The Unbearable Lightness of Scones

  Julia’s father looked down at his feet. “Not gave, Bruce. Provided. And the registration documents, I’m afraid, are in the company’s name. So if you wouldn’t mind giving me the key?”

  “Actually, I would mind,” said Bruce. “I’d mind a lot.”

  Billy now stepped forward. Bruce saw the legend BRAINBOX in close proximity. It was tattooed in Times New Roman, he thought. Or maybe Palatino.

  “Youse just gie us the key of the motor,” said Billy. “Right?”

  Bruce hesitated, but only briefly. The key for the Porsche was in his jacket pocket and he retrieved it.

  “Thank you,” said Julia’s father. “There really need be no unpleasantness. So, if you wouldn’t mind showing the boys what they need to pack, they’ll get it into a couple of suitcases and we can all get on with our lives. So sorry.”

  Bruce opened his eyes. The scene was far from expunged, but there was no point in thinking about it now.

  “You don’t have any coffee, do you?” he asked Nick.

  “Natch. I keep coffee on the go all the time. But I always limit myself to three cups a day. More than that and … zoom!”

  Nick went off to a coffee machine at the side of the room and Bruce looked about him. The studio, which occupied a small mews flat behind North West Circus Place, consisted of a largeish room, in which they were now standing, with smaller rooms off that. One of these smaller rooms looked like a darkroom, and another had an array of computer equipment. In the large room there were several open shelves on which various cameras and lenses had been stored, along with tripods and folded reflectors.

  “I’m mostly digital these days,” said Nick, returning to Bruce. “But I still like actual film. I love the hands-on feel of it.” He handed him a cup of coffee and Bruce raised the mug to his lips. Even the smell alone was enough to revive his spirits. The face of Scotland! What did it matter if he had been thrown out by that dim blonde; he was going to be the new face of Scotland. That was infinitely more important. Watson Cooke was welcome to her.

  “So is she moving out then?” asked Nick.

  “Who?”

  “Your ex.”

  Bruce shrugged. “I think I’ll let her stay,” he said. “I don’t want to be unkind.”

  “That’s good of you,” said Nick. “So where will you go? Have you got another place lined up?”

  Bruce took another sip of his coffee. “Actually, I haven’t. And I was wondering, you wouldn’t possibly …”

  “Of course,” said Nick. “You can stay at my place down in Leith. I’ve got a couple of spare rooms and I was going to get somebody for one of them anyway. So that will be fine.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Bruce. And he thought of himself in the infinity pool, looking out over the North Sea. The face of Scotland looking out over Scottish waters.

  Oh, Julia Donald, he thought, you don’t know what you’re missing, do you?

  45. Apposite Posers for a Poseur

  Nick looked at his watch. “Tempus fugit,” he said. “Remember old Rait, the classics teacher at Morrison’s? The one with the nose. Remember him? That’s all the Latin I remember. Tempus fugit. Time flies.”

  “Yes,” said Bruce. “Et cetera.”

  Nick was busy erecting a small umbrella reflector at the side of the room. “Et what?”

  “Et cetera,” repeated Bruce. “It’s the Latin for whatever.”

  “Useful,” said Nick. “I must remember that. Now, Bruce, I think that we’ll start with a few face shots. Full on.” He indicated a place in the middle of the floor. “You stand just there and look over here where my hand is. That’s right. Great.”

  Bruce, positioned in front of the reflector, looked at the space previously occupied by Nick’s outstretched hand. He sucked his cheeks in slightly, but only slightly; years of practice in front of the mirror had taught him that the key to cheek control was very gentle inward pressure. If you sucked in too much you ended up looking like those boy band members who all tried to look so intense when there was nothing, or almost nothing, in their heads. Young pop musicians trying to look all intense and serious – it was laughable.

  There was, by contrast, a lot in Bruce’s head. He was thinking of life, and of how it has a funny way – an uncanny way, at times – of working out. Every time things had gone wrong for him – through no fault of his own, of course – they had righted themselves in no time at all, just like the Campbeltown lifeboat. If there was a Campbeltown lifeboat, which Bruce thought there was. When he was a boy he used to be sent up to the Mull of Kintyre to stay with Doreen and Victor Douglas, distant relatives of his father. They had taken him into Campbeltown and there had been a pipe band playing in aid of the lifeboat; he remembered that. And people had come up to him in the street and tousled his hair and said what a “bonnie wee boy” he was. He smiled at the memory. There were lots of people who would still like to do that, although now there was hair gel to consider.

