44 Scotland Street Read online

  Big Lou sighed. “Diarrhoea and akrasia are different. But it’s useless trying to explain things to you.”

  “Sorry,” said Ronnie solemnly. “You tell us about akrasia, Lou.”

  Big Lou picked up a cloth and began to wipe the counter. “The question is this. Does weakness of the will make sense? Surely if we do something, then that means that we want to do it. And if we want to do it, then that means that must be because we think that it’s in our best interests to do it.”

  Ronnie thought for a moment. “So?”

  Big Lou intensified her rubbing of the counter. “So there’s no such thing as a weakness of will because we always do what we want. All the time. You see?”

  “No,” said Pete.

  Big Lou looked at Ronnie. “And you? Do you see?”

  “No.”

  Big Lou sighed. It was difficult dealing with people who read nothing. But she chose to persist. “Take chocolate,” she began.

  “Chocolate?” said Ronnie.

  “Yes. Now imagine that you really want to eat chocolate but you know that you shouldn’t. Maybe you have a weight problem. You see a bar of chocolate and you think: that’s a great wee bar of chocolate! But then something inside you says: it’s not good for you to eat chocolate. You think for a while and then you eat it.”

  “You eat the chocolate?”

  “Yes. Because you know that eating the chocolate will make you happier. It will satisfy your desire to eat chocolate.”

  “So?”

  “Well, you can’t be weak because you have done what you really wanted to do. Your will was to eat the chocolate. Your will has won. Therefore your will has been shown not to be weak.”

  Ronnie took a sip from his sugared coffee. “Where do you get all this stuff from, Lou?”

  “I read,” she said. “I happen to own some books. I read them. Nothing odd in that.”

  “Lou’s great that way,” said Ronnie. “No, don’t laugh, Pete. You and me are ignorant. Put us in a pub quiz and we’d be laughed off the stage. Put Lou on and she’d win. I respect her for that. No, I really do.”

  “Thank you,” said Lou. “Akrasia is an interesting thing. I’d never really thought about it before, but now …”

  She was interrupted by the arrival of Matthew, who slammed the door behind him as he came in and turned to face his friends, flushed with excitement.

  “A break-in,” he said. “Wood all over the place. The cops have been.”

  They looked at him in silence.

  “The gallery?” asked Pete.

  Matthew moved over towards the counter. “Yes, the gallery. They were disturbed, thank God, and nothing was taken. I could have lost everything.”

  “Bad luck,” said Ronnie. “That might have helped.”

  There was a silence. Big Lou glared at Ronnie, who lowered his gaze. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that. I meant to say that it was bad luck that they tried to break in. That’s what I meant.” He paused. “What else could I have meant? Why the sensitivity?”

  Matthew said nothing. “They could have taken the Peploe. In fact, I reckon that’s what they were after.”

  Pete looked up. “The one worth forty grand?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew. “They must have been after that. All the rest is rubbish.”

  Ronnie looked thoughtful. “That character wanting to buy the painting the other day – he must be the one. Who else knows about it?”

  Matthew frowned. “Nobody, as far as I know. Just us.”

  “Then, it’s him,” said Ronnie.

  “Or one of us,” said Big Lou, looking at Pete.

  Nobody spoke. Big Lou turned to make Matthew his coffee. “Not a serious remark,” she said. “It just slipped out.”

  “Weakness of the will?” said Ronnie.

  33. Peploe?

  “This is no time for levity,” said Matthew. “The fact is, somebody is after my Peploe.”

  “If it’s a Peploe,” interrupted Ronnie. “You don’t know, do you? So far, the only person who’s said it’s a Peploe is that girl, Pat. And what does she know about it? And you know nothing, as we all know.”

  “All right,” said Matthew. “We’ll call it my Peploe? That is, Peploe with a question mark after it. Satisfied? Right then, what do we do?”

  “Remove it from the gallery,” suggested Pete. “Take it home. Put it in a cupboard. Nobody’s going to think there’s a Peploe? in your cupboard.”

  Big Lou had been following the conversation closely and had stopped wiping the counter. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “If this person – the one who was interested in it – is really after it, then he’ll have found out who Matthew is. Are you in the phone book, Matthew?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “Well, there you are,” said Lou. “He’ll know where you live. And if he was prepared to break into your gallery, then he’ll be prepared to break into your flat. Take the Peploe? somewhere else.”

