When she reached him he put his glass down on the bar and leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the brow.
“Well,” he said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Lou?”
She nodded. She would not cry, she had determined, but there were tears to be fought back. Discreetly, unseen by Eddie, Big Lou bit her lip.
“Aye, it’s been a good long time. And now …”
“And now here we are,” said Eddie.
She said nothing and glanced at the bartender, who was hovering. Eddie ordered her a drink – “I remember that you like Pernod, Lou. Pernod! Yes, I remember that well.”
“I don’t drink it very much any more,” she said. “But thanks, Eddie.”
They looked at one another. She noticed that he had put on a bit of weight, but not much, and that there were a few grey hairs above his ears. His hair looked a bit neater, too, but that was because he had been in America, and people worried more about their grooming there.
“How are you doing, Eddie?” she asked. “Are you still in Galveston? In Texas, or wherever it is?”
He smiled, somewhat awkwardly, and looked down at his feet. “I meant to write to you again, Lou, and tell you. I’m not the best letter-writer, you know. You did get my letter, didn’t you?”
Big Lou reached for the glass which the bartender was offering. “Yes, I got your letter, Eddie.” If he knew, she thought; if he knew how many times I have read that letter, and how I have preserved it, a token, for there were no other tokens.
“I stayed in Galveston for a few years,” said Eddie. “Then I moved to Mobile, Alabama. Great place. That’s where I am now. You’d like it, you know.”
Big Lou listened carefully. He had said that she would not like Galveston, that she should not join him out there. Now he was saying that she would like Mobile. Did this mean that he wanted her to go back there with him; that he wanted her again? And why would he assume that she would be available? But of course he would know that; of course he would.
He asked her what she was doing, and she explained. He said that she would be good at running a coffee bar – he had always thought that she should be in the catering industry, he said – and she thanked him for that. And was he still cooking? He was, but not for oil men.
“I’m a real chef now,” he said. “Cooking in the oil industry is just industrial. Big helpings for these big guys. Lots of carbohydrates. No finesse.”
She imagined him again in his kitchen whites, with the cap that he liked to wear, which hid his greasy hair. She had given him a special shampoo once, which claimed that it would end greasy hair, but either it had not worked or he had stopped using it.
They finished their drink and then went over the road to the Café Sardi. He had booked a table there, and asked her whether she knew it. She did not, but she liked it when she went in. She liked restaurants with pictures on the walls and there was something about Italian restaurants which was always welcoming.
They sat at a table near the wall. He looked at the menu and told her about some of the dishes that he cooked now. Americans had a sweet tooth, he said, and so he was obliged to sprinkle icing sugar on things which would be savoury in Scotland.
“Is it very different over there?” asked Big Lou. “Would I like it, do you think?”
He fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘It’s very different in some ways,” he said. “You have to look after yourself. If you’re down, you’re down. Nobody’s going to come and pick you up. But if you want to work, then it’s a great place to be.”
“Maybe I should come and see you,” said Big Lou. She spoke tentatively, because he had not invited her yet, in spite of his saying that she would like Mobile. What a strange name, she thought: Mobile, and he pronounced it Mobeel, which must be the right way to say it. Eddie was good on these details; he had always been like that.
“There’s something I should tell you, Lou,” said Eddie. “I’m married now. I married a girl I met there. We run a restaurant together.”
Big Lou said nothing. She started to speak, but said nothing. She looked down at the cutlery, at her side plate, at the single flower in the tiny vase, at the way the candle flame flickered in the draught.
90. Poetry of the Tang Dynasty
There are, said Auden (and Tolstoy), different types of unhappiness. For Big Lou, the revelation that Eddie had married a woman in Mobile, Alabama, made her unhappy. She had never had very much, and losing what little she had was at least a suffering to which she was fairly accustomed (Auden’s phrase about the poor). For Pat, who had been loved a great deal, and knew it, the sight of Bruce in the Cumberland Bar, his attention entirely given over to his American girlfriend, provided a new sort of unhappiness. This was the unhappiness of knowing that you simply cannot have what you want to have – an unhappiness which is a bitter discovery for the young. The young rarely believe that they will not be able to get what they want, because there is always an open future. I may not be beautiful today, but I shall be beautiful tomorrow. I may not have much money today, but that will all change. Not so.
