Espresso Tales 4ss-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I’d like to go there,” said Bertie. “I thought that I would see what it was like to wear a Watson’s blazer.”

  The man adjusted his glasses. “I see,” he said. “Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. Where do you go to school?”

  “Steiner’s,” said Bertie.

  “A very good school,” said the man. “You’re lucky. We hear very good reports of it.”

  “I know,” said Bertie. “It is very nice. But there’s no rugby . . .”

  The man nodded. “I suppose if one wants rugby then one would need to find somewhere else. Are you very keen?”

  Bertie nodded enthusiastically. “Very,” he said. “I’ve never had the chance to play, but I’d love to.” He paused. “Does Mr Hastings come in here?” he asked.

  The man nodded. “Quite often. Do you know him?”

  88

  Socks

  Bertie hesitated for a moment before replying. “Yes,” he said.

  “I know him.”

  He did not know why he said this. It was something to do with wanting to be something that he was not; something to do with wish-fulfilment; something to do with freedom.

  “I’ll tell him about you next time he comes in,” said the man.

  “What’s your name?”

  Bertie hesitated again, and then replied: “Jock.”

  “Well, Jock. Perhaps you’d better go over there to see your mother. Look, she must be wondering where you are.”

  Bertie saw Irene picking up a sock and scrutinising it. She caught his eye and beckoned him over. The man came with him.

  “Can I advise you on those?” he asked. “Are they for Jock?”

  Bertie froze. Then, leaning forward very quickly, he snatched the sock from his mother.

  “I like this sock,” he blustered. “I like it very much.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Irene. “That sock is Daddy’s size.

  You need something much smaller.”

  The man indicated to a drawer. “We have a good selection of boys’ socks here,” he said. “We should be able to find something suitable for Jock.”

  Irene looked puzzled. “For Jock?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the man, pointing to Bertie.

  Again Bertie acted quickly. “He said for sock,” he said to his mother. “Sock, not Jock.”

  The man smiled. “Does Jock need socks or not?” he asked patiently.

  “I have no idea,” said Irene. “I would, however, like socks for Bertie here, if you have something suitable.”

  The man looked at Bertie. “I thought you said your name was Jock,” he said.

  Irene frowned, and looked down at Bertie. “Did you, Bertie?

  Why did you say you were called Jock?”

  Bertie looked down at the floor. “It was a mistake,” he said.

  Irene turned to the man. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Young boys can be very fanciful.”

  “No matter,” said the man. “Perhaps he’d like to be called Socks

  89

  Jock. I remember wanting to be called Joe when I was a little boy. I wrote the name Joe in all my books.”

  Irene appeared to lose interest in this conversation and returned to the subject of socks. Bertie, feeling miserable, stood by while the adults talked. The blazer had been wonderful; such a smart garment, and it fitted him so well. His plan depended on that blazer, but it would not be easy to get hold of it. When he had tried it on, he had looked at the price ticket and had made a mental note of what it cost. It was a lot of money, of course, but Bertie had been prudent. Every birthday, when he had received a present from his aunt in Jedburgh, he had put the money into his savings account at the bank. This sum now stood at over one hundred and eighty pounds, and it would easily cover the cost of the blazer. But how would he be able to buy it? He was never allowed to come into town on his own, and his mother would surely notice it if, on their next visit to George Street, Bertie darted into Aitken and Niven and came out with a large parcel. No, he would have to get somebody else to draw the money from his account and then go up to George Street and buy it for him. But who?

  On the way back down the hill, Bertie was deep in thought, as was Irene. She was wondering why Bertie should have chosen to call himself Jock. It was such a strange thing to do, and she would have to report it to Dr Fairbairn in advance of Bertie’s next psychotherapy session. The thought occurred to her that Bertie was possibly suffering from a dissociative condition in which multiple personalities were beginning to manifest their presence. Jock could be one of these personae. She looked down at Bertie, who was staring at the pavement as he walked along.

