She waited for Peter to say something, but for a few moments there was a silence. Then he said: “Do you want to At Big Lou’s
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come round some time? To Cumberland Street?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “That would be great.”
“Tomorrow evening?”
Pat nodded. She sensed that Rose had been listening.
30. At Big Lou’s
Big Lou stood in front of her new coffee-making machine, polishing its gleaming stainless-steel spouts, and admiring the fine Italian lines of the reservoir and high-pressure steam chamber. Only the Italians could produce a machine of this beauty; only the Italians would care enough to do so.
But she had more to think about than aesthetics; over the late summer, several major developments had taken place at Big Lou’s coffee bar. The purchase of this expensive new machine was one of the most important, and satisfying, and had attracted a great deal of attention from her regular customers, especially from Matthew, who had fallen in love with it the moment he had seen it. To gaze at the machine was pleasure enough; to turn the levers and control the outflow of steam – as Matthew was occasionally permitted to do – was a positive joy.
Another of these developments was the removal of the expensive newspaper rack. In its place she had installed a small table, which she had acquired from a saleroom on Leith Walk. On this table she stacked copies of the day’s papers and any magazines which were left behind by customers, provided, of course, Big Lou approved of them. The Scots Magazine was always there, and was popular, curiously enough, with some of the most intellectual customers, who read it with what seemed suspiciously close to a condescending smile. Why they should affect this expression was not clear to her. The Scots Magazine was popular in Arbroath, Big Lou’s home town, and she saw no reason why it should not be equally popular in Edinburgh. Or did Edinburgh, for some unfathomable reason, feel itself superior to Arbroath?
98
At Big Lou’s
A further development was an important change in the mid-morning coffee regulars. Matthew still came every morning, of course, and stayed longer than anybody else, but the two furniture restorers had disappeared entirely. It was almost as if they had been written out of a story, thought Lou; simply no longer on the page. They had disappeared, and had taken their world with them. But just as they had gone, others had arrived. Mrs Constance, for instance, with her curious unkempt hair, had appeared one morning and had announced herself as “the woman from upstairs” – her flat being more or less immediately above the coffee bar. She was silent, for the most part, but occasionally joined in the conversation with observations that were remarkably acute.
Then there was Angus Lordie, the portrait painter from Drummond Place, and occasional poet. He had ventured into the coffee bar one morning and had found Matthew, whom he knew, engaged in conversation with Big Lou. Big Lou had been unsure about Angus Lordie to begin with, but had accepted his presence after she had taken to Cyril, his dog.
“There’s something strange about that creature,” she had remarked to Matthew. “He keeps looking at me and I could swear that he winks from time to time.”
“Yes, he does wink,” said Matthew. “Pat says that he winks at her all the time – as if they were sharing a secret. And he has a gold tooth, you know. It’s most peculiar. But then Angus is peculiar too. They suit one another.”
“Aye, well, he gives Cyril coffee,” Big Lou went on. “He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. He slips a saucer under the table and Cyril drinks it. The other day he ordered two cups of cappuc-cino. He assumed I would think they were both for him, but one was for Cyril. I saw him drink it – from the cup. He had the foam from the milk all around his jaws afterwards.”
Matthew nodded. “Cyril drinks beer too,” he said. “He’s a regular at the Cumberland Bar. Quite an intelligent dog, I think.
And a good friend to Angus.”
She had thought about that over the following days. Big Lou was a sympathetic person and aware of loneliness. She had been At Big Lou’s
99
by herself since she had come down to live in Edinburgh. Her solution had been to immerse herself in the books which she had inherited from the bookshop which had previously occupied the coffee-bar premises. These books were on a wide range of subjects – philosophy, topography, literature, and even dogs
– and Big Lou was patiently making her way through all of these, one by one, completing an education which had been cut short at the age of sixteen.
That morning, nobody had come in before Matthew, and for a few minutes he and Big Lou were alone together.
