Pianos and Flowers

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘How do you know these people?” I asked.

  “From rugby,” he said. “We’ve all played in the same team over the last few years.”

  “Will they look after the place?”

  Henry assured me they would. “I’ve played alongside Eddie in the scrum, Uncle. You get to know people at close quarters in the scrum. You can tell what they’re like.”

  I saw his point. I have never played rugby myself, but I know some people who have, and they tend to be respectable, trustworthy people, even if not very bright. But you can’t have everything, can you? If you are given a talent for rugby, then that’s something worth having. I cannot play rugby but I must admit, although I don’t say this too openly, I am probably fairly near the top when it comes to intellect. I hope that this does not sound like boasting – it’s not; it is simply being realistic. “No point in hiding your light under a bus,” my father used to say. I found this very funny, as the original expression is hiding your light under a bushel. I understood the joke, although there were many who did not. That’s the problem with subtlety; not everyone gets it. There is no credit in pretending to be stupid if you clearly are not.

  I had a niggling doubt about Henry, as I did about all my wife’s relatives, and had I listened to these doubts, I would not have agreed to let the houses to him and his friends. However, as the expression goes, it is no use crying over spilled milk.

  The first weekend after the students moved in, they had a party. I was in Dunfermline that weekend, and it was not until Sunday afternoon that I received a telephone call from the plumber.

  My plumber is in the same masonic lodge as I am. Perhaps I should not be telling you this, as the whole point about being a member of a secret society is that you don’t reveal who is in it. We masons do not like the term secret society, as it suggests an organisation that gets up to no good. That is definitely not what we are about; we are about doing things for the benefit of others, particularly for the benefit of other masons. And what is wrong with that? If you don’t look after your friends, then who will you look after? Of course, people will say that masons will give their friends preference when it comes to handing out jobs. Once again, what exactly is wrong with that? If you know that somebody is a mason, then you can be assured that he will be a hard-working, reliable man. That is more or less guaranteed.

  There are many advantages to being a mason, and I shall give you an example. Some time ago, there was a man who was charged with a serious financial fraud. He was put on trial at the High Court in Glasgow and he found himself in front of a jury of fifteen random citizens. We have fifteen jurors in Scotland, rather than twelve, as is the case in England. Our system is better, of course, as most things Scottish are a bit better once you start to look closely. This is not to run down England – I have great respect for England and the English – but they could well do to take a leaf out of Scotland’s book in many areas of life, including the law.

  This man found himself in the High Court and was understandably quite intimidated. But when he looked at the jurors, he was delighted to see that there were several members who looked as if they might be masons. So he made the secret sign fairly early on in the proceedings, and I’m happy to say that the jurors returned it. They were discreet about it, of course, as one does not want to publicise these things. And for that reason I shall not tell you what it was.

  But there was something else. The judge happened to be looking in his direction when he made the sign, and the judge himself made a masonic sign. That was the icing on the cake as far as the accused was concerned.

  Now you may be wondering what happened. Well, I’m sorry to say that the jury found him guilty. There was a lot of evidence, you see. And then, when it came to the sentencing, the judge gave him the stiffest sentence at his disposal. It transpired that the judge was not a mason after all – the sign that he had been thought to be giving was really just a movement preparatory to blowing his nose. These things are easily confused. But the story does go to show that masons are honest men and will not bend the law. That story should be told to our critics, most of whom, I suspect, are only critical because nobody has ever asked them to be masons.

  But back to our plumber. He said to me over the phone, “I happened to be passing those places of yours. You let them to students, didn’t you?”

  I told him that this was so.

  “Bad idea,” he said.

  There was a silence down the line – a silence that can only be described as ominous.

  “Has something happened?” I asked.

  “It looks as if they’ve had a party,” the plumber said. “I think you should come over and check up on things.”

  I lost no time in driving from Dunfermline to St Andrews. The sight that met my eyes was quite shocking. There had definitely been a party – in all three houses.

  There was no door left to knock on, and so I went straight in. Henry was in the living room and he greeted me enthusiastically.

  “Uncle!” he said. “This really is an unexpected pleasure. Will you stay for a cup of tea?”

  It took me some time to recover the ability to speak. When I did, I uttered what I imagine sounded like a strangled cry.

  “Are you all right, Uncle?” Henry enquired. “I suppose the place is a bit untidy, but we’ll soon sort that out. The chaps had a party last night. The Rugby Club. It went on a bit late, I’m afraid.” He smiled, and then continued, “But I’ve got some good news for you.”

  I waited.

  “Molly came to the party,” he said.

  I caught my breath. My daughter Molly was training as a nurse in Dundee. She lived in a nurses’ residence there – a well-supervised place – and I had not imagined that she went to parties in St Andrews.

  “Molly’s engaged,” said Henry. ‘I thought you might like to know. I imagine that she’ll tell you later on today. She’s gone back to Dundee. Work, I think.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came.

  “Yes,” Henry continued. “She and Eddie – you know, Eddie Wilson – have decided to get engaged. Last night’s party was a bit about that, I suppose. Everybody was really pleased. Eddie’s from Stranraer, you know.”

