32. Rugby Types
Crossing the hall to return to his guest, Bruce hesitated before the living room door. The realisation that had come to him in the bedroom that Jonathan, his unannounced and unexpected visitor, bore a striking resemblance to him had unnerved him rather more than he would have anticipated. While most of us, if pressed on the matter, would concede that we cannot be all that different from others, within ourselves, deep in that region of consciousness where the sense of self resides, there is the belief that there is nobody quite like us. And of course that is true: just as we have yet to disprove the assumption that no two people will have the same fingerprints – and that applies even to identical twins – so too do we find it difficult to imagine two people who have had precisely the same experience of life as each other. That means that our assumption that each of us is special is, in that respect, entirely justified.
So there could not be another Bruce, even if Bruce was a type, with tastes and attitudes that could be found in any number of young men of his age and background. And that, of course, became very evident in Edinburgh on any Saturday when an international rugby match was being played at Murrayfield. If one went out on the streets of the capital before such an event, there would be no shortage of such young men in evidence: hundreds, indeed thousands of them, milling about looking vaguely benign, as rugby enthusiasts look; solid young men wearing the uniform of their caste – green waxed jackets (some of them) or heavy sweaters – their minds firmly fixed on the muddy, physical conflict ahead when a similar set of young men, distinguished only by their physique, their broken noses, cauliflower ears, and thick-set necks, would grapple enthusiastically with another set of such men, but of a different tribal affiliation, egged on by a cheering and excited, although almost always good-natured, crowd. Few of these young men, and certainly none of the players, would be mistaken for aesthetes, at least in appearance, no matter what sensitivity lay behind a robust exterior. And what of the women? They were there too, although in much smaller numbers, attracted by the sheer heady thought of being admitted to and participating in a male mystery as old as any ancient hunting party or sacrificial rite. And what could be more satisfying for the female spectators than to see thirty muscular men running backwards and forwards and occasionally bending over, head to head, and pushing one another backwards and forwards in the mud? Many women, in fact, swoon at the sight, and are regularly carried out on stretchers by first aid attendants, who revive them outside the stadium with cups of tea before sending them back in to witness further developments in the physical spectacle.
In such a rugby crowd Bruce would have passed unnoticed. And indeed that was where he belonged. He had played school rugby in Crieff and would have been a reasonably good player were it not for his concern about getting his hair messed up. That had led to several sharp exchanges with the coach, who had lost patience with Bruce’s preening himself both on the field and in the changing room afterwards. The final straw had come when, in an under-16 match against Merchiston, one of the strongest school rugby sides in Scotland, Bruce had combed his hair when he was meant to be throwing the ball in at a line-out, much to the fury of players on both sides who were jumping up and down and lifting each other into the air in anticipation of the ball’s re-entering play.
“You’re behaving like a …” stuttered the almost speechless coach, “like a … like a girl.”
“You can’t say things like that these days, Mr. Wilson,” Bruce had retorted.
That had been the end of his career as a player, but not as an enthusiast. Now, standing in the hall, momentarily hesitant, he was still wearing a rugby shirt – but as a fashion statement rather than a sporting garment. And he thought: why did I invite him in? Because he was at the door, he decided. Because he appeared to have known the girl I bought the flat from. Perhaps because I had already seen that he was … that he was me. The words came to his mind unbidden – and their effect was chilling. He can’t be me, he thought. He isn’t me.
He decided to go into the kitchen first and make the coffee that he had offered Jonathan. That done, he picked up the two mugs – the only ones he had in the yet unequipped kitchen – and took them back into the living room. At the door he again hesitated, but only briefly, and then entered the room.
Jonathan was standing with his back to Bruce, staring out of the window. When he heard Bruce come in, he turned round and smiled. “You have the same view as I do, only …”
He did not finish. With a sudden clatter, one of the mugs fell from Bruce’s hand, somersaulted through its brief drop, and then landed, unbroken, on the floor. Coffee, in tiny flying droplets, splattered across the bare floorboards and against the legs of Bruce’s black chinos.