“Are your parents alive, Lou?” Matthew suddenly asked.
“You’ve never mentioned them, you know.”
Big Lou shook her head. “My father left us when I was eleven,” she said. “He died a bit later. Drink, I was told. My mother died when I was nineteen.”
“I’m sorry,” said Matthew.
Big Lou said nothing. She looked down at the counter. What was there to be said about the loss of parents? She could barely remember her father now, and her mother’s memory was fading.
All she could recall was kindness, and love, like a surrounding mist.
“And you?” she asked. “You’ve just got your father, haven’t you?”
Matthew nodded. “He’s found himself a girlfriend, by the way,” he said quietly. “Some woman called Janis.”
Big Lou smiled. “That’s nice. That’s nice for him.”
Matthew took a sip of coffee. “I suppose so.”
Big Lou watched him. She was about to say something to him, but the door opened and Angus Lordie arrived, closely followed by Cyril. He nodded to Lou and made his way over to take his seat next to Matthew. Cyril sat down beneath the table and stared at Matthew’s ankles. He would have loved to bite them, but would not. He understood the rules.
“I’ve been reading the paper for the last hour,” Angus remarked breezily. “And the state of the world – my goodness!
Everywhere one looks – ghastly. And of course we, you may recall, Matthew, are actively engaged in hostilities, together with 100 Act and Omission
our friends, the Americans. Not exactly on our doorstep, but hostilities nonetheless. Were you aware of that? Does it feel like wartime to you? What about you, Lou? Do you feel as if you’re at war?”
“No,” said Lou. “I don’t. Nobody consulted me about it.”
“Ah,” said Angus Lordie. “But nobody is ever consulted about a war, are they? It’s still our war, though.”
Matthew interrupted. The war was not Big Lou’s fault, as far as he was concerned – nor his, for that matter.
“There’s nothing that Big Lou can do about it,” he said. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with her.”
Big Lou had been busying herself with the cup of foamed coffee she was preparing for Angus. She had been listening too, of course, and now she turned round. She had something to say on this subject.
31. Act and Omission
Big Lou leaned over the counter. “Yes,” she said. “That’s very interesting, what you say, Matthew. You say that there’s often nothing we can do, but I’m not sure that that’s quite right. I’m not just talking about this war, now. I’m talking about things in general. Can you really say that there’s nothing that we can do about things that we disapprove of, when they’re done by the government? Are you sure about that?”
“You can vote,” said Angus. “Get people out.” He thought for a moment before adding: “Mind you, have you ever tried getting the Labour Party out in Scotland? Ever tried that?”
“That might be because people want them in,” said Big Lou.
“I do, at least. Anyway, you can vote. But how often do we get the chance to do that? And even then, we might not have much of a choice.”
“But at least you’ve done what you can,” joined in Matthew, who had never voted, never; from lethargy, and indecision.
“Once you�
�ve voted, that is.”
Act and Omission
101
Big Lou agreed with this, but there was more to the issue than simple voting. There were many other things one could do, she thought. One could write to politicians. One could give money to causes. One could protest in the street. There were options. She pointed this out to Matthew and Angus, but then she added: “But the real question, boys, is this: do we have a duty to do anything to stop things we may not like? Is it all right just to do nothing, provided that we don’t do anything that makes matters worse?”
Angus exchanged a glance with Matthew. He was not yet used to Big Lou’s philosophical reflections, and his attitude was slightly condescending. Matthew sensed this and wanted to say something to him about it, but had not yet had the chance. He would speak to him, though, later.
“I would have thought,” said Angus, “that we are more responsible for what we do rather than for what we don’t do. If I didn’t start something, then I’m not sure that it’s my duty to stop it.”
“Oh yes?” asked Big Lou. “Oh yes?”
Cyril looked at Big Lou and then at his master. Like all dogs, he was attempting to understand what was happening in the human world, but this was difficult to read, and he looked away.
