She shook her head.
“It’s because of water in the air,” said Angus. “I never knew that, you know, until I read about the light you see in seventeenth-century Dutch paintings. Think Vermeer.”
She thought Vermeer. “The woman reading a letter by the window?”
“Yes. That one. Think of the light in that painting. In all of his paintings, in fact. And so many of those Dutch paintings. They’re full of light. They’re all about light really – light and courtyards and jugs and carpets . . . and everything they had. The Dutch were painting an inventory of their trading success, I suppose.”
“And?”
Angus took a bite of his toast. “Marmite,” he said, and closed his eyes briefly in appreciation. “Yes, apparently the reason why Dutch paintings are full of light . . . ”
“Rembrandt isn’t,” said Domenica.
Angus considered this. “I see what you mean,” he said.
“They’re all gloomy. As if painted in the dark. All those browns. Rembrandt used a lot of brown, didn’t he?”
“I wasn’t really thinking about Rembrandt,” said Angus. “Yet there is light in Rembrandt. It’s there all right – it finds the faces of his subjects and shines upon them. It’s very dim light, though; just enough to create that lovely effect – as if the artist is shining a rather weak torch on the people in his paintings. There isn’t enough light for anything but the face and some of the clothing. That’s all.” He paused. “But those other paintings – the landscapes or the illuminated interiors – there’s a reason why they seem to have such light.”
“And that reason is?”
“As I said, droplets of water in the air. The Netherlands is very watery. All those canals and the sea all about you has an effect on the air. There were droplets of water, and sunlight was refracted by this water and that’s why the light was as it was – and probably still is.”
“And the same applies in the West?”
“Yes. Go to a place like Skye and look at the light. It’s that lovely, soft blue. Misty. Watery. And you’ll find the same difference between the light in the east of Canada and the light in the west. Vancouver is all blue and soft. Newfoundland and Quebec are all bright and clear. It’s to do with geography and the effect of geography on humidity.”
Angus finished his toast. “I need to get to the studio,” he said. “My sitter’s coming at ten.”
She wanted to say more to him. She wanted to say to him that he could talk to her about light whenever he chose to do so, for as long as he wanted. She wanted to say to him that she loved him not only for what he had to say about light, but for the way he buttered his toast, for the way he liked Marmite, for the way he spoke to Cyril; she loved him for everything. And she loved the flat they lived in; she loved the kitchen and its contents; she loved the marks on the wall that needed painting; she loved the creaking floorboards. And until then, until that moment in Scotland Street, she had not realised how precious all this was and how strangely indifferent she had been to it all. She would never again make that mistake.
Angus left for his studio. She gave him a kiss before he went out of the front door. Cyril watched from his corner, his nose twitching. Angus was his, and he felt a pang of jealousy and resentment when Domenica behaved as if Angus belonged to her. He could not, because he belonged to Cyril. One of these days, he thought, I’ll nip her ankles. Not now, not yet; there was a time and place for everything and the time was not yet right for that. And besides, he half-liked Domenica. If one had to have somebody else in the flat, then there were many who would be far worse than this woman. That woman downstairs, for example; the woman with the boy. The boy was nice – he smelled nice – but that woman was another matter altogether. He had bitten her once before, and it had been very satisfying.
But now what was there to do but lie there and think, in so far as I can think, given what I am. A dog. That, as they say, is the bottom line. I’m just a dog, and that is a profoundly sad thing to be.
Catching Up
The day ahead promised to be busy. Domenica had correspondence to deal with and, after that, she had arranged to meet her old friend, Dilly Emslie, for coffee at Glass & Thompson, on Dundas Street. That would take her until twelve, when she would return to Scotland Street to prepare a light lunch for Creative Scotland’s visiting delegation of pygmies from the forests of Rwanda. Domenica had hoped that Angus would help her to entertain these visitors, but he had asked to be excused on the grounds that his time with his sitter was limited and he needed to make as much progress with the portrait as possible.
