‘Of course not,’ said Antonia flatly. ‘I keep my Spode for special occasions.’
Domenica was completely taken aback by this remark and was not sure how to take it. I keep my Spode for special occasions. This could mean that she kept her Spode (as opposed to stolen Spode) for such occasions, or that her own visit was such an occasion, and merited the bringing out of the Spode. It must be the latter, she told herself. It must be.
Their conversation continued in a desultory fashion for a further half-hour. There was some talk of the early Scottish saints – Antonia’s novel on the subject was not progressing well, Domenica was told – and there was a brief exchange of views about the latest special exhibition at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. Then Domenica looked at her watch and excused herself.
She rose to her feet and began to walk towards the door. As she did so, something lying at the foot of the kitchen dresser caught her eye. It was a slipper, a slipper embroidered in red, and it was remarkably similar to one that she had. She glanced at it quickly and then looked away. What were the odds that two people living on the same stair in Scotland Street would both have identical pairs of red Chinese slippers? Astronomically small, she thought.
∗ Lit: nothing about humanity is alien to me; a common Edinburgh way of saying: I’ve seen it all.
18. Bruce Finds a Place to Stay
Since he had returned to Edinburgh, Bruce had been staying with friends in Comely Bank. These people were a couple whom he had known in his earlier days in Edinburgh; Neil had been at school with him at Morrison’s Academy in Crieff, and he had known Caroline slightly before she met Neil. Both Neil and Caroline were keen skiers, who had met on a skiing trip to Austria. Not all romances which start in the chalet or on the ski slopes survive the descent to sea level, but this one did. Now they were married, and living in Comely Bank, in a Victorian tenement halfway up the hill towards the heights of the west New Town. ‘Not quite Eton Terrace,’ Bruce had observed. ‘Nor St Bernard’s Crescent, for that matter. But nice enough. If you like that sort of thing.’ Comely Bank was comfortable and was only a fifteen-minute walk from the West End and Neil’s office, but, in Bruce’s words again, it was ‘hardly the centre of the known universe’.
In fact, even as he passed these somewhat dismissive comments, Bruce was trying to remember a poem he had heard about a man who died and who had ‘the Lord to thank / For sending him straight to Heaven from Comely Bank’. Or something along those lines. Bruce smirked at the thought. Comely Bank was fine for Neil and Caroline, but not for him. He still wanted some fun, and in his view all the fun was to be found in the New Town, in places like . . . well, in places like Julia Donald’s flat, for instance.
Julia had quickly agreed to his suggestion that he might move in with her for a while.
‘But of course you’re welcome, Brucie,’ she had said. ‘I was going to suggest it, anyway. In fact, I’ll probably stick around for a while. London can wait. You know what? I think Edinburgh’s where it’s at. I really do.’
Bruce had smiled at her. It’s where I’m at, he thought; which perhaps amounted to the same thing. He looked at her. Nice girl, he thought. Not a feminist, thank God. More interested in . . . well, not to put too crude a point on it, interested in men. And why not? Why should girls not be interested in men? You could talk to girls who were interested in men; they liked to listen; they appreciated you. Those others, those feminists, were always trying to prove something, he thought; trying to make up for something that was missing in their lives. Well, he knew what was missing, and he could show them if they liked! What a thought! Thank heavens for girls like Julia, and for her offer of a room in her flat.
‘That’s really great, Julia,’ he said. ‘Can you show me the room?’ He winked.
She led him to a room at the back of the flat. ‘This is the guest room, Brucie,’ she said. ‘You can keep your stuff in that cupboard over there – it’s empty. And I’m right next door.’ She gestured at a door behind them. ‘When you need me.’
Bruce clicked his tongue appreciatively and gave her a playful pinch. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘This is going to be fun.’
Julia gave a little laugh. ‘You bet. When do you want to move in?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Suits me fine.’
‘And in the meantime,’ said Bruce, ‘let’s go somewhere this evening. A wine bar? A meal afterwards?’
This suited Julia very well, and they made their arrangements to meet. Bruce then left and went out into the street. He smiled. This was perfect, just perfect. He had found himself somewhere to stay – somewhere where he would not have Neil and Caroline cooing away in the background. Really, what a pair of lovebirds – gazing into one another’s eyes for hours on end and going to bed early, pretending to be tired. Sickening, really, and if that was what marriage was like, then he counted himself lucky still to be single. Of course, if he wanted to get married, then he could do so – any day. All he would have to do would be to click his fingers – like that – and the girls would be lining up. But there would be plenty of time for that.
He walked down Northumberland Street and turned into Dundas Street. It was good, he thought, to be back in this familiar part of town, amongst his old haunts. A few blocks down the hill was the Cumberland Bar, where he had spent so many good evenings; and just beyond that Scotland Street itself. When he went down to London, he imagined that he had put all that behind him; it was almost as if he had wanted to forget it all. But now that he was back in Edinburgh, his memories of that period of his life were flooding back, and it had not been a bad time in his life, not at all. He thought of the girls he had known – that American girl, the one he met in the Cumberland; she was a stunner, but then she had proved rather unreliable in the long run. He frowned. And of course there was Pat herself, his little flatmate as he called her. She fell for me in a big way, he thought; poor girl. But she would have been inexperienced and emotionally demanding, and she would have clung to me if I had started anything. Nothing worse than that – a girl who clings. That can get difficult.
