‘No doubt she’ll turn up,’ said Domenica. ‘She was probably depressed, or something like that, and decided to kick off the shackles and go away for a while. People do that in that state of mind.’
‘That must be it,’ said Angus.
Antonia was less sanguine. ‘Or she was abducted,’ she said. ‘You’d be surprised at the figures. An extraordinary number of people are actually abducted and kept somewhere against their will.’
‘What are the figures?’ asked Angus. The taxi had now reached Murrayfield and was driving past a row of solid suburban villas; talk of abduction against such a background seemed to him to be inherently improbable; but then, he reminded himself, many crimes, even the most horrendous ones, took place in circumstances of banality.
‘Oh, I can’t recall them exactly,’ said Antonia. ‘Surprisingly high, though. Mostly women, I’m afraid, being abducted by men.’ She looked accusingly at Angus, as if he was in some way complicit in the crime.
‘I doubt if any man would dare abduct Irene,’ said Angus.
Domenica looked displeased. ‘I don’t think that we should talk lightly about this,’ she said. ‘A neighbour is missing, after all.’
Angus looked shame-faced. ‘We couldn’t really have cancelled,’ he said. ‘The tickets were bought, the villa made ready, every thing …’
‘No, you’re quite right,’ said Domenica. ‘Life has to go on. So I suggest that we try to put it out of our minds for the time being and hope that when we return Irene will be safely restored to Scotland Street and all will be well.’
The taxi sped on. Angus looked out of the window, his eyes drawn to the sky above the rooftops of Corstorphine. The sky, he thought, is like the sea; now that we have mastered it, it links us to the most remote of places. He had often thought that of the sea when he found himself on the shore – marvelling at the idea that it was all one body of water; that there was no interruption, nothing more solid than water standing between him and the furthest limits of distant continents. That made him believe that the seas do not separate us, but link us; and so too did the sky, now that we could slip into long tubes of metal and hurtle our way through the air to remote places of our choosing. So India was not a world away, but only seven hours, and Italy was virtually next door – three hours, if that; the time that one might take for a walk in the Pentlands.
He closed his eyes, feeling the morning sun warm upon his face. And it was the same sun that would greet him when they stepped off the plane in Pisa, he thought, although there, somehow, it would seem so much more reliable, so much friendlier. The Scottish sun was so easily distracted from its task, so quick to think of excuses not to shine, so reticent in conferring its favours.
He opened his eyes to see Antonia watching him. She was smiling. ‘I do hope that you find inspiration in Italy, Angus,’ she said.
He returned her smile. ‘I am sure I shall. It’s so many years since I was there. Just after art college, in fact. I went there for two months on one of the travelling scholarships they gave in those days. I don’t know if they still do. Probably not.’
‘We are very ungenerous now.’
‘Yes,’ said Angus. ‘Just think: I was allowed, on public funding, to go to Italy and to soak in everything that it had to offer. They were paying me just to look.’
‘And to feel,’ said Domenica. ‘To experience.’
Angus nodded. ‘Exactly. And of course I felt that I had the whole world at my feet. When I went into the Uffizi and wandered round its galleries I felt that there was no reason why I should not in due course create paintings that were just as good as these, just as magnificent. I really did. I felt such confidence.’
Domenica touched the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Your work is very good.’
‘Hardly.’
She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Of course it is.’
‘Yes,’ said Antonia. ‘She’s right. We all love your painting.’
Angus lowered his eyes. ‘I went there to look, but I didn’t go to learn. That was my mistake. I should have tried to learn technique. I should have apprenticed myself to somebody. But I did none of those things. I had picnics in olive groves, I sat in cafés in Florence and Siena, I was like one of those silly characters from E. M. Forster’s novels. I wasted the opportunity.’
‘But we all waste opportunities,’ said Domenica. ‘Every single one of us. Every young person does it. It’s because we think we have so much time, and then, when we realise that our time is finite, it’s too late.’ She paused. ‘That’s just the way it is, Angus.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
Cyril moved against his leg, resting his head on his master’s foot.
