Love Over Scotland 4ss-3

by Alexander McCall Smith

  It trickled down into a crack in the pavement.

  Somebody passing by hesitated, about to ask what was wrong, but walked on. Angus looked about him frantically. He had tied Cyril’s leash quite tightly – he always did. But even if Cyril had worked it loose, he would never leave the spot in which Angus had left him. He was good that way – it was something to do with his training in Lochboisdale, all those years ago. Cyril knew how to stay.

  Angus saw a boy standing nearby. The boy was watching him; this boy with a pasty complexion and his shirt hanging out of his trousers was watching him. He walked over to him. The boy, suspicious, stiffened.

  “My dog,” he said. “My dog. He was over there. Now . . .”

  The boy sniffed. “A boy took it,” he said. “He untied him.”

  Angus gasped. “He took him? Where? Did you see?”

  The boy shrugged. “He got on a bus. One of they buses.”

  The boy pointed to a red bus lumbering past.

  “You didn’t see which one?”

  “No,” said the boy. He looked down at the packet on the ground and then back up at Angus. “I’ve got to go.”

  Angus nodded. Bending down, he picked up the oil-soaked bag and looked about him, hopelessly. Cyril had been stolen.

  That was the only conclusion he could reach. His friend, his companion, had been stolen. He had lost him. He was gone.

  He walked back to Drummond Place slowly, almost oblivious to his surroundings. Worlds could end in many ways, but, as Eliot had observed, it was usually in little ways, like this.

  47. Goodbye to Edward Hong M.A. (Cantab.) The car in which Domenica Macdonald was travelling – the car belonging to Edward Hong M.A. (Cantab.) – came to a halt on the outskirts of a small settlement about an hour’s drive from the city of Malacca. Ling, the young man who was to be Domenica’s guide and mentor in the pirate community, had tapped Edward Hong on the shoulder as they neared the village.

  “I’m sorry,” Ling said. “We’re going to have to walk from here. I’ll find a boy to carry the suitcase.”

  “There are always boys to do these things,” said Edward Hong to Domenica. “That’s the charming thing about the Far East. I gather that in Europe these days one has run out of boys.”

  Domenica nodded. “Boys used to be willing to do little tasks,”

  she said. “But no longer.”

  Edward Hong looked wistful. “When I was a boy,” he said,

  “I was a Scout. Baden-Powell was much admired in these lati-tudes, you know. And we were taught: always do at least one good deed every day. That’s what we believed in. And I did it.

  I did a good deed every day. Do you think that happens today?”

  “Alas, no,” said Domenica, as she prepared to get out of the car. “Most children have become very surly. That is because they are not taught to think about others any more. They are, quite simply, spoiled.”

  “I fear that what you say is right,” said Edward Hong. “It is very sad.”

  They stood outside the car and stretched their legs while Ling went off to the village. Domenica, her head shaded by a large, floppy sun hat – for even with cloud cover, she could feel the weight of the noonday sun – stood on the roadside and gazed out over the surrounding landscape. The village, which seemed to consist of twenty or so houses, straddled the road, which had now narrowed to a single track. The houses were small square buildings, each raised a couple of feet above the ground on wooden pillars. This, she knew, provided both protection from floodwaters and allowed the air to circulate in the heat. The roofs, which were made of palm thatch, were untidy in their Goodbye to Edward Hong M.A. (Cantab.) 147

  appearance, but everything else seemed neat and well-kept. A small group of children stood on the steps of the nearest house, staring at them, while a woman, wearing a red sarong, attended to some task on the veranda. On one side of the village stood a small shop, on the front of which was pinned a sign advertising Coca-Cola. The shop-keeper, standing outside, clad in a dirty vest and a pair of loose-fitting green trousers, seemed to be talking into a mobile telephone, gesticulating furiously with his free hand.

  “Village life,” said Edward Hong, pointing. “Children. Dogs.