  I sat down, but the chair broke.

  “Sorry about that,” said Henry. “Eddie was standing on it last night. Maybe he’s a bit on the heavy side. He’s a prop, you know – he’s going to be playing for the University this season.”

  Picking myself up from the floor, I confronted Henry in all my outrage. He stared at me, and, when I had finished, looked about him with an air of complete insouciance. “But Uncle,” he said, “we’ll tidy up. There’s no need to blow a gasket.”

  And then he had the effrontery – the sheer, naked effrontery – to make a masonic sign to me. He had obviously picked it up from somewhere as I can’t imagine any self-respecting lodge would ever admit him as a member.

  I was outraged. “It’s no good pulling your left ear-lobe like that,” I shouted. “That will do you no good at all.”

  “Maybe it should have been the right ear-lobe,” Henry said. “Sorry.”

  I left, and drove straight down to Dundee. Molly was at work, but I went to the hospital and demanded to see her.

  “I’ve got really good news,” she said, as she came out of the ward. “Eddie Wilson and I are engaged. He’s going to ask you tomorrow, he said. I told him that you’d have no objection.”

  I started to cry.

  “But Daddy,” said Molly, putting an arm about my shoulder. “You mustn’t cry. I’m still your little girl and you’ll really like Eddie. I know you will.”

  It took three weeks for the houses to be rendered habitable again. As a result of my wife’s intervention, Henry and his friends were allowed to stay, subject to a stern warning that there were to be no further parties or, if there were, no members of the Rugby Club were to be invited. Henry gave me his word that this condition would be scrupulously observed.

  Molly als
o made representations. Could Eddie live rent-free, since he was now family – or almost? I had no alternative but to agree.

  “It’s very generous of you, Mr Morrison,” said Eddie, with a broad smile. “Or should I call you Dad?”

  Zeugma

  SHE IS SMILING, THE YOUNG WOMAN PERCHED ON THE cross-bar; she is smiling broadly as they follow the tram lines. Behind them, the morning mist is lifting slowly, although the figures within it are ghost-like and the trees still harbour lingering pockets of darkness.

  She did not know what possessed her to accept a ride into work from Professor Mactaggart. She barely knew him, although she had seen him in the library, of course, when he came in to request a book from the special collection, or to trace an obscure reference to the work of some philologist nobody had ever heard of. He was always dressed in the same way, even in the summer, when everybody else changed into lighter clothes. Seemingly indifferent to the change in the seasons, he would wear the same heavy overcoat, the same dark thorn-proof suit, and the same flat cap. The head librarian was scathing about the cap. “A professor shouldn’t wear something like that,” he said, his nasal voice full of disapproval. “Who does he think he is? A golfer?”

  Amanda, the young woman, thought the head librarian very stuffy. Why should a professor of English language (“I’m really just a grammarian,” he said) not wear a flat cap if that was what he wanted to do? Did it somehow detract from his status? She thought not, and would not particularly care even if it did. Professor Mactaggart was a distinguished scholar – everybody knew that – and if he chose to wear inappropriate clothes, then that was his prerogative. People talked too much anyway – they sniped at those who were a little bit different in their mannerisms or appearance; they ridiculed anybody who did not quite fit in. What was the point of that? Was dull uniformity really what they wanted? Imagine, she said to herself, what it would be like if everybody were to be like the head librarian.

  The Professor had stopped, just as she turned the corner of the road where she lived with her parents and her younger sister, Jane. Jane was a student nurse, who was not sure of her vocation. “Bedpans, bedpans, bedpans,” she complained. Amanda had pointed out that there must be more than that to nursing. “Wiping brows,” she said. “Taking temperatures. Holding people’s hands when they’re really ill. What about all that? That must be rewarding enough, surely?”

  “I suppose so,” said Jane.

  Now the Professor came along, his bicycle rattling over the cobblestones.

  “Miss …” He had forgotten her name. That was not surprising; few of the professors bothered to learn the names of the junior staff.

  “From the library,” she said. “The issue desk.”

  That would be enough, she thought. But he persisted, “Miss …?”

  “Thwaites,” she said. “Miss Thwaites.”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  He dismounted. “It occurred to me,” he said, “that we are going in the same direction, you and I. You will be going to the library, and, as it happens, that’s where I’m planning to call in before I go off to my room in college.”

  She waited. She noticed that there were beads of perspiration on his brow and on his upper lip. Jane might have wiped them away with all her nurse’s assurance, but she could not.

  “I was wondering,” the Professor continued, “whether you would care for a lift.”

  She looked at him in puzzlement.

  “I mean, on the bar of my bicycle,” he explained. “It’s not the most comfortable mode of transport – I’ll give you that – but it’ll save you a long walk.”

  She had accepted, without really knowing why she had done so. She did not mind the walk to work, as it gave her the exercise that she felt she needed. And yet, if a professor – and a renowned one at that – should offer to give you a lift on his bicycle, surely you should accept.