He continued to walk down Dundas Street. He realised that he was close to the gallery that she worked in, the gallery owned by the rather wet Matthew. He was one person he could do without seeing again, and yet he would probably still be hanging about the Cumberland Bar hoping for something to turn up. Sad.
He glanced towards the gallery window, and at that moment Pat looked out. Bruce stopped. She was staring at him and he could hardly just ignore her. He could wave, and continue down the street, which would give her a very clear message, or he could go in and have a word with the poor girl.
He looked at his watch. There was no point in going back to Comely Bank and sitting in Neil and Caroline’s kitchen until it was time to go out to dinner. So why not?
He pushed open the gallery door and went in.
19. London Story
‘London,’ said Pat.
Bruce winked at her. ‘Fantastic place. London’s just great. You should go there some time, Pat. Move on.’
Pat looked at Bruce. He had not changed at all, she decided. There was the same slightly superior look – a knowing expression, one might call it – and the hair . . . yes, it was the same gel, giving forth the same faint smell of cloves.
‘How was the job down there?’ she asked. ‘What did you do?’
Bruce ran a hand through his hair; cloves released. ‘Two jobs, actually. I left the first one after a week. The second one was more . . . how should I put it? More to my taste.’
She was interested in this. Bruce would never admit to being fired, but if he left the job after a week, then that must have been what happened. ‘Oh. What went wrong?’ she asked.
Bruce began to smile. ‘You really want to know?’
Pat nodded. She did want to know.
‘All right,’ said Bruce. ‘I went for an interview for a job handling the commissioning of a portfolio of service flats. Not just any service flats – the
se were high-end places, Bayswater and so on. Diplomats – ones from serious countries, not Tonga, you know. Saudi, Brunei, places like that. Big Arabs. Fancy Japs. Eurotrash. Serious money.
‘This firm was doing the decorating, installing the bits and pieces – everything, really. And money was going to be no object. Persian rugs – large ones – all the stuff you put in these places, you know – busts of Roman emperors, Hockney drawings, and so on. We were going to do the whole thing.’
Pat raised an eyebrow. ‘But you’re not a decorator, Bruce. You’re . . .’
He did not let her finish. ‘Questioning my versatility, Patsy-girl? I’ve got an eye, you know.’
Pat shrugged. Bruce had known nothing about wine, but that seemed not to have stopped him being a success in the wine business. So perhaps it was confidence that counted; and he was definitely not short of that.
Bruce sat down on Pat’s desk. He adjusted the crease in his trousers. Chinos, Pat thought.
‘So anyway,’ he continued, ‘I went for the interview with this guy. You should have seen him. Mr Colour Coordination himself. He knew how to match his trousers with his jacket. He was very nice. He asked me how I thought I could contribute, and I told him that I had managed properties in Edinburgh. Then he showed me a picture of an empty room and asked me what I’d put into it. He fished out this catalogue full of antiques and said I should pick something from there. I did, but I had a feeling there was something else going on. He was looking at me, you see. Like this.’
Bruce turned sideways to Pat, glanced at her with widened eyes, and then looked away.
‘Oh,’ said Pat.
Bruce smiled. ‘See what I mean? What do you think a look like that means? Well, you’ll find out. The next thing he says is this: “Let me guess, Bruce – you’re Aries, aren’t you?” Just like that. Coming on hard.’
Pat thought for a moment. She remembered Bruce’s birthday, and it was true. He was an Aries.
‘He got it right,’ she said.
‘Yes. He got it right. But then he said: “Do you like cooking?” Cooking! And that made it even clearer. So you know what I did? I knew that there were three or four people after this job – I’d seen them outside – and so I decided that I’d play along with all this. If that’s what it took to get the job, I was ready. So I said: “Cooking? I adore it!” Yes, I did! And he brightened up and said: “That’s great, just great. I love being in the kitchen.” Or something like that. Then he looked at his watch and said: “If you want the job, Bruce, it’s yours.” And so we got it all tied up there and then and I started at the beginning of the following week.’
Pat looked down. She did not like this, and she did not want to hear any more. But Bruce continued.
‘It was a great job. I was meant to source the things we needed for the flats and to chase up the painters and plumbers and whatnot. I made up the spreadsheets for the projects with time-lines and completion dates and stuff like that. It was great. But then Rick – that was his name – invited me to a dinner party at his place. Boy! You should have seen it. Furniture to die for. Big paintings – none of this Victorian junk you sell here. Big splashes of colour. And there was Rick in a caftan. Yes! I look around and think: where are the other guests? Surprise, surprise! No other guests.
‘“Unfortunately, the others cancelled,” said Rick. “So inconsiderate of them!” He turns on the music.’
Pat listened to Bruce with growing horror. I can’t stand him, she thought. I can’t stand him. He led that poor man on just to get the job. I can’t stand him.