‘Of course there is such a thing as the second chance,’ Domenica went on. ‘We may waste our first trip to Italy, but that doesn’t mean that we need waste our second.’
60. The Comfort of Friends
‘I feel really sorry for you, Bertie,’ said Olive. ‘I heard what happened, and I felt really sad. I want you to know that.’ Bertie, feeling somewhat disinclined to play, was standing at the edge of the playground at school; Olive, accompanied by Pansy, had come over to him, and now both girls were staring at Bertie, trying to ascertain whether or not he had been crying.
‘You mustn’t hold tears in,’ said Olive. ‘It’s better, you know, if you let yourself cry. We won’t laugh at you, will we, Pansy?’
Pansy shook her head. ‘Poor Bertie. You must feel awful. And just think – you were the last one to see her alive. That must make you feel really dreadful.’
‘Yes,’ said Olive. ‘That’s really bad.’ She paused. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any news yet, is there?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Bertie. ‘The police are looking for her. Maybe she just got lost.’
Olive looked at him with pity. ‘I don’t think so, Bertie, do you? You don’t get lost at the end of your street, do you? No, I don’t think she’s lost.’
‘She’s probably kidnapped,’ suggested Pansy.
Olive considered this possibility. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘People do get kidnapped, even if they don’t have all that much money. Maybe they mistook her for some rich person and are holding her in a cellar somewhere.’
‘Or an old castle,’ said Pansy.
‘Could be,’ said Olive. ‘Somewhere like Tantallon – you know that old castle near North Berwick? We went for a picnic there once and I thought that it would be a really good place for kidnappers to hold people. Do you know if the police have looked in Tantallon yet, Bertie?’
Bertie shook his head. ‘They’ve put notices up in Scotland Street,’ he said. ‘They have pictures of my mummy on them.’
Olive looked disapproving. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Bertie. That could annoy the kidnappers. They don’t like people going to the police.’
‘No, they don’t,’ said Pansy. ‘That’s probably made it a whole lot worse.’
Olive agreed. ‘I wonder if they’ve sent a ransom demand yet, Bertie? Have you had a letter yet?’
‘I don’t think so,’ answered Bertie. ‘My dad hasn’t said anything about it.’
Pansy remembered something. ‘Sometimes they cut off the person’s ear, Bertie. Then they put it in an envelope and send it to their house. That shows that they’ve got the person.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Olive. ‘I’ve heard about that. That happens quite a lot in Italy. But now we’re all in the European Union.’
‘They may have sent your mummy’s ear already,’ said Pansy. ‘Maybe your Dad just thought it was junk mail and threw it away.’
‘That’s quite possible,’ said Olive. ‘We never open our junk mail. We just throw it away. It never crosses our mind that there could be somebody’s ear in the envelope.’
‘Usually it’s just from Chinese restaurants,’ said Pansy. ‘They send takeaway lists, but most people just throw them away without reading them.’
Bertie said nothing. He wished
that Olive and Pansy would leave him alone; he did not want to talk to them, nor to anybody. He only wanted to be by himself.
‘You will let us know if we can help,’ Olive now said. ‘I think that your dad will find it very difficult to look after Ulysses by himself. You know how useless men are with babies.’
‘Very useless,’ said Pansy. ‘Boys too.’
‘So maybe the best thing would be for Ulysses to be adopted,’ Olive went on. ‘There are plenty of people looking for babies to adopt. Even ugly ones like Ulysses.’
‘He’s not all that ugly,’ said Bertie mildly.
‘Oh, but he is, Bertie,’ said Olive. ‘My mummy saw him with your mummy in George Street one day. She said that she had a terrible shock.’
‘That’s not to say that he’s not a really nice little baby,’ said Pansy comfortingly. ‘And people who really want a baby maybe won’t even notice his face.’
Olive now moved the discussion on from Ulysses. ‘Where was your mummy when you last saw her?’ she said.
Bertie explained about the containers of clothing and household essentials that were being sent off to Romania, and Olive nodded gravely. ‘I’ve heard all about that,’ she said. ‘It’s a really kind thing to do – even if it’s useless.’
