Sunshine on Scotland Street

  Matthew took the book from Lou and opened it at a random page. “My goodness,” he said. “Listen to this quotation: ‘Sir, I am above all national prejudices, and, I must say, I yield the Scots the superiority in all soups – save turtle and mulligatawny. An antiquarian friend of mine attributes this to their early and long connection with the French, a nation eminent in soups.’ That sounds like Dr. Johnson – except he would never have said it. Well, there you are, Lou.”

  “Aye,” said Lou, taking the book back from him. “As my old maw always said, ‘A spoofu’ o’ stink will spoil a patfu’ o’ skink.’ ”

  Matthew looked at her blankly and then turned to stare at Bo. “The people in Denmark won’t know what all that’s about,” he said. “You’ll have to cut that, Bo.”

  Bo switched off his camera and lowered it from his shoulder. “That was very interesting,” he said. “People in Denmark will like that very much. They like to hear about soup – I am sure of that.”

  Big Lou put her book away. “You’ll be introducing me to your friend, Matthew?”

  Matthew looked apologetic. “Sorry, Lou, I should have given you some warning – coming in here like this with Bo. This is Bo. He’s a very famous Danish filmmaker and he’s …”

  Bo raised a hand in protest. “Not very famous, Matthew, just a bit famous.” He smiled at Lou. “I am a maker of documentaries, Mrs. Lou. Matthew has kindly agreed to appear in a film about his life here in Edinburgh. But I am also keen to film other subjects … and other people.”

  He did not finish his sentence, but looked meaningfully at Lou while the words hung in the air. She nodded in his direction and then asked him how he would like his coffee.

  “I shall have it the way you have it in Scotland,” he said.

  Lou snorted. “I wouldnae dae that, if I were you. A bit of hot tap water over some instant is how most folk tak their coffee here.”

  Bo clapped his hands together in delight. “Oh, very amusing!” he said. “And so well put!”

  “I don’t think Lou was joking,” said Matthew. “You weren’t joking, were you, Lou?”

  Lou shook her head. “We’re not really into coffee culture yet, Mr.… er, Mr. Bo. Edinburgh is maybe – or parts of Edinburgh. But there’s this big city called Glasgow and … well, they do things their ain way over there.”

  Matthew laughed. “That’s a joke, Bo.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Lou.

  “I have heard of that place,” said Bo. “I must go over there, perhaps.”

  “I wouldnae take your camera with you,” said Lou.

  “Hah!” said Bo. “Very funny.”

  “Lou has a point,” said Matthew. “You’re safer here in Edinburgh. Less room for misunderstanding.”

  Bo placed his order. “Can you do me a latte, Mrs. Lou?”

  Lou shot him a glance. “Aye, I believe I’ve heard of they things. Coffee with the coo’s breeks.”

  “That’s another joke,” said Matthew quickly. “The coo’s breeks means the cow’s trousers. It’s the sticky bit that you sometimes get on the top of milk.”

  Bo smiled. “Very colourful.” He paused. “I wonder, Mrs. Lou, whether you might agree to tell me something about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell,” said Lou through the hissing of the coffee machine. “Born and grew up on a farm near Arbroath. Milked the coos. Went to school. Learned to read. Worked on the farm. Looked after an old uncle. He died. Went to Aberdeen. Worked in a nursing home. Came to Edinburgh and got this place, which was a bookshop. Took all the books out and put them in my flat down at Canonmills. MacDiarmid came here when it was a bookshop. He sat over there, where that table is.”

  “MacDiarmid was a famous Scottish poet,” whispered Matthew. “Drank a lot of whisky. Wrote a lot of poetry.”

  “Same whisky as we drank the other night?” asked Bo.

  “No. He liked … what did MacDiarmid like, Lou? What whisky?”

  “Glenfiddich,” said Lou.

  Matthew did not notice when Bo quietly picked up his camera and began to film.

  “He was a boy for his whisky all right,” Lou continued. “And sometimes, when you read his poetry, you think, Maybe there was a bit of whisky in that line. But then, you read ither bits and you think, That’s just so bonnie, that’s just so true. And you go back and you read it again and you want to cry because it’s so beautiful.

