Espresso Tales Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Preface

  Map

  Chapter 1. Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

  Chapter 2. Letting Go

  Chapter 3. Narcissism and Social Progress

  Chapter 4. On the Way Back to Scotland Street

  Chapter 5. All Downhill from Here

  Chapter 6. Domenica Gets into Top Gear

  Chapter 7. Anger and Apology

  Chapter 8. An Exchange of Cruel Insults

  Chapter 9. Sally’s Thoughts

  Chapter 10. Bruce’s Plan

  Chapter 11. A Bus for Bertie

  Chapter 12. A Thin Summer

  Chapter 13. Bertie’s List

  Chapter 14. Pat and Bruce Work It Out

  Chapter 15. Domenica Advises

  Chapter 16. Bertie Goes to School Eventually

  Chapter 17. Down Among the Innocents

  Chapter 18. On the Way Home

  Chapter 19. Matthew’s Situation

  Chapter 20. Second Flowering

  Chapter 21. Demographic Discussions

  Chapter 22. Chow

  Chapter 23. An Astonishing Revelation Is Almost Made

  Chapter 24. Bruce Meets a Friend

  Chapter 25. Agreement Is Reached

  Chapter 26. Bertie’s Idea

  Chapter 27. Socks

  Chapter 28. Lonely Tonight

  Chapter 29. At the Film Theatre

  Chapter 30. At Big Lou’s

  Chapter 31. Act and Omission

  Chapter 32. The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions

  Chapter 33. Bertie Makes a Move

  Chapter 34. Bertie Prepares to Cross Dundas Street

  Chapter 35. Halfway Across

  Chapter 36. Ramsey Dunbarton

  Chapter 37. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1–Early Days

  Chapter 38. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 2–Courting Days

  Chapter 39. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 3–Further Highlights

  Chapter 40. Bertie’s Plan Is Launched

  Chapter 41. Irene’s Plan for Bertie

  Chapter 42. Bertie Escapes!

  Chapter 43. Rugby!

  Chapter 44. Going Back

  Chapter 45. Dinner with Father

  Chapter 46. The Language of Flowers

  Chapter 47. Information

  Chapter 48. Private Papers

  Chapter 49. Australian Memories

  Chapter 50. A Trip to Glasgow in the Offing

  Chapter 51. On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened

  Chapter 52. Arriving in Glasgow

  Chapter 53. Lard O’Connor

  Chapter 54. A Game of Cards and a Cultural Trip

  Chapter 55. At the Burrell

  Chapter 56. Domenica Meets Pat

  Chapter 57. The Natural Approach

  Chapter 58. Moray Place

  Chapter 59. Robert Garioch

  Chapter 60. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part IV–Legal Matters

  Chapter 61. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part V–Johnny Auchtermuchty

  Chapter 62. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part VI–a Perthshire Weekend

  Chapter 63. Bertie Receives an Invitation

  Chapter 64. Bertie’s Invitation Is Considered

  Chapter 65. Stuart Intervenes

  Chapter 66. Tofu’s Party

  Chapter 67. Bruce’s Enterprise

  Chapter 68. A Petrus Opportunity

  Chapter 69. The Best Laid Plans o’ Mice and Men

  Chapter 70. Cyril Howls

  Chapter 71. Crushed Strawberry

  Chapter 72. Ink and the Imagination

  Chapter 73. Wee Fraser Again

  Chapter 74. The Wolf Man, Neds, Motherwell

  Chapter 75. Cyril’s Moment of Glory

  Chapter 76. Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff

  Chapter 77. Bruce Gets What He Deserves

  Chapter 78. Old Business

  Chapter 79. At the Gallery

  Chapter 80. Dogs and Cuban History

  Chapter 81. Havana

  Chapter 82. A Great Sense of Purity

  Chapter 83. In Moray Place Gardens

  Chapter 84. The Memory of Pigs

  Chapter 85. Encounter, Catharsis, Flight

  Chapter 86. In the Café St Honoré

  Chapter 87. Domenica Takes Food to Angus

  Chapter 88. Bruce Reflects

  Chapter 89. The Restoration of Fortunes

  Chapter 90. Self-assertiveness Training for Civil Servants

  Chapter 91. Stuart Paints Bertie’s Room

  Chapter 92. Discussions Take Place Between Irene and Stuart

  Chapter 93. The Gettysburg Address

  Chapter 94. Bertie’s Dream

  Chapter 95. The Wind Makes the Trains Sound Faint

  Chapter 96. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part VII–Bridge at Blair Atholl

