44 Scotland Street (6 page)

Although it was in some respects discouraging, this job ultimately proved to be extremely lucrative. One of the residents, a retired farmer from Buchan, had named her as the principal beneficiary in his will, and she had come into a substantial sum of money. This was the signal to stop caring for people in Aberdeen – in every sense – and to take the train that she had missed those eight years before. She was now in a position to buy the coffee bar and the flat in Canonmills, and to start a new life.

The coffee bar had been designed for her by a man she had met in a launderette. Like most of the things that had happened in Big Lou’s life, she was not properly consulted. Things happened to her; she did not initiate anything. And so she was never asked whether she wanted the booths that this man designed and constructed for her; nor whether she approved of the large and expensive mahogany newspaper rack which he installed near the front door. This was all done without anything having been agreed, and she appeared to accept this, just as she had accepted that she should have devoted the early years of her adult life to looking after her uncle, while her friends from school had gone off to Glasgow or to London and had all led lives of their own making.

There had been men, of course, but they had treated her badly. One had been a married man who had harboured no intention of leaving his wife for Big Lou; another had been a chef on an oil rig, who had left her to take up a job in Galveston, cooking for Texan oilmen. He had written to tell her about his life in Texas and also to tell her not to come out to join him. Galveston was no place for a woman, he had said.

Big Lou kept this letter, as it was one of the few personal letters she had ever received. She wanted to keep it, too, because she loved this man, this oily cook, and she hoped that one day he might return, although she knew this would never happen.

11. The Origins of Love and Hate

Matthew negotiated his way down the stairs that led to Big Lou’s coffee bar. They were hazardous stairs, down which Hugh MacDiarmid had fallen on at least two occasions in the days when the bookshop had been there. Then, it had been the unevenness of the tread; now, to this peril was added the hazard of a collapsed railing. Big Lou had intended to fix it, but this had never been done.

The coffee bar had been divided into booths – low divisions that enabled the tops of heads to be seen above the wooden partitions. The booths were comfortable, though, and Big Lou never encouraged her customers to hurry. So one might sit there all day, if one wished, and not feel any of the unease that one might feel elsewhere.

Matthew usually stayed for an hour or so, although if the conversation was good he might sit there for two hours, or even more. He was joined each morning by Ronnie and his friend, Pete, furniture restorers who occupied a workshop in a lane off an elegant New Town crescent. Ronnie specialised in cabinet work, while Pete was a French polisher and upholsterer. They had worked together for two years, having met in a pub after what had been a traumatic afternoon for their football team. Matthew knew nothing about football, which interested him not at all, and by unspoken agreement they kept off the topic. But Matthew sensed that there were unresolved football issues somewhere beneath the surface, as there so often are with upholsterers.

Ronnie was married; Pete was not. Matthew had only known Ronnie since he had taken over the gallery, and during this time he had not had the opportunity to meet Ronnie’s wife, Mags. But he had heard a great deal about her, some of it from Pete, and some from Ronnie himself.

When Ronnie was not there, Pete was voluble on the subject of Mags.

“I wouldn’t bother to meet her,” he said. “She’ll hate you.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see why she should hate me. Why?”

“Oh, it’s not you,” said Pete. “It’s nothing personal. Mags could even like you until she found out.”

Matthew was puzzled. “Until she found out what?”

“That you’re a friend of Ronnie’s,” explained Pete. “You see, Mags hates Ronnie’s friends. She’s jealous of them, I suppose, and she can’t help herself. She looks at them like this. See? And they don’t like it.”

Matthew winced. “What about you? Does she hate you?”

“Oh yes,” said Pete. “Although she tries to hide it. But I can tell that she hates me.”

“What’s the point?”

Pete shrugged. “None that I can see. But she does it nonetheless.”

Big Lou had been listening to this conversation from behind her counter. Now she chipped in.

“She hates you because you threaten her,” she said. “Only insecure people hate others. I’ve read about it. There’s a book called
The Origins of Love and Hate
. I’ve read it, and it tells you how insecurity leads to hatred.”

The two men turned and looked at Big Lou.

“Are you sure?” asked Pete after a while. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” said Big Lou. “Mags hates Ronnie’s friends because she’s afraid of losing him and because they take him away from her. How much time does Ronnie spend talking with Mags? Have you ever seen him talk to her?”

“Never,” mused Pete. “Never.”

“Well, there you are,” said Big Lou. “Mags feels neglected.”

Pete was about to say something in response to this when he suddenly stiffened and tapped Matthew on the forearm.

“They’re here,” he whispered. “Ronnie, with Mags in tow.”

Matthew turned round to look. Ronnie was making his way down the steps, followed by a woman in a flowing Paisley dress and light brown suede boots. The woman was carrying a bulging shopping bag and a folded copy of a magazine. As they entered the coffee bar, Ronnie exchanged a glance with Pete and then turned to Mags to point to the booth where his two friends were sitting. She followed his glance and then, Matthew noticed, she frowned.

Ronnie approached the booth.

“This is Mags,” he said, almost apologetically. “Mags, this is Matthew. You haven’t met him before. Matthew’s a friend of mine.”

Matthew stood up and extended a hand to Mags.

“Why do you stand up?” she said sharply. “Do you stand up for everybody, or is it just because I’m a woman?”

Matthew looked at the floor. “I stand up because I intend to leave,” he said evenly. “Not wishing to be condescended to, or whatever, I intend to leave. You may have my seat if you wish.”

He walked out, and started up the perilous steps. He was shaking, like a boy who had done something forbidden.

