She moved towards him and he looked up from the wine atlas he had been studying.
“Mrs Todd!”
“Please, not Mrs Todd,” she said. “Please – Sasha.”
Bruce smiled. “Sasha.”
“You’re looking at wine books,” she said, peering at the atlas. “I wish I knew more about wine. Raeburn is quite informed, but I’m not.”
Bruce smirked. Raeburn Todd would know nothing about wine, in his view. He would drink – what would he drink? Chardonnay!
“I find the subject very interesting,” said Bruce. “And this atlas looks really useful. Look at this map. All the estates are listed in this tiny section of river bank. Amazing. Pity about the price, though. It’s really expensive.”
Sasha took the wine atlas from him and glanced at the back cover. Eighty-five pounds did seem like a lot of money for a book, but then the thought crossed her mind. Eighty-five pounds was not a great deal of money if you had over four hundred thousand pounds.
“Let me get it for you as a present,” she said suddenly. And then she added: “And then let me take you for lunch at the Café St Honoré. Do you know it? It’s just round the corner.”
“But I couldn’t,” protested Bruce. “I couldn’t let you.”
“Please,’ she said. “Let me do this. I’ve just had wonderful good fortune and I want to share it. Please let me do this – just this once.”
Bruce hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Women were always doing this sort of thing for him. They couldn’t help themselves.
“All right,” he said. “But at least let me buy us a bottle of wine at the restaurant. What do you like?”
“Chardonnay,” said Sasha.
107. Confidences
They sat at a table for two, near the window. Bruce, who had completed a survey earlier than he had expected, was pleased to spend the few hours that he had in hand having lunch, and if this was in the company of an attractive woman (even if slightly blowsy) and at her expense, then all the better. The survey in question had been a singularly unpleasant chore – looking around a poky flat off Easter Road. The flat had been modernised by a developer in shim-sham style, with chip-board cupboards and glossy wallpaper. Bruce had shuddered, and had written in a low valuation, which would limit the price which the developer got for the property. Now, in the considerably more pleasing surroundings of the Café St Honoré one might almost be in Paris, and he sat back and perused the menu with interest.
“I’m rather glad I bumped into you,” said Sasha, fingering the gold bracelet on her wrist. “I had been wanting to talk to you.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I enjoyed the ball,” he said. “Even if there were very few people there. More like a private party. Good fun.”
Sasha smiled. “You were very good to poor old Ramsey Dunbarton,” she said. “It can’t have been much fun for you, listening to him going on about being the Duke of Plaza-Toro.”
Bruce smiled. One could afford to be generous about the boring when people found one so fascinating. “It meant a lot to him, I suppose,” he said. “Who was the Duke of Plaza-Toro anyway? Was he in the Tory Party?”
Sasha laughed. “Very droll,” she said. “Now listen, did you talk to my daughter at all?”
“I did,” said Bruce. “We got on rather well.”
Sasha frowned. “That surprises me,” she said. “She’s been so contrary recently.”
“I didn’t notice that,” said Bruce.
“Well, quite frankly, she worries me,” Sasha went on. “And I wondered if you had any suggestions. You’re in her age group. You might see something I’m missing.”
Bruce scrutinised the menu. He was not sure whether he liked this line of conversation.
“Let me give you an example,” Sasha went on. “At the ball, Lizzie won dinner for two at the Prestonfield Hotel. Now any normal girl would ask a friend along to join her. Lizzie didn’t do that. No, she telephoned the hotel and asked them whether instead of a dinner for two she could have two separate dinners for one. Can you believe that?”
Bruce thought for a moment. “Perhaps she wasn’t in the mood for company,” he said. “We all feel like that sometimes.”
“But that’s how she seems to feel all the time,” said Sasha, showing some exasperation. “She seems to make no effort to get friends. Or a decent job, for that matter.”
“People are different,” said Bruce. “She’s not into drugs, I take it? She’s not running around with a Hell’s Angel, is she? Well then, what have you got to complain about? What do you want her to do anyway?”