As he escorted Pat out of the Cumberland Bar, Angus Lordie was aware that she was feeling miserable. One with less psychological insight than he might have attempted to cheer her up with distracting remarks, or with observations on the fact that there were plenty of other young men. But he knew what it was to love without hope, and knew that the only way to deal with that bleak state was to look one’s unhappiness in the face. And it was important, he thought, to understand that the last thing that the unhappy wish to be reminded of is the greater unhappiness of others. Telling a person with toothache that there are others with greater toothache than their own was no help at all.
So he said to Pat, as they left the Cumberland “Yes, it’s very uncomfortable, isn’t it? You want him and he doesn’t want you – because he’s got another girl. Oh yes. Very unfortunate. And, of course, even if he didn’t have her, he might not want you anyway.”
Pat did not consider this helpful and was about to tell him that she did not want to talk about it. But he continued. “I can understand what you see in him, you know. I can understand the attraction of male beauty. I’m an artist, and I know what beauty is all about. That beautiful young man has worked a spell on you. That’s what beauty does. We see it and it puts a spell on us. It’s most extraordinary. We want to merge ourselves with it. We want to possess it. We want to be it. You want to be that young man, you know. That’s what you want.”
Pat listened in astonishment as they made their way round Drummond Place towards the top of Scotland Street. As they walked past the house of the late Sydney Goodsir Smith, makar, Angus Lordie looked up at the empty windows and gave a salute.
“I like to acknowledge Sydney’s shade,” he said. “Guidnicht, then, for the nou, Li Po/ In the Blythefu Hills of Tien-Mu.” He turned to Pat. “Those lovely lines are by Sydney, God rest his great rambunctious soul. He wrote a lovely poem, addressed to the Chinese poet, Li Po, about an evening’s goings-on in an Edinburgh bar, a cheerie howf, peopled by a crousi companie o’ philosophers and tinks. What a marvellous picture! And all this going on while the world in its daith-dance/ skudder and spun/ in the haar and wind o space and time.”
He stopped and looked down at his dog. “Do you think this is awful nonsense, Cyril? Will you tell Pat that I don’t always go on like this, but that sometimes … well sometimes it just seems the right thing to do. Will you tell her that, Cyril?”
Cyril stared at his master and then turned to look up at Pat. He winked.
“There,” said Angus Lordie. “Cyril would have got on very well with Sydney. And he does like to hear about the Chinese poets too, although he knows that the Chinese eat dogs – a practice of which Cyril scarcely approves, tolerant though he is of most other human foibles. A dog has to draw a line.”
“Do you enjoy Chinese poetry, Pat? No. I suppose that you’ve never had the pleasure. You should try it, you know. The Arthur Waley translations. The
se Chinese poets wrote wonderful pieces about the pleasure of sitting on the shore of their rivers and waiting for boats to arrive. Nothing much else happens in Chinese poetry, but then does one want much to happen in poetry? I rather think not.”
They turned down Scotland Street, walking slowly in order to allow Cyril to sniff at every kerbstone and lamp-post.
“It’s really rather easy to write eighth-century Chinese poetry,” said Angus Lordie. “In English, of course. It requires little effort, I find.”
“Make one up now,” said Pat. “Go on. If you say it’s so easy.”
Angus Lordie stopped again. “Certainly. Well now, let us think.” He paused. Then turning to face Pat, he addressed her gravely:
I look across this street of stone,
This street which takes a country’s name,
To the house with lights, where a gentle companion
Prepares her jug of wine, brings to mind
The hours that we have spent together
In that quiet room; each stair that lies
Between ourselves and her, will raise the heart a little,
Will tidy the unhappiness from your courtyard,
Will make you smile again. My unhappy friend;
I tell you so; I tell you this is true.
