel along the side of the shower. Drop-dead gorgeous, he thought. You fortunate, fortunate girls!

  And was that the bell? Yes, it was. He reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist. Perfect. Superb.

  16. At Prestonfield House Hotel

  “Well, Bertie,” said Stuart Pollock as he stood with his son in the entrance hall of Prestonfield House Hotel. “Your first wedding.”

  Bertie politely corrected his father. “No, Daddy, not quite. My second wedding. We went to Miss Harmony’s wedding to Matthew, remember? It was at that church at the end of King’s Stables Road, the one under the Castle, and then we went to that tent in Moray Place Gardens where everybody had so much to eat and Tofu was sick all over Olive. Remember?”

  Stuart remembered. “Of course, Bertie. I was forgetting that you were an old hand at weddings.”

  “This one’s been a nice one,” mused Bertie. “And I don’t think that anybody minded when Ulysses shouted out like that.”

  Stuart smiled. “I don’t think they did, Bertie. Poor little chap. It was just rather unfortunate timing – right after the minister had asked whether anybody knew of any reason why Angus and Domenica shouldn’t get married.”

  “It was because of Mummy,” said Bertie solemnly. “Have you noticed how Ulysses screams whenever she looks at him? Or he’s sick? Have you noticed that, Daddy?”

  “I don’t think there can be a connection, Bertie,” said Stuart, looking nervously over his shoulder. “Babies are rather inclined to cry – and to be sick. Even you were sick from time to time, Bertie, even you.”

  “I think I know what he shouted,” said Bertie. “It had nothing to do with the wedding.”

  Stuart looked at his son with amusement. “And what do you think it was, Bertie?”

  “I think he shouted Help! Either that or Hell!”

  “I don’t think so, Bertie! Why would Ulysses shout Help, do you think, or Hell for that matter?”

  Bertie began to explain. “It’s because of Mummy. I think that Ulysses feels …”

  He was unable to finish his explanation. Irene, who had retreated into the ladies’ room on arrival at the hotel, had now reappeared, carrying Ulysses, who had been changed. The infant, whose expression had been grim, now beamed broadly when he saw his brother and waved his hands about with wild enthusiasm.

  “Much fresher,” said Irene, handing Ulysses to Stuart. “Now then, do you think our hosts’ generosity runs to a drink?”

  “I’m sure it does,” said Stuart. “I think I see a seating plan over there.”

  “My goodness,” said Irene. “They’re going to feed us too. The miracle of the five loaves and two fishes will no doubt be repeated.”

  They moved through the crowd of other guests in the direction of the large room where tables had been set out for the wedding meal. Waiters, young men in dark kilts, moved from guest to guest offering glasses of champagne, orange juice, or whisky. In one corner of the room, surrounded by a press of guests, stood Angus and Domenica; Irene and Stuart made their way over to the bride and groom, leaving Bertie sitting on a chair with Ulysses on his lap. Bertie was feeding Ulysses small pieces of a sausage roll that he had found on a plate, a treat that his young brother was receiving with undisguised pleasure.

  Bertie looked about him. He recognised some of the guests, if not all. There was Big Lou, of course, whom he had spoken to on a number of occasions, and liked a great deal; and that friend of Domenica’s, James Holloway, who came for tea with her from time to time, and was also a friend of Mr. Lordie’s; and Mr. Linklater, who lived in Drummond Place, and was always kind to Cyril if he met him in the street; and his wife, who was kind too; and Mr. Backhouse who played the organ and people said knew more about old railways than anybody else in Scotland; and Mr. Dalyell, too, whom Bertie had met in the Valvona & Crolla coffee room quite a long time ago and who had told him the answer to the West Lothian Question when Bertie had gone up to his table and asked him politely. All these people were there, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves rather a lot judging by the level of noise, which was getting higher and higher. Grown-ups were like that, Bertie observed: they were always telling you to keep quiet and yet they themselves made such a terrible noise when they had the chance, as they now did.

  Bertie suddenly became aware that Matthew and El
speth were standing in front of him, looking down at Ulysses.

  “And is that your new baby brother, Bertie?” asked Elspeth.

  Bertie beamed at Elspeth, who had, until the unfortunate incident with Olive, been Bertie’s teacher. They still loved her, and missed her, and he was pleased that she was here.

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s called Ulysses. Do you want to have a shot with him, Miss Harmony?”

  “Of course, Bertie,” said Elspeth, picking up Ulysses. “What a lovely little baby he is, Bertie! He looks so sweet!”

  “He looks just like Dr. Fairbairn,” said Bertie.

  Matthew and Elspeth exchanged a quick glance. “Oh well,” said Elspeth.

  “How are your babies, Miss Harmony?” asked Bertie. “Are they here?”

  Elspeth laughed. “No, it would be a bit much to bring three small babies to a wedding, Bertie. We have a very helpful Danish girl who’s staying with us. She helps with the boys and is looking after them for us right now.”

  Bertie nodded. He looked at Matthew. “Where’s Cyril?”

  “I tied him up outside,” said Matthew. “I don’t think they wanted dogs inside.”

  Bertie frowned. “Is he all by himself?”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Matthew. “I left him a few dog biscuits and Angus said I should take him out some champagne in a bowl a little bit later on. He’s fine, Bertie.” Bertie looked uncomfortable. “Do you think I could go and see him?” he asked. “Could I leave Ulysses with you? I think he likes you, Miss Harmony.”

  Elspeth nodded. “Of course you can, Bertie.” She turned to Matthew. “He can go outside and play with Cyril, can’t he?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Matthew. “I’ll tell Stuart that’s where he is.”

  Bertie did not wait. Turning on his heels, he darted out of the room and ran down the stairs to the main door of the hotel. Matthew had said that Cyril was round the side of the house that faced Arthur’s Seat, and it was in that direction that he now made his way. He stopped. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. He felt it at first, and then he saw it.