  Yes, his life was like the Campbeltown lifeboat. A wave, or misfortune, would come along and turn him over and within moments he would be back on an even keel, getting on with life at full steam. That had happened when he lost that job at Todd’s ridiculous firm; when that neurotic woman had invited him to lunch at the Café St. Honoré and had more or less seized his hand – for emphasis, she said – what an explanation, he thought; I must remember that – and her terminally boring husband had come in and created such a big fuss. Over nothing! I would no more have touched her than have flown to the moon. Mind you, I must be honest. Would I? Is there any woman in need whom I would turn away? Probably not … St. Bruce, patron saint of needy women. C’est moi. No, there are some. There are some to whom I would have to say, “Sorry, appointments only!” Some of those political women, those bossy Labour types always thinking of new ways of restricting men. I would have to draw the line at them; I really would.

  And then there was the wine business. That chap Will Lyons thought I knew nothing about wine. Rien. I showed him. Château Pétrus – no problem! And I made a tidy profit there; enough to set me up in London, not that I should have even bothered to go down there. London. What a waste of space. And when things had gone wrong there, had it worried me for more than three seconds? Non. It was straight back up to Edinburgh and kapowski into a new job – looking after Julia – that was the job. Running the wine bar was simple by comparison. What a stupid, stupid woman! Talk about wastes of space; she was a positive environmental disaster. And as for Watson Cooke, with his Scottish schoolboy rugby cap. Well, if the cap fits, wear it, Watson Cooke! You’re welcome to Julia and her stupid, stupid baby. If it looks like you, W. Cooke, it’s going to look like a rugby ball. That would be a great birth announcement in The Scotsman: To Watson and Julia, a rugby ball, at Murrayfield Stadium. Thanks to referee and linesmen.

  “Something amusing you, Bruce?”

  Bruce looked at Nick, who was pointing his camera at him from a couple of feet away, crouching for the right angle.

  “Nope. Just thinking.”

  “The smile’s great. Try and think about something else amusing. Great smile. It’ll wow them down at the agency. Most people these days have forgotten how to smile naturally. It’s all teeth.”

  Bruce applied his mind to the thinking of something amusing. It was quite difficult when one was asked to do that, as amusing things tended just to crop up of their own accord. What was there to laugh about? Watson Cooke? Watson Cooke, the Watsonian?

  “Knock, knock,” he said.

  From behind the camera Nick muttered: “Who’s there?”

  “Emma.”

  “Emma who?” asked Nick.

  “Emma Watsonian.”

  There was a brief silence. Then the camera was lowered and Nick beamed back at Bruce. “Emma Watsonian? That’s really funny, Bruce. Oh, I can hear it. I’m a Watsonian. Emma Watsonian. Oh, that’s really great, Bruce.” He paused. “The old jokes are always the best, aren’t they?”

  Bruce frowned.


  “Hold it!” shouted Nick. “Hold that expression. Great. Just great. That’s the face of Scotland being serious. Thinking about the environment, maybe. Or wave power. Stick the chin out a bit more – great – that’s the face of Scotland thinking about those new power generating thingies you stick at the bottom of the sea so that the currents move the doodahs and the power comes surging out to charge all our Scottish iPods. That’s it. Great.”

  The shutter clicked a few more times and then Nick straightened up and lowered the camera. “Have a break now, Bruce,” he said. “This is going really well.”

  “You’re pleased?”

  “Ecstatic,” said Nick. “I’ll show them these tomorrow, just to whet their appetites, and they’ll go wow, totally wow! Give us more of that face! Give us more! More!”

  46. Rank Insiders in the Pecking Order

  “So where have you been?” asked Big Lou. “Everyone seems to have been away. Matthew. You. The place has been deserted.”

