He looked at Graeme, who was smiling at him nervously. ‘You . . . you’ve spelled it out,’ said Bruce. ‘Nobody could excuse you of . . .’
‘Being oversubtle?’ supplied Graeme.
‘Well . . .’ said Bruce.
Graeme raised a hand. ‘Julia seems very fond of you.’
‘And I’m fond of her,’ Bruce said, which he was; in a way. He was reasonably fond of her, for all her . . . all her empty-headedness. No. Time to call it quits. Every bachelor has to face it, he thought. And this was, after all, a magnificent landing.
‘All right, if I have your permission,’ said Bruce, ‘I’d like to ask Julia to marry me.’
‘You have it,’ said Graeme quickly. He reached out for Bruce’s hand and shook it. ‘I think she’ll be very pleased.’
‘Good,’ said Bruce. ‘I’ll . . .’
‘Go through now,’ said Graeme. ‘Go and speak to her. I’ll stay here. But you go and pop the question.’ He paused, rubbing his hands together. ‘And tell me, when’s the happy day to be?’
‘The wedding? Well, I don’t know . . .’
‘No, not that,’ said Graeme. ‘You know what I mean.’
81. Distresssed Beige
On the day on which Bruce’s situation became so dramatically better, Matthew, whose long-term prospects had improved markedly on his meeting with Miss Harmony, now faced short-term discomfort in his relationship with Pat. He had decided to make a clean break with Pat even before he had so fortuitously met Elspeth Harmony, so nobody could accuse him of trading one woman for another. But even if he had not been disloyal, he still felt uncomfortable about the actual process of ending the relationship. On several occasions, he had rehearsed what he would say, trying various scripts, fretting over the degree to which each might be thought either too heartless or too ambivalent. Nothing sounded quite right.
And when the time came, it sounded flat, sounded phoney. ‘Pat,’ he began. ‘You and I need to talk.’
She looked up from a letter which she was in the process of opening. ‘Talk? All right. But about what?’
‘Us,’ said Matthew. ‘That is, you. Me. Us, as a . . . a couple.’
She saw that he was blushing, and this worried her. She had hoped that he would have forgotten what he had said that evening, at the Duke of Johannesburg’s party, but he evidently had not. Oh dear, she thought, I’m going to have to hurt his feelings. Poor Matthew! And he’s wearing his distressed-oatmeal sweater too.
‘Yes,’ Matthew went on, averting his gaze. ‘I’ve been having a serious think about us, and I think that we need to go back to being friends. Just friends. You know that I’m very fond of you, you know that. But I think that we’re in different places. We have different plans. I want to settle down and you . . . you, quite rightly, don’t really want that, do you? You’re younger. It’s natural.’
Pat listened attentively. Her reaction was one of immense relief, but she did not want Matthew to see that. She hoped that she sounded sufficiently concerned.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
She sighed. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Matthew. And always thoughtful.’
Matthew blushed.
‘But you’re probably right,’ Pat went on quickly. ‘You need something I can’t give you.’
‘I’m glad you understand.’ He paused. ‘So you’re not too upset?’
‘No . . . I mean of course I’m sorry, but I’ll get over it. And I really think it’s for the best.’
His relief was palpable. It had been far easier than he had imagined.
‘And I hope that you find somebody else, Matthew. I really hope that. You deserve somebody nice, somebody who wants what you want.’ She looked at him. Poor Matthew. He would find it hard to get somebody else.
Matthew hesitated. He had not been sure whether he should mention Elspeth to her, but now it struck him that it would be almost dishonest not to do so, now that she had mentioned the possibility. ‘In actual fact,’ he ventured, ‘I’ve met somebody. Just a few days ago.’
Pat gave a start. ‘You’ve met another girl?’
‘Yes. She’s a teacher. She came into the gallery, and, well, it just happened. We fell for each other.’
