Of course, thought Matthew, as he focused on the ceiling, mostly dark, but lit here and there with small points of light from India Street outside; of course it was Housman and he was talking about ale rather than whisky. Matthew knew that because … well, he was rather uncertain as to why he knew that. He had had a good poetic education – thanks to Dr. Marsh – and they had looked at “A Shropshire Lad” at some point, but he had never really liked Housman because it seemed to him that it was strangely lugubrious. And, yes, it descended into doggerel at times, or something that came perilously close to doggerel.
He sat up in bed. “I tell the tale that I heard told. / Mithridates he died old.” That came from the same place, he thought, more Housman, and had been lodged in his mind as well. That was all about homeopathy, was it not? Mithridates took small doses of poison to season himself against the various substances that his enemies put into his food – and survived their attempts at assassination. Perhaps if one took very small quantities of whisky … Matthew slipped out of bed and ruffled his hair vigorously, as if to clear his head. He had drunk too much – that was the problem. He and that Danish filmmaker, Bo, had drunk too much twelve-year-old Laphroaig while they had sat and talked about his films and the difference between Copenhagen and Edinburgh, and trout fishing in northern Sweden and in Scotland, and whether Scottish midges, which attacked you when you were trout fishing, were more or less aggressive than Swedish mosquitoes. They had then moved on to the brown bear (called, Bo revealed, brun bjørn) and the wolf (ulv), both of which might be encountered – albeit very rarely – while fishing in the extreme north and which therefore made, on balance, trout fishing in Sweden slightly more dangerous than in Scotland. Ulv, Matthew had declared, was a very good word for a wolf. Bo agreed, but said that the Swedish word, varg, was even more frightening than ulv, and that wolves, if they had the choice, would probably choose to be known as vargs on public relations grounds: “Wolves,” he said, “are intent on frightening us. They’ve always taken that view and I see no sign of their changing now.” He had then gone on to say that a Finnish friend had told him that in Finland a wolf was called a susi, which was altogether different; almost cuddly, said Matthew. “In Polish,” said Bo, “a wolf is a wilk, which seems to me to be all wrong.” Matthew agreed. “More appropriate for seafood, I would have thought.”
It had been a rather absurd conversation, but it had seemed exactly the right thing to discuss at the time and had further cemented the friendship that had sprung up so quickly and so naturally between them. While this was going on, Anna and Elspeth had busied themselves with some triplets-related matter, and had then announced that they, at least, would be going to bed as they would be required to get up at a reasonable hour even if Matthew and Bo appeared to have no such need. If the remark had a critical edge to it, then that was missed by both men, who responded by refreshing their glasses with a further dose of Laphroaig.
Eventually Bo had looked at his watch and said that he needed to get back to the small flat in Stockbridge where he was staying. He thanked Matthew profusely for introducing him to Laphroaig, which, he said, became easier to drink after the initial shock.
“Thank you for agreeing, by the way,” he said, as he stood up to go.
“To what?” asked Matthew. He was not sure whether Bo was referring to agreement on the naming of wolves, or to something else altogether.
“To the filming.”
“Oh, that,” said Matthew airily. “That will be a pleasure.”
He vaguely remembered that they had talked about some documentary that Bo wanted to make about life in Edinburgh – and particularly life in India Street. That was fine by him, he thought: perhaps Bo would even engage him as some sort of assistant – Matthew had always been interested in filming and it would be useful to know how to operate one of these advanced pneumatic cameras, or were they really called pneumatic … Perhaps he could be the best boy, that wonderful term that you saw at the end of a film. What exactly did the best boy do on the film set? And then there was the gaffer: what on earth was the gaffer’s role?
“I should like to start quite soon,” said Bo.
“Whenever,” said Matthew.
Bo reached out to shake his hand. “Matthew, my old friend, this will be a very important film. Fly on the wall.”
“Mosquito on the wall,” quipped Matthew.
Now, as he rose from his bed, Matthew remembered that he had agreed to something, but it was not until he reached the bathroom, and looked into mirror, that he remembered what it was.
30. Navy Envy etc.
Elspeth’s recollection of the previous evening’s events was somewhat clearer than Matthew’s.
“You and Bo enjoyed yourselves last night,” she remarked as, clad in dressing gown and slippers, she joined her husband in the kitchen. “I heard you talking about wolves. You were going on about what they were called in different languages. Very strange. You’ve never talked about wolves before and suddenly it all seemed to come out.”
She glanced at the half-empty bottle of Laphroaig as she spoke, and wondered how many glasses of whisky had been consumed. Not that she minded: Matthew was fairly abstemious in most things and usually had nothing beyond a glass or two of wine. Whisky was for special occasions – a drink of hospitality that he would bring out when there were special guests.
Matthew grinned – rather sheepishly, she thought.
“We talked about all sorts of things,” he said. “He’s an interesting person.”
