She looked up. Domenica was directing the torchlight towards the roof of the tunnel. There, growing from the blackened masonry, were clusters of small stalactites, white against the dark background, like colonies of fungi. The tunnel was high – over twenty feet, Pat thought – and it was broad too, to allow for a footpath on either side of the track.
Domenica shone the torch up the tunnel, in the direction of Drummond Place. “We should start walking,” she said. “And watch your feet as you go. This is fairly steep. The gradient is actually one in twenty-seven. And the distance in this tunnel, by the way, is measured in chains.”
“You are immensely well-informed, as ever,” said Angus Lordie. “Where did you pick up this arcane knowledge?”
“From the organist at St Giles,” replied Domenica. “My friend, Peter Backhouse. He knows everything there is to be known about railways, and he knows all about the old lines of Edinburgh. He can tell you all about Bach and Pachelbel and so on, but he also knows all about track gradients and signalling systems and the Edinburgh, Leith and Granton Railway Company. Remarkable, isn’t it? I’m always impressed by people who know a lot about trains.”
“I’ve always thought that the Church of Scotland was a bit unsound on railways,” said Angus Lordie. “Did you ever hear Professor Torrance talk about trains when he was moderator? You did not. And now that we have a female moderator, well, I’m afraid there’s likely to be little improvement. Women tend not to be interested in trains in quite the same way that men are. Or at least some men. I have no interest in trains myself, of course.”
“That’s because there is a large part of the female in your psyche,” said Domenica. “You’re in touch with your feminine side. You’re a new man, Angus.”
For a few moments they walked on in silence. It did not seem to Pat that Angus Lordie was a new man at all; in fact, it seemed to her that he was quite the opposite. And Cyril was certainly not a new dog – not with his liking for beer, his reputed chasing after lady dogs, and his tendency to wink. None of these was the attribute of a new dog.
“Where does this tunnel lead?” asked Pat suddenly. She did not usually feel claustrophobic, but now she began to feel a slight unease as she realised that they were getting some distance from the cellar door which had admitted them. They only had one torch with them – what would happen if that torch failed? Would they have to feel their way along the side of the tunnel until they found the opening? And what if there were places where the floor had collapsed, which they would not see in the darkness?
Domenica answered her question. “It goes all the way up to Waverley Station,” she said. “It ends opposite platforms 1 and 19. It’s bricked up there, I’m afraid, and so we shall have to come back by the same route.”
Pat reflected on this and then asked where the trains went.
“Down to Granton,” said Domenica. “Peter Backhouse showed me a map once which made it very clear. The trains set off from Canal Street Station in the centre of the city and went down the tunnel purely by the force of gravity. Coming up the other way, they were pulled by a rope system, which was powered by a stationary engine. When they came out at Scotland Street Station they made their way down to Granton. You could get a ferry there to take you over to Fife. There was no Forth Bridge in those days, you see.”
Cyril barked suddenly, and Domenica swung the beam of the torch round to illuminate him.
“He’s seen something,” said Angus Lordie. “Look at the way his nose is quivering. What have you picked up, boy – what have you sniffed?”
Cyril growled. “He’s never wrong, you know,” said Angus Lordie. “He’s found something. Shine the beam in the direction he’s looking in, Domenica.”
Domenica moved the beam of the torch to the side. They were all silent as the light moved and then there came a gasp from Domenica. She was the first to see it – the first to understand what they were looking at. And then the others realised too, and they looked at Domenica, on whose face a small part of the light of the torch was falling. And they waited for guidance – for an explanation.
93. A Further Tunnel – and a Brief Conversation
About Aesthetics
Domenica broke the silence that followed Cyril’s extraordinary discovery. And it was Cyril’s discovery, as everybody later agreed – one for which he should be given all due credit. Had he not barked to alert them to the change in the smell of the air, then they would have walked right past the largely-concealed mouth of the side-tunnel. But Cyril, detecting a new whiff, gave them warning, and when Domenica turned her torch in the right direction, they had seen the much smaller tunnel sloping off to the west.
“Peter Backhouse said nothing about this,” muttered Domenica, as she took a step towards the mouth of the smaller tunnel.
“It has no doubt been forgotten about,” said Angus Lordie, reaching out to twist off a piece of the board that had been used to block the entrance. The wood came away in his hand, and immediately another piece fell off the now-crumbling barrier.
“I suspect that this is a service tunnel of some sort,” said Domenica, directing the beam up the very much narrower passage.
“Shall we?” said Angus Lordie. “Would it be safe to walk up a little? Heaven knows what we might find.”