  Chapter 97. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part VIII–I Play the Duke of Plaza-Toro

  Chapter 98. Younger Women, Older Men

  Chapter 99. Janis Exposed

  Chapter 100. Big Lou

  Chapter 101. In the Bookshop

  Chapter 102. Matthew Thinks

  Chapter 103. All Goes Well for Bruce

  Chapter 104. Preparing Dinner

  Chapter 105. Farewell

  Alexander McCall Smith

  Books by Alexander McCall Smith

  Praise for Alexander McCall Smith’s

  Copyright

  Preface

  This is volume two of a serial novel which I started to write in The Scotsman newspaper and which, at the time of publication of this book, I am still writing. The enjoyment which I have obtained from spinning this long-running tale of a house and its occupants in Edinburgh is, I hope, apparent on every page. It has never been a chore. Not for a moment.

  At the end of the first volume, 44 Scotland Street, I left matters unresolved for many of the characters. Now in Espresso Tales we see the continuation of many of the themes begun in volume one. Bertie, that immensely talented six-year-old, is still in therapy, and his plight seems to get worse and worse. Bruce, the unbearable narcissistic surveyor, is still as irritating as before, perhaps even more so. If there is any justice, he will get his come-uppance in this volume (but don’t count on that). And Domenica, that sage occupant of the top floor of 44 Scotland Street, continues to comment on the world with her mordant wit.

  During the writing of this book, which appeared in daily parts in The Scotsman, I received comments from many readers. Some wrote in with suggestions; others occasionally upbraided me for the views which some of the characters expressed. I inadvertently ruffled the feathers of an entire Scottish town at one point, and at another I received a very reproachful letter from a convinced vegan. These, I suppose, are the consequences of writing a novel under the scrutiny of the public eye.

  This is, of course, not a work of scrupulous social realism. However, unlike in many other novels, all the places in this book exist, and a number of the characters are real people, who currently live in Edinburgh and who agreed to appear, as themselves, in this story. Other people have, for some reason, imagined that they appear in this story, thinly (or otherwise) disguised. Alas, this is not true. There is no real Bertie; and even if there are many like Domenica, or Angus, or any of the other characters, I had no particular person in mind when writing about them.

  When the last episode of this book was published in the newspaper, we had a party in the offices of The Scotsman. Many readers attended, and some gave me their frank assessment of what had happened in the series. Others came up to me and said, “You can’t stop now. There will have to be a third volume.” At the beginning of the evening I had decided that I would not write a third; by the end I had changed m
y mind. I am easily persuaded to continue to have fun. And why not?

  This second volume is committed to press in gratitude to the readers of The Scotsman and in affection for this remarkable city and the people who make it one of the most vibrant and interesting places in the world. Again I express my thanks to those who accompanied me on this particular literary journey: to David Robinson, books editor of The Scotsman, to Iain Martin, editor of Scotland on Sunday, John McGurk, editor of The Scotsman, and Neville Moir of Polygon, that most perceptive and sympathetic of editors. And my thanks are given, too, to Florence Christie, leader of the fans of Bertie, and my friend, Michael Lamont, who has been one of the few readers who showed any sympathy for Bruce. And finally, I would like to thank William Lyons, arts editor of Scotland on Sunday, who gave me advice on wine matters and who features in the story as himself. Not having tasted Chateau Petrus myself, I assume that what he says about it is correct.

  Alexander McCall Smith

  Edinburgh

  1. Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

  It was summer. The forward movement of the year, so tentative in the early months of spring, now seemed quite relentless. The longest day, which always seemed to arrive indecently early, had passed in a bluster of wind and light rain, but had been followed by a glorious burst of warmth that penetrated the very stones of Edinburgh.