  “Mind you, he was all over the place, you know. What did Norman MacCaig say at his funeral? That on the anniversary of MacDiarmid’s death each year Scotland should declare three minutes of pandemonium. What do you think of that?”

  The coffee machine hissed, as if in agreement. Bo smiled behind his camera. Matthew was out: the plot had changed.

  59. Bursting a Boil Just Like Vesuvius

  Bruce was dealing with the morning’s mail when Freddie came into his office. Jonathan had explained that the day’s crop of letters would already be in his in-tray by the time he came to work, and Bruce was relieved to find that this was so. After the encounter with Jenny – or the person who should have been Jenny – Bruce was wary; he had made two slips in the first ten minutes, and he would have to be careful if he were to avoid being exposed by lunchtime. Of course if that happened he had an escape strategy already worked out: he would simply disappear. One solution to being in a tight spot was simply turn on one’s heels and walk away. He could do that if necessary, but it would be preferable to avoid it if at all possible.

  Freddie did not knock, but pushed open the door, looked at Bruce, and said, “Yo, Jono!”

  Bruce looked up to see a young man of about his age. He was well-built and had a pleasant, open expression. Bruce was not sure what to say, and so merely muttered, “Yo!” in return.

  Freddie sauntered up to his desk and sat on it, swinging his feet.

  “See my new shoes,” he said. “How cool are these?”

  Bruce glanced at Freddie’s shoes with their elongated toecaps. “Pretty smart,” he said.

  “They were fifty per cent off,” said Freddie. He winced as he spoke, reaching to touch behind his neck. “But, Jono, I’ve got this really serious boil on the back of my neck. It started last Friday. I thought it was just a bit of irritation, but it really got going and now it’s agony. I can hardly turn my head.”

  Bruce made a sympathetic noise. “Boils can be really painful.”

  “Yes,” said Freddie. “But I reckon it’s almost ready. You know how these things eventually burst? All the pressure on the surrounding skin is relieved and the pain goes. It’s like a volcano – Vesuvius or Etna.” He paused. “Have you ever been to Naples?”

  Bruce shook his head. It suddenly occurred to him that the real question was whether Jonathan had been to Naples.

  “But you went to Sicily, didn’t you? With your ex?”

  Bruce had to think quickly. Obviously Jonathan had told Freddie about going to Sicily with his boyfriend, and so Bruce said, “Yes. Sicily. That was some time ago.”

  “I thought it was last year,” said Freddie.

  “Last year? Yeah, maybe. Time goes so quickly …”

  “… when you’re having fun,” supplied Freddie. “But not when you’ve got a boil. What was his name again?”

  “Whose name?”

  “Your friend.”

  Bruce looked down at his desk. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like to talk about him.”

  It was, it seemed, an acceptable answer. “I understand,” said Freddie. “And I don’t blame you. I feel the same way about Carly.”

  Bruce was emboldened. “I never liked her.”

  Freddie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you did. She liked you – a lot. I told her she was barking up the wrong tree, of course. No offence.”

  “None taken,” said Bruce. “I suppose I did like her, come to think of it.”

  “I saw her the other day,” Freddie continued. “She looked right through me. She was with that chap who works with Stu MacGregor. You know the one?”


  “Oh, him,” said Bruce. “What’s-his-face?”

  “Yes, him. I can’t remember his name. Something stupid, I think. I don’t know what she sees in him.”

  Bruce shrugged. “Women,” he said. He glanced at the letters in the in-tray and wondered how long Freddie was going to sit on his desk, banging his new shoes against the side. “I suppose I’d better get on with my work.”

  Freddie sighed. “Yes, and I’ve got to go to see that chap who’s complained about our campaign. Pain in the neck …” He paused. “You couldn’t do something for me, could you, Jono?”

  Bruce was cautious. “Depends,” he said.