  A shop-keeper in a dirty vest. It holds no romantic associations for me, I’m afraid.”

  Domenica laughed. “I don’t romanticise these things either,”

  she said. “Most anthropologists know too much about such places to romanticise them. I’m sure that life for these people is thoroughly tedious. They’d love to live in Malacca – I’m sure of it.”

  “And yet they are better off out here,” said Edward Hong.

  “They may not know it, but they are. Wouldn’t you rather live here, in relative comfort, than in some hovel in town – for the privilege of which you would be working all hours of the day in some sweatshop?”

  “I don’t know,” said Domenica. “I just don’t know.”

  Ling now reappeared, accompanied by a teenage boy, bare-shouldered, a printed cloth wound about his waist. He pointed to Domenica’s large suitcase, which had been taken out of the car by the chauffeur, and the boy cheerfully picked it up.

  “We must go,” said Ling. “It’s at least two hours’ walk from here. Do you have your water bottle?”

  Domenica answered by pointing to her small rucksack. Then she turned to Edward Hong and shook his hand. “You have been more than kind, dear Mr Hong,” she said. Edward Hong lowered his head in a small bow. “I shall miss your company,” he said.

  “And my daughter will too.”

  “I shall think of her playing Chopin,” said Domenica. “If the company of the pirates becomes a trifle wearisome, I shall think of her playing her Chopin.”

  148 Goodbye to Edward Hong M.A. (Cantab.) They said their final farewells, and then the small party set off, led by Ling, with Domenica in the middle, and the teenage boy bringing up the rear. Edward Hong waved from the car, and Domenica waved back. She knew that she would miss his urbane company; indeed she knew that there was a great deal that she was already missing, and would miss even more over the coming months. She missed her conversations with Angus Lordie. She missed looking out of her window onto Scotland Street. She missed her morning crossword in The Scotsman. And when would she next have a cup of foaming cappuccino and a freshly-baked croissant?

  I shall not think of any of this, she told herself. I shall be thoroughly professional. I am an anthropologist, after all, heir to a long tradition of endurance in the field. If I had wanted a quiet and comfortable life, then I would have become something else. The furrow I have chosen to plough is a lonely one, involving hardship, deprivation, and danger. Danger! She had forgotten about Ling’s almost throwaway comment about the Belgian anthropologist, the one who had preceded her to the village and who was now buried there. She had meant to ask Ling about this, but the direction of the conversation had changed and she had not had the opportunity. Besides, she did not want to give Edward the impression that she was frightened. If she did, then she knew that he would fret for her, and she did not want that.

  She looked at Ling’s back as he walked in front of her. A large patch of sweat had formed between his shoulder blades, making a dark stain on his shirt. Such circumstances as these, she thought, remind us of just what we are: salt and water, for the most part.

  “Ling,” she said. “That Belgian anthropologist you mentioned. Could you tell me more about him?”

  Ling glanced back at her, but kept on walking. “We don’t like to talk about him,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  Domenica was quick to say that she did not. But his comment puzzled her and, if she were to be honest about her level of anxiety, she would have to admit that it had grown. Considerably.

  48. A View of a House

  The small party followed a track that led away from the village.

  The track was narrow, but was wider than a footpath and had obviously been used by vehicles. There was white, sandy soil underfo
ot, and here and there this had been churned up by the wheels of a vehicle. There were other signs of human passage too – a discarded tin can, roughly opened and rusting; a fruit-juice carton, waxy and crumpled; the print of a sandal on the soil.

  Trees grew on either side of the path. These, together with an undergrowth of creeping vines and thick-leaved shrubs, made for a barrier that was dense, if not entirely impenetrable. It would be easy to lose oneself in such surroundings, thought Domenica; one might wander about in circles for days, unable to see any reference points, unable even to work out the direction of the sun’s movement. At moments such as this, she mused, dependence on one’s guide reminded one of the mutual reliance of human existence. In large numbers, in towns and cities, we forget that without the help of others we are fragile, threatened creatures. But the moment that support is removed, then the reality of our condition becomes apparent. We are all one step from being lost.