Dilly, however, had offered to stand in. “I’ll help you rustle up something,” she said. And then, after a short pause, had enquired what the guests would like to eat.
“I’m not sure,” replied Domenica. “I took advantage of being at Valvona & Crolla the other day and asked the young man at the counter whether he had any ideas, but he didn’t. He thought pasta might be a good option, as long as I didn’t serve too piquant a sauce.”
“Do you think they might be vegetarian?” asked Dilly.
“Highly unlikely,” replied Domenica. “Traditionally they’re hunter-gatherers, and as a general rule the hunting bit of that precludes vegetarianism. I’ve decided to go for mushroom risotto, with a side salad with bits of chicken in it. If they’re vegetarian they can leave the chicken – but I don’t think they will be.”
She met Dilly at Glass & Thompson just before eleven. They saw one another fairly frequently, but even with regular meetings, there still seemed to be a lot to be caught up on. There were the doings of mutual friends – innocent and unremarkable, for the most part, but with the occasional frisson of excitement. There was news of Scotland Street, and there, of course, Domenica had a substantial report to make.
“Irene Pollock,” Domenica began.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Dilly.
“Yes,” continued Domenica. “That’s what most of us feel.”
“An impossible woman,” said Dilly. “That poor little boy of hers.”
“Little boys,” corrected Domenica. “Plural. She has the two. Bertie, who’s goodness on wheels, and wee Ulysses who apparently throws up whenever he sees his mother. There are the two of them now.”
Dilly vaguely remembered a story about Ulysses being lost. “Didn’t she . . . ”
“Lose him?” interjected Domenica. “Yes, she left him in his pram outside Valvona & Crolla and he was carted off to the council emergency nursery. She had to go and retrieve him from the social workers – and you can imagine what that was like. Social workers can be very disapproving of anybody . . . ”
“As can the Government,” observed Dilly.
“Ah yes,” said Domenica. “The named person legislation. Can you believe it? Can you believe that they’re insisting that every child in Scotland should have a sort of official guardian – because that’s what it amounts to. Can you conceive of a better way of insulting parents?”
“I suppose they mean well,” said Dilly.
“Well, anyway,” continued Domenica. “They went to collect little Ulysses from the nursery and she was given a lecture by the social workers. She didn’t take that too well, I gather. And when they got back to the flat they found they had the wrong baby. They’d been given a girl instead. Further panic.”
“What a discovery,” said Dilly.
“Yes, indeed. And now Irene has announced that she’s going off to Aberdeen to do a PhD under the supervision of Dr. Hugo Fairbairn. He was the psychotherapist who was inflicted on poor little Bertie for years and years.”
Dilly thought of something. “Named psychotherapists,” she mused. “Do you think the Scottish Government will move on to insisting that we all have named psychotherapists allocated to us – just in case?”
“Don’t joke about it,” warned Domenica, semi-seriously.
“Aberdeen,” mused Dilly. “Is she going to live up there?”
“Apparently so.”
There was a silence. Then Dilly asked, “And the boys?”
Domenica raised an eyebrow. “They’re staying with the father – with Stuart. His mother, whom I know and like, by the way, is renting a flat round the corner. She’s agreed to come and look after the children while Irene is off in Aberdeen with that Fairbairn character . . . ” Domenica lowered her voice, “who is, according to Angus, her lover. He says it’s the talk of the Cumberland Bar.”
“Well!” exclaimed Dilly.
“And there’s more news from Scotland Street,” said Domenica. “Remember Antonia Collie? My former neighbour?”
“The one whose flat you bought and incorporated into yours?”
“Yes,” said Domenica. “She came to Italy with us, you may recall, and went down with Stendhal Syndrome in the Uffizi Gallery. Honestly, you should have seen her. Apparently, Stendhal Syndrome occurs when you’re exposed to too much great art. She was positively foaming at the mouth and had to be carted off to hospital. She was discharged into the care of a community of nuns and she eventually joined them as a sort of lay sister. Not a fully-blown nun – more a plainclothes version.”
