The Unbearable Lightness of Scones: A 44 Scotland Street Novel

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Bruce looked up. ‘Magazines? That sort of thing?’

  Nick nodded. ‘Yes, for my sins. Fashion photography, it’s called. I went down south, you see, to London and did a course at St Martins. Had a few lean years taking wedding snaps, that sort of thing. Then I got lucky with a series of shots in Tatler and Vogue. After that, no problem.’

  Bruce listened with interest. Who would have thought it: from taking photographs of eagles in Perthshire to international fashion photography? He looked at Nick McNair. There was nothing special about him, and it seemed to Bruce fundamentally unfair that he should lead such a life while he, Bruce, was stuck behind in Edinburgh.

  ‘Where are you based?’ Bruce asked.

  ‘Right here,’ said Nick. ‘I have a flat in Edinburgh. Down in Leith, in one of those new places, you know. Infinity pool on the eighth floor.’

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. ‘Infinity pool?’

  ‘Yup. Not that I use it all that much. But it’s great when you do.’

  Bruce swallowed. ‘It’s your own? Just for your . . . your flat?’

  ‘Yup.’

  There followed a short period of silence. Then Nick reached for something in his pocket and handed it over to Bruce. A card. Nick McNair, Photographer. Fashion. Cars. Places.

  Nick was studying Bruce, who found it rather disconcerting. Is he? Bruce asked himself. He had an infinity pool, after all. And St Martins. ‘It’s fortuitous our meeting,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve been given a big job by the Scottish Government. A bit of a change from women draping themselves over cars and such like. It’s a big project on developing the Scottish image abroad.’

  Bruce nodded knowingly. ‘Promotion?’ he asked. ‘Scotland the brand?’

  Nick warmed to the theme. ‘Dead right. They want to get the idea over that Scotland is somehow . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, sexy.’

  Bruce smiled. That’s where I come in, he thought.

  ‘And it just occurred to me,’ Nick continued, ‘that this is where you might come in.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Bruce. ‘What’s your angle?’

  ‘Well, we need a face, a body, the whole deal. We need somebody who would look good in posters. Somebody who can wear a kilt and not look like Harry Lauder. We need to have somebody who says: Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland,’ said Bruce, and smiled.

  Nick raised his glass. ‘I can’t guarantee anything at this stage,’ he said. ‘I have to go back to the clients and show them the images. But you might just be the answer to my prayers. I’ve been hanging about for weeks looking for somebody who looks just right. Trying different bars, looking for a face. I’ve had some funny looks in the process, but it’s work.’

  ‘You could be misunderstood,’ said Bruce.

  Nick shrugged. ‘Photographers have thick skins. We get used to going about sticking our lenses into people’s faces. You get used to it.’

  ‘When . . .’ Bruce began.

  ‘When can we get started? Well, I need to do an exploratory shoot - we could do that any time. Tomorrow? And then I have a conference with the agency people and they see whether you’re right. I’m sure there’ll be no problem there.

  ‘They want an open face, good looks, a hint of West Coast and Braveheart. In other words, the sort of face that projects a dynamic, good-looking country that’s . . . well, also a bit sexy. In other words, you.’

  Bruce looked at his watch. ‘All right. I do dynamic. I also do sexy. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.’ He took the card out of his pocket. ‘This is the studio address?’

  ‘That’s it. I want morning light, so ten o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Bruce. ‘But listen, I have to go. I’m going to a party with my fiancée.’ He thought that he might just mention Julia, before the photo shoot. ‘Round the corner. Clarence Street.’

  ‘I used to live on Clarence Street,’ said Nick. ‘Before I emigrated to Leith. Whose place are you going to?’

  ‘Watson Cooke,’ said Bruce.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nick. ‘A rugby player. I thought about him for a beer advertisement I was doing once, but decided against.’

  That was all the information Nick offered on Watson Cooke. Bruce took his leave and walked down St Stephen Street. As he walked past the window of a small shop, he glanced at his reflection in the pane of glass.

  He saw the face of Scotland looking back at him.