Elspeth nodded. “Yes, I liked him.” She lowered her voice; the door to Anna’s room was still closed and she was presumably still asleep. “Do you think that he and Anna are … an item?”
Matthew shrugged. “Difficult to say. Has she said anything about boyfriends to you?”
“She hasn’t mentioned anybody current.”
“Well, he didn’t say anything to me about it. I formed the impression that he was here in Scotland to do some filming. I don’t think he came to see her.” He paused. He knew that sooner or later he would have to talk to Elspeth about the film he had discussed with Bo.
Elspeth filled the kettle and plugged it in. “What’s he want to film?” she asked.
Matthew hesitated. “Well, he’s quite keen to make a documentary about everyday life.” He looked at her. “In Scotland. Everyday Scottish life. He does that sort of thing.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. He made a film about the Danish navy, apparently. He went off on some ship and filmed the sailors eating their dinner and, well, I suppose, sailing the ship.” He looked out of the window. “What do you think the Danish navy actually does?”
Elspeth thought that they did more or less what other navies did. They sailed round and round and then returned to port.
“It’s just that you don’t associate the Danes with throwing their weight around,” he said. “Or at least not in quite the same way as … as we do.”
Elspeth frowned. “Do we throw our weight around?”
Matthew nodded. “I would have thought so. If you think of how we start lecturing people all over the world about this, that, and the next thing. Telling governments to behave, and so on. Do you see the Danes doing that?”
“They don’t have a seat on the Security Council,” Elspeth retorted.
Matthew shook his head. “It’s not just that, surely.”
“And they don’t have a very big navy, do they?”
Matthew was not sure exactly how large the Danish navy was, but he assumed that it was large enough for its purpose – whatever that was.
“At least they’ve got a navy,” he said. “There are some people who’d love a navy, you know, but who haven’t really got any sea. In fact, they definitely don’t have any sea. That’s really tough if what you really want is a navy.”
Elspeth raised an eyebrow. “Navy envy?”
“I suppose so. I remember reading somewhere about landlocked countries that would just love to have navies. In fact, some
of them actually have navies, even if they don’t have any sea. Bolivia, I think, is the biggest one of these. They’ve got a navy made up of thousands of sailors – with no sea. The Argentinians are kind to them and let them keep a ship in one of their own ports, but it can’t be the same, can it?”
Elspeth agreed it was kind of the Argentinians. “I think that shows real sympathy,” she said.
“And they’ve got bags of admirals,” Matthew went on. “That’s often the case with these things. When you don’t have something, you will it into existence by having lots of people in uniforms who are in charge of the thing you don’t have. It’s interesting. Look at the Italian forestry service.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Not everybody knows about the problems of the Italian forestry service – at least not everybody in Edinburgh – but Matthew happened to be one who did. “They have some forests – not many, but some. Most of these are up in the north, in the mountains. But apparently they have thousands and thousands of forestry officials – probably in pretty nice uniforms – down in the south.”
“So what do they do?”
Matthew shrugged. “Not very much, I imagine. It’s something like one tree per official.”
“The trees will be very well looked after then,” said Elspeth.
“No doubt.”
The kettle had now boiled, and Elspeth poured the water into the teapot. She looked at Matthew enquiringly. “This film he mentioned – the one about day-to-day life in Scotland. Where’s he going to film it?”
Matthew stared at his hands, and Elspeth noticed it. A couple of years of marriage had taught her to read her husband. “Matthew?”
He sighed. “Well, I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed, but I said that he could use us if he wanted.”
“Us?”
“Yes. He wants to follow us about. He wants to record our lives. Looking after the boys. Going to work. That sort of thing.” He watched her reaction. “It’ll be a fantastic film.”
Elspeth said nothing, but poured herself a cup of tea and then sat down at the table opposite her husband.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Matthew lamely. And then added, “I imagine that we’ll have subtitles when they show it in Denmark. Won’t that be nice? To be subtitled?”
“Matthew …” Elspeth began.
“And we might win an award,” Matthew continued. “We could be invited to one of those occasions where you stand up and thank your mother. And then cry. You could cry just a little perhaps …”
“Matthew …”
“And I doubt if it’ll be any trouble. He seems very discreet. And he can’t have been any trouble on that Danish boat or they would have stopped him filming …”
Elspeth stared at him directly. “Listen,” she said. “Listen, Matthew. Did you commit us?”
Matthew bit his lip. “I think so,” he said.
31. The Doppelganger
Bruce was not one to open a door hesitantly. When he answered his door that morning, shortly after he had moved into his new flat in Albany Street, he did so with the confidence of one who knew exactly who would be standing on the other side. He expected to see the two young women he had encountered at the intersection of Queen Street and Frederick Street and with whom he had had that delicious, unambiguous, and fleeting exchange. He had expected to say, “Girls! Come in!” and usher them into his sparsely furnished hall, bowing slightly – women loved that, Bruce had discovered – even if the act of bowing risked loosening the towel that formed his only clothing at the time, as he had just stepped out of the shower. That would be a good welcome – to lose the towel altogether! They would avert their eyes and giggle, but they would be thrilled – there was no doubt about that.