Pat said nothing for a moment. For each other? Or was it more a case of Matthew doing the falling? The problem, she thought, was that nobody would fall for Matthew just like that. He was very kind; he was very gentle; but he was not the sort for whom women fell – they simply did not. The thought was a disloyal one, and she tried to put it out of her mind. So she asked Matthew who she was.
‘She’s older than you are,’ said Matthew. ‘She’s about my age, or even a year or two older. I don’t know exactly. And she’s called Elspeth Harmony.’
Pat nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, I don’t really know too much about her,’ Matthew continued. ‘Except that she likes china. I bought her a Meissen figure, in fact. From the Thrie Estaits down the road.’
Pat stared at him. ‘You bought her a Meissen figure?’
‘Yes. She loved it. And it was really special.’
Pat’s voice was now considerably quieter. ‘And me?’ she asked. ‘What did you ever buy me?’
Matthew was taken aback by this question. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know we counted presents.’
‘No, we don’t,’ she said. ‘But if I did count . . . well, it wouldn’t come to much. It would come to nothing, actually.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous . . .’
‘Oh, you think that’s ridiculous?’ There was new spirit in her voice. ‘I’m being ridiculous in thinking that it’s a bit strange that you know her for – how long? – two days, and you buy her a Meissen figure. You know me for over a year, two years really, and you buy me nothing. Nothing. When’s my birthday, Matthew? Go on, tell me when my birthday is.’
‘You mean you’ve forgotten?’
‘Don’t try to be funny,’ she said, her voice now raised. ‘You can’t pull it off, Matthew. Sitting there in that beige sweater, trying to be funny.’
‘It’s not beige,’ said Matthew sharply. ‘It’s distressed oatmeal.’
‘Distressed oatmeal!’ Pat countered. ‘Distressed beige. That’s your trouble, Matthew. I’m sorry, but your clothes . . .’ She paused, seeming to search for the right term. ‘Your clothes, Matthew, are tragic, really tragic.’
Matthew looked away. ‘You think I’m tragic, do you?’
Pat did not think about what she was saying. But she was smarting over the question of presents. ‘Yes, I do. And she must be really tragic, this Elspeth Meissen.’
‘She’s not called Meissen,’ he said. ‘The figure was Meissen. And if I’m tragic, then what does that make you? The girlfriend of a tragedy?’
‘That’s really childish!’
Neither said anything. Both were surprised by the sudden exchange of insults. And both regretted it. Suddenly, Pat reached out and put her hand on Matthew’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We’re being really silly about this. It’s my fault.’
Matthew turned and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. ‘No, it’s mine. And I’m sorry too.’
Pat smiled. ‘I’ll never say anything like that to you again. I promise.’
‘Me too,’ Matthew responded. ‘And I’d like to give you something to . . . to make up for my insensitivity.’
He rose to his feet and looked about the gallery. On the wall opposite him was a painting that Pat had admired. He walked across the room and took it off the wall. He gave it to her.
She said: ‘This is far too expensive. You can’t give this to me.’
He shook his head. ‘Yes I can. I want you to have it.’
She took the painting from him. It was heavier than she had imagined it would be – heavy in its expansive gilt frame. Guilt frame, she thought: his – or mine?
82. Matthew buys New Clothes
When Matthew locked up the gallery and went out onto
Dundas Street that evening, he felt almost light-headed with relief. He had dreaded the breakup with Pat. He had imagined that there would be recriminations, threats, tears, and there had been none of that, unless, of course, one counted the brief and really rather silly exchange over beige and distressed oatmeal. And one should not really make much of such an adolescent flare-up, in which nothing really hurtful was said, and which led, anyway, to immediate apologies.
After Matthew had given Pat the painting – which was a rather nice little Stanley Spencer watercolour, a generous present by any standards – they had finished their conversation with what Matthew described as housekeeping matters.