Jonathan moved forward spontaneously, picking up the mug. “Bad luck,” he said. “Are you all right? Not burned?”
Bruce took the now empty mug from Jonathan and handed him the full one. “You have that,” he said. “I’ll make myself another later on.”
As he handed over the mug of coffee, Bruce noticed that his hand was shaking. “I’ve only got two chairs,” he said. “As you can see. But let’s sit down anyway.”
He now looked at Jonathan. His first glance, given as he came into the room, had had that disastrous effect. Now he looked with trepidation, afraid of what he would see. And it was true. He was looking at his own image – his twin.
He was not sure if Jonathan had noticed the same thing: surely he must have. And how would he raise it with him? Could he say, outright, Do you know, we’re identical? The trouble with that was the very strong taboo that exists – at least in Scotland – against one male’s commenting on the appearance of another. You do not say it, and certainly not on first meeting.
But Jonathan did. “I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said, a smile playing about his lips. “In the mirror.”
33. The Red Hot Chili Peppers et al.
For once Bruce, who normally was not stuck for a response, had no idea what to say. For a full minute or so he stood quite still, staring at Jonathan, his mouth slightly open, without a word on his lips.
“Go on,” prompted Jonathan. “Sit down.”
It might have struck Bruce as odd that his visitor was inviting him to sit, as if he, not Bruce, were the host, but everything about this encounter was so unusual that this thought did not occur to him.
Bruce sat down. Opposite him, on the only other chair, Jonathan continued to smile. “I saw you get out of your car,” he said. “When you arrived … I happened to be looking out of my window and saw … saw myself getting out of the car.”
It took Bruce a moment to appreciate what was being said. He smiled wanly.
“For a moment I thought I was seeing things,” Jonathan went on. “You know how you sometimes get things wrong on first glance? You know that feeling?”
Bruce nodded silently.
“But when I looked again and you were about to go in the door I got a clear view of your face and realised that I hadn’t been mistaken. It was a shock – a real shock.”
Bruce had been studying Jonathan’s face as he spoke. It was a disconcerting exercise, and now his gaze moved upwards to the hair, which was almost exactly the same as his, cut in roughly the same way. At last he managed to speak. “It’s very odd,” he said.
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Jonathan. “Would you mind if I took a photograph of us standing together? I’ll hold my mobile out in front of us and get our heads.”
He rose from his chair and Bruce, after hesitating for a moment, stood up too.
“It will be easier for us to compare ourselves in a photo,” said Jonathan. “Come over here. Stand next to me and I’ll take a snap.”
Bruce approached the other man. He felt uncomfortable in getting so close, and when Jonathan inclined his head so that they were almost cheek-to-cheek, Bruce held his breath involuntarily.
“It’s all right,” Jonathan said. “You can breathe if you like.”
“I am brea
thing,” Bruce muttered.
“You’re very tense.”
Bruce said nothing. Jonathan was now holding his mobile phone out before him at arm’s length. A moment or two later there was a flash and a clicking sound.
“Gotcha,” said Jonathan. “Now let’s take a look.”
Bruce was shivering as he looked at the picture on the screen.
“You’re nervous,” said Jonathan. “You don’t have to be.”
“It’s so strange,” said Bruce. “I mean, you and me …” He was not sure what he wanted to say, and so he left the sentence unfinished.
“Of course it’s strange,” said Jonathan. “That’s what makes it so exciting.”
Exciting? Bruce was not sure why Jonathan should find it exciting. Unsettling? Creepy? Yes to both of those, but exciting?
They looked at the picture. Bruce asked Jonathan to brighten the screen, which he did.
“Better?” asked Jonathan.
Bruce nodded. He reached out and touched his image with a finger. “My chin’s a bit different,” he said. “I think it’s different here …”
Jonathan turned to him in astonishment. “That’s me,” he said. “That’s not you, it’s me.”