  Freddie’s hand went to the back of his neck again – gingerly. “I wondered if you wouldn’t mind bursting this boil of mine. I can’t see it and … well, it would be much easier for somebody else to do.”

  Bruce hesitated. “Go to your health centre. Get a nurse to do it.”

  Freddie shook his head, and winced. “I haven’t got the time. And it’d be far easier to get it done here. It won’t be difficult – it just needs a bit of pressure and it’ll go. Just like Vesuvius, or whatever.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Bruce. “You don’t want these things to get infected.”

  “But I did that thing for you,” said Freddie. “Remember?” He paused. “Are you feeling all right? There’s something odd about you today. Your voice is a bit strange. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Bruce decided that a distraction was necessary. “Your boil,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Freddie smiled. “Thanks. You’re a real friend, Jono.” He slipped off the desk and came to stand beside Bruce, who rose from his chair. “Take a look at it. I hate to think what it looks like.”

  Bruce moved round behind Freddie and peered at his neck. The boil was just below the hairline more or less in the middle of the nape – an angry red hillock on the summit of which he could make out a yellowish mass. “Sit down on my chair,” he said. “It’ll be easier for me to reach.”

  “Do it gently,” said Freddie. “You don’t want to tear the skin too much. What you really want is a hole in the middle to let the gunk out. What about using a paper clip?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Bruce. “You don’t want to put anything in there. I think I should just squeeze it.”

  “Have you got a tissue?” asked Freddie. “You’ll need something to mop it up.”

  “I’ve got a clean handkerchief,” said Bruce.

  “You haven’t blown your nose on it?”

  “No. It’s quite clean.”

  “It soon won’t be,” said Freddie. “Still, all in a good cause.”

  Bruce leaned forward and placed a thumb on one side of the boil and his index finger on the other. He had taken his handkerchief – or Jonathan’s – from the pocket of his jacket and was holding it ready in his left hand. “All right?”

  “Do it,” said Freddie.

  Bruce began to exert pressure on the inflamed skin on either side of the boil. As he did so, the skin became redder, and he felt Freddie tense beneath him. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Freddie. “Just get it over with.”

  Bruce pressed harder. And then, with all the force and pent-up anger of a volcano that has been awaiting its moment, the boil discharged its burden. Freddie gave a cry – and so did Bruce.

  60. The Life of Bacteria

  The human body, we are occasionally reminded, consists largely of water. Many find that fact strangely reassuring; water, as Auden observed, is nowhere disliked; our company, he insisted, coarsens roses and dogs, but evokes from water only an innocent outcry when we force it through turbines or fountains. Others may find the idea of being mostly water a vaguely depressing thought; they would prefer to be made of firmer stuff, of substances with a more solid ring to them: iron, potassium, calcium; water for them is too … well, too liquid. At the heart of their unease, though, may be a simple rejection of this reductionist view: to reduce the human body to its constituents is a painful reminder that we are nothing much really, in spite of our pretensions; that all our grand notions of self-importance will never overcome the simple biological limitations of our existence – a sobering thought, and an important one. To be cut down to size is good for all of us, but particularly so for those who forget how transient are our cultures and institutions, how pointless and cruel our divisions, how vain our claims to special status for our practices and beliefs above those of others.

  But if the thought of how watery we are is disturbing, then how much more so is the contemplation of how many bacteria we host. Pursuing the reductionist approach, each human body contains sufficient bacteria to fill a half-gallon container, and these bacteria mill and congregate, hold riotous assembly, reproduce orgiastically, revolt and die right across the territory we so generously provide for them. We are so considerate: we go to great lengths to maintain our temperature at a level which suits them perfectly, even if they, by their activity, are occasionally rude enough to send that temperature soaring. We nourish them and allow them opportunities to meet and relate to their fellow bacteria inhabiting other bodies. Great are their celebrations when we kiss each other and introduce them to populations of their cousins; or shake hands; or even open a door.

