There followed a picture of an exposed arm, dotted with small, red spots. Midges, thought Matthew – they must really take the shine off being a nudist in Scotland.
59. Edinburgh’s Bone-deep Modesty
Matthew returned to the flat, where Elspeth was waiting expectantly, holding Rognvald while Anna attended to Tobermory and Fergus.
“Well?” she said. “What happened?”
Matthew shrugged. “I spoke to them. Or at least to one of them. He’s called Jekyll – Bill Jekyll.”
“And?”
“He was perfectly pleasant,” said Matthew. “It happened they were having a meeting, and I got rather caught up in it.”
“So that’s why it took you so long,” said Elspeth. “But you did raise the subject with them, did you? You did complain?” Matthew had to be pinned down, she had found out – he had a tendency to utter generalities.
Matthew nodded. “Yes, I had a word with him. But I had to sit through the meeting first. I couldn’t very well barge in and start complaining …”
She agreed that he could not.
“So there we were,” he said. “They had a slide show.”
Elspeth smiled. “And …”
“And the slides were pretty innocuous. They had all gone up to Glen Etive and there were a lot of pictures of Buachaille Etive Mhor. They had lunch in the King’s House Hotel – you know that hotel up there – and the …”
She interrupted him. “This was the nudists?”
Matthew nodded. “Yes, but they were all clothed on the expedition. Some of the men had removed their shirts, but that’s all. The problem was that the midges were out, and they had all been bitten. They looked rather uncomfortable.”
“Poor them,” said Elspeth. “It can’t be much fun being a Scottish nudist.”
“No,” said Matthew. “Anyway, afterwards they had some sort of election for the committee. They asked me if I’d like to vote – I think they assumed I wanted to join, but of course I didn’t.”
She looked at him. How well do I know my husband, she asked herself. Some women thought they knew their husbands and then discovered, as a bombshell, that they did not. Secret interests might be disclosed and the wife may have had no idea at all that her husband was really a … what? A nudist? Were there secret nudists – those who were too ashamed to inform their wives of their hobby? Of course there could be other, less dramatic disclosures – as when a man reveals that he nurtured a secret and unfulfilled passion for model railways, perhaps. Elspeth imagined what it would be like to discover that one’s husband was a secret train-spotter. That could be devastating: to be travelling on the train from Waverley Station and then suddenly, as the train draws out of the platform, to see him standing there in his anorak, furiously scribbling down the numbers of the trains as they went past. And he would not look up and see the astonished face of his wife go past, so absorbing were the numbers, and she would crane her neck to confirm the sighting and then sit back in her seat, utterly overcome by the discovery. To be married to a train-spotter! It could be worse, of course; Elspeth had read an article about a wife who discovered that her forty-year-old husband had a skateboard. It was hidden behind a wardrobe, together with a baseball cap and a pair of cut-off jeans. The poor woman had written to the advice column of a magazine and had received sage advice about the late adolescence of some men and about the necessity of understanding the needs of the inner boy. “Men are boys,” had written the agony aunt. “Women must be patient.”
But Matthew? No, she decided: she knew him far too well, and he was so utterly transparent. He could have no hankerings after joining the Association of Scottish Nudists, or whatever it was, because there was a bone-deep Edinburgh modesty about him. Edinburgh people rarely went unclothed, even in the privacy of their homes, where they modestly donned dressing gowns for the short trip from bathroom to bedroom. No, it was impossible.
“So what happened then?” she asked.
Matthew explained that it had all gone rather well. “I told him that Anna had been shocked, and he was very apologetic. He said that it was only a small group of the members that had been in the gardens before the meeting and it certainly wouldn’t have happened had he been there. He said that the movement is split between an official wing and a provisional wing. He said that these were probably the provisional nudists.”
Elspeth waited for further explanation.
“So,” continued Matthew, almost apologetically. “So, I accepted his explanation. He said that he would speak very strongly to these provisionals, and that he was sure it would not happen again. He said he would reiterate the rule that no clothes were to be taken off in Moray Place Gardens, and he would, if necessary, expel them from the movement.”
Elspeth sighed. “I still don’t like it,” she said. “I’m …” She paused. “I’m unhappy, Matthew.”
There was no mistaking Matthew’s concern. “Darling! My darling! You mustn’t say you’re unhappy.”
She turned away. Rognvald had gone to sleep in her arms, and she laid him down gently on the sofa, a small bundle of humanity, wrapped in a shawl, placed upon chintz – where he lay, his eyes closed, small mouth open in the tiniest of Os; my son, thought Matthew, my son, Fergus; no, Tobermory; no, Rognvald.
Elspeth sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, as in some picture of composed motherhood. But it was a pose, Matthew thought, of defeat – of resignation.
“You’re not really unhappy, are you?”
She nodded; a small movement of the head, but enough to make it clear. Yes, she was unhappy.
“But my darling, why are you unhappy? You have everything – the boys, me, our life together.” Could it be, he wondered, that he should have left himself off that list?
He took her hand. “It’s not me, is it? It’s not something I’ve said or done?”