  Was he avoiding the lines again? she wondered.

  Bertie looked up and smiled, as if he had suddenly worked out the answer to a recalcitrant problem. And indeed he had.

  He had remembered the boy round the corner, Paddy, the one who lived on Fettes Row and who went fishing in the Pentlands.

  He was allowed to walk around the streets in freedom with his friends. Bertie would ask him. He would give him his card and ask him to withdraw the money from the bank machine. Then 90

  Lonely Tonight

  Paddy could go up to George Street, buy the blazer for Bertie, and deliver it in secret.

  Irene noticed Bertie’s expression and frowned. “What are you thinking about, Bertie, dear?” she asked.

  And Bertie gave that answer with which all parents are so wearily familiar. “Nothing,” he said.

  28. Lonely Tonight

  At the end of work that day, Matthew had asked Pat whether she would be interested in going to a film at the Film Theatre in Lothian Road.

  “The crowd’s going,” he said.

  Pat had heard of the crowd, and was vaguely interested in meeting them. The fact that the invitation was from Matthew was potentially problematic, as there was no possibility of a romantic association between them and she did not want to encourage any false hopes on his part. And yet there was no reason to avoid all social contact with him, particularly if there were to be other people there. So she agreed.

  “What’s the film?” she asked.

  “Something Italian,” Matthew said. “Do you like Italian films?”

  “It depends,” said Pat. “I like Fellini.”

  “This might be by Fellini,” said Matthew. “But it might not.”

  “Or Pasolini,” added Pat.

  Matthew nodded vaguely. “I think I’ve seen some of his films too,” he said. “But I forget the names of directors.”

  They made arrangements to meet at the Film Theatre itself and then, after helping Matthew to close the gallery, Pat made her way back to Scotland Street to get ready for the evening.

  She let herself in at the bottom of the stairs and began the climb up to the top floor. As she turned the corner on the first landing, she heard a voice drifting down from above her.

  “So it’s you.”

  Lonely Tonight

  91

  Domenica, who must have entered the building just a few moments before her, had reached the top landing and was looking down on her. Pat looked up and saw her neighbour staring down. She waved, and continued her journey to their landing. Domenica was standing in her doorway, the full bag of groceries that she had been carrying laid down on the floor beside her.

  “I hate doing this sort of shopping,” Domenica said, with feeling. “I find the whole process of buying apples and things like that so disheartening. But one has to do it, I suppose. Apples don’t grow on trees.”

  Pat smiled. She was not sure whether she wanted to engage in a conversation with Domenica, as she had relatively little time to prepare herself for the Film Theatre.

  “You left me some flowers,” said Domenica. “And I haven’t thanked you yet. You’re a sweet girl. You really are.”

  “I felt rather bad about being so . . . so cross with you,” said Pat. “Especially when you were only trying to help me.”

  “You had every right to be cross wi
th me,” said Domenica.

  “But I take it that you would like me to carry on with the planned invitation of that young man to dinner.”

  Pat shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “Which means you want me to do so,” said Domenica. “And I shall. Of course, if you don’t want to come along, you needn’t.

  You could leave that nice young man to me.”

  Pat stared at her in astonishment. Did Domenica really mean that?

  Domenica, seeing Pat’s reaction, smiled coyly. “Why not, may I ask? Isn’t it fashionable these days for a . . . how shall we put it? – a more mature woman to have a somewhat younger man friend? Stranger things have happened.”

  Pat wanted to laugh. It was absurd to think of Domenica as having a younger man; it was inconceivable. And what made Domenica imagine that Peter would even look at her for one moment? It was quite ridiculous.

  “He’s a bit young for you, isn’t he?” she said. “You could have a younger boyfriend, I suppose, but not that young.”

