“Good idea,” said Ronnie. “Just take it down to that what’s his name – that one on the corner there. Ask him.”
“I can’t do that,” said Matthew. “He’d laugh at me. And he’d tell everybody else that I don’t know what I have. No, we need to get somebody else to do it.” He looked at Pat. “Pat? What about you? You take the painting down to him and say that it’s yours. Ask him for an opinion. Is that all right with you? Do it tomorrow?”
“I suppose so,” said Pat. This involved her telling a lie, even if it was a small one. But she was truthful by inclination, and the thought of telling any untruth made her feel uncomfortable. And she did not feel easy in the company of Ronnie and Pete. There was something unsettling about them, something of the late afternoon perhaps, even if not quite something of the night.
21. A Daughter’s Dance Card
It was not a particularly busy day at the offices of Macaulay Holmes Richardson Black, Chartered Surveyors and Factors. The senior partner, Gordon, had gone to London to look at a commercial property in Fulham which a client of the firm had just inherited from a relative. The client wanted to sell the building, but distrusted London agents, a view with which Todd had readily agreed.
In Gordon’s absence on this inspection trip, the firm was run by his younger brother, Raeburn Todd, who was spending the day going through the files in his brother’s filing cabinet. Bruce pretended not to notice. It was information which he could perhaps use one day, if it were necessary. One never knew when one might be in a tight corner, and it was useful to have some cover.
Bruce had very little to do that day and he was bored. After twenty minutes of the newspaper, he rose to his feet and went to look out of the window. It had turned into a wet day outside, although the showers were light and sporadic. From their offices, on the fourth floor of a building in Queen Street, they could look out over the roofs of Heriot Row and Great King Street, down to the distant greens of Trinity, and beyond. Although he was a relatively junior member of staff, Bruce had a room with this view, and he was staring at it absently when the telephone rang and he was summoned to Todd’s room. He’s finished snooping, thought Bruce. Now he wants to interfere with my work.
He picked up a file on a Lanarkshire fencing project and walked through.
“How is Gordon getting on in London, Todd?” asked Bruce.
“Fine, as far as I know,” said Todd. “He’ll probably phone me at lunchtime. He’ll have taken a look at that Fulham place by then. Three thousand square feet in a good part of London, just off a main shopping street. Do you know what that’s worth?”
Bruce shrugged. “I haven’t looked at the recent tables,” he said. “I don’t deal with anything in London. I can tell you what that would be in Edinburgh or Glasgow. But not London. Lots of boodle, though. Lots.”
Todd frowned. “You should keep an eye on things, Bruce. You should read the trade press. You should keep an eye on London.”
Bruce thought: he’s brought me here for a lecture, and his eyes glazed over.
“Yes,” said Todd. “It’s important to keep abreast of changing values in London, because that affects us. Business relocation is all about comparing prices. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Bruce, patiently, and then: “Have you been busy yourself, Todd? Catching up on paperwork?”
Todd looked at him warily. “A bit of reading,” he said. “Keeping current, you know.”
Bruce smiled. “Good policy,” he said.
Todd stared at him for a moment, and then continued: “But I didn’t ask you in here to discuss work,” he said. “This is a personal matter. I hope you won’t mind if I raise it.”
Bruce was intrigued. “I don’t mind at all. Fire away.”
“You know that Mrs Todd and I enjoy quite a full social life.” There was a note of pride in Todd’s voice.
“Yes. I saw your picture in Scottish Field. A party somewhere.”
“Indeed,” said Todd. “A party. Max Maitland-Weir’s fiftieth. But that wasn’t the only one we’ve been to. We go out a great deal.”
Bruce nodded politely. He was not sure where this conversation was going, but it seemed to him that a proposition was about to be made.
“We’ve got tickets to a ball,” said Todd. “I’m not so wild about it, but my wife is dead set on getting a party together. My elder daughter’s keen, too, but the problem is, well, we don’t exactly have anybody to partner her. And so I wondered whether you would be good enough to join us and perhaps have the odd dance with my daughter.” He paused, and for a moment Bruce felt a surge of sympathy for him. Poor man! That awful wife of his and that dreadful daughter of his. They were very heavy going – Bruce was well aware of that – but it seemed as if he would have to accept the invitation. It would not be easy to say no.
“I’d be honoured,” said Bruce. “What ball is it?”
“The South Edinburgh Conservative Association,” said Todd. “I’m convener of the ball committee, and we’re having a bit of a battle getting enough people to come to it. We’ve hired the hotel, so it’s going to have to go ahead, but we’re a bit thin on the ground. In fact, it’s only going to be the four of us so far.”
Bruce stared at him mutely. Was this a social problem, he wondered, or was it a political one?
22. Bruce Comes Under Consideration
After Bruce had left his office, Todd sat back in his seat and stared at the ceiling. For a few minutes he did nothing, but then he reached for the telephone, pushed a memory button labelled domestic bliss and called his wife.
