Love Over Scotland

  Matthew and Stuart had only to wait a few minutes for a taxi and then set off for the Dumbarton Road. Stuart could not remember Lard O’Connor’s precise address, but he had no difficulty in describing the small cul-de-sac where he and Bertie had first made Lard’s acquaintance.

  The taxi driver knew immediately. “That’ll be Lard O’Connor’s place, then?” he asked.

  Stuart was somewhat taken aback by this, and resorted to his civil service language in reply. “That would appear to be the case,” he said. “Assuming that this Lard O’Connor to whom you refer is…”

  “Listen, Jim,” said the taxi driver. “There’s only one Lard O’Connor, see? And that’s this Lard O’Connor. He’s your man. You owe him money, then?”

  “Of course not,” said Stuart tetchily.

  “There’s lots of folks do,” said the driver. “Lard’s very easy on the loans. But not so easy if you don’t pay him back like.”

  “You could say the same thing for the banks,” said Stuart.

  “Aye,” said the taxi driver, “but they don’t have enforcers.”

  “Yes they do,” chipped in Matthew. “They call them solicitors.”

  “You trying to be funny, son?” asked the taxi driver. “Because I’m no laughing.”

  They travelled in silence for a while. Then the taxi driver, appearing to relent slightly on his shortness with Matthew, asked: “So if you don’t owe Lard money, then do you mind my asking why you’re going to see him? It’s just that you don’t look like the typical boys that go to see Lard. No offence, but you’re not…Know what I mean?”

  “We want Lard’s help,” said Stuart, “on a private matter.”

  The driver glanced in his mirror. “I hope you two can look after yoursels. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  The rest of the journey was completed in silence, and they soon drew up in front of Lard’s front door. Of course they had no idea as to whether he was going to be in, and the whole trip could well have been in vain, but they saw, with relief, that there were lights on.

  “He’s in,” said Stuart. “Look, his lights are on.”

  “That means nothing,” said the taxi driver. “If you’re Lard O’Connor you never pit your lights oot. There’s too many people want to pit them oot for you. So you never pit them oot. Know what I mean?”

  Matthew paid the taxi driver and they walked up Lard’s short front path to knock on the door. At first there was no reply, and so they knocked again. A third knock brought sounds of activity within and the door, still restrained by a heavy security chain, was inched open.

  “Well!” exclaimed a voice from the other side of the door. “If it isn’t my friend Stewie and…and who’re you?”

  “This is a friend of mine,” said Stuart. “You haven’t met him, Lard, but he’s OK.” Stuart was not sure that this was the right thing to say, but he had heard people say it in several films, and so he decided that he should say it too.

  It appeared to work. There was a metallic sound in the hall on the other side, and then the door was opened entirely. Lard stood there, a great Munro of a man, wearing a collarless shirt, a pair of shapeless black trousers and scuffed leather slippers. In spite of his efforts not to stare, Matthew could not help but gaze in wonderment at the substantial Glaswegian, his stomach hanging over the leather belt that struggled to hold up his trousers.

  “Now then, Stewie,” said Lard, as he led them through to the sitting room at the back of the house. “How’s my friend, wee Bertie? He’s a great wee fellow that one, sure he is. Wasted over in Edinburgh. You should send him over here to get a good education. Hutchie’s, or somewhere like that. I could have a word with them and make sure they found a place for him.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Lard,” said Stuart. “But he’s very happy where he is.”

  “Pity,” said Lard. “The problem with Edinburgh is attitude, know what I mean? All those airs and graces like. You don’t want wee Bertie growing up to be like you fellows, Stewie, do you?”

  “Hah!” said Stuart. “That’s very funny, Lard!”

  Lard turned round. “It wisnae meant to be funny, Stewie.”

  “Well, maybe not,” said Stuart. “But the whole point of our visit, Lard, is to ask your help. To ask for a favour.”

  “Aye, that’s what everybody wants,” sighed Lard. “But you tell me what you have in mind.”

  So Matthew explained about Big Lou and her predicament, and at the end of his explanation Stuart wondered whether Lard might perhaps be prepared to have a word with Eddie about returning the money and tearing up the business agreement.

  Lard thought for a moment. “She sounds like a good wummin, this Big Lou. I don’t like to hear about ungentlemanly behaviour towards good wummin.”

  “So you think you might be able to help?” asked Matthew eagerly.

  “I’ll go over and have a word with this Eddie,” said Lard. “Me and my boys might just give him a wee warning. Just threaten to rain on his parade. It usually works, particularly with characters like this Eddie, who sounds a wee bit sketchy to me, know what I mean?”

  “But you won’t do anything actually illegal, will you?” asked Stuart.

  Lard smiled. “I never do anything didgy-dodgy, Stewie. You know me better than that.”

  On the way back on the train, Matthew turned to Stuart and said: “What a charming man Mr O’Connor is.”

  To which Stuart replied: “Helpful, too.”

  101. On the Doorstep

  Angus Lordie did not like to prevaricate, but he had certainly been putting off the visit that he knew he must make to 44 Scotland Street and, in particular, to Antonia Collie, Domenica’s tenant during her absence in the Far East. Now he could put it off no longer, and he knew that he must go and present an apology in person. A letter would not be enough, particularly now that a good week had elapsed since Antonia had come to dinner in his flat.