  After walking for half an hour, Ling called a halt and they sat down on the trunk of an uprooted tree. Domenica reached for her water bottle and took several swigs. The water, which had kept cool in the air-conditioned interior of Edward Hong’s car, was now tepid – the temperature of the soupy air about them – and it bore the chemical taste of the purification tablets she had dropped into it. The boy, who had been uncomplain-ingly carrying Domenica’s suitcase, shifting it from hand to hand every so often, was given a small sugared bun, which Ling had extracted from a packet secured to his belt. Domenica was offered one of these buns too, but declined.

  “It must be very difficult living in such isolated conditions,”

  she said to Ling. “I suppose they have to bring their supplies all the way down this track.”

  150 A View of a House

  Ling shook his head. “This track is not used a great deal,”

  he said. “The people in the village we are going to do not come this way very often. They have boats, you see.”

  Domenica nodded. Of course, the village for which they were heading was on the coast, or close enough to it.

  “Where shall I be staying?” she asked. She had been told that accommodation would be arranged, but Edward Hong had not gone into details. All he had said was: “You will probably be somewhat uncomfortable, but I suppose that you anthropologists are used to that sort of thing.” And then he had shuddered; not too noticeably, but he had shuddered.

  Ling wiped his brow. “You will stay in the village guest house,”

  he said. “It is a small place, just two rooms, which is used for any visitors to the village. It is clean and it is cool too. There is a big tree beside it. That will give you shade.” He paused, and smiled. “You will be very happy there.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I shall,” said Domenica. His description of her accommodation had cheered her slightly. A small, cool house in the shade sounded as if it would be perfect.

  “And there is another house beside it,” Ling went on. “The woman from that house will be your friend. She speaks a little English – not much – but a little. And she is making her sons learn English too. They are just boys, but they will speak to you too.”

  Domenica liked the sound of that. Ling made it seem no more than moving to a new suburb – a suburb with friendly neighbours.

  “This woman,” she asked. “She’s married to . . .” She paused, unsure as to whether the term pirate seemed a bit extreme, ungenerous perhaps.

  “To a pirate,” said Ling. “Yes, her husband is a big pirate. He is called Ah, and her name is Zhi-Whei. They have called the boys after ships which . . . which he seized. The older one is called Freighter and the other is called Tanker. They have Chinese names, too, but that is what they are called in the village.

  They are a good family, and they will be kind to you.”

  They continued with their journey. As they progressed, the vegetation thinned. The trees, which had towered above them

  A View of a House 151

  at the beginning, now became sparser. The dense undergrowth, too, was broken up by patches of grass and thinly-covered sand.

  And as the tree cover diminished, the light changed. There was open sky now, and the air seemed fresher. There was a smell of the sea.

  “We’re not far now,” said Ling eventually. And as he spoke, Domenica heard a snatch of music somewhere in the distance; a radio playing. Then, a little later, she heard a voice – a woman’s voice, calling to a child perhaps.

  Suddenly the path turned sharply to the right and descended.

  Ling stopped and pointed ahead. “That is the village,” he said.

  Domenica looked at the place which was to be her home for the next few months. It was a small settlement – much the same as the village through which they had passed at the beginning of their journey. There was one difference, though: the houses in this village all faced a small bay, the blue waters of which now caught the early afternoon sun. It seemed to Domenica to be idyllic; the sort of place that Gauguin had found on his south sea islands; the sultry shores which he had painted in those rich colours of his; sexual, beguiling landscapes.

  152 The Story of Art

  “That is your house just over there,” said Ling. “You see that one? The one near that big tree? That is your place.”

  Domenica looked in the direction in which he was pointing.