  Out on the pavements, small clusters of tables and chairs appeared here and there, populated by knots of people who could hardly believe that they were sitting outside, in Scotland, in late summer. All of them knew that this simply could not last. September was not far off, and after that, as was well-known to all but the most confused, was October–and darkness. And Scottish weather, true to its cultural traditions, made one thing abundantly clear: you paid for what you enjoyed, and you usually paid quite promptly. This was a principle which was inevitably observed by nature in Scotland. That vista of mountains and sea lochs was all very well, but what was that coming up behind you? A cloud of midges.

  Pat Macgregor walked past just such café-hedonists on her way back to Scotland Street. She had crossed the town on foot earlier that day to have lunch with her father–her mother was still away, this time visiting another troublesome sister in Forfar–and her father had invited her for Saturday lunch in the Canny Man’s on Morningside Road. This was a curious place, an Edinburgh institution, with its cluttered shelves of non-sequitur objects and its numerous pictures. And, like the trophies on the walls, the denizens of the place had more than passing historical or aesthetic interest about them. Here one might on a Saturday afternoon meet a well-known raconteur enjoying a glass of beer with an old friend, or, very occasionally, one might spot Ramsey Dunbarton, from the Braids, who many years ago had played the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre (with such conspicuous success).

  There was no such interest that day. A mousy-looking man in a blue suit sat silently in a corner with a woman companion; the silence that reigned between them being broken only by the occasional sigh by one or other of them. He looked steadfastly down at the menu of open sandwiches, as if defeated by the choice and by life; her gaze moved about–out of the window, at the small slice of sky between the Morningside Road tenements, at the barman polishing glasses, at the tiles on the floor.

  As she waited for her father to arrive, Pat found herself wondering at the road which had brought them to this arid point–a lifetime of small talk, perhaps, that had simply run out of steam; or perhaps this is what came of being married. Surely not, she thought; her own parents were still able to look at one another and find at least something to say, although often there was a formality in their conversation that made her uncomfortable–as if they were talking a language, like court Japanese, that imposed heavily on them to be correct.

  In Pat’s company, her father seemed more comfortable. Leaning back in the bench seat at the Canny Man’s while he perused the menu, his conversation took its usual course, moving, by easy association, from topic to topic.

  “This is, of course, the Canny Man’s,” he observed. “You’ll notice that the sign outside says something quite different. The Volunteer Arms. But everybody–or everybody in the know, that is–calls it the Canny Man’s. And that pub down on the way to Slateford is called the Gravediggers, although the sign outside says Athletic Arms. These are verbal tests, you see. Designed to distinguish.”

  Pat looked at him blankly. Her father was intelligible, but not all the time.

  “These tests are designed to exclude others from the discourse–just as the word discourse itself is designed to do. These words are intended to say to people: this is a group thing. If you don’t understand what we’re talking about, you’re not a member of the group.

  “So, if you call this place the Canny Man’s it shows that you belong, that you know what’s what in Edinburgh. And that, you know, is what everybody wants, underneath. We want to belong.”

  He laid the menu down on the table and looked at his daughter. “Do you know what the NB is?”

  Pat shook her head and was about to reply that she did not; but he cut her short with a smile and a half-raised hand. “An unfair question,” he said. “At least to somebody of your age. But anybody over forty would know that the NB is the North British Hotel, which is today called the Balmoral–that great pile down at the end of Princes Street. That was always the NB until they irritatingly started to call it the Balmoral. And if you really want to make a point–to tell somebody that you were here before they were–that it’s your city–you can refer to it as the NB. Then at least some people won’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “But why would anybody want that?” she asked.

  “Because we like our private references,” he said. “And, as I’ve said, we want to feel that we belong. It’s a simple matter of feelings of security…”

  He smiled at his daughter. “Talking of the NB Hotel, there was a wonderful poet called Robert Garioch. He wrote poems about Edinburgh and about the city and its foibles. He wrote a poem about seeing people coming out of the NB Grill and getting into what he called a muckle great municipal Rolls-Royce. That said it all, you see. He said more about the city of his day in those few lines than many others would in fifty pages.”

  He paused. “But, my dear, you must be hungry. And you said that you have something to tell me. You said that you’ve made a momentous decision, and I’m going on about semiotics and the poetry of Robert Garioch. Is it a really important decision–really important?”