Dilly remembered meeting a nun at a dinner party in Heriot Row. “Didn’t one of them end up coming to Scotland? One of the Italian nuns?”
“Exactly,” said Domenica. “That was Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. She turned up in Scotland Street and decided that she liked Scotland. She stayed. She became quite the social success – all the best parties and so on.”
“She was rather good at aphorisms, wasn’t she?” asked Dilly.
“Oh, terrific,” replied Domenica. “She had an aphorism for every occasion. Shatteringly trite, of course, but people loved them.”
“We hear so few these days,” said Dilly. “People seem inhibited about coining aphorisms.”
“Not her. Not Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.
Well, anyway, Antonia’s come back,” Domenica continued. “She’s bought a small flat in Dundonald Street, and she’s already taken up residence – with Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.”
“Is she still working on her lives of the Scottish saints?”
“I believe so, although apparently she’s taking an interest in levitation now. She’s interested in saints who were reported to levitate. St. Joseph of Copertino, for instance, who travelled quite long distances, apparently – horizontally. Rather more interesting than our Scottish saints.”
“Who were more down to earth,” said Dilly.
“Hah!” said Domenica. “But anyway, that’s the news from Scotland Street.” She looked at her watch. “We must be back there by twelve,” she said. “The Creative Scotland people are coming at twelve-thirty, and we must be ready.”
“What will we talk about?” asked Dilly.
“Oh, I’m sure there’ll be all sorts of things to discuss. I’ve lived with hunter-gatherers before, you know, and they tend to be utterly charming people, with lots to say.”
After further conversation, they finished their coffee, paid the bill, and then strolled back to Scotland Street for the much-anticipated cultural exchange with their unusual visitors.
A Perfect Boy
On the day of the resolution of what Matthew came to call, with good-natured self-mockery, l’affaire Patterson Cowie, the new au pair boy was due to start at Nine Mile Burn. The business with Mrs. Patterson Cowie had been traumatic, but had eventually been settled over a cup of coffee in Big Lou’s once Matthew had apologised to the retired teacher. His apology had been graciously accepted and Mrs. Patterson Cowie had then telephoned Gayfield Square Police Station, to be put through automatically to a police call centre on the island of Barra. Speaking to a recording device, she had explained that the search for the young man who had knocked her over in the bookshop could now be called off. “All a misunderstanding,” she said. “I’ve had a perfectly good apology from him and have discovered, incidentally, that he is a former pupil of mine and therefore a Watsonian. That’s quite enough for me.”
Matthew had been immensely relieved. “It was awful being wanted by the police,” he confided. “I felt so furtive in everything I did.”
“It’s all over,” said Mrs. Patterson Cowie. “But to get back to that book . . . I really had no time for it, you know. I can’t understand what people saw in it.”
“Perhaps they saw that other people were reading it,” suggested Matthew. “Perhaps that was enough. An immoral panic, perhaps.”
“Possibly,” said Mrs. Patterson Cowie. “But let’s not dwell on such things; tell me, Matthew, are you attending Watsonian meetings regularly? You should, you know.”
Matthew promised to do his best. He would have agreed to do anything for Mrs. Patterson Cowie now, who by her generosity and forgiveness had taken such a weight off his shoulders.
He returned early to the house at Nine Mile Burn, as he and Elspeth had agreed with the Duke of Johannesburg that he would bring his nephew around at five in the evening, to get settled into his new position as au pair assistant to Elspeth. They had not interviewed this young man, who was called James, and had taken him purely on the Duke’s recommendation, so desperate was Elspeth for help.
They waited in the kitchen, nervously sipping at mugs of tea.