  92

  Lonely Tonight

  “What you mean,” said Domenica, “is that in your opinion I’m too old. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  Pat wanted to say yes, it was, but refrained. The whole discussion was becoming embarrassing. She looked at her watch. She had forty minutes to get ready if she was to arrive at the Film Theatre in time. “I have to hurry,” she said. “I’m going to see a film.”

  Domenica picked up her bag and reached for her hallway light switch. “I might just surprise you one of these days,” she said. “I could get a man if I wanted one, you know.”

  “Of course you could,” said Pat hurriedly. “You’re an attractive woman. Men like you. Look at Angus Lordie.”

  Domenica let out a shriek. “Oh, not Angus! For heaven’s sake!

  He would be desperation stakes – complete desperation stakes.

  No, I’m thinking of somebody a bit more romantic than that.”

  Pat giggled, and gestured towards her own doorway. “Bruce?”

  Domenica laughed. “There are limits,” she said. “But wait and see. I think I’m going to surprise you.”

  Back inside the flat, Pat took out a fresh blouse and ran a bath for herself. She reflected on her conversation with Domenica, realising that she had made so many assumptions in it. She had assumed that somebody of sixty could not fall in love; that was ridiculous – it was ageist of her, she decided; very ageist. People said that you could fall in love at any stage in life – at eight, at eighteen, at eighty. And why not? The capacity to experience the other emotions did not wither; you could still feel anger, jealousy, distress and all the rest, however old you were. Love was in the same spectrum as these. And you could love anything, and anyone, whether or not the passion were returned. When she was very young, she had loved a knitted doll, a sailor in a blue suit. She had called him Pedro, for some inexplicable reason, and had carried him with her wherever she went. She had loved Pedro with all her heart, and she had been sure that he had loved her from the depths of his woolly being. The object of affection did not matter; the feeling did.

  What did she have to love now? Pedro was no more, or, at At the Film Theatre

  93

  the most, he was a few scraps of wool in the bottom of a drawer. He would have to be replaced; and Pedro . . . was Peter.

  She reached out and turned off the taps. She was tired of being by herself. She did not want to have to go to the Film Theatre with the crowd; she wanted to go with somebody who would give all his attention to her, and her alone; who would take her out for dinner afterwards, or for a drink at the bar, and who would exchange confidences with her. And that, presumably, was the sort of thing that poor Domenica wanted for herself too. They were two lonely women wanting the same thing. And there was Bruce wanting it too, but going about the getting of it in quite the wrong way. Companionship. Tender friendship.

  Love. None of them had it at present, and time was leaking away, especially for Domenica.

  29. At the Film Theatre

  Matthew’s crowd, it transpired, consisted of five people, including Matthew himself. With Pat present, there were six of them, all sitting in a row in the half-empty film theatre.

  This Italian film was an obscure one, made by an obscure director and starring obscure actors, and although the programme notes referred to it as a key example of the Milanese Emptiness School, this distinction was not sufficient to draw the Edinburgh crowds. And to add to the general air of participation in an obscure event, the print was dark and scratchy, as if not enough light could penetrate it, or as if it had been made at dusk, on a cloudy day. The action took place in a small village between Milan and Parma, in the early 1950s. The village was closing, it seemed, through lack of support. The local priest, played by a man with a pronounced limp, had despaired of saving his congregation, which was now reduced to a few aged widows and a young girl who appeared to be developing stigmata. The stigmata which, if genuine, would have revived 94

  At the Film Theatre

  the village’s fortunes, turned out to be no more than a rash.

  All the village men were in Bologna, where they were on strike. The strike had no cause and had no apparent ending.

  There was nobody to negotiate with, as the bosses had gone to Rome and declined to return. There was a profound crisis.

  At the end of the film, the crowd had arisen from its seats and made its way through to the bar. Some people remained seated in the theatre, as if waiting for further explanation. Pat walked through with Matthew, and asked him what he thought of the film.

  “Well,” he began, and then tailed off. He looked at her; she would have views perhaps; for his part, he had no idea what to say.