She shook her head. “It’s not you.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Not you, my lovely darling. I’m really happy with you. You’re wonderful; you really are.”
His probing was gentle. “Then what is it? You aren’t depressed, are you? Remember that people can get very low after they’ve had a baby.”
She shook her head. It was not that.
“It’s the flat,” she said. “I don’t like it here, Matthew. I want to go back to India Street.”
60. For Sale – Again
That gave Matthew something to think about. Her disclosure had at first silenced him, but then, when the shock had subsided, he questioned her further. Had she felt this from the beginning, or had the feeling come over her only recently? She answered, but was not forthcoming. “It’s just a feeling I have,” she said. “I began to feel a bit uneasy about the move after you had signed. I thought about saying something, but …” She trailed off. “I feel very bad about this, you know. I didn’t intend to tell you. It … well, it just slipped out.”
Matthew took a deep breath. “I’m glad you told me,” he said. “It would have been awful if you had had to bottle it up. Now we can talk about it.”
She nodded, but it was a miserable nod. “I’m sure I’ll get over it.”
“It’s nothing to do with Jekyll and his friends, is it?”
She was vigorous in her denial. “No, it really isn’t. Those people don’t really worry me.” She looked up at the ceiling. “This place is … well, Matthew, I’m sorry to say this but I find it oppressive.”
“What do you mean ‘oppressive’?”
She sighed. “I mean just that. There’s something about the atmosphere – the light, perhaps, or lack of it. Matthew, this is a basement.”
He looked about the room. There was enough light, wasn’t there? “I wouldn’t call it a basement. It’s at the bottom of the building, yes, but basements are below ground level. This is a ground floor.”
Rognvald, on the sofa cushion beside her, stirred in his sleep. A small foot, sheathed in a blue knitted sock so small that it could double as an egg cosy, moved against Elspeth’s thigh. She reached do
wn and touched it gently.
“I feel so bad,” she said. “I feel as if I’m complaining about something that so many people would love to have. Look at us: we’re relatively newly married, and yet we have everything. We have four bedrooms. We have all the appliances and things we need. We have an employee, for heaven’s sake. We have bags of room, central heating, a garden – everything, and yet I’m complaining. I’m so sorry.”
Matthew felt a surge of sympathy for her. “My darling …”
“No, I really feel bad. You’re so kind and helpful, Matthew. And I’m being so selfish.” She paused. Her voice was choked; the voice of one on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry I even mentioned it. I’ll get over it – I’m sure I will.”
“Will you?”
She took a handkerchief from a pocket and blew her nose. “Yes. I will, I will. I’m sure of it.”
Sensing that she did not wish to discuss it any further, Matthew changed the subject. The triplets were due to go for a check-up at the baby clinic the next day and he wanted to discuss the arrangements with her. That done, he looked at his watch. “Would you mind, my darling, if I went to the Cumberland Bar? I haven’t been for ages and I thought I could catch up with the boys.”
Of course she would not mind. She was not sure who the boys were – she thought they included Angus Lordie – but she did not mind.
“I won’t be long,” said Matthew hurriedly.
“You be as long as you like,” she said, trying to smile. He left a few minutes later.
“So you are going drinking,” said Anna, as he passed her in the hall.
“I’m just going to the pub,” he said defensively.
“That is drinking,” she said. “But there is nothing wrong with that.”
“Don’t people drink in Denmark?” He felt vaguely irritated by her remark. What business was it of hers whether he went to the Cumberland Bar or not? None, he thought.
“Yes,” she said. “People drink in Denmark. Maybe a bit too much. But I am sure you do not.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she had left the hall, and so he set off. The next time, he thought, the next time she says something like that I’m going to tell her that it is not for her to tell me what to do.
He made his way round the circle of Moray Place and into Darnaway Street feeling somewhat low. Elspeth’s confession of her feelings had dispirited him. Why on earth had she not spoken to him about it before they bought the flat? She must have had some misgivings at that stage, as dislike of the place would hardly have overcome her after they had moved in. But there was no point in reproaching her over that; the essential point was that she was unhappy with the flat and that was something they would have to tackle. Would it be enough to redecorate? Perhaps he could get somebody in to advise on colours and lighting: simple changes in those areas could make a big difference to the feel of a place. Perhaps he could even engage one of those feng shui practitioners who would give an opinion on the direction of the chi forces.
He walked slowly along Darnaway Street, sunk in thought of his conversation with Elspeth. Reaching the top of India Street, he looked down the sloping cobbled road to the trees and railings at the end. How many times had he walked that way on his way home? How many times had he turned onto that small stone bridge that led to the door at the bottom of his common stair, and slipped his key into the lock and pushed the heavy black door ajar? How happy he had been here; how right it had seemed to him, as home always does: it feels right.
His eye was caught by a sign. It was one of those For Sale signs that were attached to the railings of a house or flat on the market, and it was … He hesitated. Yes, it was outside their old flat.
Matthew decided to investigate. Perhaps somebody else was selling up; his neighbour on the floor below had mentioned that he might put his flat on the market if conditions seemed right. Perhaps it was him.