“I hope we like him,” Elspeth said, and then immediately reassured herself by adding, “Of course we shall. The Duke spoke so highly of him, but I suppose one would speak highly of one’s nephew . . . ” And reassured herself again with, “But then it would be terribly embarrassing for him if he recommended a dud, he being a sort of neighbour, and people would talk. No, he’ll be fine – I’m sure of it.”
“Just calm down,” said Matthew. “He’ll be fine – he really will.”
They watched as the Duke’s unusual-looking car made its way up the drive, disappearing into the cover of the rhododendron bushes before re-emerging a few moments later. Their first sight of James was when he emerged with the Duke from the back seat. They watched as the Duke straightened the young man’s collar, brushed his shoulders in an avuncular fashion, and then led him towards the front door.
Introductions were made in the small entrance hall. Elspeth glanced at James as the Duke introduced him, and then she glanced again. Beautiful, she thought. And then she found herself thinking, Too good to be true.
Matthew smiled at the young man. He thought, Honest. And then he thought, He’s not going to stay. Why should he?
“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Elspeth brightly. “Then we can bring the boys in. They’re in the playroom – go and check on them, Matthew.”
Matthew left Elspeth to lead the guests into the kitchen.
“Young James has just had his exam results,” said the Duke. “Tell them, James.”
The young man blushed. “They were all right.”
“Just all right!” exclaimed the Duke. “They were stellar, James. No false modesty.”
Perhaps it’s real modesty, thought Elspeth.
“Go on, James,” urged the Duke. “All As – every one of them. All starred.”
James blushed a deeper red. “Lots of people get As,” he said.
“Not in my day,” said the Duke. “The highest mark I got was C.”
“But Uncle,” said James, “To get a C in those days counted for something.”
The Duke smiled. “You’re very tactful.”
“And now?” asked Elspeth. “What are your plans . . . I mean, after here?”
Before James could answer, the door opened and Matthew returned, accompanied by the triplets.
“This is Tobermory,” said Matthew, pointing to one of the boys.
“No,” said Elspeth quietly. “That’s Fergus. This one is Tobermory. And this is Rognvald.”
The three toddlers stared at James.
“Hello, boys,” said the young man.
“They can’t actually talk yet,” said Matthew. “They’re only fifteen months.”
“They’re very well-behave
d,” said Elspeth quickly. “You’ll have no trouble with them.”
James turned to address the Duke. “You didn’t tell me about them, Uncle,” he said. There was more surprise than reproach in his voice.
The Duke brushed off the comment. “Oh, I thought I mentioned them.” And then he added, as if by way of explanation – as if one might easily miss three such young infants. “They’re very small, of course.”
“No,” said James. “You didn’t mention them.”
“Well, there we are,” said the Duke breezily. “You’ll get on fine. They’re grand wee boys.”
With James delivered and his suitcase being retrieved from the car, the Duke said goodbye to Matthew and Elspeth. He was driving himself on this occasion, Padruig, his driver, being away speaking Gaelic somewhere.
“You’ll find this young man no trouble at all,” the Duke said to Matthew. “Young people these days – well, you know what they’re like, but James is quite different.” He paused for a few moments before continuing, “In fact, I’m prepared to guarantee him, so to speak. If you have the slightest concerns – the slightest – I shall cover the cost of a replacement. You have my word on that.”
“There’s no need,” said Matthew.
“But I want you to know how much confidence I have in him,” said the Duke. “Please – I insist.”
Matthew shrugged. “If you really want to – but I’m sure he’s going to be fine.”
“Of course,” the Duke continued, “James has his little ways. But then, which one of us doesn’t?”
James Sets to Work
Once the Duke of Johannesburg had left, Elspeth showed James around the house, explaining to him where everything was kept. She spent some time on the nursery, familiarising him with some of what Matthew called the triplets’ impedimenta – the changing mats, the wipes, the disinfectants, the endless supplies of shirts and jumpers and socks, the bibs, the plastic drinking mugs, and so on.