Pat should not feel that she should give up her part-time job at the gallery; that position had nothing to do with their relationship, and he did not think it would be at all difficult for them to continue to see one another as colleagues and friends. Pat agreed, but thought that she would consider it anyway. Her university work was becoming more pressing, and she was not sure how much time she could devote to working in the gallery. But if she did find that she had to give the job up, or do fewer hours, she had a friend in the same degree course who was currently doing bar work and who would love to have a change. Matthew thanked her for this. ‘You’ve never let me down,’ he said. ‘Never.’
With that disposed of, the rest of the morning had passed in amicable companionship, with only the occasional reference to their new situation.
‘You’ll find somebody else,’ said Matthew at one point. ‘There are plenty of boys. Plenty.’
‘Not all of them are nice,’ said Pat. ‘In fact, some of them are really awful.’
Matthew nodded. ‘Wolf, for example.’
Pat said nothing.
‘And others,’ said Matthew quickly. ‘But there are some nice ones. And you’ll meet them, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t know if I want to,’ said Pat. ‘I think I might have a boy-free time for a while. It’s nice to be single, you know. It’s . . . it’s uncluttered.’
Matthew was not so certain about that. He had endured long periods of being uncluttered, and, on balance, he preferred to be cluttered. He thought of Elspeth Harmony. He would see her that night – he had asked her to have dinner with him and she had agreed. He would cook something special – he had a new risotto recipe that he had mastered and he would give her that. And champagne? Or would that be a little bit too much? Yes, it would. Perhaps they would have a New Zealand white instead. Or something from Western Australia. Margaret River, perhaps.
And what would he wear? That was more difficult, as he obviously could not wear his distressed-oatmeal sweater – not after those remarks that Pat had made. It was not beige! It was not! But there was no point in going over that – it was obvious that distressed oatmeal was not a colour of which every woman approved, and in that case he would wear . . .
‘Pat,’ he said. ‘What should I wear? I mean, what should I wear for special occasions?’
She guessed at what he was talking about. ‘For when you’re seeing what’s-her-name? Elspeth Harm . . .’
‘Harmony.’
‘Yes, her. Well, let me see. Don’t think that . . .’
‘I won’t wear my sweater. Don’t worry.’
‘Good. Well, look, Matthew. You have to decide what your colour is. Then go for that. Build around it.’
Matthew looked interested. ‘Build around my colour?’
Pat looked at him intensely. ‘Yes. And your colour, I would have thought is . . . ultramarine.’
Matthew stared at her. ‘As in Vermeer?’
‘Yes,’ said Pat. ‘Do you know that’s how Vermeer got that lovely shade of blue? By crushing lapis lazuli?’
‘Of course I knew that,’ said Matthew.
‘And that’s why there’s that terrific light in his pictures. The girl with the pearl earring, for instance. That blue in her headscarf.’
‘Do you think I should wear that exact blue?’
Pat nodded. ‘I think so. But you shouldn’t wear everything in that blue, of course. Maybe a shirt in that blue and then get some trousers which are . . . well, maybe blackish, but not pure black. Charcoal. That’s it. Charcoal trousers, Matthew, and an ultramarine shirt.’
‘And a tie?’
‘No, definitely not. Just the shirt, with the top button undone. And don’t, whatever you do, have a button-down collar. Just have it normal. Try to be normal, Matthew.’
Pat went off to the university at lunchtime, leaving Matthew to spend the afternoon in the gallery by himself. He closed early, and made his way up to Stewart Christie in Queen Street. The window was full of brown and green clothes – a hacking jacket, an olive-green overcoat with corduroy elbow patches, green kilt hose – but they were able to produce several blue shirts which struck Matthew as being close to ultramarine. He chose two of these, along with a pair of charcoal trousers and several pairs of Argyle socks, which he needed anyway. Then he made his way down Albany Place, crossed Heriot Row, and was in India Street, where his flat was.
India Street was, in Matthew’s view, the most appealing street in the New Town. If he thought of the streets in the immediate vicinity, each of them had slight drawbacks, some of which it was difficult to put one’s finger on, an elusive matter of feng shui, perhaps, those almost indefinable factors of light or orientation that can make the difference between the presence or absence of architectural blessedness. This, he thought as he walked down his side of the street, is where I want to live – and I am living there. I am a fortunate man.