Bruce grinned. ‘So you know what I did? I said: “Rick, I’m terribly sorry. I’m just developing this terrible headache. Really bad.” And I started to leave. So he says: “But Bruce, you haven’t had a thing to eat, not a thing! I can’t let you set off with a headache and an empty stomach.” So I said that I wasn’t really hungry and that maybe another day, and so he says: “Tomorrow, Bruce? Same time?” And that was it, really. I phoned him at the office next day and left a message that I wouldn’t be coming back. So that was the end of the job.’
Pat looked away. There was nothing worse, in her view, than talking about something like that; a private encounter in which one person misunderstands another and is made to look pathetic. And Bruce was responsible for the whole misunderstanding by pretending to be gay. She turned back to him. ‘That’s really horrible,’ she said. ‘Really horrible.’
‘I know,’ said Bruce, smiling broadly. ‘But I don’t hold it against him. Not really.’
Pat drew in her breath. It seemed impossible to dent his self-satisfaction, his utter self-assuredness. She wanted to hit him, because that, she thought, might be the only way of telling him what she felt. But she would not have had the chance, even if she had summoned up the courage, as Bruce now slid off the desk, patted her on the arm, and moved towards the door.
‘À bientót,’ he said. ‘Which, translated into the patois of these parts, means: see yous!’
20. Miss Harmony has News for the Children
‘Now listen, everybody,’ said Miss Harmony, clapping her hands to get attention. ‘We have some very interesting news.’ She looked out over the class, seated in a circle round the room. They were always somewhat excited at the beginning of a new term and usually took a few days to settle down, especially if there were any new members. As it happened, there were not, and indeed the class was one member down with the departure of Merlin. He had been withdrawn by his parents, who had decided to home-school him for a trial period. Miss Harmony had not thought that a good idea, as she believed in the socialisation value of the classroom experience, particularly when the parents themselves were so odd. And she had the gravest doubts as to what Merlin’s mother could actually teach her son. There was something very disconcerting about that woman, Miss Harmony thought; her vague, mystical pronouncements, her interest in crystals, and her slightly fey appearance did not inspire confidence. But it was her choice, and it would be respected, although when she thought about it hard enough, she wondered exactly why one should respect the choices of others when those choices were so patently bad ones. That would require further thought, she decided.
Looking around the class, there were various other pupils whom she would quite happily have seen withdrawn for home-schooling. Larch was one, with his aggressive outlook and his . . . well, she did not like to blame a child for his appearance, but there was no escaping the fact that Larch looked like a pugilist on day-release from Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution. He was rather frightening, actually, and he really did spoil the class photographs.
These thoughts, though, were not really very charitable and Miss Harmony accepted that she should put them firmly from her mind; but not before she had allowed herself a final reflection on how Hiawatha, too, might also benefit from home-schooling, which would remove the constant problem of his socks and their somewhat unpleasant odour. Would a letter to his mother be in order? she wondered. It was difficult to imagine how one might put the matter tactfully; parents were so sensitive about such things.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘A lot has happened! First of all, you will notice that Merlin is no longer with us. We have said farewell to him, as he is going to be studying at home this year.’
This announcement was greeted with silence, as the children looked at one another. Then Olive put up her hand.
‘He won’t be studying, Miss Harmony,’ she said. ‘He told me. He said that his mother wanted him to help her with her weaving. He said that he was going to be getting paid for it.’
‘Now, Olive,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘We mustn’t always believe what others tell us, must we? Especially when they are having a little joke, as I am sure Merlin was. We all know that Merlin will be working very hard in his little home classroom and that his head will soon be bursting with knowledge.’ She stared hard at Olive. ‘Yes, Olive, bursting with knowledge.’
Tofu now joined in. ‘I saw something about this on television,’ he said. ‘It
was about carpet factories in India. The children all worked in the factories and made rugs.’
Miss Harmony laughed. ‘That’s child labour, Tofu, dear. And it is no longer allowed in this country. Certainly it used to be – chimney sweeps would make little boys – like you – go up the chimney for them. Charles Dickens wrote about that sort of thing. But now we do not allow that any more.’ She paused. ‘Merlin will not be a child labourer, I assure you.’
She gave Tofu a discouraging look. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘The news that Merlin has left us is very sad news for us, of course. But there has also been some happy news. And I’m going to ask Bertie to tell us himself.’
All eyes swung round to Bertie, who blushed.
‘Come on, Bertie,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘You tell us about the little event which happened in your house over the holidays.’
Bertie bit his lip. He had not been sure at first what Miss Harmony was alluding to, but now he knew.
‘My mother had a baby,’ he muttered.
‘Now, now, Bertie,’ encouraged Miss Harmony. ‘Good news must be given loud and clear.’
‘A baby,’ said Bertie. ‘My mother had a baby.’
‘See!’ said Miss Harmony. ‘That’s good news, isn’t it everybody? Bertie now has a little brother. And what’s his name, Bertie?’
Bertie looked down at the top of his desk. There was no escape, or at least none that he could identify. ‘Ulysses,’ he said.
Tofu, who had been staring at Bertie, now looked away and sniggered.
‘Tofu,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘Ulysses is a very fine name.’
Tofu said nothing.
The World According to Bertie Page 7