Sunshine on Scotland Street
“Very busy,” said the Duke. “I’m a member of the Clan Maclean Association, as I think I may have told you. I’m a Maclean really, and I try to do my bit for clan affairs. I’ve got hold of a very interesting Maclean portrait that I’m trying to find out something about so that I can write it up for Maclean Notes. It’s a very fine painting, actually. We know that the subject’s a Maclean because he’s wearing Maclean tartan and he’s got that Maclean look to him.”
“Is there such a look?” asked Matthew.
The Duke seemed surprised by the question. “Of course. Just as there’s a Campbell look.” He paused before continuing, “I ran the picture past James Holloway. He thought it could be by a painter called Macbeth, who was reasonably well known, but he could not be sure. I’d hoped that it was a Raeburn, but James said no. Pity. I also asked Dochgarroch whether he could identify him, but he couldn’t come up with any suggestions. It’s a bit of a mystery.”
Matthew agreed. He liked Raeburn too. “But tell me,” he said. “Why is it so important to know who this Maclean was?”
The Duke looked thoughtful. When he answered, he spoke deliberately. “We need to know about these things. It’s because we need to be anchored – we need to have some sense of where we’ve come from and who we are. That’s what being Scottish is all about, don’t you think? Same as being anyone else. We need to know who went before us. We need to know how we’re linked with them.”
Yes, thought Matthew, we do. Yes.
“Because,” the Duke went on, “without that sense of being linked with each other, we have every temptation to be selfish and unmoved by others and by their plight. Our towns, our cities, our places become no more than hotels, with all that lack of intimacy that is a feature of hotels – strangers under one roof, no more. Well, we should not be strangers to one another. We should feel for one another what a brother feels for a brother. We should be able to share a sense of being together – what people today call community. I don’t much like that word, but the sentiment behind it is commendable enough. It means the same thing as what I’m talking about.”
Anna was frowning. “But today we think far beyond these old boundaries. We don’t just think of being Scottish or Danish or whatever. Those are old-fashioned things. We think of being human.”
The Duke smiled at her. “Of course, we think of our shared humanity; of course we do. But I must disagree with you about the rest. We have to have some meaningful sense of the local in order to understand what our shared humanity is. If you take that away from people – as is happening – then they don’t know who they are and that means they won’t care very much about others. You’ll get a crude materialism, because the material is all that we will have in common. You’ll get vast, anonymous societies where we are all strangers to one another. We get much of our humanity from the local, the immediate, the small-scale. We do, you know.”
Matthew said nothing; neither did Elspeth, nor Anna. There was nothing that could be said. And even Tobermory, Rognvald and Fergus, who had no words anyway but could give loud vent to feelings if the need arose, seemed moved by the moment, and were silent too.
73. A Reunion and a Vision
On receiving the message that Angus and Domenica had returned from their honeymoon in Jamaica, Roger Collins gathered Cyril’s possessions together and prepared to take the dog home to his owner. Cyril did not have much: an old blanket, torn but much loved, a bowl with CYRIL painted on one side and DOG on the other, and his leash. Rather like Lear’s sad dweller on the Coast of Coromandel, his worldly goods were few, and they easily fitted into a large Jenners bag that Roger kept on a hook behind the kitchen door.
They travelled by taxi. Cyril sensed that something important was happening, as he was aware, through smell, that the Jenners bag contained his blanket. But he was unable to work out why this should be packed; from his point of view the arrival of the taxi meant an outing, a walk along the shore at Cramond, perhaps, or possibly along the slopes below the Salisbury Crags, both attractive destinations for a dog but not places in which a blanket would be necessary.
“You’re on your way home,” said Roger, as the taxi made its way over the Dean Bridge. “Back to Scotland Street.”
Cyril, seated on the floor of the taxi, looked up politely, opened his mouth and allowed a large pink tongue to protrude. In the sharp light of morning his solitary gold tooth – the only such tooth ever to have been placed in a dog’s mouth in Scotland – caught the sun and glinted.