‘I don’t think it’s useless,’ said Bertie. ‘I’m sure that they’re really pleased to get them.’
‘No they aren’t,’ said Olive, peremptorily. ‘I’ve heard that the Romanians are really fed up getting all this useless old Scottish clothing when they’ve got their own jeans to wear. I’ve heard that the moment those lorries turn back, the Romanians chuck all the stuff in the bin. That’s what I’ve heard.’
Bertie was on the point of refuting this when their attention was suddenly distracted. A door at the side of the school building opened, and they saw their teacher, Miss Maclaren Hope, come out into the playground. She looked about her, and then, seeing Bertie, she gave an excited wave.
Bertie, wondering what he had done wrong, began to walk over towards the teacher. She, however, was coming to him, and had broken into a run. ‘Bertie!’ she shouted. ‘Bertie – I’ve got some wonderful news for you!’
Bertie stood stock still.
‘Your mummy is safe and sound!’ panted Miss Maclaren Hope. ‘Safe! Quite safe! And she should be back later today. Your daddy will come and collect you.’
Bertie felt an overpowering sense of relief. ‘Back?’ he stuttered. ‘She’s back?’
‘Yes,’ gushed Miss Maclaren Hope. ‘And do you know what happened, Bertie? She got stuck in one of those big containers. They closed the door by mistake while she was inside. Can you believe it? Poor Mummy! And they didn’t hear her banging on the side until they had got right the way to Hungary! And then the silly Hungarian police arrested her and didn’t understand what she was saying. But fortunately everything was sorted out and she’s almost back in Edinburgh.’
Olive, who had now sidled up, patted Bertie on the back. ‘That’s such good news, Bertie,’ she said. Then, looking at the teacher, she went on, ‘We were comforting him, Miss Maclaren Hope. Pansy and I were comforting him.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said the teacher. ‘It’s at times like this that one needs one’s friends, don’t you agree, Bertie?’
Bertie nodded.
‘So I think we should all go inside now,’ said Miss Maclaren Hope. ‘And we can all make nice Welcome Home cards for Bertie’s mother. Agreed?’
61. Big Lou on Art and Fashion
‘So,’ said Big Lou, as she directed a jet of steam through the milk for Matthew’s mid-morning coffee. ‘So – Moray Place it is, then. Going up in the world, I see.’
Matthew laughed. ‘India Street to Moray Place is not going up in the world at all,’ he said. ‘Sideways, perhaps. But not going up.’
Big Lou, of course, had no time for the games of Edinburgh society. She lived in Canonmills, at the bottom of the hill, and would be very unlikely to move, she thought, upwards, downwards or even sideways. She knew her neighbours, and liked them. Everybody on her stair was helpful, fulfilling their duties on the cleaning rota, and there were never any noisy parties. In fact, there were never any quiet parties either, but that suited Big Lou, and all the other neighbours, very well.
‘I’m really happy with the flat,’ said Matthew. ‘And there’s a garden, Lou. A really nice garden. You should come and see it.’
‘What are you going to grow?’ asked Lou. ‘Tatties?’
Matthew shook his head. ‘They don’t go in for tatties in Moray Place,’ he said solemnly. ‘Flowers, I suppose. And some bushes, perhaps we’ll plant some …’ He trailed off; he had never gardened.
‘Aye?’ said Big Lou. ‘Some what?’
‘Some ground cover,’ said Matthew quickly. He had seen the expression somewhere and it had stuck. Ground cover was definitely the thing.
‘Was it expensive?’ asked Big Lou. ‘Fifty thousand?’
Matthew stared at her in disbelief.
‘More than that?’ asked Big Lou. ‘Sixty?’
‘A bit more, Lou,’ he said, adding, ‘Quite a bit more.’
Big Lou handed him his coffee. ‘It’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘This town’s becoming far too expensive for its own good. For fifty thousand you could get a really good place in Arbroath.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Matthew. ‘Not today.’
Big Lou shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m a bit out of date.’