He finished speaking, and bowed slightly to Pat. “My Chinese poem,” he said. “Not as good, perhaps, as that which might have been written by Li Po, if he were with us, which he is not, but capable perhaps of preparing you for an evening with Domenica and myself and conversation about things that really matter. And if, incidentally, this is balm for your undoubted unhappiness, then I shall consider myself to have done no more than any neighbour should do. N’est-ce-pas, Cyril?”
91. God Looks Down on Belgium
“And where,” asked Domenica Macdonald, as she opened her door to them, “is your malodorous dog?”
Angus Lordie seemed not to be taken aback by what struck Pat as a less than warm welcome. But Pat’s concern proved to be misplaced. The relationship between her neighbour, Domenica, and her newly-acquired friend, Angus Lordie, was an easy one, and the banter they exchanged was good-natured. In the course of the evening, Angus Lordie was to describe Domenica – to her face – as a “frightful blue-stocking”, and in return she informed him that he was a “well-known failure”, a “roué” and “a painter of dubious talent”.
“If you are referring to Cyril,” said Angus Lordie, “he is outside, tied to a railing, enjoying the smells of this odiferous street. He misses such smells in Drummond Place, with its rather better air. He is quite happy.”
Domenica ushered them into her study. “I really am rather pleased that you came to see me,” she said, as she took a half-full bottle of Macallan out of a cupboard. “I’ve been worrying about this fatwa of yours, Angus. Have those dissident Free Presbyterians shown their hand yet?”
Pat remembered the talk about the dissenting Free Presbyterian fatwa imposed upon Angus Lordie as a result of his uncomplimentary portrait of their Moderator. Angus Lordie had not mentioned anything more about it, and certainly his demeanour was not that of one labouring under a fatwa.
“Oh that,” said Angus Lordie, accepting the generous glass of whisky which Domenica had poured for him. “Yes, they’ve done one or two things to signal their displeasure, but I think that the whole thing will probably blow over.”
“And what precisely have they done?” asked Domenica.
“A group of them came and sang Gaelic psalms outside my door,” he replied. “You know those awful dirges that they go in for? Well, we had a bit of that. I went out and thanked them afterwards and they looked a bit disconcerted. They mumbled something about how I would hear from them again, but they didn’t seem to have much heart for it.”
“It’s so difficult to sustain a fatwa,” said Domenica. “One has to be so enthusiastic. I’m not sure if I could find the moral energy myself.”
“Cyril howled when he heard the Gaelic psalms,” said Angus Lordie. “And they thought that he was joining in. He sounded so like them! Quite uncanny! Of course he does come from Lochboisdale and he’s probably heard Gaelic psalms before. Perhaps it made him feel homesick.”
“Oh well,” said Domenica. “These things all add to the gaiety of nations. That’s the nice thing about life in Scotland. It’s hardly dull. I’m immensely relieved that I don’t live in a dull country.”
“Such as?” asked Pat. Her gap year had taken her to Australia and then, briefly on to New Zealand. New Zealand was perhaps somewhat quiet while Australia had proved to be far from dull; at least for her.
“Oh, Belgium,” said Domenica. “Belgium is extremely dull.”
Angus Lordie nodded his head in agreement. “I’ve never quite seen the reason for Belgium,” he said. “But I certainly agree with you about its dullness. Remember that party game in which people are invited to name one famous Belgian (other than anybody called Leopold) – that’s pretty revealing, isn’t it?”
“I have a list of famous Belgians somewhere,” said Domenica rather absently. “But I think I’ve mislaid it.”
“It’ll turn up,” said Angus Lordie, taking a sip of his whisky. “These things do. Did I tell you, by the way, that I composed a hymn about Belgium? The Church of Scotland has been revising its hymnary and was asking for more modern contributions. I composed one of which I was really rather proud. I called it God looks down on Belgium.”
“And the words?” asked Domenica.