The traffic was light and within a few minutes they were making the turn from Great King Street into Drummond Place. Cyril stirred, cocking his head and sniffing at the air rushing in through the open window.
“Familiar?” asked Roger.
Cyril was standing, struggling to keep his balance as the taxi negotiated the final turn of its journey. When the vehicle finally came to a halt, he whimpered, and scratched tentatively at the taxi door. Roger paid, and clutching the bag in one hand and Cyril’s leash in the other, he led the excited dog towards the door of No. 44.
Cyril was now tugging at his leash. He had lowered his nose to the ground and had picked up on the pavement a scent that was both more familiar to him than any other and more highly prized. He had discovered that Angus, his owner, his god, his reason for existence, had walked this way and moreover had done so very recently, so fresh was the scent.
Together they climbed the stairs, Cyril pulling increasingly impatiently and Roger trying to prevent his charge from strangling himself in his enthusiasm to reach the top landing.
“Don’t get too excited,” said Roger. “Festina lente.” Roger had discovered that Latin had a calming effect on Cyril, but not now, it seemed; with reunion so imminent, even those admonitory vocables could not slow him down.
Angus answered the door. For a moment both man and dog stood quite still, but then, with a sound halfway between a howl and a yelp, Cyril launched himself into his owner’s arms. Roger let go of the leash; had he not done so he would have been pulled into the general fankle of wriggling, ecstatic canine. This melee continued for several minutes before it slowly subsided, and the three of them made their way into the kitchen, where Domenica sat bemused at the display of emotion she had witnessed.
Over coffee, Angus and Domenica listened to Roger’s account of Cyril’s sojourn with him and Judith.
“He behaved impeccably,” he reported. “We had no bad behaviour at all – he couldn’t have been an easier guest.”
“He’s a good dog,” said Angus. There was a note of pride in his voice, and he glanced at Domenica as he spoke, feeling that she perhaps needed further convincing.
“Yes, a very good dog,” agreed Roger. He had often noticed how important was the phrase good dog in human interaction with dogs. People commonly used it when meeting a dog for the first time – they would bend down, pat the dog on the head, and say “Good dog.” Why they should do this was not altogether clear: we do not give moral compliments to other people or creatures we meet – who says “Good cat” when introduced to somebody’s cat? That was strange. Perhaps it was because so few cats were good, one view indeed being that cats were inherently psychopathic. They were prepared to engage with humans but only in so far as it suited them to do so; beyond that, such affection as they showed for humans was a calculating cupboard love or, at most, a passing, almost pitying scrap of recognition, withdrawn at the blink of an eyelid.
After they had finished their coffee, Domenica saw Roger to the door while Angus remained in the kitchen with Cyril. The dog, calmer now, sat at his feet, gazing up at him with adoration. That look, the look of adoration, was one that Angus, as an artist, knew about from the old masters, it being something they captured well. Contemporary art, he thought, had no time for the adoring look; it was uncomfortable with the human face, and reluctant to see glory in it. Now, looking at Cyril, he was reminded of what it was that had been caught in those paintings – that look of trust, of satisfaction, of utter contentment at bein
g in a place where one might gaze upon that with which one is completely satisfied. The thought made him wonder: have we lost the capacity for adoration because we have persuaded ourselves that we can never be satisfied with anything; not again, now that we have lost the innocence that once allowed it?
Domenica reappeared in the doorway. Cyril looked at her, and then looked back at Angus. The dog’s eyes conveyed the thought that he could never articulate but was there nonetheless: have things changed?
Angus understood; he understood perfectly. He reached down and placed his hand on Cyril’s head, fondling the ears in the way that the dog so appreciated. “Yes,” he whispered. “Things have changed round here, Cyril. Your bachelor days are over.”