  “It is,” said Pat. “It really is. It’s about my whole life, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  2. Letting Go

  When his daughter had announced that she had made an important decision–an announcement casually dropped into the telephone conversation they had had before their lunch at the Canny Man’s in Morningside Road–Dr Macgregor had experienced a distressingly familiar pang of dread. Ever since Pat had chosen to spend her gap year in Australia, he had been haunted by the possibility that she would leave Scotland and simply not return. Australia was a world away, and it was full of possibilities. Anybody might be forgiven for going to Melbourne or Sydney–or even to Perth–and discovering that life in those places was fuller than the one they had led before. There was more space in Australia, and more light–but it was also true that there was there an exhilarating freedom, precisely the sort of freedom that might appeal to a nineteen-year-old. And there were young men, too, who must have been an additional lure. She might meet one of these and stay forever, forgetful of the fact that vigorous Australian males within a few years mutated into homo Australiensis suburbis, into drinkers of beer and into addicts of televised footie, butterflies, thus, into caterpillars.

  So he had spent an anxious ten months wondering whether she would come back to Scotland and upbraiding himself constantly about the harbouring of such fears. He knew that it was wrong for parents to think this way, and had told many of his own
patients that they should stop worrying about their offspring and let go. “You must be able to let go,” he had said, on countless occasions. “Your children must be allowed to lead their own lives.” And even as he uttered the words he realised the awful banality of what he said; but it was difficult, was it not, to talk about letting go without sounding like a passage from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, which had views on such matters. The trouble with The Prophet was that it all sounded so profound when you first encountered it, and yet it was the sort of thing that one grew out of–just as one grew out of Jack Kerouac. It was entirely appropriate to have The Prophet on one’s shelves in one’s early twenties, but not, he thought, in one’s forties, or beyond. One must be prepared to let go of The Prophet.

  And although he gave this advice to people, he found it difficult–almost impossible, in fact–to practise it himself. He and his wife, Maureen, had only one child; she was their future, not only in the genetic sense, but in an emotional one too. In the case of Dr Macgregor himself, this was particularly true. He enjoyed cordial relations with Maureen, but there was a distance between them which he realised could never be bridged. It had been apparent from the earliest years of the marriage that they really shared very few interests, and had little to talk about. Her energies were focused on public causes and on her own, largely dysfunctional family. She had two difficult sisters and one difficult brother, and these siblings had duly spawned difficult and demanding children. So while she nominally lived in Edinburgh, in reality she spent a great deal of her time moving from relative to relative, coping with whatever crisis had freshly emerged. The sister in Angus–the one who drank–was particularly demanding. This manipulative sister really wanted Maureen to live with her, and to this end she longed for Maureen’s widowhood, and said as much, which was tactless. There are many women whose lives would be immeasurably improved by widowhood, but one should not always point that out.

  The absenteeism of his wife had its natural consequence. Pat became for him the focus of his family feeling; she was his best friend, and, to the extent that the father and daughter relationship permitted, his confidante. Of course he knew of the dangers of this; that the investing of one’s entire world in a child was to give a powerful hostage to fortune, and that he should develop other friendships and ties. But he had somehow failed to do that. He was popular with his professional colleagues and he would have called many of these his friends, but there were limits to such friendships. People moved jobs; they went away; they developed new, outside friendships which were more absorbing than those of work. He should join a club, perhaps; but what clubs could he possibly take seriously? He had never had much interest in golf, and he was not sure whether he would approve of the ethos of a golf club, and what other clubs did people have in mind when they recommended membership as an antidote to loneliness? Perhaps they meant the Scottish Arts Club; he had walked past it one day and seen people having lunch in the dining room on the ground floor. He had stopped in his tracks and gazed in at the sight. A well-known journalist was holding court, it seemed, to an audience of antique dealers–he knew one of them, a man with an exemplary moustache–and portrait painters. They had full glasses of red wine before them and he saw, but could not hear, their laughter. For a moment he had been transfixed by this vision of fellowship and had thought: this is what I do not have. But although this sight had made him think that he might perhaps apply to join, he had done nothing about it, and he had gone back to his empty house that day (Pat had been in Australia and Maureen in Kelso, at her difficult brother’s house), and he had sat and reflected on loneliness and on how few, how very few, are the human bonds that lie between us and the state of being completely alone. How many such bonds did the average person have? Five? Ten? In his case, he thought, it seemed as if the answer was two.