  They were not far from the house, and she could make out the details clearly. It seemed to her that it was quite ideal. It was constructed of wooden planks, all painted off-white, and the windows were secured with green, slatted shutters. There was a veranda, too, with what looked like an old planter’s chair on it, and a lithe young man in a sarong standing near the front door.

  “Who is that young man?” asked Domenica.

  Ling turned to look at her. “That is the young man who will be looking after you. He will cook for you and carry things. I will tell you what to pay him.” He paused, and added: “He is utterly at your service. You will see.”

  49. The Story of Art

  “Now,” said Matthew firmly, as he opened the door of the taxi for Pat, “you’ve made your decision and you must stick to it!

  You’re unhappy there. Of course you can’t continue to live with that ghastly girl.”

  “You haven’t met her,” pointed out Pat, as she sat back against the cheerful Royal Stewart rug which the taxi driver had placed on the seat. It was a curious thing about Edinburgh taxis: insofar as they carried rugs, for some reason these were almost always Royal Stewart tartan.

  She looked at Matthew, who was leaning forward to give instructions to the driver. It annoyed her that he seemed so ready to make judgments about people whom he had never met.

  He had done that with Wolf, whom he had disliked instantly, and now he was doing it with Tessie, her flatmate.

  Matthew fastened his seat belt. “But of course she’s ghastly,”

  he said. “You yourself told me . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Pat. “Let’s change the subject.”

  The Story of Art 153

  Matthew nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You have to look forward, Pat. Going to that awful flat was a mistake. A bad mistake. You should have stayed in Scotland Street.”

  He’s doing it again, thought Pat. Matthew had never seen the flat in Spottiswoode Street, and yet he was calling it awful. There was actually nothing awful about it. It was a typical Marchmont student flat – rather nicer, in fact, than many, and she would miss it. But he was right about the need to move. Tessie was ghastly, whichever way one looked at her. She was aggressive.

  She was suspicious. And she had as good as threatened Pat with physical violence over Wolf.

  They travelled up the Mound and made their way along George IV Bridge. On their right, just before they branched off beyond the Museum, they passed the Elephant House, the café where she had first talked to Wolf and where she had subsequently had that intriguing conversation with Sister Connie.

  “That place,” said Matthew, as they drove past. �
��I had lunch there once.”

  It was the sort of inconsequential thing that Matthew sometimes said. When she had first gone to work for him, Pat had expected these remarks to lead somewhere, but they rarely did.

  In another taxi, a long time ago, he had once said to her: “The Churchill Theatre” as they had driven past it, but had said nothing more. Now, as the taxi shot past the little bronze statue of Greyfriars Bobby, Matthew simply said “Dog”. Pat smiled to herself. There was something rather reassuring about Matthew.

  Wolf, and Tessie, and people like that were fundamentally unsettling; Wolf, for his physical attractiveness, and Tessie for her aggression. Matthew, by contrast, was utterly comfortable, and she felt for him a sudden affection. He might not be anything special, but he was a good friend and he was predictable. She would feel safe living with Matthew in India Street, although . . . There were doubts, but this was not the time to have them, just as she was about to leave Spottiswoode Street.

  They reached their destination. Matthew insisted on paying the taxi fare, although Pat offered. Then, with Matthew behind her, Pat went up the common stair to the door of her flat.

  154 The Story of Art

  “Is she likely to be in?” whispered Matthew, as Pat inserted the key.

  She was unsure. Tessie kept strange hours; Pat had heard her going out in the early hours of the morning and had often found her in during the afternoons. And then, late at night, she had sometimes heard the sound of raised voices emanating from her room.

  “She might be,” she answered. “But I hope we don’t see her.”

  Matthew shuddered. “Me too. Horrible girl.” He paused.

  “What about him? Monsieur Loup? Will he be here?”

  Pat shrugged. She did not want to see either of them at the moment, she thought, although when it came to Wolf –

  well . . .

  They entered the hall. Tessie’s door was closed, but there were faint sounds of music coming from within. She pointed to the door and raised a finger to her lips.