  To say that the evening had not been a success would be to put it mildly. We all have our memories of awkward social evenings–occasions when the conversation has faltered, when the guests have disliked one another with cordial intensity, when the soufflés have collapsed or, worse still, congealed. Angus remembered one occasion on which the host had become so drunk that he had fallen off his chair halfway through the meal, and another where the hostess, under the influence of medication, had gone to sleep in the middle of the second course and could only be roused by physical shaking. These were but nothing, though, to his intimate dinner party with Antonia, at which…well, he preferred not to dwell too much on what had happened. Human memory, if not reminded of the details, has a useful way of obliterating such events, and Angus did not wish to compromise it in this task.

  But he knew that an apology was required, and he would give it. So he brushed Cyril and made him chew one of the canine personal freshness pills which he had acquired on his last visit to the vet. These pills helped; he was sure of it. And just to be on the safe side, Angus popped one into his own mouth and chewed it himself. It did not taste unpleasant; rather like parsley, he thought.

  They walked slowly round Drummond Place, with Cyril sniffing conscientiously at the railings every few yards and keeping a good look-out for the cats which prowled around the neighbourhood. It was Cyril’s ambition to kill one of these cats, if he could get hold of it, even though he knew that this would result in the most intense fuss and several blows with a rolled-up copy of The Scotsman. Indeed, in Cyril’s view The Scotsman was an artefact which was produced solely for the purpose of hitting dogs, and he always gave piles of the newspaper a wide berth when he saw them in newsagents’ shops.

  They reached the top of Scotland Street and began the stroll down the sharply descending street towards the door to No 44. Cyril had been used to being tied up to the railings while Angus went in, but after the unfortunate incident in which he had been stolen from the railings outside Valvona & Crolla, Angus now insisted on taking Cyril inside and would never leave him unattended on
the street.

  They walked upstairs together, and with heavy heart Angus ran Domenica’s bell. One part of him hoped that Antonia would be out and there would be no answer–if that happened, then at least he could tell himself that he had made the effort. But another, more responsible part told him that if he did not see her this evening, he would have to see her tomorrow, or the day after that. And with every passing day the apology would become more difficult.

  The door opened.

  “Antonia, my dear…” He half expected her to close the door in his face, but she did not. In fact, she seemed neither surprised nor outraged to see him.

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s you. I have been waiting for a parcel and I wondered if you were it.”

  Angus shook his head. “I am empty-handed, as you see. Except for the apology that I bring with me.” He was rather pleased with the speed with which he had managed to bring up the subject, and he smiled broadly, largely with relief.

  “Apology?” asked Antonia. “Why? What do you need to apologise for?”

  Angus was taken aback. “The other evening,” he stuttered. “My…er…my…”

  Antonia cut him short. “Oh that! Heavens, you don’t have to apologise for that! In fact, I found the whole thing rather amusing. Dental anaesthetics can do all sorts of things to people. It’s hardly your fault.”

  Angus had to think quickly. He had no recollection of attributing his condition that evening to the fact of having had a dental anaesthetic, but the excuse sounded like him. Now, should he say anything else; should he confess to her that he had been drunk, or should he leave it at that? It was a difficult decision to make, but he rather inclined to the line of least resistance, which was dental.

  But then Antonia said: “But of course you had drunk an awful lot of wine,” she said. “So that made it worse, no doubt.”

  Angus gave a nervous laugh. “Brunello di Montalcino,” he said. “Such excellent wine! When the Queen had dinner with the President of Italy, that’s what they had.”

  “In moderation, no doubt,” said Antonia drily.

  “Hah!” said Angus. This was not as easy as he had hoped. “Oh well! I always remember that great man, Sir Thomas Broun Smith, saying that what a man said after midnight should never be held against him. Such a generous sentiment, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Antonia. “Except in your case it would have to be after six p.m.”

  Angus, in his embarrassment, looked down at Cyril, who looked back up at him. Cyril was uncertain what to do, but he sensed that things were not going well. Antonia’s ankles were directly in front of him, and he wondered if it would help if he bit them. But then there was The Scotsman to worry about, and he decided not to risk it.

  “Anyway,” said Antonia briskly. “It’s very rude of me to keep you standing on the doorstep. Do come in and have a cup of tea or something…”

  “Weaker?” joked Angus. “Well, thank you very much, I shall. I must say, it’s always very nice to be back in this flat. Domenica and I used to have such wonderful conversations together.”

  “She’ll be back sooner rather than later,” said Antonia. “And then I shall move in over the way. As it happens, the flat opposite is coming up for rent and I’ve taken it.”

  “But that’s wonderful news,” said Angus. He was not sure, though, whether it really was.

  102. Antonia Expounds

  Antonia was not one to harbour a grudge, and in spite of her acerbic comments about Angus Lordie’s unfortunate behaviour at the dinner to which he had invited her, she did not intend to raise the matter again. Domenica liked this rather peculiar man and Antonia felt that she should make an effort to do so too. So, having invited Angus into the flat, she led him into the study and invited him to sit down while she fetched coffee and short-bread.