Angus Lordie cleared his throat. “The first verse goes as follows,” he began:
God’s never heard of Belgium,
But loves it just the same,
For God is kind
And doesn’t mind –
He’s not impressed with fame.
After he had finished, he folded his hands and looked at Domenica. Pat felt uncertain. Was this serious? She had enjoyed the Chinese poem which he had declaimed to her in Scotland Street, but this hymn seemed … well, he couldn’t possibly mean it.
Domenica looked at Angus Lordie and raised an eyebrow. “Did the Church of Scotland use it?” she asked.
“Inexplicably, no,” said Angus Lordie. “I had a very polite letter back, but I fear that they feel that it’s not suitable. I suppose it’s something to do with comity within Europe. We have to pretend to take Belgium seriously.”
“We live in such a humourless age,” Domenica remarked. “It used to be possible to laugh. It used to be possible to enjoy oneself with fantasies – such as your ridiculous hymn – sorry, Angus – but now? Well, now there are all sorts of censors and killjoys. Earnest, ignorant people who lecture us on what we can think and say. And do you know, we’ve lain down and submitted to the whole process. It’s been the most remarkable display of passivity. With the result that when we encounter anybody who thinks independently, or who doesn’t echo the received wisdoms of the day, we’re astonished.”
“In such a way is freedom of thought lost,” said Angus Lordie, who had been listening very attentively to Domenica. “By small cuts. By small acts of disapproval. By a thousand discouragements of spirit.”
They were all silent for a moment as they reflected on what had been said. Domenica and Angus Lordie appeared to be in agreement, but Pat was not so sure. What was the point about being rude about Belgium? Surely we had made moral progress in recognising the sensitivities of others and in discouraging disparaging comments? What if a Belgian were to hear the words of that hymn? Would a Belgian not be gratuitously offended? And surely one should never criticise people for things that they cannot help – such as being Belgian?
Pat was thinking this when she became aware that the eyes of the other two were on her.
“You must understand something, my dear,” Domenica said to her. “Angus is not to be taken seriously.”
Angus Lordie nodded. “Absolutely right,” he said. “But listen, Domenica, I’m feeling bored and I want some exc
itement. I was wondering whether you would care to show Pat here and me the tunnel. I get a distinct feeling this is a night for exploration – of every sort.”
Domenica glanced at Pat. It was a glance that was rich in moral warning.
92. In Scotland Street Tunnel
Pat had heard that Scotland Street – the street itself – was built over a Victorian railway tunnel. Bruce had pointed out to her that the basements on either side of the street went appreciably lower than was normal for the New Town – that was because the street was supported by the roof of the tunnel.
“I know quite a lot about these things,” he said. “Just ask me if there’s anything you want to know.”
Now, accompanied by Domenica and Angus Lordie, she stood outside a low door in the space outside the lowest basement floor of their block. Above them, arched like broad flying buttresses, were the stone steps that led to their front door and to the door of the upper basement. Cyril, who had been retrieved by Angus Lordie from his station at the railings, was eagerly sniffing at the door.
“I thought this was a coal cellar,” said Pat.
“Indeed it is,” said Domenica, pushing the door open with her foot. “But it is something over and above that – something which only I and one or two other long-term residents know about.”
She shone the beam of her flashlight into the dark space behind the door.
“It still smells of coal,” she said. “As you will notice. But that door at the back there gives access to the tunnel. And if you follow me, we can go inside and take a walk.”
Domenica stepped forward decisively. Angus Lordie indicated to Pat that she should follow her and that he and Cyril would bring up the rear. “Cyril is utterly without fear,” he said, “which unfortunately suggests that he has little imagination. The brave are usually somewhat unimaginative, don’t you find?”
There was no time to discuss this intriguing proposition, as Domenica was now inside the tunnel and the light from her torch was playing against the opposite wall. Crouching, as the cellar door was not high enough to walk through unbent, Pat made her way into the tunnel, feeling immediately the cooler air on her skin, smelling the slightly musty odour, not unlike the smell of a garden shed that has been left unopened for some time.