The photograph was of their heads and necks: their shirts, which would have distinguished them, did not show.
“No,” said Bruce. “That’s me on the left – you’re on the right.”
Jonathan shook his head. “No. You were standing on the left facing the camera. Remember? That means that you’re on the right of the picture on the screen.”
Bruce was silent. Jonathan was right: he had mistaken the picture of the other young man for himself. He caught Jonathan’s eye; the latter’s expression was challenging – the look of one who was expecting a response.
“Right,” said Bruce. “So we look the same. So …”
“So what?” interjected Jonathan. “Is that what you were going to say?”
“More or less.”
“Well,” said Jonathan, “it’s interesting – to say the least. How often do we find our double?”
Bruce shrugged. “For most people – never.”
“Exactly. Unless …” Jonathan paused. “Tell me, what do you do?”
“For a living? I’m a surveyor. Property work generally.”
Jonathan looked thoughtful. “I almost did that. I applied for a land economy degree in Aberdeen, but I didn’t take it up. I work for a PR agency now.”
Bruce frowned. “Funny,” he said. “I almost did that.”
“And what sort of music do you like? Favourite band?”
Bruce looked out of the window. “Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
Jonathan shook his head in amazement. “Snap!”
“Haven’t heard them,” said Bruce.
Jonathan laughed. “No, they’re not a band. I mean snap in the sense of me too. I like the Peppers. Flea.”
“Flea’s great,” said Bruce. He paused before continuing, “But why are you asking?”
Jonathan took a sip of his coffee, and grimaced. It was cold. “You know, some time ago I came across this book. It was by somebody called Wright. Somebody I knew was reading it and I picked it up. I couldn’t put it down.” He took another sip of the cold coffee. “It had a simple title, Twins. And that’s what it was about.”
Bruce was listening intently. “It was about real twins? Actual twins? Not just people who look like other people?”
“Yes,” said Jonathan. “There’s a place in the States where they study these things. Minneapolis, or somewhere like that. Anyway, they look for twins who have been separated at birth – given up for adoption, and so on. Years later, they’re traced and they’re studied before they’re introduced to one another. They discovered amazing things.”
“Such as?”
“They had the same tastes …” Jonathan left the sentence hanging in the air.
Bruce felt his heart beginning to thump. Adrenalin, he thought.
“And?”
“And a whole lot of other things. Same political views. Same hobbies. Marriage to the same sort of person – including, in one case, two women of the same name. And so on. It was uncanny.”
Bruce decided to bring an end to a conversation that he was finding distinctly unnerving. “We’re not twins. I’m my parents’ only child.”
Jonathan drained the last of his coffee. “That’s what all these separated twins thought,” he said quietly.
34. Out of the Mouths of Pre-Teens and the Non-Formula-Fed …
Although Ranald Braveheart Macpherson had readily agreed to look after Cyril, not even asking why there should be a change in the dog’s care arrangements, Bertie felt duty bound to explain to his friend what lay behind his request.
“I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to get out of something I promised to do,” he said to Ranald. “Scout’s honour I’m not doing that, Ranald.”
Ranald assured him that nothing could be further from his mind. “I know you’d never do a thing like that, Bertie. You needn’t worry.”
“It’s just that Cyril was having an awful time in my house,” Bertie went on.
Ranald nodded; he understood. “Your mother?” he asked.
Bertie bit his lip. He was a loyal little boy, and did not like to run his mother down. And yet at the same time … “I suppose so,” he said apologetically. “Something like that.”
Ranald reached out and put a reassuring hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “I can imagine what it’s like, Bertie,” he said. “No dog would like to live in the same house as your mother.”
“She does her best,” said Bertie. “She really does.”
Ranald shot him a sympathetic glance. “Of course, Bertie. Of course she does.” He paused. “Tofu says your mum’s a cow, you know. Have you heard him say that?”