  The bacteria that Bruce encountered that morning in Jonathan’s office had established themselves in a hair follicle on Freddie’s neck. What had happened was that Freddie, who liked going to the Edinburgh City Council gym at Craiglockhart, had been exercising on a cross-trainer. This requires one to hold two handles on which there are rounded metal sections. These metal sections exist to monitor the user’s heart rate, which is then displayed on an illuminated panel, encouraging the person exercising to go faster or to slow down, or informing him, in extreme cases, that his heart has actually stopped and that further exercise would be pointless. But anything that is grasped by a series of people – even for such a healthy objective as improving fitness and heart rate – can also harbour the bacteria we all carry around on our hands. To limit cross-infection, the gym had provided a bottle of mildly sterilising liquid that could be sprayed on all such surfaces after use – a nicety observed by some, but not all, users of the gym. And it was one of these non-observers who left on the handles of that particular cross-trainer a rather unpleasant variety of bacteria that been waiting for an opportunity to colonise pastures new.

  When Freddie came, used the cross-trainer, and then touched the back of his neck, these tiny organisms leapt joyously into what must have seemed to them a great, welcoming cave: a tiny crevice around one of Freddie’s hair follicles. Once in their new quarters, they established a civilisation, and multiplied, creating in the process a surprisingly large quantity of dead skin cells. These became a mound not entirely dissimilar to the mounds of rubbish that our own civilisations create – a mound of foul-smelling pus.

  Then came the pressure that Bruce exerted around the site of this tiny ecological disaster, and in a sudden and spectacular outburst the pus was released out into the air, hitting the first solid object it encountered and covering it with tiny droplets of yellow, flecked with red. The red was blood; the encountered object was Bruce.

  “Steady on!” cried Freddie. “Careful!”

  Bruce shouted too, an indeterminate cry, a shout of disgust that required no word to make its meaning clear. Pushing Freddie away lest a further eruption occur, he wiped at his face with the handkerchief he had been holding. This handkerchief, until then white, came away with streaks of yellow and red – the colours that were now also evident on the front of Bruce’s shirt, and on the lapels of his jacket.

  Freddie stood up and gingerly felt at the back of his neck. “The pain’s gone,” he said. “It’s just gone.” He turned to Bruce. “You all right, Jono?”

  Bruce’s face was contorted with disgust. “No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m covered with …”

  Freddie smiled. “You do look a bit of a mess,” he said. ?
??Look, let me give you a wipe.”

  “Keep away from me,” muttered Bruce. “Disgusting …”

  Freddie looked affronted. “It’s just pus,” he said. “Everybody gets pus … now and then.”

  “What am I going to do?” said Bruce.

  “Go home,” said Freddie. “I’ll tell Bill. Go home and get changed.” He paused. “Look, I’ll pay for your jacket to be dry-cleaned. How about that? Your shirt will be fine. Just bung it in the wash.”

  Bruce continued to wipe at his shirt-front and jacket with the handkerchief, but it seemed only to make the situation worse. Freddie was right, though, about going home. He could hardly go through the day covered in pus.

  “By the way,” said Freddie. “Sorry to mention it now, just after you’ve been so … so helpful, but you owe me twelve quid.”

  “Why?” said Bruce.

  “The six quid I lent you last week – remember? For lunch, when you couldn’t get to a cash machine? And then there’s six quid for the syndicate.”

  Bruce almost asked what syndicate this was and then he remembered that Jonathan would know. “All right,” he said. “Here.”

  He reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet, passing over a ten-pound note and two coins.

  “Thanks,” said Freddie. “Did you read about those people over in Ayrshire who won all those Euro millions? Could be us sometime, Jono!”

  That answered Bruce’s question. An office lottery ticket syndicate. He sighed. Boils. Pus. He should have realised; he should have thought about all this before he agreed to this ridiculous exchange of identities. Well, it was over now. He would go back to the flat and get changed – into his own clothes.

  61. Jonathan’s Doubts

  Jonathan was rather enjoying being Bruce. The suggestion to exchange identities had come from him in the first place and it had not been an impromptu, spur-of-the-moment suggestion, even if he would never have anticipated stumbling into the conditions that would make such a change possible. There had been a background to it – a background of unease over who he was and where his life was going.