His was a world of floors and low things, and smells; a whole room, a world of smells, waiting for dogs to locate them and file away for future use.
Angus met Big Lou’s challenge. “Yes,” he said. “I’m pretty sure about that. Don’t blame me for what I haven’t done. Simple.
I didn’t start the Cuban missile crisis. I was around at the time, I suppose. But I didn’t start it.”
Big Lou smiled. “That may be so, but let me tell you about something I’ve just read.” She paused, looking directly at Angus Lordie. “Do you want to hear about it?”
Angus nodded graciously. “You are constantly entertaining, most excellent Lou,” he said. “We are all ears, aren’t we, Matthew?”
“Well,” said Lou. “What I’ve been reading about is this. It’s a chapter in a book by a philosopher, and it’s called The Case of the Two Wicked Uncles. That’s what it’s called.”
102 Act and Omission
She leant forward on the bar as she continued. “There’s Uncle A and Uncle B, you see. Both of these uncles have a nephew, who’s just a wee boy, about eight maybe. If this bairn dies before they do, then each stands to come into a lot of money.
“Uncle A goes to see his nephew one day. He arrives at the house and finds that the parents have gone out for some reason, leaving the boy alone in the house.”
“Somewhat unlikely,” said Angus, smiling at Matthew.
“Parents don’t leave eight-year-olds in the house. Not these days.”
Lou sighed. “It’s a story, remember. Philosophers like to tell stories. They don’t have to be true. Anyway, Uncle A goes upstairs and finds that the nephew has decided to take a bath.
The door to the bathroom is open and he goes in, sees the boy in the water, and decides, on the spur of the moment, to drown the poor bairn. Which he does, knowing that he will come into all that money.”
“Good God!” said Angus Lordie.
“Yes,” said Big Lou. “Not a nice uncle. Now here’s what Uncle B does. He goes off the same day to see his particular nephew and finds exactly the same situation there. When Uncle B goes upstairs in that other house, he sees the bathroom door open and goes in to see what’s happening. There’s his nephew, in the bath, but with his head under the water. He realises that the poor boy has slipped, knocked himself unconscious, and is submerged. He realises that if he doesn’t drag him out of the water – which will be a very simple thing to do – the boy will soon drown. He also realises that if this happens, then he will come into all the money. He does nothing.”
“He stands there?” asked Matthew.
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “He stands there. That’s Uncle B for you. Standing there, doing nothing.”
For a few moments there was silence. The story had touched both Matthew and Angus Lordie in a curious way. It was almost as if it had been true; that they had been hearing something shocking that was reported in the newspaper. Cyril, disturbed The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions 103
by the silence, looked up from the floor and stared at his master.
Then he looked at Matthew’s ankles again, scratched at an ear, and closed his eyes.
“So,” said Big Lou, breaking the silence. “What you have to decide is this. Is Uncle A, who does something, worse than Uncle B, who does nothing? You just said to me, Angus, that we are only responsible for the things we do and not for the things we don’t do. Yes, you did. Don’t deny it. So are you going to say that Uncle B did nothing wrong? Is that what you’re going to say?” She paused. “But also, you tell me this: is Uncle A worse than Uncle B, or is there no difference between them? Well?
Come on. You tell me.”
Angus looked down at the table.
“Let me think,” he said.
32. The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions While Angus Lordie thought, Big Lou, lips pursed in an almost undetectable smile, made him another cup of coffee. She knew what Angus Lordie thought of her – that she was just a woman who made coffee for people. Big Lou was used to this. Back home in Arbroath, they had thought that she was just a girl –
she had heard one of her male relatives say just that – and that somebody who was just a girl had nothing really important to say about anything. And in Aberdeen, where she had worked for years in the Granite Nursing Home, she had been just one of the assistants, somebody who helped, who cleaned up, who made the beds. And nobody had ever suggested to her that she might be something other than this.
Matthew, in silence, stared up at the ceiling, thinking of uncles.