Bertie did not reply. He had heard it, of course – on more than one occasion. It was only Tofu, whose views counted for nothing, being largely composed of fabrications and provocations, but it had still been hurtful.
“Tofu’s wrong about most things,” said Ranald.
Bertie nodded his agreement. It was kind of Ranald to support him in this way; but no more than he expected from such a good friend.
“But maybe he’s right on this one,” continued Ranald.
Bertie looked away.
“Not that it matters, Bertie,” said Ranald. “There are plenty of people whose mothers must have been cows, and yet they’ve managed to have quite a nice life.” He paused. “I’m trying to think of one right now, but I can’t, I’m afraid.”
Bertie decided to change the subject. “Cyril won’t be any trouble, Ranald,” he said. “You only have to feed him once a day and make sure that he’s got lots of water in his bowl.”
“I’ll be very careful about all that,” said Ranald.
“Good,” said Bertie.
They discussed further arrangements. Would Ranald need to ask his parents, Bertie wondered. Adults were odd about that sort of thing – they seemed reluctant to allow pets to be looked after even if there was to be very little work involved.
Ranald looked at his watch. “I’ll leave it another half an hour,” he said. “They start drinking wine round about then and they usually say yes to anything you ask them after they’ve had a glass or two of wine.”
“Good idea,” said Bertie.
“And I’ve got the ideal place for Cyril to stay,” Ranald went on. “There’s a shed in the garden that has some old sacks. I’ll make him a bed out of the sacks and he can spend the night in there. During the day he can come inside and sit in the kitchen.”
The details of Cyril’s boarding having been agreed, Bertie said goodbye to the dog. “You’ll be very happy with Ranald,” he whispered into Cyril’s furry ear. “And I’ll come and see you from time to time. I promise I will.”
Cyril looked at Bertie and licked his face. He was aware that something was happening, but he had no idea what it was. It could be something to do w
ith food, or walks, or it could be about something else altogether, but Cyril would have no idea of any such further possibilities. Dogs are capable of envisaging lists of two things; beyond that, they become intellectually stretched.
Bertie thanked Ranald and was shown to the front door. From within the kitchen, he heard a murmur of voices, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Ranald Braveheart Macpherson raised an eyebrow in mock tolerance.
“I don’t know what they talk about,” he said to Bertie. “It’s sad, really, but I think they’re harmless enough.”
“They’re nice parents,” said Bertie.
Ranald considered this solemnly. “On balance,” he said, “yes.”
Bertie ran the short distance from Ranald’s house to the bus stop. He was glad that he had done this, as a 23 bus lumbered into sight coming up Morningside Road only a minute or so later. He felt more confident about making the journey on his own now, and he asked for his ticket with as deep and mature a voice as he could muster.
“You got something wrong with your throat, son?” asked the bus driver. “Smoking too much?”
Bertie shook his head. “I don’t smoke,” he began. “I never …”
“That’s OK,” said the driver. “I was only pulling your leg, son.”
Bertie sat towards the back of the bus. As the journey progressed, he went over in his mind what he could say to his mother when she upbraided him for being out so long. He could try to slip in unnoticed – he had attempted that on several occasions before – but he knew that he was unlikely to be able to get in undetected. Could he say that Cyril had run away? That would be a convenient and easy answer, but the problem was that it was a manifest lie, and Bertie liked to tell the truth. Well, could he do just that? Could he simply tell Irene the truth?
He rehearsed what he imagined would be his conversation with his mother. “Cyril was unhappy, Mummy. And I knew that you didn’t like him all that much.”
And Irene would look at him with that look that she sometimes used when looking at Stuart. Bertie was not sure if he could face that look – as captured members of the French Resistance had wondered whether they could face the interrogation of the Gestapo. Bertie had seen a film about that and his heart had gone out to the brave men who refused to tell their questioners where a downed British airman was or where the cache of weapons was hidden. He had asked his parents about the Gestapo, and they had explained that it was all a long time ago and Germany was a very different place today.
Sunshine on Scotland Street Page 12