And he discovered, as he thought of his good fortune, that what he wanted to do more than anything else was to share it. In recent days, he had given two valuable gifts, and the act of giving had filled him with pleasure. Now he would give more; he would sweep Elspeth Harmony up, celebrate her, take her from whatever place she now lived in and offer her his flat in India Street, his fortune, himself, everything.
He looked at the parcel he was carrying, the parcel in which the ultramarine shirts and the charcoal trousers were wrapped. He saw himself in this new garb, opening the door to Elspeth Harmony, ushering her into the flat. In the background, the enticing smell of cooking, and music. I have to get this right, he thought. If this doesn’t work, then there’s no hope for me.
He climbed the stairs to his front door and let himself in. On the hall table, a red light blinked insistently from the telephone: somebody had left a message.
He dropped the parcel and pressed the button to play the message. It will be from her, he thought.
It was.
83. At Miss Harmony’s Flat
Matthew listened to the message left for him by Elspeth Harmony. In the rather sparsely furnished hall of his flat in India Street, the recorded voice, with its clear diction – it was, after all, the voice of a teacher – echoed in the emptiness. And it seemed to Matthew that the chambers of the heart were themselves empty, desolate, now without hope.
‘I’m really very sorry,’ Elspeth began. ‘It was very sweet of you to ask me to dinner, but I can’t make it after all. I’m a bit upset about something and I don’t feel that I would be very good company. I’m so sorry. Maybe some other time.’
He played the message through and the machine automatically went on to the next message, which was from a company that had tried to deliver something and could not. The company spoke in injured tones, as if it expected that people should always be in to receive its parcels. Matthew ignored that message; his thoughts were on what Elspeth had said. Women had all sorts of excuses to get out of an unwanted date: family issues – my mother’s in town – I’d much prefer to be seeing you, but you know how it is. And then: I’ve had a headache since lunchtime and I think I should just get an early night, so sorry. He listened again to what Elspeth had to say. There was no doubt but that the tone was sincere, and from that Matthew took a few scraps of comfort. This was not a diplomatic excuse concealing a simple reluctance to have dinner with him; this was the voice of somebody who was
clearly upset, and for good reason.
He switched off the machine and stood up from the crouching position in which he had been listening to the message. How he reacted to this would, he thought, determine whether he saw Elspeth again. If he did nothing, then she might think that he simply did not care; if, on the other hand, he tried to persuade her to come, in spite of everything – whatever everything was – then he might appear equally selfish. He decided to call her.
As the telephone rang at the other end, Matthew tried to imagine the scene. Her address was on the other side of town, in a street sandwiched between Sciennes and Newington, and he thought of her flat, with its modest brass plate on the door, HARMONY, and its window-box with a small display of nasturtiums. Or was that mere romanticism? No, he thought, it is not. Her name is Harmony, and there’s no reason why she should not have a window-box with nasturtiums, none at all.
‘Elspeth Harmony.’
The voice was quiet, the tones those of one who had been thinking of something else when the telephone had rung.
‘It’s Matthew here. I got your message. Are you all right?’
There was a momentary pause. Then: ‘Yes, I’m all right. But I’m sorry about tonight. I just couldn’t face it.’
Matthew’s heart sank. Perhaps it had just been a lame excuse after all. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘But—’
Elspeth interrupted him. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Please don’t think that.’
He imagined her sitting in a chair in the kitchen, looking out at the nasturtiums.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes,’ she said. And then, after a momentary hesitation, ‘I’ve lost my job. Or rather, I’m about to lose my job.’
Matthew gasped.
‘Yes,’ Elspeth went on. ‘There was an incident at the school yesterday and . . . and, well, I’m afraid that I’ve been suspended, pending an inquiry. But they think that it might be best for me to go before then. I’m rather upset by this. Teaching, you see, has been my life—’
The World According to Bertie Page 29