It still felt odd. But it was better, far better. And he thought: what happens to men after they marry? The answer came quickly. They put on weight. And then he thought: and their dogs? Do they put on weight too? He closed his eyes and allowed a brief vision of the future to come to him – of a portly artist walking down Scotland Street with his portly dog. He smiled: if that was indeed the future, there were surely worse things than that to be envisioned.
74. The Good Fortune of Others
Bertie did not become aware of the return of Angus and Domenica, and therefore of Cyril, until a day later, when he heard barking emanating from the flat above.
“It sounds as if that awful dog is back,” said Irene, looking up from her crossword. “Polish off with a Cockney greeting; it roams the plains. Odd clue.”
“Buffalo,” said Bertie.
Irene looked at him in astonishment.
“Buff is polish,” said Bertie. “And don’t people in London drop their aitches?”
“Of course,” said Irene, scribbling in the clue. “Mummy would have worked all that out.” She added: “In time.”
Bertie did not contradict her. “Do you think I could go up and say hallo to Cyril?” he asked. “Just for a few minutes?”
Irene hesitated. She did not have a great deal of time for Domenica, and now that she had married that dreadful Lordie man she supposed that they would have to get used to their presence as a couple. But she would definitely not be making the first move, nor the second one either if she could help it.
“I suppose that’s all right, Bertie. But don’t let that dog lick your face. Capisci?”
Bertie nodded. “Ho capito,” he muttered. He did not like talking Italian. It was all very well for Italian boys to talk Italian, but he had never seen why Scottish boys should have to do the same. When he was eighteen, he would never talk another word of Italian, he had decided; and if anybody spoke Italian to him he would pretend not to understand. By then, of course, he would have mastered Glaswegian, as he was planning to move to Glasgow the day he turned eighteen and could leave home, and thought that he should soon start having language lessons, in order to be prepared. Ranald Braveheart Macpherson had told him that he had seen a book that purported to teach you Glaswegian, and Bertie had decided that he would try to find that and begin his studies.
He went upstairs and stood for several minutes outside Domenica’s front door, plucking up the courage to ring the bell. From within the flat he heard the mumbling of voices and the strains of a radio playing music. He listened for sounds of Cyril, but the barking that had alerted him to the dog’s presence was not repeated. Perhaps Cyril was sleeping, he thought; dogs needed a lot of sleep, he believed, in order to build up energy to run round in circles later on.
When Bertie eventually rang the bell, Angus answered the door.
“Well, well,” he said. “It’s my new neighbour! Come away in, Bertie – Cyril will be very pleased to see you.”
Bertie looked down at the floor. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t look after him, Mr. Lordie. I tried, you know.”
Angus put a reassuring hand on Bertie’s shoulder. It was so small. “Heavens, Bertie, don’t think about that for a moment. I heard that it wasn’t you, it was …” He stopped himself in time; he could hardly go on, “it was that dreadful mother of yours.” But that was what he would have liked to say. So he continued, “These things happen. And Cyril had a very good time with Roger and Judith. He was company for them while they were writing in their study. We may even see Cyril thanked in the preface to Roger’s next book. Who knows?”
Bertie smiled. He was relieved that there were no recriminations about his having handed Cyril over to others. He had tried his best; he really had.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen,” Angus said. “You can say hallo to Cyril and talk to me while I make cheese straws. Domenica’s teaching me, you see. We’re having a homecoming party tonight and I’m making cheese straws for that.” He paused. “Would you like to be a waiter for us? Do you think your parents would allow that?”
“I could ask,” said Bertie. And he thought: one day I won’t have to ask. One day I won’t have to ask anybody about doing anything. That will be in twelve years’ time, when I’m no longer six. But time seemed to move slowly; so slowly. I’ve been six for ages and ages – it’s really not fair.
In the kitchen, Cyril gave Bertie an effusive welcome, licking him thoroughly, especially around the mouth and nose. Bertie grinned at the sensation of the dog’s tongue against his skin, and briefly licked Cyril’s brow in return. Then he sat down at the table and watched as Angus started to roll out the cheese straw pastry under Domenica’s instructions.