  36. Watson the Watsonian

  Watson Cooke occupied a first-floor flat in Clarence Street. His front door, recently painted with a thick black gloss paint, had a small brass plate on it on which ‘Watson Cooke’ had been engraved. To the right of the door, a folded piece of paper had been stuck, which, when unfolded and read by Bruce, bore the message: Watson, Please don’t forget to put Nancy’s rubbish out on Wednesday, bearing in mind that she won’t be back from Brussels until Friday. You’re a trouper. Thanks, Kirsty.

  Bruce refolded and replaced the scrap of paper. So Watson Cooke was a trouper. And where exactly does he troupe? He reached for the old-fashioned bell and gave it a firm tug; too firm in fact, as he heard the bell chime loudly at the same time as he felt the wire within give way. This released the brass bell-pull lever, which flopped uselessly out of its housing. Quickly he pushed the end of the wire back in and tried to stuff the lever back; to no avail. Then the door opened.

  A tall well-built young man, somewhere in his late twenties, stood in the doorway in front of Bruce.

  ‘Watson?’ asked Bruce, stretching out a hand. ‘I’m Bruce Anderson.’

  Watson looked at Bruce and frowned. He seemed puzzled. ‘Oh, Bruce . . . Yes.’ He glanced at the protruding bell-pull. ‘No, don’t touch that again. I’ll get it fixed.’

  Bruce realised that further explanation was necessary. ‘I’m Julia’s . . .’

  Watson’s frown deepened. ‘Did Julia . . . ?’ He turned to face the hall, where several people were standing, drinks in hand.

  ‘You are expecting me, aren’t you?’ Bruce asked. ‘Julia said that there was a party.’

  Watson now smiled. ‘Yes, there is. Of course. Come in . . . Sorry, what was your name again?’

  ‘Bruce.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, come in. No, just leave the bell, I can get it fixed. The party’s just started. Julia’s through in the kitchen, I think.’ He gestured towards the back of the hall and then, as Bruce entered, closed the door behind him.

  ‘Nice place . . .’ Bruce began, but Watson had walked away and begun to talk to a group near the door to what looked like a sitting room. Nice welcome, thought Bruce, mentally rehearsing what he would say to Julia. Your friend, Watson, made me feel seriously bienvenu, n’est-ce pas . . . He moved in the direction indicated by his host and looked through the kitchen door. Julia was there, alone, arranging savoury crackers on a plate. She looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Brucie.’ She flicked a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘Great party, isn’t it?’

  Bruce moved over to stand beside her. He looked down at the crackers. Was this the best that Watson Cooke could do when it came to snacks? ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Well it is,’ said Julia, returning to her task. ‘It’s really great. Watson has some very interesting friends.’

  Bruce’s lips twisted down at the edges. ‘Yes, sure. And the dinner?’

  ‘A really nice restaurant. Watson knew the chap who owned it.’

  ‘Oh, did he?’ Bruce sneered.

  ‘Yes. He did.’

  ‘And who was there?’ Bruce asked.

  Julia hesitated, only for the briefest moment, but Bruce noticed. ‘A friend of Watson’s. And me. That’s all.’

  Bruce knew immediately that she was lying. He reached for a can of beer that was on the table and opened it. He looked out of the window behind her. It was still light, and he could see the roofs of the street behind; a man standing at a window, the sky above, the last of the evening
sun on the clouds. She was lying to him, and he knew at that moment that there was something between her and Watson Cooke. It had never occurred to him that she would even contemplate looking at another man when she had him, but she had. And she had looked at Watson Cooke.

  He turned away. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. ’ Then he left the kitchen and went back into the hall. He did not see how Julia reacted; he did not want to look at her.

  Watson Cooke was not in the hall, and so Bruce went through to the sitting room. There were about twenty people in the room, some sitting, some standing. The room was a large one and so there was no sense of its being overcrowded. One or two people looked at Bruce as he entered and one young woman, standing near the door, smiled at him. Bruce ignored her.

  ‘Watson?’

  Watson Cooke looked round. ‘Oh. Yes. Hi.’ He turned to the man he had been talking to and introduced Bruce. ‘Sorry, what was your name again?’

  Bruce grinned. ‘Bruce. I told you.’

  Watson laughed. ‘Yes, sorry about that.’ He gestured to his head. ‘One game of rugby too many. Memory gets a bit mixed up in the rucks.’