Matthew raised an eyebrow. ‘You could be. Just a bit.’
Big Lou changed the subject. ‘That’s Angus away,’ she said. ‘Dog and all.’
‘I envy him going to Italy,’ said Matthew. ‘It’s the spiritual home of all us artists.’
Big Lou looked at him. ‘You’re not an artist.’
‘Or those concerned with buying and selling art,’ added Matthew sheepishly.
Big Lou was not convinced. ‘To be an artist you have to be able to paint or make sculpture or do something like that.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Matthew. ‘Not any more. The artists who do well these days are precisely those who can’t paint. And as for sculpture, that’s very old-fashioned, Lou. Installations are the thing now.’ Matthew looked around the room. ‘Take your coffee machine, for example. That has two prices: the price you pay for it if you buy it in a kitchen equipment shop, and the price you’d get for it if you put it on a plinth in a gallery and labelled it Age of Steam or Chrome III.’
‘Oh yes?’
Matthew nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So if I put it in your gallery I’d get a large price?’
‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘Not you. It would have to be put in by somebody who had been recognised by the cognoscenti as conferring artistic validity to the object. That would mean that you would have to be chosen by the people who create the market. If they chose you – if some big collector said Big Lou is eminently collectable – then that would confer that status upon you. You’d be anointed, so to speak. Thereafter anything you presented as art would be ipso facto art.’
Matthew drew breath. ‘And another thing. It couldn’t be my gallery because I can’t confer validity. It would have to be one of the galleries that are accepted as being the sort of place where coffee makers – or anything, for that matter – can be sold as art. I’m not in that line of apostolic succession, so to speak.’
Big Lou was thinking. ‘The Dutch tulip affair,’ she said. ‘I was reading a funny wee book about social hysteria – about how folk get things into their heads and go mad for a while. There was something about witchcraft.’
‘Moral panic,’ prompted Matthew.
‘Yes. That sort of thing. Didn’t the Dutch go mad about tulips back in the – when was it – 1600s? Didn’t they pay terrific prices for tulip bulbs? And these bulbs got more and more expensive and people fought to have the rarest ones they could get hold of. Sheer stupidity.’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘And then suddenly somebody said, “Hold on, it’s just tulip
bulbs, and tulip bulbs aren’t really worth the price of a house.” ’
‘And everything collapsed. Yes. Do you think that people in the art business know about the tulip disaster?’
Matthew smiled. ‘I suspect that they know only too well. But the problem is, they can’t do anything but keep up the entire pretence and carry on buying these banal conceits because if they didn’t their collections would be worthless. Who would want to buy a shark in a tank of formaldehyde? Especially if the shark started to decay and fall to bits? You have to pretend that it’s still important, still worth keeping, because if you didn’t you’d lose millions of pounds.’
A silence ensued as the two of them contemplated the creation of value in the valueless.
‘Pat,’ said Matthew suddenly, looking at his watch.
Big Lou frowned. ‘I haven’t seen her for an awful long time.’
‘Well, you’re about to see her,’ said Matthew. ‘She’s coming in this morning. About now.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m taking her on in the gallery again,’ explained Matthew. ‘I’ve got my move coming up and I need to help Elspeth get everything ready. So I’ll need two helpers, rather than one.’
Big Lou absorbed this information. She liked Pat, and she was pleased that she would be seeing her again. She was worried, though, that Pat would not approve of Matthew’s new assistant, Kirsty. Certainly, Big Lou had not taken to her, even if she could not put her finger on the exact reason. Too glamorous? Possibly. But there was something more to it than that. Big Lou did not trust Kirsty – that was it; trust – a concept so hard to define and yet, in its absence, so unmistakable.
‘It won’t work,’ she said to Matthew.
‘Why?’
Big Lou shrugged. It would not be easy to explain it to Matthew, because he was a man and men often did not understand these nuances. No point in trying, she decided, but at least he might understand folk wisdom. ‘We used to say in Arbroath,’ she pronounced, ‘that you can’t have two women in the same kitchen.’
The Importance of Being Seven Page 22