44 Scotland Street

  Then she stopped. A man was sitting by himself at the table beyond that. He was reading a newspaper, and nursing a small cup of espresso. There was a file with some papers sticking out of it on the table in front of him, but his attention was fixed on the newspaper.

  “Bertie,” she whispered. “That man over there. The one reading the paper. Do you recognise him? He looks very familiar.”

  Bertie followed his mother’s gaze.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen his picture in the paper. I know who that is.”

  “Who is it then?” asked Irene. She had thought that Bertie would know. He was a very attentive boy.

  “That’s Mr Dalyell ,” said Bertie.

  66. Mr Dalyell’s Question

  Although Bertie was Irene’s creation, in both the biological and the metaphorical sense, she was constantly astonished by the things that he knew and that he occasionally revealed so casually. His recognition of Tam Dalyell, purely from newspaper photographs, was a case in point. How many five-year-olds were there in Edinburgh, or anywhere else for that matter, who would recognise the redoubtable politician? None, she imagined. It was even possible that there were many adults who would not know the name, given the contemporary obsession with an entirely superficial celebrity. People had no difficulty in recognising rock musicians and actresses, people for whom Irene had the most profound distaste, but they had great difficulty in recognising those who actually did things of value. So while they would know who all the current actors and footballers were (or at least the good looking ones like Mr Grant and Mr Beckham), they could not be expected to know about people who did something to change the world for the better. Except Bertie, it would seem: Bertie knew.

  Irene gazed at her son with pride. There had been moments in the last few days when she had even begun to doubt the whole Bertie project. Her thoughts had been dangerously seditious; perhaps it would have been better not to teach him Italian, nor the saxophone. She actively thought that, but quickly corrected herself: what a waste that would have been, what a criminal waste! And so she had overcome those temptations – temptations of mediocrity, or ordinariness – and persisted. And now, quite unexpectedly, had come the reward: the recognition of Mr Dalyell in Valvona and Crolla.

  “Did you read about him, Bertie?” she asked, her voice lowered lest Tam Dalyell hear them talking about him.

  Bertie, who had been served a latte with a generous portion of chocolate sprinkled across the surface, took a sip of the creamy liquid, sucking in the chocolate froth with puckered lips.

  “Don’t make that noise,” began Irene automatically, but stopped. Private noises were inevitable with children and she had read they should not be unduly inhibited. Those who were stopped from making these ordinary human noises took it out on the world later on – Irene had read that somewhere and had been impressed by the insight. It was so true, she thought. Oppression was the preserve of the oppressed. The child who is scolded into silence makes others silent later on. It was so true, and yet it was so difficult to rid oneself of the censorious urge when it came to children. They made such a noise. They smelled. And little boys were so brutal in their approach to the world, kicking and shoving and breaking things, just as men did; it was so tempting to subdue these little boys with rules and reproach.

  “I know all about Mr Dalyell,” said Bertie, wiping the chocolate residue from his lips. “He asked a famous question.”

  Irene listened to this without any great interest. Scottish politics were of no consequence to her – even Scottish politics in the Westminster context. Although she had been born in Scotland and had been educated there, her outlook transcended that background. She belonged to that sector of society which somehow did not regard itself as located anywhere in particular. To be located, thought Irene, was to be provincial and narrow. She was above location.

  Bertie looked again in the direction of the man at the table. Then he took another sip of his latte and turned to Irene.

  “Or it’s Mr Harper,” he said.

  Irene looked puzzled. “Or?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie, as if explaining something very simple to one who could not be expected to grasp the self-evident. “Mr Harper is the leader of the Greens. Mr Dalyell is one of the Reds. That man over there is either Mr Dalyell or Mr Harper. It’s difficult to say, Mummy.”

  Irene cast a glance over in the direction of the mysterious politician. Bertie was right: there might well be a strong resemblance between Tam Dalyell and Robin Harper, and certainly if one asked the average five-year-old to say which was which one would not expect a clear answer. But there was nothing average about Bertie, of course.

  Now she was uncertain herself. It was very unsettling, really, not being sure whether one was confronted with Mr Dalyell or Mr Harper, and, really, should one find oneself in this position? Robin Harper was younger than Mr Dalyell, who was a very senior politician, and one might be expected to distinguish on those grounds. But Mr Dalyell did not really show the years at all, and both had a rather, how should one put it, enigmatic look to them, as if they knew the answer to some important question, and we did not. And both, of course, were good men, of whom there was a very short supply.

  She smiled. How was the matter to be resolved, short of asking him directly? But what would one say? “Are you, or are you not, Tam Dalyell?” sounded a bit accusing, as if there was something wrong in being Tam Dalyell. And if one were to be given a negative answer, would one proceed to say: “In that case, are you Robin Harper?” That sounded as if it was somehow second best thing to be Robin Harper, which of course it would certainly not be, at least if one were Robin Harper in the first place. Presumably Robin Harper was quite happy about being Robin Harper. He certainly looked contented with his lot.

  It was Bertie who proposed a solution. “May I ask him, Mummy? May I ask him the answer to his question? If it’s Mr Dalyell, then he could give us the answer.”