Todd had married Sasha when they were both in their mid-twenties. She had just completed her training as a physiotherapist and had been one of the most popular and sociable students at Queen Margaret College. At their first meeting, Todd had decided that this was the woman whom he wished to marry, and, as he said to his brother, he had never regretted the decision for one moment.
“Really?” Gordon had said. “Are you sure?”
The question had not been intended as a slight, even if it had sounded like it. It had made Todd think, though. Was his wife as attractive and compelling a personality to others as she was to him? People had different tastes, and it might be that there were those who found her too … well, what could they possibly object to in her? Sasha had opinions, of course, but that was far better than being a passive, reflective sort.
Of course there was jealousy to be taken into account. Sasha was undoubtedly attractive, with her blonde hair in bouffant style and her trouser suits. She never looked anything but well turned-out, and this could attract envy. That is the problem with this country, thought Todd. We sneer at people who do well, and who want to make something of their lives. Look at the remarks which a certain sort of person makes about Bearsden. What is wrong with living in Bearsden, or, indeed, with having the sort of attitudes that go with living in Bearsden? Nothing.
The people who ridicule people like us, thought Todd, are making up for their own failure. And there are plenty of people – Labour politicians, for example – who want people to remain thirled to poverty, who do not want them to have any spirit or independence. These are the sort of people who think that there’s something good about having a limited life.
As he pondered these matters of political philosophy, Sasha picked up the telephone at the other end.
“Honey bunch?” she asked.
“Sugar,” replied Todd.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I’m sitting here in my office thinking. Things are a bit quiet. Gordon is in London looking at a building down there, and nothing much is happening in the office.”
“Come home, then.”
“I can’t. I can’t leave the office in the hands of the staff. On which subject, that young man, Bruce Anderson. You’ve met him.”
“The one in your office?” said Sasha. “The good-looking one?”
Todd paused, tripped up by the taboo that prevents one man from commenti
ng, except adversely, on the looks of another. You couldn’t say it – you just couldn’t.
“Hah!” he said. “I suppose the girls might say that. I don’t know about these things.”
“He is rather dishy,” said Sasha. “Dark hair. Lovely shoulders. Well-shaped …”
Todd felt slightly irritated. “Well-shaped what?” he asked. “He’s got a well-shaped what?”
“Nothing. I just said well-shaped. He’s well-shaped. That’s what I meant to say.”
Todd moved the conversation on. “Anyway, that’s the one. I’ve asked him about the ball. He says that he can come. He’ll be happy to dance with Lizzie.”
“That’s wonderful! Lizzie met him once at that Christmas do and I think he made a bit of an impression on her. Good.”
Todd sighed. “But there’s still this wretched problem with the tickets. Has anybody else said that they can come?”
“No,” said Sasha. “I phoned around again this morning. A lot of people are tied up in one way or another that weekend. Archie and Molly said that they might think about it, but I hear he’s just been carted off to hospital again and so that’s them out. Perhaps we should call it off.”
“No we won’t,” said Todd firmly. “That’s the last thing – the last thing – we’ll do. It would be a total admission of failure. We have the prizes for the tombola and the band booked. Deposits paid. We’re going ahead, even if it’s only us. That’s it.”
“All right. And we’ll enjoy ourselves even if it’s a small party.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Todd, now mollified.
They rang off and he returned to staring at the ceiling. He was pleased that Sasha had approved of his decision to invite Bruce – which he had not previously consulted her about. Lizzie would like it, he was sure, and although there was something odd about that young man – the mirrors and that substance on his hair – he was probably perfectly all right under the surface. Todd was concerned about Lizzie: she wanted a boyfriend, he knew, but did not seem to have had much success in finding one. Most young men went out with one another these days, he had observed, which meant that there were rather few young men left over for the girls. Terrible pity.
Perhaps something would come of this. And what would be wrong with that? If Bruce and Lizzie made a go of it, then they could take him into the partnership and the succession would be assured. And the responsibilities of marriage would soon sort Bruce out. Yes. Not a bad idea at all.
23. Goings-on in London
Gordon Todd stood by a window on the first floor of the building he had been inspecting in London. The position of the property impressed him – tucked away in a mews avenue off the Fulham Road, but close enough to really fashionable parts of Chelsea and South Kensington to attract tenants with the means to pay a substantial rent. It would be a good office, he thought, for a design studio or an advertising agency.
His client, who had inherited the property, was wondering about selling it. That would not be difficult, Gordon thought, because the place was in good condition and he could not imagine any obvious planning drawbacks. But it might be better to hold on to it for a couple of years and see whether its value went up appreciably. He could do the arithmetic after he had spoken to his London contacts and worked out just what might be paid for a place like this.
Gordon looked out of the window. The street was quiet – a good sign, he thought, as it suggested that the mews houses on the other side of the road were still being used as houses rather than as offices. And they were attractive, he thought, with their white-painted fronts and their panelled doors. London was full of pleasant corners, he reflected, even if there were trackless wastes further out. One might even live in London, at a pinch, provided that one were not too tall and in danger of bumping one’s head at every turn on their ridiculously low ceilings, and provided one were not too readily shocked by what one saw in the street.