“I want her to find a circle of friends,” said Sasha. “Nice young people. I want her to have a good time. Maybe get a boyfriend. An outgoing type, who’d take her places. Give her some fun.”
Bruce looked down at the table and moved his fork slightly, to make it parallel with his knife, as an obsessive-compulsive might do. She means somebody like me, he thought. Well, if the point about all this is to see whether I’m available, the answer will have to be no. There are limits to what one should do in the line of duty.
“She’ll meet somebody,” he said airily. “Give her the space. Let her get on with it.”
“But she does nothing,” said Sasha. “How can she meet somebody suitable if she won’t go out with people? She needs to get into a group. You wouldn’t be able to introduce her …”
Bruce did not allow her to finish her sentence. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very much involved with an American girl at the moment. I’m not really socialising in a crowd. I used to. But not now.”
For a few moments the disappointment registered on Sasha’s face, but she quickly recovered her composure. “Of course,” she said. “I hadn’t intended to ask you. I just wondered if you knew of anybody she might get to know. Parties, perhaps. That sort of thing.”
“Sorry,” said Bruce.
“Well, let’s not think about it any more. I’m sure you’re right. She’ll sort herself out. Now, what are you going to have? Remember this is on me!”
They ordered their lunch, and a bottle of Chardonnay. They talked, easily, and in a friendly way. Sasha told a most amusing story about a scandal at her tennis club, and Bruce passed on a piece of office gossip which Todd had not mentioned to her – something about one of the secretaries. Then they talked about plans for the summer.
“Raeburn was thinking of going to Portugal,” said Sasha. “We have friends with a villa there. It has a tennis court too.”
“I like tennis,” said Bruce. “I used to play a lot.”
“I bet you were a strong player,” said Sasha. She pictured him for a moment in tennis whites. His arms would be strong; his service hard to return.
“Moderately,” said Bruce. “I need to work on my backhand.”
“Don’t we all!” said Sasha. “But look at your wrists. They’re ideal for tennis. Look.”
She reached out and took hold of his wrist playfully. “Yes,” she said. “A real tennis player’s wrist. You should keep up your game.”
It was at that point that Todd came in. He had arranged to meet a colleague from another firm for lunch, to discuss, very tentatively, a possible merger. He did not see this colleague, who was late, but he did see his wife, sitting at a table in the window, holding hands with that young man from the office.
For a moment he did not move. Bruce looked up, and saw him, and pulled his wrist away from Sasha’s grasp. She looked round in astonishment and saw Todd, who was beckoning to Bruce.
Bruce stood up, shocked. ‘I’ll explain to him,” he mumbled.
Todd stared at Bruce as he came towards him. Very slowly, he lifted a hand and pointed directly at Bruce.
“You’re history,” he said quietly. “You’re history.”
“It’s not what you think,” said Bruce. “We were talking about tennis.”
Todd did not seem to hear this. “You have an hour to clear your desk,” hissed Todd. “You hear me? An hour.”
&
nbsp; “You can’t dismiss people like that,” said Bruce, his voice faltering. “Not these days.”
“You listen to me,” said Todd. “Some time ago you did a survey of a flat and said that you had looked into the roof space. Well, I went and checked – and you hadn’t. You lied. I’ve been keeping that up my sleeve. You’re history.”
Bruce stood quite still. It was a strange feeling, being history.
108. Action Is Taken
One of Matthew’s problems, thought Pat, was that he seemed unwilling to make decisions. The way he had behaved over the Peploe? – now the non-Peploe – was an example of his chronic lack of decisiveness. Had it not been for the fact that Big Lou had met Guy Peploe, with the result that Matthew had been pushed into action, it was doubtful whether they would have identified the painting as being by somebody other than Peploe. Nor would they have discovered that it was probably an over-painting. That had been established by Guy Peploe himself, who had spotted the shape of an umbrella above a mountain.
Now that some progress had been made with the painting, the matter should be taken further. If it was indeed an over-painting, then what lay underneath could be of some interest – although still probably no more than the work of some gauche amateur. Pat had asked Matthew whether he was planning to do anything about it, but he had simply shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I can’t think of who would paint an umbrella.”
