Espresso Tales 4ss-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I’ve brought you a present. It’s not a very big present, but I hope you like it.”

  His eyes widened. “But it’s not my birthday.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  284 In the Café St Honoré

  She passed the red parcel over to him and he took it from her gingerly.

  “Open it.”

  He slid a finger under a flap of the paper and peeled it back.

  The card was exposed and he took this out and read it.

  “That’s very kind of you to say that.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m the one who should be giving you a present. These months have been happy ones for me, too.”

  He took off the rest of the paper and held the painting out at arm’s length. He said nothing at first, and then he smiled at her. “I like harbours,” he said. “And I particularly like this one.”

  “Matthew thought you would,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow at the mention of his son’s name. “My Matthew? He said that?”

  “It was his idea,” Janis said. “I wanted to get you something.

  He thought you would like this.”

  I’m not telling a complete lie, she told herself. Matthew had implied that he would like it and had not actively discouraged her from buying the painting. That, by a short leap, could be interpreted as being behind the idea. Gordon looked at the painting again. “That was thoughtful of him,” he said. He paused. “How was he? I mean, how did you find him? The other night at the club . . .”

  Janis shook her head. “I understand,” she said. “It can’t be easy for him. People are jealous of their parents. They don’t like to see them with other people. It doesn’t matter if you’re eight or twenty-eight. These feelings can be very strong.”

  He looked down at the tablecloth. “I don’t know what to do.

  If we ask him to join us for anything, we’ll just have a repeat of last time. Surly, immature behaviour.”

  “That’s because he loves you. If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t care at all.”

  “But it makes it very hard for you, doesn’t it?” he said. “And it’ll be even harder when we tell him that we’re getting married . . .”

  He stopped himself. He coloured deeply. He reached for his Domenica Takes Food to Angus

  285

  table napkin and the sudden action sent another glass to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. “That was a slip of the tongue.

  I wasn’t . . .”

  “But I accept,” said Janis. “Don’t worry. I accept.”

  The waiter reappeared, brush and pan in hand.

  “I’ve done it again,” said Gordon. “I’ll pay for all these glasses.

  Please add them to the bill.”

  The waiter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Do you have any champagne glasses?” asked Gordon. “Not that I intend to break those. But I think we’re going to need a bottle of champagne.”

  The waiter went off to fetch the champagne and the glasses.

  By the time that he returned, Gordon had discreetly opened his wallet and extracted a crisp Bank of Scotland fifty-pound note, which he slipped into the waiter’s hand.

  “You’re very kind,” said the waiter.

  Janis thought: But there’s 10,999,950 more where that came from.

  87. Domenica Takes Food to Angus

  Angus Lordie did not often receive a visit from Domenica, but every now and then she would call in on him, usually unannounced, and usually bringing him a small present of food, normally cheese scones, which she baked herself.

  “I’m convinced that you don’t feed yourself properly, Angus,”

  said Domenica, placing a small bag of provisions on his kitchen table. “I’ve made you an apple pie and there’s a pound of sausages from that marvellous butcher down at the end of Broughton Street – the one who makes the real sausages. You do remember that wonderful line from Barbara Pym, do you not, where one of the characters says that men need meat? Not men in the sense of people in general, but men in the sense of males. Priceless!”

  286 Domenica Takes Food to Angus

  “And yet you’ve brought me a pound of sausages,” said Angus.

  “For which, thank you very much indeed. But doesn’t that suggest that you, too, feel that men need meat?”

  “Not at all,” said Domenica. “Men can get their protein from anywhere in the protein chain, if there’s such a thing. You’d be better off not eating meat at all, you know. Look at the statistics for the survival of vegetarians. They do much better. Perhaps I should take those sausages back.”

  “As long as they drink,” said Angus. “Vegetarians who drink a couple of glasses of wine a day do terribly well.”

  “A thirty-five per cent improvement in mortality,” said Domenica.

  Angus Lordie peered at the sausages. “And yet the government can’t exactly encourage us to drink, can it?”

  “Certainly not,” said Domenica. “We know that the government itself drinks, but on this issue it has to be hypocritical.”

  Angus Lordie, who had stopped painting when Domenica arrived, moved to the window. Picking up a rag, he wiped a small spot of oil paint off his hands. “I’ve never understood the objection to hypocrisy,” he said. “There must be some circumstances in which it’s permissible to be hypocritical.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let me think,” said Angus. “Yes. On the receipt of a present that one doesn’t like. Do you really think that one should say how much one likes it?”

  Domenica thought about this. “I suppose so. But is that being hypocritical, or is it something different?”

  “Hypocrisy is saying one thing and doing another,” said Angus. “If you say that you like the gift and say how much you’re looking forward to using it or looking at it, or whatever, then surely you’re being a hypocrite.” He paused for a moment. “So, should a politician tell other people not to drink or not to eat sausages, and all the while he drinks and eats sausages himself, then he’s being hypocritical. But it may be the right thing for him to do.”

  “But would you yourself choose to be hypocritical?”