As he thought about this, he noticed that a light had gone on in a room in the opposite house. It was a living room, not very large, he thought, although it was comfortably furnished with a few easy chairs and a sofa … Gordon stopped. There were two people on the sofa, a man and a woman, and …
Well really! You would think that people would close the curtains if they proposed to engage in that sort of thing. Of course they must have thought that the building opposite was empty – that was reasonable enough – but how would they know that there might not be a surveyor in it, or a possible purchaser? And there they were, obviously on very close terms, completely unaware of the fact that anybody might be able to see them.
He was about to turn away when he saw a small and expensive sports car draw up in front of the house in question and a man step out. The man reached into his pocket, took out a key, and opened the front door. Gordon caught his breath. The window at which he was standing afforded a good view not only of the living room, but of the hall outside it. Now, as he watched, he saw the man’s head appearing above the level of the stairs and then, a few moments later, he was standing in front of the door to the living room, his hand upon the doorknob.
The man paused. Then, leaning forward slightly, he appeared to put his ear to the door. Gordon stood quite still. This was the husband, obviously, and he had arrived home unexpectedly, to find his wife in flagrante with a lover. It was a very trite scene, but seeing it enacted in front of him seemed quite extraordinary. Would he knock on the door, or would he creep away, shocked and disappointed?
The man did neither. Slowly he tried the handle of the door, twisted it, and found it locked. He stood back, appeared to think for a few moments, and then moved towards the hall window – the window through which the unobserved observer was now watching him.
Gordon looked on in amazement as the man opened the window – which was a large one – and began to climb out onto the small ironwork window box. Then, very slowly, the man inched himself towards the neighbouring window – the window of the room in which the woman and the man were still unaware of the danger of discovery.
Gordon thought: so this is the sort of thing one sees in London! It’s obviously a hotbed of adultery and goings-on. And then the man on the ironwork window box slipped. Gordon saw him grab at the brickwork and, quite slowly at first, topple backwards. Gordon gave a cry, involuntarily, and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and saw the man lying on the top of the canvas roof of the small sports car, which had been parked directly beneath him. He was staring up at the sky, and for a moment their eyes met. Then, without moving the rest of his body, the man raised a hand and waved to Gordon, a wave that one might give to a friend one has just noticed in a café, or on the other side of the street.
24. Unwelcome Thoughts
That morning, when Pat had been given the unnecessary ride in the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz belonging to Domenica Macdonald, an invitation to dinner had been extended, and accepted.
“I’ll knock together a few bits and pieces,” said Domenica airily. “I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. But we can talk. Sans Bruce.”
They had exchanged a look.
“He’s all right,” said Pat. “But it would be nice to talk.”
“I can tell you all about everyone on the stair,” promised Domenica. “Not that there’s much to relate, but there is a bit. You may as well know about your neighbours before you meet them.”
Pat had been told to ring Domenica’s doorbell at six-thirty, which gave her time to get back from the gallery and have a bath before she crossed the landing. Bruce had already arrived at the flat when she came home and he was sitting in the kitchen reading a catalogue.
“Sold any paintings today?”
“No.” She paused. “Well almost, but not quite.”
Bruce laughed. “I don’t think that gallery is going to do spectacularly well. I was hearing about him, you know, your boss, Matthew. Walking cash-flow problem. It’s only the fact that his old man pays the bills that keeps him going.”
“We’ll see,?
?? said Pat.
“Yes,” said Bruce. “We’ll see. And if you need a new job, I can get you one. A friend of mine needs somebody to do some market research. He said …”
“I’m fine,” said Pat.
“Well, just let me know,” said Bruce, returning to his catalogue. “And by the way, have you seen my hair gel?”
For a few moments Pat said nothing. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again.
“Well?” asked Bruce. “Have you seen it?”
Pat swallowed, and then replied. “I broke it,” she said. “I’m very sorry. I’m going to buy you some more. I’ll get the same stuff if you tell me where to get it.”
Bruce lowered his catalogue. “Broke it? How did you do that?”
Pat looked up at the ceiling. She was aware that Bruce was staring at her, but she did not wish to meet his gaze.
“I was looking at it,” she said. “It fell out of my hands and it broke. I was going to tell you.”
Bruce sighed. “Pat,” he said. “You know that it’s very important to tell the truth when you’re living with people. You’ve got to tell the truth. You know that. Now, what really happened? Were you using it?”
The accusation made her feel indignant. Why should he imagine that she would use his hair gel? And why would he imagine that she would lie about it? “No,” she said. “I did not use it. I was looking at it.”
“Is hair gel that interesting?”
“Not yours,” she snapped.
Bruce looked at her and wagged a finger. “Temper!” he said. “Temper!”
Pat looked at him scornfully, and then turned and made her way back into her room slamming the door behind her. He was impossible; he was self-satisfied; he was smug. She could not live with him. She would have to move.
But if she moved, then it would be his victory. She could just imagine what he would say when he showed the next person her room. There was a girl here, but she didn’t stay long. Very immature type. Second gap year, you know.