  Irene smiled. “Of course you may ask him, Bertie. Go and ask him what’s the answer to his famous question.”

  Bertie immediately rose to his feet and approached the other table, where he stood on his toes and whispered something into the ear of the slightly surprised politician. There then ensued a brief conversation, during which Bertie nodded his head in understanding.

  “Well?” pressed Irene when Bertie returned. “Who was it?”

  “It was Mr Dalyell after all,” said Bertie. “And he told me the answer.”

  “And?” said Irene.

  Bertie looked at his mother. She was always forcing him to do things. She made him learn Italian. She made him play the saxophone. Now she was forcing him to give her the answer to the West Lothian Question. He would have to punish her again.

  “I’m not going to tell you,” he said simply. “Mind your own business.”

  67. Playing with Electricity

  Pat returned to the flat that evening slightly later than usual. The gallery had been unusually busy and she and Matthew had been obliged to deal with a series of demanding customers. When they had eventually closed the gallery, Matthew had suggested that they go for a drink in the Cumberland Bar. Pat had hesitated; she was beginning to like Matthew, but she thought that on balance she would keep her relationship with him on a strictly business level; there was nothing else there, and she would not want to give him any encouragement. If she went for a drink with him, he might misread the situation and it would then become embarrassing to extricate herself. But had Matthew given any sign of interest in her? She thought perhaps he had, although it was difficult to put one’s finger on precisely why she should think this.

  But what was more significant was her desire to get back to the flat. She had found that as the afternoon drew on, she had thought increasingly frequently of the prospect of returning that evening and seeing Bruce. A few days ago, this would have brought on a sense of irritation; now it was something different. She wanted to see him. She was looking forward to going back to Scotland Stre
et and finding him there. Even the smell of cloves, the scent of his hair gel which signalled his presence, was attractive to her.

  She did not reflect on this to any extent; indeed she hardly dared admit it to herself. I do not like him, she told herself; I cannot like him. I have disliked him right from the beginning. He’s self-satisfied; he thinks that every woman fancies him; in reality he’s just … What was he, now that she came to search for an adjective that would sum Bruce up? And why, in the midst of this deprecation should the word gorgeous come to mind?

  Matthew did not seem to be too disappointed when she declined his invitation. “I’m going to the Cumberland anyway,” he said. “Walk that far with me. It’s on your way.”

  They made their way down Dundas Street in companionable silence. A few of the shops were still open; others were closed and shuttered. The fact that Matthew said nothing did not make Pat feel awkward. He was easy company, and it did not seem necessary to say anything. It would have been different with Bruce, she thought; she could not imagine being silent with him. And that surely was a bad sign. There is no point in cultivating the friendship of those with whom we feel we have to talk. And yet, and yet … friendship was one thing; was she thinking of something altogether different? I am playing with electricity, she thought. And what happens to those who play with electricity? Zap!

  When they reached the end of Cumberland Street, Matthew said goodnight and disappeared into the bar. Pat continued her way through Drummond Place and turned down into Scotland Street. She glanced up at their windows, hoping to see a light, but the flat was in darkness. Bruce was not back yet. This knowledge brought with it a pang of disappointment.

  She walked up the stairs, past Irene and Stuart’s door, with its anti-nuclear sticker. From within the flat there drifted the sound of a saxophone, and she stood for a moment and listened. She had not heard Bertie for the last few days, but now he had resumed, even if the playing seemed quieter and more subdued. She strained to hear the tune: it was not As Time Goes By, but it was still familiar. Play Misty for Me, she thought. The playing suddenly stopped and she heard the sound of voices, a scream, she thought; a small voice crying No! No! and then silence. Then there came an adult’s voice – Irene’s, she imagined – and then No! No! again.

  Pat smiled. She remembered how she herself had resisted piano lessons as a child and had been forced to practise for half an hour a day. That had paid off, as her parents knew it would, and she had become a competent pianist. But she had often wished to cry No! No! in protest against the playing of scales and arpeggios. In Bertie’s case it must be so much worse. She had heard from Domenica just how pushy his mother was, and she felt a pang of sympathy for the small boy, burdened with that heavy tenor saxophone that must have been almost the same size as himself.

  She continued up the stairs and let herself into the flat; as she had expected, there was no sign of Bruce. She turned on a light in the hall. A few letters lay on the floor. She picked these up and glanced at them. One was for her – a letter from a friend who had gone to live in London and who was always having boyfriend trouble. The others were for Bruce, and she put these down on the hall table.

  Bruce’s door was open. This was not unusual; he usually left the flat before her, in a rush, as he tended to get out of bed late and lingered in the bathroom – in front of the mirror, she had always assumed. So he often did leave his door open in his rush to get out of the flat, and Pat, who had never gone into his room, had been given glimpses of what it contained. Now she decided she would have a closer look.

  It was a strange feeling going into Bruce’s room uninvited. She paused at the door and almost turned back, but she now felt a delicious feeling of daring, of sweet risk, and she reached for the light switch near the door and flicked it on.