  Angus replaced the oily rag on a table. He smiled. “I’m as Domenica Takes Food to Angus

  287

  weak as anybody else,” he said. “I suppose I’ve told my share of lies. I’ve been hypocritical on occasions.”

  Domenica laughed. “Tell me, then. You don’t like sausages.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Angus.

  Domenica saw that he meant it. “You should have told me,”

  she said.

  “But I didn’t want to offend you. And I can’t stand apple pie either.”

  Domenica frowned. “But why not tell me? You would just have wasted them. I would have gone away thinking that you would be enjoying my little offerings and all the time you’d be putting them out in the bin.”

  Angus shook his head. “I would not,” he said defensively. “I would have given the sausages to Cyril, and I would have put the apple pie out in the gardens for the squirrels.”

  “I will not have you giving my Crombie sausages to that dog of yours,” said Domenica. “You presume on my friendship, Angus!”

  “I didn’t ask you to bring me sausages,” said Angus peevishly.

  “And I certainly shall not bring you any sausages in the future,” said Domenica stoutly.

  “Good,” said Angus. “So, no sausages then.”

  They looked at one another reproachfully. Then Angus shrugged. “What are we to do about these sausages?” he said, gesturing to the package on the table. “I suppose you’d better take them back and eat them in Scotland Street.”

  “But I don’t like sausages myself,” said Domenica. “I can’t stand them, in fact.”

  For a few moments they stared mutely at the package of sausages.

  “Do you know anybody who would like the
m?” asked Domenica. “Any of your neighbours?”

  “My neighbours would find it very strange if I started offering them sausages,” said Angus. “We don’t have that sort of relationship.”

  “I wasn’t aware that there was a category of relationship which permitted the giving and taking of sausages,” said Domenica.

  288 Bruce Reflects

  “Well, there is,” said Angus. “You have to know people quite well before you start giving them sausages.”

  Domenica said nothing. She knew that Angus occasionally became argumentative, and there was no point in engaging with him when he was in such a mood. “Well, let’s . . .”

  Angus cut her short. “Before we abandon the subject of sausages,” he said, “I must tell you about an occasion on which I was obliged to eat sausages – and with every visible sign of enjoyment. It was at a terribly grand house in Sutherland. I went there for lunch one day and there were ten people round the table. We were looking forward to a good meal, but we certainly didn’t get that. We had sausages with boiled potatoes. And that was it. But what I remember about that meal was that the subject of flying boats came up. I don’t know how it did, but somebody must have raised it.

  “And I said to our hostess: ‘You know, Your Grace, you should get yourself a flying boat. You’ve got that great stretch of loch out there – it’s ideal for a flying boat.’ And you know what she said? She said: ‘But we do have a flying boat somewhere or other.’ Then she turned to the factor, who was sitting down at the end of the table, and she said: ‘Mr Grant, have you seen the flying boat? Do you know where it is?’”

  That was all there was to the story. Angus Lordie looked at Domenica. Then he burst into laughter, into wild peals of laughter.

  And Domenica laughed too. It was extremely funny for some reason. It may have been hard to put one’s finger on the reason, but neither of them was in any doubt but that it was terribly funny.

  But it was also rather sad. And again, to work out why it should be sad, required a measure of reflection.

  88. Bruce Reflects

  After his unfortunate experience with George and his new fiancée, Bruce returned to Scotland Street in what almost amounted to a state of shock. He had set off for his shop in a Bruce Reflects

  289

  mood of confidence and optimism, but this had been conclu-sively shattered by the confrontation with his erstwhile business backer, now his former friend. There was to be no money from George, and with the disappearance of that support his liabilities now exceeded his assets. The payment to the wine dealer in Leith could not be put off for more than a short time, and now he simply did not have sufficient funds to pay. He would have to return all the stock, virtually every bottle of it, and that would leave him with empty shelves, including in that new section of which he was so proud – the innovative Wines for Her.

  Pat was in her room when Bruce returned. For a moment he hesitated, unsure whether to knock on her door and offer to make her a cup of coffee. He did not want her to think that he needed her company in any way – she should be in no doubt that he could take or leave that as he wished – but eventually his need for comfort and reassurance got the better of him.

  Pat greeted him politely. Yes, that was kind of him; she would join him for a cup of coffee in the kitchen in a few moments.

  “So,” she said. “The business. How’s it going?”

  “Great,” Bruce started to say. “Just great . . .”

  He broke off. He looked at the floor. “Actually,” he went on,

  “it’s going badly. Really badly.”

  Pat raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with that shop you’re renting?”

  Bruce shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. In fact, Pat, it’s awful.” He sat down at the kitchen table, his head sunk in his hands.

  Pat looked down at him. Poor Bruce – to be so vain and so pleased with yourself and then to become so obviously wretched.

  It was difficult not to sympathise with him.

  “Money?” she said.

  Bruce nodded miserably. “I’ve been let down.”

  “By?”

  “By somebody I was at school with back in Crieff,” said Bruce.

  “He should have stayed there.”

  Pat frowned. “Why are you rude about Crieff, Bruce? Aren’t you proud of the place you came from?”