The idea of fresh exploration seemed attractive to Domenica and Angus Lordie – and immensely so to Cyril, who was straining on his lead to enter this territory of uncharted smells. Pat was not so enthusiastic. It was one thing to walk down a well-known tunnel, and quite another to explore a tunnel which nobody appeared to know about. Again she worried about the possible failure of the torch. It would have been bad enough having to navigate down the central tunnel in complete darkness, but if they entered what might well be a warren of service tunnels, then they might be lost indefinitely, wandering around beneath the streets of Edinburgh until hunger and fatigue claimed them and they failed. There would be no prospect of rescue, then, as nobody knew that they had ventured into the Scotland Street tunnel in the first place. Their disappearance would thus be a complete mystery, rather like the disappearance of that party of Australian schoolgirls who were swallowed up by the earth at Hanging Rock. That had not been a successful picnic, on the whole.
“Do you think this is safe?” she asked. Her voice in the darkness sounded very weak, and she wondered whether anybody had heard her. But Domenica had, and she reached out and grasped her arm.
“Don’t worry. This won’t go very far. And if it were going to cave in, it would have done so a long time ago.”
“Quite right,” added Angus Lordie. “Safe as houses.”
They made their way down the side-tunnel, walking more slowly, as there was less room, and they could barely fit two abreast. The tunnel was not quite straight, and from time to time it veered slightly to the left or right, but its general direction was westwards.
Pat shivered. The air was cooler now, and she began to regret not having fetched a jersey or a coat from the flat before they began their expedition. But she had been unwilling to go into her flat in case she should disturb Bruce and Sally, and so she had come lightly dressed. Of course there was no reason to believe that Bruce and Sally would be there: they were probably still in the Cumberland Bar, for all she knew, or having dinner together, over a candle-lit table. Would they be talking about her? she wondered. Of course they would not – there was no reason for them to be interested in her. Bruce tolerated her – that was all – and Sally disliked her. So she was nothing to them, and they would have no reason even to think about her, let alone discuss her.
She was aware of Angus Lordie walking beside her, while Domenica was a few steps ahead, the light from her torch bobbing up and down as she walked.
“What an adventure!” Angus Lordie whispered. “Did you imagine that we would find ourselves taking a subterranean promenade together?”
“No,” she said. “I did not.”
He sighed. “I am conscious, of course, that there are many othe
rs with whom you would prefer to take such a walk. That young man in the bar, for example.” He paused for a moment. “Don’t throw your heart away, my dear. I recognise the signs so well. An impossible passion. Don’t waste your time on him.”
She was going to remain silent, but her answer slipped out, almost without her willing it.
“It’s not so easy,” she said. “I’d like to stop, but I find that I can’t. You can’t stop yourself feeling something for somebody else. You just can’t.”
“Oh yes, you can,” said Angus Lordie, his voice raised slightly. “You can stop yourself from loving somebody perfectly well. You simply change the way you look at them. People do it all the time.”
Domenica now joined in. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you can’t really expect to have a confidential conversation in a tunnel. I have heard every word you’ve whispered, and I feel that I must agree with Angus. Of course you can change the way you feel about something or somebody. But it requires an effort of the will – a conscious decision to recognise what you have missed.”
“Precisely,” said Angus. “And this is exactly what the Professor of Aesthetics at Harvard did. She decided that she found palm trees beautiful – before that she thought them an unattractive sort of tree. Then she discovered that she liked the way that their fronds made striped light. And after that, palm trees were beautiful.”
This conversation on aesthetic theory might have continued, and indeed Angus Lordie was mentally marshalling arguments in favour of his position – and that of the Professor of Aesthetics at New York – when Domenica suddenly drew to a halt.
“Are we reaching the end?’ asked Pat. It was difficult to see what lay ahead, as the beam of the torch was, as she had feared, becoming rather weaker. But it seemed as if there was a blockage of some sort there.
“I think we are,” said Domenica. “Look, it seems to go fairly sharply upwards.”
They moved forward cautiously, Domenica playing the beam of the torch up towards the ceiling of the tunnel. Suddenly, and without warning, she flicked the switch of the torch and the beam of light disappeared. They were not in total darkness, though – weak rays of yellow light came from above them, emanating from what appeared to be cracks in the roof above them. There was not a great deal of light, but it was sufficient for them to see one another’s faces, and to see the few chunks of fallen masonry that littered the tunnel floor around them.
Pat saw Domenica beckon them to her, and she and Angus Lordie drew near.
“We’re under a room,” said Domenica, pointing upwards. They had been stooping as they walked, and now, by standing straight, their heads almost touched the roof.
“There’s something happening up there,” whispered Domenica. “Let’s take a look. But do keep your voices down and, Angus, whatever you do, don’t let that dog of yours bark.”
“But where are we?” whispered Pat. They had walked some distance – perhaps the equivalent of two blocks on Princes Street – but it was difficult to calculate distance in the darkness. They may have done many more chains than that.
“By my calculation,” said Domenica, sotto voce, “we are more or less directly underneath the New Club!”
94. An Interesting Discovery
Moving carefully, so as not to make any sound, Domenica, Angus Lordie and Pat took up positions directly under the cracks in the ceiling. It was not easy to see what was going on above, but by the careful placing of an eye to a crack – a manoeuvre which involved pushing the side of one’s face against the rough masonry, and suppressing the urge to sneeze that inevitably followed – they were able to see up into the room above.