He might so easily have been drowned by one of his uncles when he was eight, he thought. But which of his two uncles would have been most likely to drown him? His Uncle Willy in Dunblane, the one who farmed and who used to take him up the hillside on his all-terrain tractor to look at the sheep? Or 104 The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions his Uncle Malcolm in the West, who ran a marina and was a keen sailor? Uncle Willy might have drowned him in sheep dip, up at the high fank, and nobody would have been there to see it. It would have been a lonely death, under those wide Perthshire skies, and he would have closed his eyes to the sight of the heather and the mottled grey of the stones that made the fank.
But Uncle Willy was an elder of the Kirk and would never have drowned anybody, let alone his nephew. No. It would not have been Uncle Willy.
Would Uncle Malcolm have pushed him overboard from his yacht, he wondered? Hardly. And yet, now that he came to think of it, Uncle Malcolm had a temper and might, just might, have drowned him in a rage. Matthew remembered crewing for him off Colonsay when he was much younger and clearing away the breakfast things from the galley. He had tossed the dregs from a couple of tea cups into the sea and had done the same with the contents of a mug beside the sink.
Unfortunately, that had contained his uncle’s false teeth in their sterilising solution, and the teeth had been lost at sea.
His uncle had shouted at him then – strange, gummy shouts which had frightened him. Yes, Uncle Malcolm was the suspect in his case.
Suddenly, Angus Lordie clapped his hands together, causing Cyril to start and leap to his feet. “Uncle A,” he said. “Uncle B
is off the hook. He did nothing, yes? And even if he hadn’t been there the boy would have drowned. So he didn’t cause the drowning. Whereas Uncle A caused it to happen.”
Big Lou listened intently. “Oh,” she said. “So it’s all down to causing things? Is that it?”
“Absolutely, most cogitative Lou,” said Angus. “That’s your answer for you.”
“Maybe if Uncle B were to . . .” Matthew began, but was interrupted by Big Lou.
“So it’s cause then,” she said. “But the problem is this. I could say to you, surely, that Uncle
B’s omission to act was a cause of the drowning just as much as Uncle A’s positive act was. Ken what I mean?”
The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions 105
Angus Lordie looked momentarily confused. Serves him right, thought Matthew. It was a bad mistake to condescend to Big Lou, as Angus was about to find out.
Big Lou reached for her cloth and gave the counter a wipe.
“You see, there’s no reason why we should not see omissions to act as being as causally potent as positive actions. It’s simply wrong to think that failures to act can’t cause things – they do.
It’s just that our ordinary idea of how things are caused is too tied to ideas of physical causation, of pushing and shoving. But it’s more subtle than that.”
“So there’s no difference between Uncle A and Uncle B then?”
asked Matthew.
“Not really,” said Big Lou. “The book I’m reading says that ordinary people – the man in the street – would always say that Uncle A was worse, while the philosopher would say that there was no real difference.” She finished her sentence, and then looked at Angus Lordie.
Angus Lordie picked up his coffee cup and drained the last few drops. “Well, Lou,” he said. “That’s pretty impressive. I’ll have to think about what you said. You could be right.”
“I am right,” said Big Lou.
“Could be,” said Angus, looking for support from Matthew, but getting none. He looked at Cyril, who returned his gaze directly, but gave no further sign.
Matthew now spoke. “There could be a difference, though.
There could be a difference between things we do on the spur of the moment and things we do after a bit of thought.”
Big Lou looked at him with interest. “Maybe,” she said.
“So in this case,” Matthew went on, “Uncle A had a bit of time – maybe only a minute or so to think about it. Then he acted. Whereas Uncle B acted – or failed to act – spontaneously.”
Angus Lordie snorted dismissively. “Doesn’t work,” he said.
“They have had exactly the same amount of time to think about it. Uncle A thinks about it while he’s holding the boy’s head under the water. Uncle B thinks about it while he stands there and watches the poor boy drown. No difference, in my view.”
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