  He had shown her where to sit. “Don’t lean to either side,” he said. “That would destabilise us. Just look straight ahead.”

  They set off rather faster than she would have liked, but she soon got used to the bicycle’s particular motion – and its centre of gravity. Out on the main road, after crossing the tramlines, they made their way towards the university – a cluster of spires in the distance. A church bell rang the half hour somewhere, and then another, sounding through the last of the mist.

  “Are you comfortable enough?” asked the Professor.

  She giggled. “Sort of. Actually, no – I’m not all that comfortable, but it’s all right.”

  “It won’t take long,” he said. “Do you know the song? ‘A Bicycle Built For Two’? Do you know it?”

  “Of course.”

  He swerved slightly. “Daisy – the young lady in that song – was happy enough on their tandem. She had a proper seat, of course.” He paused, and then he said, rather loudly, “Bearing in mind that neither of us had really planned this, one might perhaps say: She was carried into town on a cross-bar and a whim.”

  She smiled. And that is the smile we see in the photograph.

  But then the Professor continued, “On a cross-bar and a whim. Do you know what that is?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s a zeugma,” said the Professor. “It’s a well-known figure of speech. The classic example is, She went straight home, in a flood of tears and a sedan chair. That’s Dickens, no less.”

  “So that’s a zeugma?”

  “Yes. It’s a figure of speech. It makes one want to smile.”

  She could see that.

  “Because,” the Professor continued, “there’s a contrast between the two elements in the sentence.” He paused. “Forgive me if I sound pedantic.”

  She assured him that he did not. “I’m interested,” she said.

  “The essence of a zeugma is the contrast between a literal expression and a metaphor. So in the example of the sedan chair, being in a sedan chair is not a metaphor, but being in a flood of tears is. We’re not talking about a real flood, are we? That’s a metaphor.”

  “I see.”

  “And so, in our first example, we have on a cross-bar, and on a whim, which is metaphorical. To act on a whim is more metaphorical than literal.”

  She looked into the dark foliage of the trees off to their right. He noticed the direction of her gaze.

  “Leafy bowers,” he said. “That’s a concealed metaphor because bowers were originally rooms. Then they became shady places. There’s a concealed metaphor there.”

  They continued their ride. The sun had broken through now, and was warm upon her face.

  “The Greeks had a much broader concept of metaphor,” said the Professor. “I tell my students to go off and read Aristotle on the subject. He’s very enlightening.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. I often go back to Aristotle, you know. He said there are three important features of metaphor: saphes, which means lucidity – lovely word that, Miss …”

  “Thwaites.”

  “Of course, Miss Thwaites. Lucidity. Lambent: that’s another lovely word. Look at the light behind us – no, don’t turn around – but look at it when we reach our destination. Such a lovely, soft light. Lambent.”

  She looked ahead. The light was on the damp cobblestones. It was silver. “And then? The other things about metaphor?”

  “There’s saphes, which is the state of being clear. That’s a very special state, which some people, and some expressions, simply do not have. And then there’s xenikon, which is strangeness. A metaphor must be strange – it must make us sit up and take notice in a way in which a literal expression does not.”

  The Professor stopped talking. She looked out towards the canal, which was on the other side of the road, away to their left. A crew was rowing on the river, the young men bent over their oars, moving in hunched rhythm.

  “Do you know,” the Professor began, “there was a boat on the river called the Zeugma? Did you know that?”

  He seemed to exp
ect an answer. “No,” she said. And then added, “Who would have thought.”

  “Exactly,” said the Professor. “It was an odd sort of boat – a little steamer, with a very small chimney. They kept the coal at the back.”

  “I wonder if it’s still there,” she said.

  “I’ve looked out for it,” said the Professor. “I don’t always pay much attention to boats, but I’d like to see the Zeugma again. It appeals to me as a grammarian, I suppose.”

  “There might be a boat called the Metaphor,” she said. “It would be a boat only in a metaphorical sense, and so I wouldn’t care to embark on her. A purely metaphorical boat might not actually float.”

  The Professor laughed. “Oh, my goodness,” he said. “What a wonderful image. A metaphorical boat, going down under the weight of its symbolism. Hah!”

  He turned the bicycle, and for a few moments they wobbled precariously. But she resisted the temptation to lean, and they were quickly righted. Now they were in sight of the library, and the Professor steered the bicycle to the side of the road. There he lowered a leg to stabilise them, and then dismounted. Giving her his hand, he helped her off the cross-bar.

  “I usually park my cycle right here,” he said. “On days that I come to the library, I lean it against this tree.”

  He bent down to take the cycle clips off his trouser legs. Standing up again, he looked at her. She thought: now he looks so sad.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, I am. I’m quite all right.”

  “It’s just that you looked … well, forgive me, you looked a bit sad.”

  He hesitated. “Well, I am, I suppose. A touch sad.”

  “Is there anything …”

  He did not let her finish. “It’s kind of you, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. I was thinking of my son, you see. Every so often, I think of him. Every day, in fact. Every day.”

  And then she knew; she knew immediately.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”