It was not a perfect view. It is, in general, easier to look down rather than to look up (a proposition which may be applied to a range of human activities, including literature and journalism). The view from Parnassus gives one a greater sense of power, one might assume, than the view of Parnassus from the plains below. But even from their disadvantaged and uncomfortable position, the sight which greeted their eyes was one which amply repaid the effort.
The cracks in the ceiling were cracks in the floor of a large room. They were directly below an impressive table, which was probably why they had been undiscovered. And around this table were seated some twenty people – forty sets of legs, male and female – forty shoes with accompanying ankles. And that was about all they could see, such were the limitations of their vantage point.
Pat stared at the shoes. Most of them were men’s shoes, but there were women’s shoes here and there, including a pair that was very close to her eye. She stared at the shoes: they were made of expensive leather, and had fashionable, finely honed square-tip toes. As she stared, one of the feet lifted slightly and the shoe came down on the edge of the crack through which Pat was looking. Had she wished to do so, she could have poked the tip of her little finger through the crack and touched the shoe. But she did not.
She looked at some of the other legs and saw that one set of ankles, placed up at the top of the table, was clad in a pair of extremely bright red socks. The shoes involved were fine ones – black brogues with a high shine on the toe-caps, influential shoes – which made the colour of the socks seem all the more surprising. Pat lowered her head for a moment and tapped Domenica on the shoulder.
“Did you see those red socks?” she whispered. “Up at the end of the table.”
Domenica pressed her face to the crack and looked again. Then she turned back to Pat. Her expression was excited; as if she had made a great discovery.
“I know who that is!” she whispered. “There’s only one person who wears socks like that.”
Pat thought that she had heard the name, or seen it in the papers, but was not sure.
“He was chairman of a whisky company, I think,” said Domenica. “Highland Distillers. Then he’s on the board of the Bank of Scotland, and he’s chairman of the National Galleries of Scotland. He’s a very nice man. I’ve met him several times. Those feet over there must be his – I’m sure of it. And it looks as if he’s in the chair!”
“And can you recognise anybody else?” asked Pat.
“I can,” whispered Angus Lordie. “Take a look at those feet halfway along on the far side. Look at the shoes.”
They all peered through the cracks to examine the shoes that had been pointed out to them. They looked ordinary enough though, and Pat and Domenica were wondering what special features had enabled Angus Lordie to identify them when there came a sound from above, a coughing, and then the sound of a gavel being struck on the surface of the table.
“I call the meeting to order,” a voice announced.
“I was right,” whispered Domenica. “I was right! I know that voice. I know it!”
“The secretary of the New Club,” she said. “That’s him!”
“Chairman,” said the voice, “would you like me to read the minutes of the last meeting?”
“No,” said another voice, from the end of the table. “I think we’ve all read them. Any matters arising?”
There was a silence. “How are things progressing with the … with you know what.”
“What?” asked another voice.
“You know,” someone replied. “That delicate business.”
“Oh that!” somebody said. “I had a word with the person in question and it’s all sorted out.”
“But what if it gets out?” asked a woman’s voice. “What if The Scotsman gets to hear of this?”
“They won’t get to hear of it,” said the first voice. “And anyway, it’s just a social matter. Nobody else’s business.”
“Good,” said a woman. “You’ve handled it all very well.”
“Just as you handle everything,” said somebody.
“Thank you. But I think it’s a committee thing. I think we can all take a bit of credit for that.”
There was silence for a moment. Pat looked at Domenica, who smiled at her. Her expression was triumphant.
“I knew it!” said Domen
ica quietly. “I knew it all along!”
“Now,” said a more authoritative voice. “Now, I think we should get on with things and look at the draft mission statement. I’m not sure whether we should have a mission statement – or at least not a public one. But I suppose it would be useful to have one just for ourselves, so that we can remind ourselves of what we’re about. What does everybody else think?”
Some of the feet moved. Ankles were crossed, and then uncrossed.
“I think we should have one,” said somebody halfway down the table. As long as it can sum up our essential ethos. That would be useful.”
“And how would we sum that up?” asked a low, rather indistinct voice.
“Essentially we exist in order to …” said a voice which was too quiet to be heard properly, “… namely by ourselves.”
There were murmers of assent, and then, to the horror of those below, Cyril, who had been standing patiently beside Angus Lordie, uttered a loud bark.
For a moment all was confusion. Angus Lordie bent down to stifle Cyril, who responded by giving a loud yelp of protest. Pat drew away from the crack through which she had been staring, to bang her head rather sharply against Domenica’s forehead which was similarly moving away from the crack. But order soon re-established itself and the three of them moved quickly away from their secret vantage point.
“Time to go!” said Domenica. “Most disappointing, but I think it would be diplomatic to leave.”
They walked back down the new tunnel and soon emerged in the main railway tunnel. Then, the light of the torch getting feebler by the minute, although Domenica assured them there was enough power to see them back to Scotland Street, they began the journey home.