  “Matthew is on his honeymoon,” said Angus, directing Cyril to his accustomed place under the table. “And I have been painting. However, here I am now and ready to bring you up-to-date. So, fire away.”

  “How are your dug’s puppies?”

  Angus waved airily, for the second time that morning. “They’ve found a home. I’m sure that they are in very good spirits.” He did not want to prolong this conversation and so changed the subject. “You may recall that Domenica lost a tea-cup, a blue Spode teacup … ?”

  But Big Lou was not to be diverted. “A home? Where? All together?”

  “I believe so,” said Angus. “Now this blue Spode teacup …”

  “Who in their right mind would take six puppies?” asked Big Lou. Then she laughed. “You didn’t sell them to a restaurant, did you, Angus?”

  Angus looked down at the floor. Then he looked at Cyril, who was looking into the space immediately before his nose. That was the place where, on normal days, Matthew’s ankles were to be found, and Cyril was wondering where they were. There was something missing.

  “What are you reading, Big Lou?” he asked, gesturing to a book lying open on the coffee bar.

  Big Lou tipped coffee beans into the grinder. “Excuse the noise, Angus. There we go. That book? It’s about how to behave. How to write a letter to the Moderator or the Lord Provost. That sort of thing.”

  Angus laughed. “Do you really need to know that sort of thing, Lou? Why would you need to write to the Moderator?”

  “You never know,” said Lou.

  “I suppose not.” Angus reached across for the book and began to page through it. His attention was caught, and when Lou turned round he was studying a double-page spread with considerable interest.

  “See,” said Lou. “You’re finding it interesting too.”

  Angus tapped the open page with a forefinger. “This is the table of precedence in Scotland. Have you looked at it yet?”

  Big Lou shook her hand. “I’m working my way through from the beginning. And I’m only as far as how to write letters.”

  “Well, this is wonderful stuff,” said Angus. “It goes all the way down to 122. From number 1 – the monarch, of course – down to 122. Gentlemen. That’s me, I suppose. I’m at the bottom, Lou, and so are you, in the ladies’ table – you have a separate one, Lou, like a separate changing room. Mind you, Cyril’s probably even lower. 123 should be for dogs.”

  “They could have a table of precedence just for dogs,” suggested Lou. “Useful dogs at the top and then dogs like Cyril at the bottom.”

  Angus ignored the taunt. “This is fascinating stuff,” he said. “Did you realise that a Sheriff Principal ranks just below the Lord Lieutenant of a county, but only when he’s in his sheriffdom? When he’s not in his sheriffdom he ranks much lower. And the First Minister – do you know where he ranks? Number twenty. Which is just above the Lord High Constable of Scotland, who ranks twenty-third. That’s the Earl of Erroll. Still going strong, I see, at number twenty-three. Erroll was at Flodden, but I suppose that would have been another one, his father, perhaps. And look, Lou, the Lord Justice General is only thirty-sixth! And they put him below – below, Lou! – below the younger sons of dukes. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous! And what about this, Lou. The Lord Lyon, King of Arms, is seventy-first, which is not much better than the position of Commanders of the Order of the British Empire, who are eighty-first. Now they should be much, much higher, Lou. There’s no doubt about that. And the same goes for the Lord Lyon. He should be right up there near the top. Surprising that he isn’t, of course, given that he probably draws this list up. But there you have the difference, Lou. The Lord Lyon is not like your pushy younger sons of dukes, who look after themselves. He stands back and says, ‘I think I’ll be seventy-first.’ How’s that for gentlemanliness, Lou?”

  Angus suddenly gave a whoop of delight. “But look at this, Lou! I bet you never knew this. Guess who’s at number 120? Queen’s Counsel. That’s not so good, Lou, is it? That’s just one above so-called esquires (lairds, I suppose) and only three above dogs! Not such good news for all those chaps up at Parliament House with their strippit breeks. By the time they get to the sandwiches at the Garden Party all the best ones will be gone, Lou. Only a few bits of soggy cucumber for them! Lord Erroll will get pretty good sandwiches at number 23, of course, and the Duke of Argyll will be all right at number 24. He’ll be able to help himself to as many sandwiches as he likes. Which is reassuring. Except for people called Macdonald; you know how they refuse to forget the past.”