“You could make cheese straws too, Bertie,” said Domenica. “If you watch Angus, you’ll see how it’s done.”
They talked as Angus worked. Bertie was allowed to sample a bit of the raw mixture, which he pronounced very tasty. Then he was encouraged to dip the tip of a finger into the cayenne pepper so that he could experience the fiery taste. “Jamaican cookery is very hot,” said Angus. “On this honeymoon of ours we ate a lot of very spicy food. It was lovely. Lots of spicy chicken and a tremendous vegetable called ackee. They pick it off trees and boil it up. It tastes a bit like scrambled egg. It’s a great delicacy out there.” He paused, cutting out a further line of cheese straws. “Then there’s something called a Scotch Bonnet pepper. You have to be careful with those, Bertie. You put those in the stew but you don’t eat them. You’d burn your mouth if you did – they’re that hot.”
“Jamaica sounds very nice,” said Bertie. He looked out over Angus’s shoulder to the window, and beyond that to the afternoon sky. Was Jamaica in that direction, he wondered – somewhere far away, in a place where there was blue sea and dark green jungle and music?
“It is,” said Angus. “It’s a very colourful place.”
Bertie nodded. He looked thoughtful. “Do they have psychotherapy there?” he asked.
Angus glanced at Domenica, who looked briefly at Bertie before turning away sympathetically. “Do they have psychotherapy in Jamaica?” he said. “Well, I suppose some people do, Bertie …”
“But do boys have to have it?” asked Bertie.
Angus lifted a whole, uncooked cheese straw and handed it to Bertie. “No, I don’t think they do, Bertie.” Angus thought of the boys he had seen in Jamaica. There had been boys riding about on bicycles, shouting out to each other. There had been boys fishing off the beach – and catching fish. There had been boys clowning about outside a church, joined by a pack of scruffy-looking dogs who were clearly enjoying the fun. There had been no boys having psychotherapy.
Bertie laid the cheese straw down on the table and began to pick at it. “They’re lucky,” he said, almost to himself – but Angus heard him.
75. Of Cheese Straws and Charity
The guests arrived – all of them old friends of either Angus or Domenica or, in some cases, both. These friends were used to Domenica’s parties, at which Angus had always played a central role, but this was the first time that he had joined Domenica as the official host, receiving people in what was now his home. And Cyril, too, was in that position, being the resident dog rather than merely a dog attached to a guest.
Two well-l
iked and well-known people can have a lengthy list of friends and the party could have been a large one. But that was the style of neither; they both preferred smallish parties at which there could be proper conversation rather than small and inconsequential chat. “Three is the ideal number for a party,” Angus had once observed. “One to do the cooking, one to do the clearing up, and one to do the talking.” In that view he was not entirely serious, but he was certainly in favour of smaller rather than large gatherings.
From his side of Domenica’s drawing room, Angus turned to James Holloway and remarked on the motley nature of the company. “Our friends,” he observed, “come in rather a bewildering variety of shapes and sizes, James.”
James Holloway agreed. “If it were otherwise, it would suggest that we had gone out and chosen them,” he said. “Which we don’t, you know.”
Angus looked thoughtful. “No? You don’t think we choose our friends?”
“No,” said James. “There are some people who choose friends, as one might choose a sweater or a pair of shoes. They choose friends because they think that the friend will bring something to them; will enhance them, perhaps. But most of us, you know, don’t do it that way. At least not in the first instance.”
Angus looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose …” Had he chosen his friends, he wondered, or had they simply turned up?
“We encounter our friends by accident, so to speak,” James continued. “Life brings us into contact with them in an unplanned way. You find yourself working with somebody or sharing a journey or meeting somebody at a dinner party; you find yourself turning a corner and bumping into somebody. Chance allocates us many of our friends – no more than that, just chance.”