I’m just the girl who works in the gallery. A girl with a room in a flat in Scotland Street. A girl on her second gap year . . .
“All right,” she said. “I’ll take it back to Scotland Street and put it in a cupboard down there. If that’s what you want.”
Matthew stood up and rubbed his hands together. “Good,” he said. “I’ll wrap it up and you can take it back with you this evening.”
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He walked across to the place where the Peploe? was hanging and lifted it off its hook. Then, bringing it back to the desk, he turned it over and they both examined the back of the painting. The stretcher, across which the canvas had been placed, had cracked in several places and was covered with dust. A label had been stuck on the top wooden strut, and Matthew now extracted a clean white handkerchief and rubbed the dust off this.
“You can tell a lot from labels,” he said knowingly. “These things tell you a great deal about a painting.”
Pat glanced at him. His pronouncement sounded confident, and for a moment she thought that he perhaps knew something about art after all. But it was all very well knowing that labels told you something, the real skill would lie in knowing what it was that they told you.
“There’s something written on it,” said Matthew, dabbing at the dust again. “Look.”
Pat peered at the faded surface of the label. Something had been written on it in pencil. As Matthew removed more grime, the writing became more legible, and he read it out.
“It says: Three pounds two and sixpence.”
They looked at one another.
“That was a long time ago, of course,” said Matthew.
42. Gallery Matters
Matthew’s problem, thought Pat, was that he very quickly became bored with what he was doing. That day was an example. After they had finished their discussion about what to do with the Peploe?, he had turned to a number of tasks, but had completed none. He had started a crossword, but failed to fill in more than a few clues and had abandoned it. He had then written a letter, but had stopped halfway through and announced that he would finish it the following day. Then he had begun to tidy his desk, but had suddenly decided that it was time for lunch and had disappeared to the Café St Honoré for a couple of hours. Pat wondered whether he had finished his meal, or only eaten half of it. Had he finished his coffee at Big Lou’s, or had he left his cup half-drained? She would have to watch next time.
Of course, part of the reason for Matthew’s behaviour, she thought, was that he was bored. The gallery did virtually no business and what else was there to do but sit and wait for customers?
“Perhaps we should hold an exhibition,” she said to him when he returned from lunch.
Matthew looked at her quizzically. “Haven’t we got one on at the moment?” he said, gesturing to the walls.
“This is just a random collection of paintings,” Pat explained.
“An exhibition involves a particular sort of painting. Or work by a particular artist. It gives people something to think about. It would draw them in.”
Matthew looked thoughtful. “But where would we get all these paintings from?” he asked.
“You’d contact an artist and ask him to give you a whole lot of paintings,” she said. “Artists like that. It’s called a show.”
“But I don’t know any artists,” said Matthew.
Pat looked at him. She wanted to ask him why he was running a gallery, but she did not. Bruce had been right, she told herself.
He is useless. He hasn’t got a clue.
“I know some artists,” she said. “We had an artist in residence at school. He’s very good. He’s called Tim Cockburn, and he Gallery Matters
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lives in Fife. There are a lot of artists in Pittenweem. There’s Tim Cockburn, and then there’s somebody called Reinhard Behrens, who puts a little submarine into all his paintings. He’s good too. We could ask them to do a show.”
Matthew was interested, but then he looked at his watch. “My God! Look at the time. And I’m meant to be playing golf with the old man. I’m going to have to shoot.”
Left by herself for the rest of the afternoon, Pat dealt with the few customers who came in. She sold a D.Y. Cameron print and dealt with an enquiry from a woman who wanted to buy a Vettriano for her husband.
“I went into another gallery and asked them the same question,” she said to Pat. “And they told me that they had no Vettrianos but that I could paint one myself if I wanted. What do you think they meant by that?”
Pat thought for a moment. There was an endemic snobbery in the art world, and here was an example.
“Some people are sniffy about him,” she said. “Some people don’t like his work at all.”
“But my husband does,” protested the woman. “And he knows all about art. He even went to a lecture by Timothy Clifford once.”
“About Vettriano?” asked Pat.
“Perhaps,” said the woman, vaguely. “It was about the Renaissance. That sort of thing.”
Pat looked at the floor. “Vettriano is not a Renaissance painter.
In fact, he’s still alive, you know.”
“Oh,” said the woman. “Well, there you are.”
“And I’m sorry, but we do not have any Vettriani in stock. But how about a D.Y. Cameron print? We have one over there of Ben Lawers.”
Pat almost sold a second D.Y. Cameron print, but eventually did not. She was pleased, though, with the other sale, and when she left the gallery at five that evening, the Peploe? wrapped in brown paper and tucked under her arm, she was in a cheerful mood. She had agreed to meet Chris that evening, of course, and she had her misgivings about that, but at least she was going out 110
The Sort of People You See in Edinburgh Wine Bars and would not have to endure Bruce’s company in the flat. And it would do him no harm, she thought, to know that she had been asked out by a man. He condescended to her, and probably thought that his own invitation to the pub was the only social invitation she was likely to receive. Well, he could reflect on the fact that she was going out that evening to a wine bar, and at the invitation of a man.