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. ‘Rugby? Do you play these days?’

  The man to whom Watson Cooke had been talking now smiled. ‘Watson has a Scottish cap.’

  Bruce swallowed. ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Only the Scottish schoolboy squad,’ said Watson modestly. ‘I played against Ireland at Lansdowne Park. We won, actually.’

  ‘But you almost got into the Scottish squad a couple of years later,’ said the other man. ‘Come on, Wattie. No false modesty.’ He turned to Bruce. ‘He captained Watson’s when he was at school. Then he played for Watsonians.’

  Bruce took a sip from his can of beer. ‘You were a Watsonian, Watson?’

  Watson had not been listening. ‘What?’

  ‘You played for Watsonians?’

  ‘Yes. Watson’s. Then Watsonians.’

  There followed a silence. Then Watson asked, ‘Do you play, Bruce?’

  Bruce felt the moist cold of the beer can against his hand. ‘Used to,’ he said. ‘But these days, you know how it is.’

  ‘Injured?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Engaged,’ said Bruce.

  Nobody said anything. Bruce had been avoiding Watson’s eyes; now he looked up and saw that his host was staring at him. ‘Is she here?’ Watson asked.

  Bruce felt his heart beating wildly within him. Watson Cooke was taller than he was. ‘In the kitchen, actually. Julia. You know her, don’t you? You had dinner with her tonight.’ He held Watson Cooke’s gaze. I’m in the right here, thought Bruce. He’s the one who should be feeling it.

  The other man present, sensing the undercurrent of feeling, shifted awkwardly on his feet. ‘I must get myself another drink,’ he said, and turned away.

  Watson continued to stare at Bruce. ‘What position did you play?’ he asked.

  ‘I said that I was engaged. Engaged to Julia.’

  Watson laughed. ‘Yes, sure. I heard you. But you said that you played rugby. Who did you play for?’

  ‘Morrison’s,’ muttered Bruce.

  ‘We beat them,’ said Watson Cooke. ‘Watson’s beat Morrison’s. Always.’

  37. Life Lines

  Olive had come to play house. From her point of view, the presence of Tofu did not enhance the afternoon, as she enjoyed a very uncomfortable relationship with Bertie’s friend. In fact, as she told her friends in the class, she hated Tofu like poison itself, to use her carefully chosen expression, and let pass no opportunity to undermine him. Sometimes her goading seemed to pass over him unnoticed; on other occasions, a carefully prepared dart might just hit home, as on the occasion that Olive, having just read a manual on palmistry, offered to read everyone’s palms.

  There was no shortage of takers, and Olive had started with Merlin, a boy whom she found less offensive than Tofu but considerably less attractive than Bertie (whom she had decided she would eventually marry in fifteen years’ time, when they both reached the age of twenty-one). Merlin’s hand was stretched out and Olive took it, peering carefully at the lines on his palm.

  ‘You will be very rich and you will live in New York,’ said Olive, pointing to several converging lines. ‘That’s a really good palm, Merlin. You’re lucky.’

  Hiawatha was, somewhat reluctantly, given a reading. ‘You will eventually stop smelling,’ said Olive. ‘You will be given a big present of soap. That’s what your palm says.’

  Hiawatha seemed reasonably pleased with this and went off smiling. Now it was Bertie’s turn.

  ‘You’ve got some very good lines here, Bertie,’ said Olive. ‘You have a very good life ahead of you. You will meet a nice girl - you have probably already met her. That’s what this line says. And then you will marry her and have lots of children. That will be when you’re twenty-one. And this line here says that her name will probably begin with an O. That’s all it says, so we can’t be sure.’

  Bertie said nothing, but withdrew his hand. Now it was Tofu who came up.

  ‘If you’re so clever, read my palm,’ he said, stretching out his hand.

  ‘I will,’ said Olive. ‘Hold it still, Tofu.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Olive.

  ‘What do you see?’ asked Tofu. ‘Am I going to be rich too? Like Merlin?’

  Olive looked at him with pity. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this,’ she said. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t. It’s best not to know some things, you know. I’m really sorry, Tofu. I’m sorry that I’ve been so unkind to you. This is not a time for being nasty to one another.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ snapped Tofu. ‘Is there something wrong with my palm?’