  “How is your book…your novel going?” Angus inquired politely as he sipped at his coffee. “The one about the Scottish saints?”

  Antonia sighed. “Not very well, I’m afraid. My saints, I regret to say, are misbehaving. I had hoped that they would show themselves to be, well, saintly, but they are not. They are distressingly full of human foibles. There’s a lot of jealousy and back-biting going on.”

  Angus was puzzled. Antonia was talking of her characters as if they had independent lives of their own. But they were her creations, surely, and that meant that they should do their creator’s bidding. If she wanted saintly saints, she could have them. “But you’re the author,” he said. “You can dictate what the people in your book do, can you not?”

  Antonia reached out for her cup of coffee. “Not at all,” she said. “People misunderstand how writers work. They think that they sit down and plan what is going to happen and then simply write it up. But it doesn’t work that way.”

  Angus looked at Antonia with interest. Some of his paintings had turned out very differently from what he had had in mind at the beginning. Light became dark. And dark became light. Was this the same process? He had thought it was simply mood, but was it possible that the work acquired its own momentum, its own view of things?

  “Oh yes,” Antonia went on. “The author is not in control. Or, rather, the conscious mind of the author is not in control. And the reason for that is that when we use our imagination we get in touch with that part of the mind which is asking the ‘what if’ questions. And that is not part of the conscious mind.”

  “What if?”

  “Precisely,” said Antonia. “What if. All the time, every moment, your mind is going through possibilities. Any time you look at things. You’re busy recognising and classifying what you see. Thousands and thousands–countless thousands of times a day. Your brain is saying: that thing has four legs, ergo it’s a table; or that thing has four legs, but it’s got fur–it’s a dog. And so on. That’s how we understand the world. We don’t think of it, and you don’t see yourself doing it, but it’s fairly obvious if you watch a baby. You can actually see them doing it. Watch a baby while it looks at things, and you can see the mental wheels turn round. They sit and look at things intently, working out what they are.”

  “I see all that,” said Angus. “But what’s that got to do with…?”

  “With writing? Well, a similar process is happening when you write a story. The unconscious mind is asking questions and then exploring possible outcomes. These then surface in the conscious mind, in the same way perhaps as speech surfaces, and become the words that tell the story. And exactly the same thing happens when somebody writes a piece of music or, I should imagine, paints a painting.”

  “So art reveals the unconscious?” asked Angus. “Do I give myself away in what I paint?”

  “Of course you do,” said Antonia. “There’s nothing new in that. Unless a work of art obeys very strict rules of genre, then it’s often going to say: this is what the artist really wants. This is what he really wants to do.”

  “Always?” asked Angus.

  “Almost always. But there is more to it than that. The unconscious mind reveals itself in the story it creates. A writer who writes lurid descriptions of the sexual, for example, is simply revealing: this is what I want to do myself. Yes! That’s a thought, isn’t it? Some of us are charmingly naive and don’t realise that is what we are announcing to the world. We are acting out our own internal dramas. And that, I suppose, is inevitable and is just part of the business of being a writer. People are going to pick over what you write and say: ah, so that’s what you’re really about! You hate your father or your mother or both of them. You had an overly strict toilet training. You’re trying to recreate your first love. And so on.”

  “And your saints? What does that tell us about you?”

  Antonia did not answer for a moment. She looked intently at Angus, and for a moment he thought that he had overstepped some unspoken limit in the conversation. Perhaps there would be more to apologise for; but then she spoke. “The problem with my saints is that I was consciously willing them to represent something. I wanted them to
stand for the triumph of the will to good. I take it that you know what that is. The sheer yearning that we have for the good–for light rather than darkness, for harmony rather than disharmony, for kindness rather than cruelty. That’s what I wanted. And instead of being these…these symbols, they’ve turned out to be distressingly human.”

  “But surely that’s better. Surely that makes them more realistic.”

  Antonia smiled. “That’s assuming that realism is the only goal we should pursue. Would you say that about painting? Surely not. So why say it about literature? Why does everything have to be realistic? It doesn’t. Surely we can be more subtle than that. No, it’s not the realism issue with me. I’m reconciled to these flawed saints, as long as their human failings don’t obscure the ultimate point that I want to achieve.”

  “Which is?”

  “The achievement of a philosophically acceptable resolution. I want their vision of justice and good to prevail.”

  “And is that the only possible ending?” asked Angus.

  “No,” said Antonia. “Things can end badly, as they sometimes do in life. But if they do, then we know that something is wrong, just as we know it when a piece of music doesn’t resolve itself properly at the end. We know that. We just do. And so we prefer harmony.”

  “And everybody lives happily ever after?” asked Angus.

  Antonia stared at him. “Do you really want it to be otherwise?” she asked.

  103. Imaginary Friends

  “Now then, Bertie,” said Dr Fairbairn, “Mummy tells me you’ve been away for a little trip.” Bertie, seated on the couch to the side of Dr Fairbairn’s desk, glanced nervously at the psychotherapist. “Yes,” he said. “I went to Paris.”