Back in the flat, Pat opened the hall cupboard and inspected its contents. There were a couple of battered suitcases, some empty cardboard boxes, and a bicycle saddle. Everything looked abandoned, which it probably was. This was a perfect place to hide a painting, and Pat tucked it away, leaning against a wall, hidden by one of the cardboard boxes. It would be safe there, as safe, perhaps, as one of those missing masterpieces secreted in the hidden collections of South American drug barons. Except that this was Edinburgh, not Ascuncion or Bogota. That was the difference.
43. The Sort of People You See in
Edinburgh Wine Bars
She was due to meet Chris at seven, in the Hot Cool Wine Bar halfway along Thistle Street. She arrived at ten-past, which was just when she happened to arrive, but which was also exactly the right time to arrive in the circumstances. Quarter past the hour would have made her late, and any closer to seven would have made her seem too keen. And she was not keen – definitely not
– although he was presentable enough and had been polite to her. The problem was the way he had said hah, hah; that had been a bad sign. So now she was there out of duty; having agreed to meet him she would do so, but would leave early.
She looked around the bar. It was a long, narrow room, decorated in the obligatory Danish minimalist style, which meant that there was no furniture. She had always thought that Danish The Sort of People You See in Edinburgh Wine Bars 111
minimalism should have been the cheapest style available, because it involved nothing, but in fact it was the most expensive. The empty spaces in Danish minimalism were what cost the money.
In true minimalist style, everybody was obliged to stand, and they were doing so around a long, stainless-steel covered bar.
Above the bar, suspended on almost invisible wires, minimalist lights
cast descending cones of brightness onto those standing below. This made everybody look somewhat stark, an impression that was furthered by the fact that so many of them were wearing black.
There were about twenty people in the bar and Pat quickly saw that Chris was not among them. She looked at her watch and checked the time. Had he said seven? She was sure that he had. And had it been the Hot Cool? She was sure of that too.
It was not a name one would mix up with anything unless, of course – and this caused a momentary feeling of panic – he had meant the Cool Hot, which was in George Street, and was a very different sort of bar (non-minimalist). But the Cool Hot was ambivalent – was it not? – and this place was . . . She looked at the group of people closest to her. There were two men and two women: the men were standing next to one another and the women were . . . No, they were definitely not ambivalent.
She moved over to the bar, and signalled to the bartender.
“I was meeting somebody called Chris,” she said.
The barman smiled at her. “Lots of Chrises here. Just about everybody’s a Chris this year. What sort of Chris is yours?
Architect Chris? Advocate Chris? Media Chris? The Chris whose novel is just about to be published by Canongate? Actually there are lots of those. So which Chris is it?”
She was about to say Police Chris, but stopped herself. This was, after all, the Hot Cool and it sounded inappropriate. So she said: “I’ll wait for him. And I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
The barman went off to fetch a glass, and Pat, her hands resting nonchalantly on the counter, glanced at the other drinkers.
They were mostly in their mid- to late-twenties, she thought; clearly affluent, and dressed with an expensive casualness. One or two older people, some even approaching forty, or beyond, were 112
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occupying the few available bar-stools, and were talking quietly among themselves; to the other drinkers in the bar these people were largely invisible, being of no sexual or social interest.
The barman returned with her drink, which was served in a smoked-green glass, inexplicably, but generously, filled with ice. Pat sipped at the chilled wine and then glanced over her shoulder. A young man, wearing a cord jacket and open-neck black shirt, who was standing at the other end of the bar, caught her eye and smiled at her. Uncertain as to whether or not she knew him, she returned the smile. Having been at school in Edinburgh, she found that there were numerous people who remembered her vaguely, and she them; people she had played hockey with or danced with in an eightsome at the school dance.
This young man seemed slightly familiar, but she could not think of a name, or a context. Heriot’s? Watson’s? It was difficult to tribe him. Was he one of these Chrises referred to by the barman?
The barman walked past on the other side of the bar, drying a glass with a large, pristine white cloth.
“I hope he’s not going to stand you up,” he said. “The number of people who are stood up, you wouldn’t believe. It happens all the time.”
“I don’t mind,” said Pat. “I don’t particularly want to see him.
I’m only here because I agreed to a drink. I wasn’t thinking.”
The barman chuckled. “Don’t you like him, then?”
“Not particularly,” said Pat. “It’s the way he says hah, hah.
That’s the big turn-off. Hah, hah.”
“Hah, hah!” said a voice behind her. “So there you are! Hah, hah!”
44. Tales of Tulliallan
Had he heard her? Pat felt herself blushing with embarrassment.
It was that most common of social fears – to be overheard by another when passing a remark about that very person – but Tales of Tulliallan
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Chris gave no appearance of having heard. This, she concluded, was either because he had not heard, or because he wished to save her feelings. The barman, who had realised what was happening, gave Pat a sympathetic look and shook his head discreetly. This meant that in his view at least, Chris had not realised that he was being discussed. Pat felt the warm flush of embarrassment subside.