12. Chanterelles Trouvées

Bruce had offered to cook dinner for Pat that evening. The offer had been made before he left the flat in the morning as he popped his head, uninvited, round her half-open door.

“I’m cooking anyway,” he said. “It’s as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”

“I’d love that,” said Pat. She noticed his glance move around her room as they spoke, resting for a moment on her unmade bed before moving to the suitcase which she had not yet fully unpacked.

Bruce nodded. “You will,” he said. “I’m not a bad cook, if you don’t mind my saying so. I could teach Delia a thing or two.”

Pat laughed, which seemed to please Bruce.

“Only about surveying,” he went on. “Not about cooking.” He finished, and waited for Pat to laugh again, but she did not.

“I’m sure it’ll be very good,” she said solemnly. “What will we have?”

“I only cook pasta,” said Bruce. “Pasta with mushrooms probably. Chanterelles. You like mushrooms, don’t you?”

“Love them,” said Pat.

“Good. Chanterelles in a butter sauce, then, with cream. Garlic. Black pepper and a salad dressed with olive oil and a dash of balsamic vinegar. Balsamic vinegar comes from Modena, you know. Has to. How about that?”

“Perfect,” said Pat. “Perfect.”

When she returned to Scotland Street that evening, late – because Matthew had asked her to show a painting to a client who could only come in after six – Bruce had laid out the ingredients of his pasta dish on the kitchen table. She sat there as he cooked, explaining as he did so some troubling incident at work that day, a row over defective central heating and a leaky cupola.

“I told them they’d have trouble with these people,” he said. “And I was right. It always happens. You get people moving up in the world and they start putting on airs. They probably had to look up the word ‘cupola’ in the dictionary before they complained about it. Cup-er-lah. That’s what they call it.
I’ve got a leaky cup-er-lah.
”

“It can’t be any fun having a leaky cupola,” Pat pointed out, mildly. “You can’t blame them.”

“All cup-er-lahs leak,” said Bruce. “People who have cup-erlahs are used to that. It’s just when you get promoted to having a cup-er-lah that you get all uptight about it.
Nouvelle cup-er-lah
. That’s what they are.”

The pasta cooked, he had tipped helpings onto two plates, had added the yellow sauce, and sat down at the table opposite her. The sauce, although too rich for her taste, was well-made, and she complimented him.

“Where did you get the mushrooms?” Pat asked.

“From my boss,” said Bruce. ” Mr Todd. He found them and gave them to me.”

Pat paused, looking down at her plate.

“He picked them?”

“Yes. He picked them on a golf course up in Perthshire. He hit a ball off the fairway and it landed in the middle of these mushrooms, under a tree.”

Pat fished a piece of mushroom out of the pasta and looked at it. “Does he know what he’s doing?”

Bruce smiled. “No. He’s pretty ignorant. Useless, in fact.”

“Then how does he know that these are chanterelles? How does he know these aren’t … aren’t poisonous?”

“He doesn’t,” said Bruce. “But I do. I can tell chanterelles. I know they’re all right. I’ve only been wrong about mushrooms once – a long time ago.”

“And you were ill?”

“Very,” said Bruce. “I nearly died. But I’m right about these. I promise you. You’ll be fine.”

They continued with the meal in silence.

“You don’t have to eat this if you don’t want to,” Bruce said sulkily.

Pat thought for a moment, but shook her head and finished her helping, rather quickly, thought Bruce. Then, over coffee, which Bruce brought to the table, they talked about Matthew and the gallery.

“I’ve met him,” said Bruce. “His old man’s a big Watsonian. Rugby. The works. Lots of tin. But the son’s useless, I think.”

“You seem to find a lot of people useless,” remarked Pat. She did not want to sound aggressive, but the remark came out as a challenge.

Bruce took her observation in his stride. “Well, they are. There are lots of useless people in this city. It’s the truth, and if it’s the truth then why bother to conceal it? I spell things out, that’s all.”

They finished their coffee and then Bruce explained that he was going to meet friends in the Cumberland Bar. Pat was welcome to come if she wished. They were interesting people he said: surveyors and people from the rugby club. She should come along. But she did not.

13. You Must Remember This / A Kiss Is Just a Kiss

After Bruce had left the flat for the Cumberland Bar, Pat went back into her room and lay down on her bed. It was proving to be a rather dispiriting evening. It was not easy listening to her flatmate and his opinionated views, and she wondered if she was beginning to feel queasy. Those mushrooms had tasted all right, but then that was often the case with poisonous fungi, was it not?

She lay on her bed and placed a hand on her stomach. What would the first symptoms be? Nausea? Vomiting? Or would one simply become drowsy and fade away, as Socrates had done when given hemlock? She should have refused to eat them, of course; once Bruce had announced their origins she should have had the courage of her convictions. She would have to change. She would have to stand up to him.

She picked up her mobile phone and opened the lid. She had told herself that she would not phone home at the first sign of feeling miserable, because she had to learn to stand on her own two feet. But phoning home was always so reassuring, particularly if she spoke to her father, who was so calm about everything and had an outlook of cheerful optimism – a vindication of the proposition that the one requirement for a successful career in psychiatry is a sense of humour.

Pat started to key in the number but stopped. Somebody was playing a musical instrument, a clarinet, or was it a saxophone? Yes, it was a saxophone; and it seemed that it was being played directly outside her door. She listened for a moment, and then realised that the sound was coming up through the wall beside her bed. It was not bad; there was the occasional stumble, but it was no rank amateur playing.

She continued dialling and heard her father answer at the other end. He asked where she was.

“I’m in my room. I’m lying on my bed listening to somebody downstairs play the sax. Listen.” She put the mobile up against the wall for a few moments.