  “Exactly,” whispered Pat. “And what did the crowd think?”

  “The crowd’s not fussy,” said Matthew.

  As they entered the bar, Pat looked at the individual members of the crowd. Matthew had introduced them to her before they had gone into the theatre, and now she recalled their names.

  Ed was the tall one in the black tee-shirt; Jim was the one with the earring; Philly was a blonde with rat’s-tail hair; and Rose had a curious pair of sixties-style glasses. Pat found herself staring at Rose, who caught her eye and smiled at her, hesitantly, Pat thought.

  When they reached a table and sat down, Pat sat next to Rose, Ed on her other side. Matthew, who was several places away, looked inquiringly at Pat. He wanted her to move, thought Pat, but she would not: she was with the crowd, not with Matthew.

  “You work for Matthew, don’t you?” asked Rose. Her voice was strange; rather high-pitched; not a confident voice.

  “Yes,” said Pat. “I’m his assistant.”

  Rose looked at her and said: “Lucky.”

  “To work for Matthew? Lucky?”

  “Yes,” said Rose. “I would love that.” She paused. It seemed to Pat as if she was preparing to ask something awkward, and indeed she was.

  At the Film Theatre

  95

  “Do you go out with him a lot?” Rose asked. “Or are you just . . . well, I suppose one should say, are you just . . . ?”

  “An employee,” Pat supplied. “I work for him, you see.”

  This information seemed to please Rose, who glanced over at Matthew and then looked back at Pat. “I’ve known him a long time,” she said. “We used to go to a tennis club together.

  Not that my tennis is any good – it’s hopeless. Did you know that Matthew played tennis?”

  Pat shook her head. She had always thought of Matthew as being slightly lazy; surely tennis would be too strenuous for him.

  “And then,” Rose continued, “we went – the whole crowd, that is, minus Ed, who was having his appendix out – we went off to Portugal last year. For two weeks. That was such good fun.” She closed her eyes, as if to remember.

  Pat looked at her. It was perfectly apparent that Rose had her eye on Matthew, but would her interest be reciprocated? S
he feared it would not. Rose was reasonably attractive, and appeared likeable enough, but that was not the point in these matters.

  What counted was chemistry, and when Matthew had introduced her to Rose he had done so in a way which did not suggest that there was anything special between them. Rose, no doubt, was trying too hard. Men did not like to be pursued – as a general rule – and Matthew would have picked up her interest

  – and retreated. There was no chance for Rose, Pat thought, unless she changed tactics – and people did not generally change tactics.

  Ed now addressed a remark to Rose. Pat looked around her.

  The film in one of the other cinemas had come to an end and had discharged its patrons into the bar. They looked animated, and amused; no Milanese emptiness. She watched a couple of young men walk up to the bar. One of them was tall and was wearing a dark-green shirt. He stopped short of the bar to say something to his companion, who leaned forward to catch the remark. As he spoke, the tall young man looked out across the bar, directly at Pat. He paused, and the person with him looked back too.

  96

  At the Film Theatre

  He tried to place her. He had met her somewhere – at the café? Yes. At the café. With that woman who went on about that book. He nodded, and waved.

  Pat thought: I want him to come over to me. That’s what I want.

  And he did, muttering something to his friend, who went on to order a drink.

  “You,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes,” she said. “Me.”

  He bent down to speak to her. Rose looked up, glanced at him, and then at Pat. She thought: this is what happens to girls like that. They only have to walk into a room and they get men like that flocking round them. Bees to honey. And I can’t even get Matthew to notice me. Not even that.

  “Were you in that Italian film?” Pat asked. “The Crisis? ”

  Peter shook his head. “No. We went to an Australian comedy.

  About an airline pilot and a nurse who get stuck in the Outback with a couple of Shakespearean actors.”

  “I think I’ve heard about that one,” said Pat. “It’s a great idea for a film.”