“I’m very sorry I’m late,” said Chris. “I was late getting off duty. Something cropped up in the afternoon and it went on and on. Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind,” Pat said. “I was a bit late myself.”
“Well, here we are,” said Chris breezily. “The Hot Cool.”
He ordered a beer from the barman, who exchanged a knowing look with Pat.
“What’s with him?” asked Chris, nodding his head in the direction of the barman as he went off to fetch the drink. “A private joke? Something I should be laughing at? Hah, Hah!”
“It’s nothing,” said Pat quickly. “Nothing much.” She lifted her glass to take a sip of her drink and looked at Chris. In the descending minimalist light he was certainly attractive – more attractive than he had been in the uniform of the Lothian and Borders Police – but she was sure that she would not revise the opinion that she had formed earlier. There was something unsubtle about him, something obvious, perhaps, which frankly bored her. He’s of no interest to me, she found herself thinking.
There could never be anything between us.
Chris’s drink arrived, and he raised his glass to toast her.
“Cheerio,” he said, and Pat winced. This was another point against him. Now there was nothing he could say or do that would rescue the situation.
They spent the next fifteen minutes talking about that morning’s break-in. There was a counselling service for people who have been broken into, Chris explained. The council provided it free, and one could go for as many sessions as one felt one needed. “Some people go for months,” he said. “Some of them even look forward to being broken into again so that they can get counselling.”
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“And you?” said Pat. “Do the police get counselling after investigating break-ins?”
“We do if we need it,” answered Chris. He had taken the question literally and frowned as he answered. “We were taught some counselling skills at Tulliallan.”
“Tulliallan?”
“The Scottish Police College,” explained Chris. “We all go there to be trained. Right at the beginning. But then we have courses from time to time. That’s where we had our Art Squad course.”
Pat was interested in this, and asked him to explain.
“It was quite a big course,” said Chris. “There were twenty people from other forces, and ten of us from Edinburgh, although not all of us were assigned to art afterwards. Some got traffic and one, who was really useless at art, was moved to the dog squad.
But I did quite well, I think, and I got in, along with two others.
“The course lasted a week. To begin with, they tested us for colour-blindness, and if you were too red–green blind they sent you back. We were all fine. Then they started on the lectures.
We had five a day, and they were pretty tough, some of them.
“We learned about forgery techniques and how to spot a fake.
We learned about what they can do in the labs – paint analysis and all the rest. And then we had art appreciation, which was really great. I liked that. We had two hours of that every day and we all wished that we had been given more. We used Kenneth Clark’s Civilisation as our text book, but there were quite a few lectures on Scottish art. McTaggart. Crosbie. Blackadder.
Howson. All those people. And a whole hour on Vettriano. That was the most popular session of the course.”
“Vettriano?” asked Pat. “A whole hour?”
“Yes,” said Chris. “And then, right at the end, we had a test.
They dimmed the lights in the lecture room and flashed up slides on the screen. There were slides of Vettriano paintings and slides of Hopper paintings. You must know his stuff – Edward Hopper, the American artist who painted people sitting at the counters of soda bars or whatever they call them. You’d know them if you
saw them.
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“So they flashed up these slides in any order and we had to call out Vettriano! or Hopper! Depending on which it was. It was great training. Good bonding too. I’d recommend it to anyone. I really would.” He was silent for a moment. Then he added: “I’ll never forget the difference – never. I can still tell, just with one look. Show me a picture by either of them – doesn’t matter what – and I’ll call out straightaway. Hopper! Vettriano!
And I’ll always get it right. Every time.”
Pat looked at him mutely. They had not bonded.
45. More Tulliallan Tales
Chris was enjoying himself, talking about Tulliallan and his experiences there on the Art Squad training week. But there was more to come about that particular week.
“On the final day,” he continued, “we had a visit from a really important person from the art world in Edinburgh. Really important. He came to speak to us on the Saturday afternoon, and we were told all about it the day before. The inspector who was in charge of the course said that we were very lucky to get him, as he was often away in places like Venice and New York. That’s where these people go, he explained. They feel comfortable in places like that. And that’s fair enough, I suppose. Imagine if they had to go to places like Motherwell or Airdrie. Just imagine.
“He arrived in the afternoon, an hour or so before he was due to give his lecture, which was at three. It was a fine day – broad sunshine – and most of us were sitting out at the front after lunch, as we were off-duty until the lecture. The college had sent a car to fetch him from Edinburgh, and we saw it coming up the drive, with two police motorcycle outriders escorting it. They came to a halt outside the front of the main building and the driver got out to open the door. Then he stepped out and acknowledged the driver’s salute with a nod of his head.
“When he came into the lecture room we all stood up. The 116
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inspector, who was introducing him, indicated for us to sit down and then he began to lecture. He started off by saying how agreeable the building was, but that it was a pity that it had not been decorated more sympathetically. He suggested ways in which this could be improved by restoring the original features of the house. He even suggested colours for the carpets and the wallpaper.
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