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  Espresso Tales

  ( 44 Scotland Street - 2 )

  Alexander Mccall Smith

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  Praise for Alexander McCall Smith’s 4 4 S C O T L A N D S T R E E T

  The First Novel in the Series

  “This soulful, sweet [book] will make you feel as though you live in Edinburgh, if only for a short while, and it’s a fine place to visit indeed. . . . Long live the folks on Scotland Street.” — The Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

  “McCall Smith’s generous writing and dry humor, his gentleness and humanity, and his ability to evoke a place and a set of characters without caricature or condescen-sion have endeared his books . . . to readers.”

  — The New York Times

  “Entertaining and witty. . . . A sly send-up of society in Edinburgh.”

  — The Orlando Sentinel

  “A welcome addition to the McCall Smith repertoire. . . .

  Few writers are better than McCall Smith at making the telling observation. . . . [And] it is far more fun to read

  [than] Flaubert.”

  — The Miami Herald

  “Alexander McCall Smith is the most genial of writers and the most gentle of satirists. . . . [The] characters are great fun . . . [and] McCall Smith treats all of them with affection. . . . Life’s lessons are laid on in this novel with the lightest of touch.”

  — Rocky Mountain News

  “Pure McCall Smith. . . . A finely judged blend of wit and wisdom.”

  — Arkansas Democrat-Gazette

  “Amusing. . . . Endearing. . . . The possibility of romance, the ongoing ups and downs of the large, well-drawn cast of characters, the intricate plot and the way McCall Smith nimbly jumps from situation to situation work beautifully.”

  — The Journal Gazette (Fort Wayne)

  “Intelligent writing. . . . McCall Smith’s cast of characters is varied and well-drawn. . . . It’s a pleasure to read a novel that exercises your mind.”

  — The Oakland Tribune

  “[McCall Smith’s] sense of gentle but pointed humor is once again afoot in 44 Scotland Street. . . . The short chapters make for perfect bedtime reading.”

  — The Seattle Times

  “A joyous, charming portrait of city life and human foibles, which moves beyond its setting to deal with deep moral issues and love, desire and friendship. Without resorting to clichéd cliff-hangers, McCall Smith has mastered the short, episodic chapter endearingly.”

  — Sunday Express

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h E S P R E S S O TA L E S

  Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the huge international phenomenon, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, and The Sunday Philosophy Club series.

  He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe, and he was a law professor at the University of Botswana and at Edinburgh University. He lives in Scotland. Visit his Web site at www.alexandermccallsmith.com.

  books by Alexander McCall Smith

  In The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Tears of the Giraffe

  Morality for Beautiful Girls

  The Kalahari Typing School for Men The Full Cupboard of Life

  In the Company of Cheerful Ladies

  Blue Shoes and Happiness

  In The Sunday Philosophy Club series

  The Sunday Philosophy Club

  Friends, Lovers, Chocolate

  In the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series Portuguese Irregular Verbs

  The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs

  At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances In the 44 Scotland Street series

  44 Scotland Street

  Espresso Tales

  The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa i

  E S P R E S S O T A L E S

  ii

  Chapter title

  A l e x a n d e r

  M c C a l l S m i t h

  E S P R E S S O

  T A L E S

  Illustrations by I a i n M c I n t o s h a n c h o r b o o k s

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  F I R S T A N C H O R B O O K S E D I T I O N , J U LY 2 0 0 6

  Copyright © 2005 by Alexander McCall Smith Illustrations copyright © 2005 by Iain McIntosh All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd., Edinburgh, in 2 0 0 5 .

  Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is excerpted from a series that originally appeared in the Scotsman newspaper.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McCall Smith, Alexander, 1 9 4 8 –

  Espresso Tales : tales from 4 4 Scotland Street / Alexander McCall Smith ; illustrated by Iain McIntosh.

  p. cm.

  1 . Roommates—Fiction. 2 . Apartment houses—Fiction. 3 . Edinburgh (Scotland)—Social life and customs—Fiction. 4 . Humorous stories, English.

  I. Title.

  PR6 0 6 3 .C3 2 6 E8 7 2 0 0 6

  8 2 3 ' . 9 1 7 —dc2 2

  2 0 0 5 0 5 7 1 7 5

  eISBN: 978-0-307-38639-7

  www.anchorbooks.com

  v1.0

  Chapter title

  v

  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 xii

  Preface

  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 Scotsm
an. 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 my 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

  E S P R E S S O T A L E S

  Chapter title

  1

  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

  2

  Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

  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 tene-ments, 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.

  Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

  3

  “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 4

  Letting Go

  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 tho
se 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.

  Letting Go

  5

  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.