  The others, clustered around in a small knot, were silent. ‘Everything,’ said Olive. ‘It’s the saddest palm I’ve ever seen in all my experience.’

  ‘One day,’ snorted Tofu. ‘This is the first time you’ve done this.’

  ‘You may say that,’ said Olive. ‘And I won’t hold it against you. Not since you’re not going to be here much longer.’

  ‘Bad luck, Tofu,’ said Merlin.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tofu. He was less confident now, and his voice wavered.

  ‘Well, since you really want me to tell you,’ said Olive, ‘I shall.’ She reached again for Tofu’s hand and pointed to lines in the middle. ‘You see this line here? That’s your life line, Tofu, and you’ll see that it’s really short. So that means you’re not going to last long. Maybe another couple of weeks. No more than that.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Tofu. But he did not sound very convinced.

  ‘You can call it rubbish if you like,’ said Olive. ‘But that won’t make it any less true. And there’s another thing. You’re going to die painfully, Tofu. See that line there - that means you’re going to die painfully.’

  If Olive had not embellished her reading with this last qualification, Tofu would probably have believed her. But this was one prediction too far, and Tofu had seized her own hand, turned it over, and pointed to a line on her palm. ‘And what about you, Olive?’ he had shouted. ‘Look. See this line here? You know what that means? It means that somebody’s going to spit at you. There, and it’s come true!’

  Bertie wished that Tofu and Olive would not fight so much, and in particular that Tofu would stop spitting at her. But try as he might to make conciliatory remarks, they ignored his peace-making efforts and remained as bitter enemies as they ever had been. So having the two of them in his flat was not Bertie’s idea of a promising social mix.

  ‘We’re going to play house,’ announced Olive, looking defiantly at Tofu. ‘I’m going to be the mummy. Bertie’s going to be the daddy. And Tofu can be the marriage counsellor.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Tofu.

  ‘You don’t know what a marriage counsellor is?’ asked Olive.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Bertie.

  Olive sighed. ‘It would take too long to exp
lain to you, Tofu. You’ll just have to make up your mind: do you want to play house or not?’

  ‘No,’ said Tofu. ‘I don’t.’

  Olive turned to Bertie. ‘And you, Bertie? You want to play, don’t you?’

  Bertie swallowed. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘That’s fine then,’ said Olive. ‘Bertie and I will play house. You can do what you like, Tofu. We don’t care.’

  ‘I don’t know, Olive,’ Bertie began. ‘Tofu is here to play too . . .’

  Olive was not to be distracted. ‘Don’t worry about him, Bertie. Now let’s pretend it’s dinner time and you’ve come back from the office. I’ll ask you how your day was and then I’ll make you some tea. There, I’ve put the kettle on, and there, listen, it’s already boiled. How many spoons of sugar do you take, Bertie?’

  Tofu had been watching attentively. Now he interrupted with a sneer. ‘If you were married to him, Olive, you would know. You don’t get mummies asking daddies how much sugar they take. They know that already.’

  Olive ignored this. ‘There, Bertie dear. Two spoons of sugar. And now I’ll cook your mince and tatties. Look, there it is. That’s your plate and that’s mine. What shall we talk about while we’re having dinner? Or should we just sit there, like real married people?’

  38. Stuart is Stupefied

  ‘How did all that go?’ asked Stuart when he came home that evening. Irene, who was standing in the kitchen looking pensively out of the window, rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Not a conspicuous success,’ she said. ‘As you know, Bertie had two guests this afternoon. ’

  ‘That’s nice for him,’ said Stuart. ‘I’ve always thought that he needed a few more friends.’

  Irene looked at her husband disapprovingly. The trouble with Stuart, she thought, was that he had an outdated, possibly even reactionary vision of childhood. Childhood was no longer simply play and picnics; childhood was a vital time for potential self-enhancement, a time when one could develop those talents that would stand one in good stead in adult life. She had explained this to Stuart many times before, but he seemed incapable of grasping it. ‘Friends are not the issue,’ she said. ‘Bertie gets plenty of opportunities for social interaction, both in the home, with you and me, and in the classroom, with his classmates. The issue with friends is not how many, but who.’