  Big Lou finished with her coffee beans. “Did you say something, Angus?”

  Angus looked up. “No, not really, Lou. Just talking to myself.”

  “Well, you know what they say about that,” said Lou, sliding Angus’s cup of coffee over the bar towards him.

  “Oh, I know,” said Angus wearily. “But who do I have to talk to otherwise, Lou? I talk to Cyril, of course, but he’s heard it all before. I suppose there’s Domenica, but she sits there while I’m talking and looks at me as if I’m of purely anthropological interest. And you, Lou; you’re a good listener. You let me talk.”

  “Haud yer wheesht,” said Lou.

  “No, you do, Lou. You’re very good.”

  “Wheesht,” repeated Lou. “Drink your coffee, or it’ll get cold.”

  Angus sipped at his coffee, and smiled at Big Lou. “How’s that man of yours, Lou. Robbie? Is he still doing away?”

  Big Lou was wiping the surface of the bar with a cloth. At the mention of Robbie’s name, she began to wipe more vigorously. Angus noticed this.

  “Is everything all right, Lou?” he asked. “You would tell me if anything …”

  “Oh, Robbie’s fine,” said Big Lou. But then, almost immediately, “No, he’s not. I’m worried, Angus. I’m worried sick.”

  “You tell me,” said Angus. “You’ve always been there for all of us, Lou. Now we must be there for you. Sorry to use a cliché, but there are times when clichés are just right, and this, I suspect, is one of them.”

  47. The New Pretender

  Angus knew just what Big Lou had been obliged to put up with: of her trials with those various unsuitable men; of her struggle to make something of her life; of everything she had endured. She never, or rarely, complained, and so to see her now in this state of distress was a real cause for concern. Of course he had known from the beginning that Robbie was, as Matthew had so succinctly put it, “bad news.” It was not as if Robbie were violent or drunken, or suffered from any of the other obvious defects to which the male was heir; it was not that. It was more a question of his being a man with a cause, and the cause in question being so … well, one would really have to say odd.

  “Oh, Lou,” said Angus. “Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He reached out over the bar and laid his hand over hers. It was a gentle gesture; a gesture of fellow-feeling that was immediately appreciated. She looked at him.

  “Robbie?” he asked. “He’s making
you unhappy? Is that it?” Of course he was; what else could it be?

  Big Lou bit her lip. “I’m very fond of him, Angus. You ken that. Very fond.”

  “Of course you are, Lou. And I’m sure he’s fond of you.” But not as fond of you, he thought, as he is of Charles Edward Stuart and James VII and all that crowd.

  Big Lou nodded. “I think he is. He tells me he is. But …”

  “But what, Lou?” He hesitated. “Is it something to do with his Jacobitism? Is that the problem?” He knew that it was; of course it was. Robbie had a screw missing, as Matthew again had put it.

  Big Lou confirmed that it was. “I understand what it means to him,” she said. “And I’ve tried to enter into the spirit of it. But now I think that they’re taking it too far. It’s all very well having an interest in history, but when you can’t seem to tell the difference between reality and fantasy…” She paused. “You know that they’ve been planning a visit from their pretender? Some Belgian who claims to be the successor of Bonnie Prince Charlie. They’re tremendously excited. And I think that they’re going to do something stupid. I really do.”

  Angus’s first reaction was to laugh, but, with effort, he controlled himself.

  “And when does the Pretender arrive?”

  Big Lou looked towards the door, as if to check that the Pretender was not already there, waiting outside. Did Pretenders knock, Angus wondered, irreverently, or did they merely barge in?

  Speaking in a whisper, Big Lou answered Angus’s question. “He’s already here.”

  Angus’s eyes widened. “Here in Edinburgh? Or … or out in the heather?”

  “Here in Edinburgh.”

  There was a silence. The Pretender had been a joke when he had merely been a possibility. Now that he was real, and was in Edinburgh, it seemed different. Angus found himself clasping Big Lou’s hand more tightly when he eventually spoke. “Where, Lou? Where?” His voice was lowered; so might one covert Jacobite speak to another as Whig agents passed by.