“A French impressionist?” suggested Pat. “They were always painting people with umbrellas. There’s that famous one in the Art Institute of Chicago. I saw it when we went there with the Academy Art Department. They were very good, you know, the art people at the Academy. Mrs Hope. Mr Ellis. Remember them? They took us to all sorts of places. They were inspirational. That’s where I learned to love art.”
She saw Matthew shift in his seat as she spoke. There was something funny about Matthew. He had got up to something at school – she was sure of it. But what? So many people had their secrets – secrets that we are destined never to find out. People had a past – she had Australia, but the least said about that the better. It was not her fault – she had never thought that – except for one or two people who had said that she should not have spoken to that person in the café and that she should have realised that the man with the eye-patch was not what he claimed to be. She reflected for a moment – now that she was home, it did not seem quite so bad. Indeed, it had been something of an adventure. Perhaps she should tell Domenica about it one of these days. She liked stories like that.
Matthew had changed the subject and nothing more was said about the non-Peploe until that afternoon, when the doorbell rang and Angus Lordie came into the gallery, followed by Cyril. When he saw Pat, Cyril wagged his tail with pleasure and winked.
“Passing by,” said Angus Lordie. “I was taking Cyril for a stroll and I thought I might pop in and see what you have on the walls. Interesting stuff. That over there is a worth a quid or two, you know. You didn’t? Well, I think it’s a James Paterson.”
Matthew stood up and joined Angus Lordie in front of a large painting of a girl in a field. “Are you sure?” he said.
Angus Lordie smiled. “Absolutely. If I had the wall space I’d buy it myself.”
Matthew turned and glanced at Pat. “I thought it might be,” he said.
“Well, it is,” said Angus Lordie. “He lived in Moniaive, I think. Or somewhere down …” He paused. He had seen the non-Peploe, which was stacked casually against the side of Matthew’s desk. “Well! Well! Look at that. Very intriguing!”
“Not a Peploe,” said Matthew, smiling. He was warming to Angus Lordie now, having disliked him when he first met him in the Cumberland Bar with Pat. The identification of the Paterson had cheered Matthew. He had no idea who James Paterson was, but he would soon find out. And Matthew was not sure where Moniaive was either, but he could look that up too.
“Oh, I can tell it’s not a Peploe,” said Angus Lordie, walking across the room to pick up the painting. “What interests me is the shape I can make out – very vaguely – underneath.”
“An umbrella,” Matthew said quickly. “Rather like the umbrellas that the French impressionists painted. You’ll know that one in Chicago, of course. The Art Institute. Wonderful place.”
Pat said nothing. It was good to see Matthew’s confidence growing. She looked at Cyril who was sitting near the door, his mouth half-open, the sun glinting off his gold tooth. Cyril was perfectly confident – quite at ease in the space he occupied, as every animal is, except us.
Angus Lordie held the painting at an angle to the light. “Fascinating,” he said. “The painting on the top is rubbish, of course, but a deft application of paint-stripper might show something rather interesting. Would you like me to do it for you? We could do it in my studio.”
Matthew hesitated. “Well …”
“What a good idea!” exclaimed Pat. “Don’t you agree, Matthew?”
Matthew turned and looked at Pat, reproach in his eyes. He did not like people making decisions for him, but this is what they inevitably did. One day I’m going to say no, he thought. I’m going to become myself. But then he said: “I suppose so. Yes, I suppose it would be good to see what’s underneath.”
“What about this evening?” said Angus Lordie. “You two come round to the studio. And bring Domenica. We’ll make a party of it.”
The time was agreed, and Angus Lordie, with Cyril at his side, set off up the road. As he walked, he thought of the painting. It was really very exciting. He had his ideas, of course, as to what lay underneath, and if he were proved right, then that would have major implications for Matthew. And it would be nice, too, to be credited with the discovery, just as Sir Timothy Clifford had got a lot of credit when he discovered a da Vinci drawing under a sofa in the New Club. (That had made the papers!) There would be mention of his own discovery in the newspapers and perhaps a photograph of himself and Cyril. He would be modest, of course, and would downplay the significance of what he had done. Anybody could have seen it, he might say. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
“But it required your expert hand to reveal the secret!” the reporter would say. And he would smile, and say, self-effacingly: “Yes, perhaps it did. Perhaps it did.”