  290 Bruce Reflects

  “No,” said Bruce. “I’m not.”

  Pat thought about this. “May I ask why?” she said. “I don’t see anything wrong with Crieff. In fact, I think it’s really a very nice place.”

  “You would,” said Bruce bitterly.

  Pat almost let this remark pass, but decided that Bruce had gone too far. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, you do think that you’re superior, don’t you? You think that by being rude about Crieff you can build yourself up. Well, you’re wrong, you know. You’re wrong about Crieff, completely wrong. Crieff is a great place.

  I know people who live there who like it very much indeed. And these are people with rather better judgment than yours, Bruce.

  By running Crieff down you tell me more about yourself than about Crieff. That’s true, you know.”

  Bruce said nothing, while Pat fixed him with her stare. “The trouble with you, Bruce, is that you think nowhere and nobody is good enough for you. You think that you’re too good for Crieff. You think that you’re too good for your old friends. You think that this old friend of yours has let you down, but I suspect that it’s exactly the opposite. I suspect that you’ve been trying to use him.”

  Bruce looked up abruptly. “And why do you think that, may I ask?”

  Pat shrugged. “Because that’s the way you do things.” She paused. “But there’s no point in my talking to you like this, is there? I doubt if you’re going to change.”

  Bruce stood up. “No,” he said. “There’s no point. Because I have no intention of listening to you, Patsy girl, thank you very much.”

  And with that he left, crossed the hall into his room, and slammed the door behind him. Inside his room, though, the confidence which he had tried to show crumpled. He owed money, and he owed a great deal of it. The thought occurred to him that he could go back to his parents and ask them to lend him the money to pay the most immediate bills, including the one from Leith, but he simply could not face that. He could imagine what his father would say to him. He would be lectured The Restoration of Fortunes

  291

  about caution and misjudgment. He would be told that he should never have attempted go into business without getting the necessary experience first. And if he tried to explain about George, and how he had brought all this about, his father would probably just take George’s side. He had always liked him, Bruce recalled, and had said that he thought he was the best of his son’s friends. That shows how much judgment he has, thought Bruce.

  He sat on his bed and considered his situation. Assets and liabilities – the fundamentals of business. He knew the assets and he knew the liabilities. The assets were the flat in Scotland Street, which was heavily mortgaged, a small amount of money in a deposit account at the bank, and . . . He had almost forgotten.

  There were three cases of Petrus. It was only George’s view that these were not the real thing – but there was a chance, even if only a slim chance, that the Petrus was genuine and he remembered that he had read somewhere that there was a wine auction coming up in Edinburgh. They might be able to take late entries, and if the wine were genuine, then . . .

  But who could advise him on that? If he asked the auction-eers, then that might plant a doubt in their mind. So he should seek a private opinion, and who better than Will Lyons! If anybody could distinguish between genuine and false wine then it would be him, and he had very generously given Bruce advice in the past. He would ask Will round for a glass of Petrus, not say anything to him about the price he had paid, and then see what the verdict was. It was a brilliant idea, and he would see if Will was free that ver
y evening! How handy it was to live in Edinburgh, he reflected, and to have expertise so ready to hand.

  89. The Restoration of Fortunes

  Will Lyons had better things to do than to visit Bruce, but agreed, out of sheer kindness, to call in at 44 Scotland Street that evening shortly before eight. He would not be able to stay 292 The Restoration of Fortunes

  long, he explained, as he had work to do. He had recently agreed to write a history of the Edinburgh wine trade, and the manuscript was growing slowly beneath his hands. It was a pleasant sensation seeing the pile of pages grow higher, but, like every author, he knew that he had to guard jealously the spare hours in which he could write. There were histories to be written about those whose histories had never progressed beyond chapter one, or indeed the introduction.

  Will sighed as he made his way up the stairs to Bruce’s flat.

  He did not particularly like Bruce, whom he found both opinionated and ignorant in equal measure. He had tried to warn him about the drawbacks of going into the wine trade, but his warn-ings had not been heeded. It was clear to him that Bruce did not have even the basic knowledge that would enable him to run a wine shop. Nor did he possess the specialised knowledge and taste that would be required to run a wine shop in somewhere like Edinburgh’s New Town, where the number of opinionated and demanding people was very high, and where many of these prided themselves on their knowledge of wine. Any enterprise of Bruce’s was bound to fail, the only question being how long the failure would take, and how spectacular it would be.

  Bruce opened the door to his guest and ushered him into the flat. He had been preparing coffee and it was into the kitchen that they now went and took a seat at the large, scrubbed pine table.

  “I see that you have the original flagstones,” said Will, pointing at the fine stone floor.

  “For the time being,” said Bruce. “I haven’t got round to fixing that up yet.”

  “Fixing it up?” asked Will. “It looks in quite good condition to me.”

  “Modernising it,” said Bruce. “I want an oak-look effect.

  There’s a new sort of flooring that looks just like oak. I’d challenge anybody to tell the difference. It’s a bit pricey, though.”