That is what Bruce expected; he did not expect to see, instead of the two young women, whom he had, for purely operational purposes, christened Delia and Dahlia, a young man of about his own age, and his height too, looking at him in mild astonishment.
“Oh,” said the young man. “Sorry, I didn’t …”
Bruce recovered himself quickly. “No, I was in the shower, but I’d finished. I thought you were somebody else.”
The young man smiled. “We often think that, don’t we? We think somebody is somebody else altogether, and then we find they’re … well, they’re not the person we thought they were.”
Bruce shrugged. “Well, I suppose that’s true.”
The young man put out his hand. “I’m Jonathan,” he said. “I actually live two doors down.”
Bruce nodded. He was beginning to feel slightly cold, standing half-naked in the doorway, exposed to a cool breeze that seemed to be coming up the stair. Perhaps Jonathan had left the door open down below; even in summer, it could be chilly in Edinburgh, out of the direct sunlight. He looked at Jonathan, making one of those instant judgments that we make on meeting another for the first time. Facial clues as to intention? A smile. Not hostile or disapproving. Clothing? Casual, same as everybody else. Jeans. Topsiders. T-shirt that announced CREW in large letters. Yachting type? Maybe.
“I thought that Jenny still lived here,” said Jonathan. “I knew she was going, but I didn’t realise it would be so soon.”
“She’s gone,” said Bruce. “I got the keys this morning. I’ve just moved in, actually.” He paused for a moment – the most important, decisive pause in his life, not that he was to know it at the time. And then he said, “Come in. I need to go and get dressed.”
“Thanks,” said Jonathan, stepping into the hall: the most important, decisive step of his life – not that he was to know it either.
Bruce gestured towards the living room door. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “I haven’t got much furniture yet but I can do coffee. I’ll be with you in a mo.”
He walked off. He was aware, though, as he made his way into the bedroom, that Jonathan was looking at him. It was an extraordinary feeling – an instance of perception that relies on none of the usual senses and yet can be as acute and reliable – sometimes even more so – as vision or hearing, and, a fortiori, smell. Words struggle to describe how it works: we feel the eyes upon us and there may even be a tingling sensation akin to the prickling, tickling impact of a strong magnetic field on the skin. Pick up a telephone and place it to your ear: feel the slight touch of the earpiece magnet, like the play of a feather on skin. Feel it. Bruce did.
He hesitated, looking back over his shoulder towards Jonathan, who was halfway through the living room door at that moment but whose head was also turned. Bruce saw the smile; nothing odd about it, just friendly. He continued into the bedroom. And then the thought struck him. Jonathan looked strikingly like him. Like Bruce. Like me, he thought. Just like me. My double.
He moved towards the window. There was no mirror in the room, as there were only the few sticks of furniture that Bruce had negotiated to be included in the sale, and that did not include a dresser. But the window-pane would do, and he stood before that now, catching his reflection in the glass – an insubstantial, fluid reflection, as one on the surface of water. He focused on his face, and thought: is there somebody else who shares that? It was a strangely unsettling question, and the answer could be even more so. Yes. There was. And that person was there in the living room, wearing a shirt labelled CREW.
He moved away from the window. So what? So what if somebody looked like him. We’re not unique – not really. Nature is generous with her DNA, spreading it around, even between species, and if, in the small gene pool that was Scotland, there was another who had that particular sequence of genes in just the place on the genome that dictated facial features (and life, in those terms, was such a chemical lottery), then nobody should be surprised; his good fortune, thought Bruce – the his being his not mine.
He suddenly remembered what Jonathan had said. He could not recall the exact words, but they were something about thinking that somebody was a person other than the person they really were. What had he meant by that? Did he just mean
to say that you could be surprised by who opens the door, or did he mean that you could be wrong about what somebody was underneath? Was he talking about the inner person? But then, who made remarks like that to somebody he has just met?
He went over to his opened suitcase of clothes. There was a green and yellow rugby shirt that was slightly crumpled, but would do. Black chinos. Great, he thought. Great.
And then he thought: why am I bothering? What am I trying to do? Why do I care what I wear when it’s not Delia and Dahlia, but Jonathan, about whom I know nothing? Competition, he thought. He’s a rival. If Delia and Dahlia were to turn up – and they might still do so – then there would be competition.
Bruce smiled. He was not afraid of competition. Even if there were two of him in Edinburgh – and that rather odd possibility now presented itself – one would be echt and one would be ersatz. Great words, he thought; and there was no doubt which he would be.