109. A Most Remarkable and Important Discovery
“Angus is an extremely good host,” Domenica had said, and she was right. He welcomed his guests with a tray of devils on horseback and small oat-cakes on which thick-cut slices of smoked salmon had been balanced. Then there were crackers with boiled egg, ersatz caviar, and small circles of mayonnaise. All of this was provided in generous quantities.
His flat, which occupied the top two floors of a Drummond Place stair, was built with a generosity which escapes modern builders; the ceilings soared up to fifteen feet, the dark pine wainscoting reached waist-level, and the floor boards were a good twelve inches wide. And everywhere on the walls there were paintings and hangings – portraits, landscapes, figurative studies. A Cadell picture of a man in a top hat, raffish as the proprietor, smiled down above the fireplace in the drawing room. A large Philipson, crowded with cathedrals and ladies, occupied the expanse of wall to its side, and a magnificent Cowie, schoolgirls in a painter’s loft, hung beside that.
And then there were the bookshelves, which filled the hall and the dining room; towering constructions with books stacked two and three deep. Domenica, drink in hand, stopped beside one of these and exclaimed with delight as she drew out a volume.
“Ruthven Todd!” she said. “Nobody reads him these days, and they should. Look at this. Acreage of the Heart, published by William McLellan. The Poetry Scotland series.”
Angus Lordie came to her side, licking mayonnaise off his fingers.
“That contains a very fine poem, Domenica,” he said. “Personal History. Do you know it?”
Domenica turned a page. “I was born in this city,” Domenica began to read aloud. “Where dry minds �
��”
“Grow crusts of hate/ Like rocks grow lichen”, Angus Lordie took it up. “Such powerful, powerful lines.”
Pat looked puzzled. “Why did he write that?”
“Because it’s true,” said Angus Lordie. “Or, at least it used to be true. Todd was born into haut-bourgeois Edinburgh, which used to be just like that. Brittle. Exclusive. Turned in on itself. And immensely snobbish.”
“And still is a bit like that,” said Domenica quietly. “In its worst moments.”
“But much better than it used to be,” Angus Lordie countered. “You very rarely see those real, cold Edinburgh attitudes these days. The arrogance of those people is broken. They just can’t get away with it. That horrid disapproval of anything that moves – that’s gone.”
Domenica did not appear to be completely convinced. “I’m not sure,” she said. “What makes Edinburgh different from other cities in these islands? It is different, you know. I think that there is still a certain hauteur, a certain intellectual crustiness. It’s not nearly as marked as it was in Todd’s day, but …”
Angus Lordie smiled. “But Domenica rather likes all that,” he suggested mischievously. “She’s a bit of a Jean Brodie, you see.”
Pat looked at Domenica, wondering whether she would take offence. Hadn’t Jean Brodie been a fascist? Wasn’t that the whole point about Spain and the betrayal and all the rest? Matthew simply looked confused. What was this man talking about? And where was that peculiar dog of his?
They were all standing in the drawing room overlooking the Drummond Place Gardens. It was about nine o’clock, and the sky was still light. The branches of the trees moved gently against the sky and the stone of the buildings opposite, for there was a slight breeze. Pat sipped at the drink that Angus Lordie had given her – a gin and tonic flavoured with lime; she was happy to be here, with these people, with Matthew, whom she liked more and more for his gentleness; with Angus Lordie, who amused her and seemed so grateful for her company, and who was not a threat to anyone; and with Domenica, whom she admired. What a difference, she thought, between this company, interesting and sympathetic, and the company of Bruce and his friends in the Cumberland Bar. What a profound mistake to fall in love with that man – she realised that now. She had no feeling for him, not even revulsion; she felt nothing. At that crucial moment, when she had seen him awake and smiling at her, she had realised that she was free.
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