It was not. When Matthew drew level with his old doorway, he saw immediately that the sign referred to the top flat, which was theirs. But the new owners had only taken possession of it a couple of months ago; why would they be selling it on so quickly? Had they, like Elspeth, had second thoughts?
61. In the Cumberland Bar
Matthew had not expected to find Pat in the Cumberland Bar and, for her part, Pat had not expected to meet him. Each was pleased, though in different ways, to come across the other. Pat, who had been sitting on her own in a corner, was relieved that she was now no longer by herself – an understandable feeling on the part of any young woman who finds herself unaccompanied in a pub: even the most salubrious of bars harbours those who will look with suspicion, or askance, on a woman sitting by herself, just as a solitary man in a bar will sometimes be viewed with pity by those who enjoy the ordinary human assurance of company. As for Matthew, his feeling of rawness after Elspeth’s disturbing revelations meant that he wanted to talk to somebody – anybody – and who could be more suitable than an old girlfriend? Pat was a good listener – something rather rare and wonderful – and he thought: good, here’s Pat, and I can ask her what I should do.
He made his way over to her table and bent down to plant a kiss on her cheek. He felt that she held back slightly, but it seemed to him that this was the right thing to do – to give, and receive, a chaste kiss, a kiss of long established and easy friendship. At the same time he thought, even if fleetingly, that it might seem odd that here he was, a married man and father of three, leaving his wife and family in the flat to go to a bar to meet a former girlfriend, herself unattached, and, what’s more, to kiss her. But then he reminded himself that this was not a pre-arranged assignation. And people kissed one another with very little thought these days – there was, some felt, far too much kissing going on. Angus Lordie, Matthew knew, was very much of that view.
“I can’t stand it,” Angus had once said to him, “when people come to dinner at one’s house – people you hardly know – and they think they have to kiss you on arrival and departure. Why? What’s wrong with shaking hands, or just smiling at one another? Since when did Scottish people have to kiss one another like this?”
“But you never invite anybody to dinner,” Matthew had pointed out.
This had interrupted the flow of the complaint, but only briefly.
“The principle remains the same,” he said. “And the reason why I hold very few dinner parties …”
“None,” said Matthew.
“Listen,” said Angus. “You don’t have to experience something directly yourself in order to have views. You should know that, Matthew.”
Matthew had not been at all sure why he should be thought to know this, but did not press Angus on the question and had left the matter where it was. Now, in the Cumberland Bar, the memory came back momentarily, as he gave Pat her kiss and picked up the familiar scent of her favourite shampoo. It was a curious smell, a mixture of vanilla and coconut, two vaguely incompatible smells, one would have thought, but he liked it because it brought back so many pleasant associations. He was fond of Pat; indeed once he had loved her, and had wanted to marry her – a premature and immature idea, he now accepted.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he sat down beside her.
“Sitting here,” she said.
He smiled. “I meant to phone you at the gallery today, but didn’t.”
“That’s all right. Nothing happened. There were two letters for you – I could have brought them if I had thought that I’d meet you here.”
He would pick them up, he said. He thought that he was rather neglecting his business while he was on his self-granted paternity leave, but that was what leave was all about. A leave in which one did not neglect one’s business would be no leave at all.
He glanced at her drink, which was barely touched. “You meeting somebody?”
She looked away, embarrassed. “Yes.”
Matthew smiled conspiratorially. “New boyfriend?” He was never quite sure what Pat’s status was; there were boys from time to time and he as
sumed that she had somebody, but she had not said anything to him.
Pat winced. It was an immediate, unintentional reaction but it made Matthew realise that his question was intrusive. “Sorry,” he blustered. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
She shook her head. “No need to apologise. It’s just that I’m meeting … well, I’m meeting Bruce.”
Matthew could not conceal his surprise. “Him?”
She smiled. “I know not everybody likes him. But …”
But what? thought Matthew. He found it difficult to think of anything good to say about Bruce, although he knew that he should try. Morally sensitive people always found at least something worth praising in another, even if their praise sounded faint. A truly selfish monster, a calculating psychopath, might still be said in his obituary to have been a good dinner companion, or well informed on the topography of France, or able to divine water with bent twigs: at least something might be dredged up to ameliorate the otherwise awful story of his life. A sinister tyrant might like dogs – although admittedly only rather vulpine, aggressive-looking ones; a serial killer might play the piano rather well; but of Bruce, although he did not belong in that company, of course, what might one say? And even as he posed that question in his mind, Matthew answered it. Bruce was good-looking, devastatingly so – that was the only positive that could be said of him. Or was it? Was Bruce capable of kindness and generosity? He must have at least some such moments. Were there occasions when he had encouraging things to say of people? Surely there were.
“But you like him?” said Matthew.
Pat looked down at her hands. “I suppose I do.”
“As a person?” asked Matthew. “Or …”
“Or what?” Pat snapped.
Matthew wondered how he could put it tactfully. What were the euphemisms, the polite terms for concupiscence? Come to think of it, what were the ordinary terms for concupiscence? Should one just say lust?
Bertie Plays the Blues Page 21