  The room before her was relatively Spartan, and tidier than she imagined it would be. In her experience, young men let their rooms deteriorate into near-squalor. Clothes would be tossed down as they were removed, and left to fester. Books would be strewn around tables. There would be unwashed coffee cups, and tapes, and ancient running shoes with their characteristic acrid smell. In Bruce’s room there was none of this. In one corner there was a bed, neatly-made, with an oatmeal-coloured bedspread. Opposite, against the wall, was a desk with a laptop computer, a neat row of books, and a container of paper clips. Then there was a chair across which a coat had been draped and a wardrobe. A jar of hair gel, half used; the slightest smell of cloves.

  Pat stood still for a moment, looking around her. The broad picture of the room now taken in, she began to notice the finer details. She saw the picture of the Scottish rugby team; she saw the green kit-bag that contained his gym things; she saw the disc of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers tour. All this was very ordinary, but to her surprise she found herself excited by the sight. Everything here belonged to him, and had that strange extra significance in which we vest the possessions of those to whom we are attracted. Items which belong to them become potent simply because they are theirs. They are talismans. They are reminders.

  She felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. It was familiar to her. She had felt it when she had become infatuated as a sixteen-year-old with a boy at school. It had been a painful, heart-breaking experience. And now she felt it again, like a powerful drug; taking hold of her, dulling her defences. She wanted to be with him. She wanted Bruce. Electricity. Electricity.

  She lay down on his bed and looked up at the ceiling. The bed was comfortable; just right, whereas hers was slightly on the soft side. She closed her eyes. There was that faint smell of cloves again, no doubt from the hair gel which had rubbed off on his pillow. She took a deep breath. Cloves. Zanzibar. And electricity.

  68. Boucle d’Or

  Goldilocks, or Boucle d’Or, as Bruce might have called her, lay asleep on the bed in the cottage when suddenly she opened her eyes and saw the bears. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” said a gruff voice.

  “And who’s this sleeping in my bed?” asked Bruce, standing above her, looking down, bemused.

  Pat opened her eyes and saw not the ceiling, to the sight of which she had closed them, but Bruce’s face, and she shut them again. But it was, of course, true; she was on his bed, uninvited, and now he had found her there. He looked mildly quizzical, she noticed, if not completely surprised; he was the sort of person, she thought, who imagined that people would gladly lie down on his bed, as a privilege, perhaps – a treat.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I came in here and lay down on your bed. I dropped off to sleep.”

  He laughed. He did not mind. “But what were you doing?”

  Pat stared at the floor. She could hardly tell him that she came in because she wanted to see his things, to get a sense of him. And so she mumbled something else altogether. “I wanted to see what your room was like – whether it was different from my own.”

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Well …?”

  “I know it sounds odd,” said Pat. “And I’m sorry. I’m not really nosy, I’m really not.”

  “Of course not,” said Bruce, taking off his jacket and flinging it down on a chair. “Make yourself at home. Don’t mind me. Make yourself at home.”

  For a moment Pat thought that he was going to take his clothes off, as he had moved away and was now undoing buttons; but he only stripped to the waist, moving towards the cupboard, from which he extracted a clean, folded shirt. And his undressing happened so quickly, before she had time to get to her feet and leave the room. It was all very casually done, but was it intended as some sort of show?

  She glanced at him, quickly, so that he should not see her look, and she noticed the smooth, tanned skin, almost olive, and the ripple of muscles. He was utterly confident, utterly physically at home in the space he occupied, as is any creature of beauty. For a moment she thought of Leonardo’s David, and she remembered the shock that she had felt when, on a school trip to Florence, they had wand
ered into the gallery in which David stood and had hardly dared look, but had looked nonetheless. “Remember, girls,” a teacher had said. “Remember that this is art.”

  What, she had wondered, was that intended to mean? That young men in real life would not be like this, so noble, so marbly, so composed? Or that art might license the feminine gaze upon the male but that in real life one should not be so bold? She recalled this as Bruce crossed shirtless to the window and stood there, looking out on to the street. For a few moments he did nothing, then he unfolded the clean shirt and slipped into it. She felt a pang of disappointment at this act; she wanted this display, crude as it was, to continue.

  “I’m going out,” he said, almost as an aside. “Otherwise I would have offered to cook a meal tonight. But I’m going out.”

  He turned to face her, and smiled at her in a way which struck her, surprisingly, as pitying. Was this pity because she had done such a silly, school-girlish thing as look at his room and lie on his bed? Or pity for the fact that he was going to disappoint her and go out?

  “I’ve met a rather interesting girl,” he said. “She’s American. I’m taking her out to dinner.”

  Pat said nothing.

  “She’s called Sally,” Bruce went on, looking in the mirror beside his wardrobe and stroking his chin. “Should I shave for Sally? What do you think?”

  “It’s up to you,” said Pat.

  “Some girls like a bit of designer stubble,” Bruce said casually, peering again into the mirror. “What do you think?”

  Pat got up and walked towards the door. “I can take it or leave it,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

  Bruce tore himself away from the mirror and watched her leave the room. “Sorry,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “If I didn’t have to go out …”