  “The bank,” said Pete. “I knew this guy who kept a Charles Rennie Mackintosh bureau in the Bank of Scotland. It was so valuable that he couldn’t afford the insurance. It was cheaper to keep it in the bank.”

  “What’s the point of that?” asked Lou, frowning. “What’s the point of having a bureau if you can’t use it?”

  “They’d keep kippers in it up in Arbroath,” said Ronnie. “Smokies even.”

  “What do you know about Arbroath?” asked Lou. “You tell me. What do you know about Arbroath?”

  Pete answered for him. “Nothing. He’s never been there.”

  Matthew was becoming impatient. “I don’t think that we should be talking about Arbroath,” he said, irritably. “You two should stop needling Lou. The real question is: what do I do with my Peploe??”

  They sat in silence, the three of them at the table, and Lou standing at her counter. Ronnie glanced at Matthew; he might have arranged the break-in to claim insurance. But if he had done that, then why had none of the paintings disappeared? There were several possible answers to that, one of which was that this was just the cover – the real stealing of the painting would come later. But if the Peploe? were to prove to be a Peploe, then why would he need to have it stolen in the first place? He would get his forty thousand or whatever it was by taking the picture to an auction. Why go to all the trouble of claiming the insurance, particularly when he would have no evidence of value to back up his claim?

  Lou, too, was thinking about the situation. Pete had been right to suggest that the painting should be removed from the gallery. But they would have to ensure that it was kept somewhere else. Should she offer to look after it for him? It would be safe in her flat, tucked away behind a pile of books, but did she want to have something so valuable – and so portable – sitting there? Forty thousand pounds could buy a perfectly reasonable place to live in Arbroath. No, it would be better for the Peploe? to go elsewhere.

  “Pat!” she said abruptly. “Get that girl to take the painting back to her place. She’s the one who identified it. Let her look after it.”

  “John won’t know who she is,” said Pete. “She won’t have told him …”

  Matthew turned to Pete. “Who’s John?” he asked.

  Pete looked down at his coffee. “John? I didn’t say John.”

  “You did,” said Matthew. “You said something about John not knowing who Pat was. But why did you call him John? Do you know him?”

  Pete shook his head. “You misheard me. I didn’t say anything about a John. I don’t know any Johns.”

  “Rubbish,” said Lou. “Don’t know any Johns? Rubbish.”

  “What I said was that he – this man who wants the Peploe? – whoever he is, and how would I know he’s called John? – he’ll not know who Pat is and won’t know where she lives. Which is, where?”

  “No idea,” said Matthew.

  Pete shrugged. “All right. Tell her to take it back to her place and keep it in a cupboard until you’ve decided what to do with it.
It’ll be safe there.”

  “Good idea,” said Matthew. “I’ll speak to her about it. I’ll ask her to take it home this evening.”

  They finished their coffee in silence. Matthew was the first to go, leaving the other two men at their table.

  “I suppose we have to get back,” said Ronnie after a while. He looked at Lou. “Perhaps I should have been a philosopher instead, Lou. Easier job, I think.”

  Lou smiled. “I wouldn’t know. But I suspect that it’s not as easy as you think. They worry a lot. Life’s not simple for them.”

  “Nor for us,” said Pete, rising to his feet.

  “Maybe,” said Big Lou. “But then, ignorance can be comfortable, can’t it?”

  34. On the Way to the Floatarium

  Irene had an appointment at the Floatarium, but with a good half-hour in hand before she was due to submit to the tank’s womb-like embrace, she had time to enjoy the bright, late spring day. Strolling along Cumberland Street that morning, she noted the changes brought by relentless gentrification. A few years back there had been at least some lace curtains; now the windows with their newly-restored astragals were reassuringly bare, the better to allow, at ground level at least, expensive minimalist or neo-post-Georgian furniture to be admired. Irene paused before the windows of one flat and pondered the colour scheme. No, she would not have chosen that red, which was almost cloying in its richness. Their own flat was painted white throughout, apart from Bertie’s room, which they had chosen to paint pink, to break the sexist mould. Or, rather, she had chosen to paint the walls pink. Stuart, her husband, had been less certain about this and had argued for white, but had been overruled. Irene was not sure about Stuart’s commitment to the project of Bertie’s education, and she had even wondered on occasions whether he fully understood what she was trying to do. The discussion over colour schemes had been a case in point.

  “Boys don’t like pink,” he had observed. “I didn’t, when I was a boy.”

  Irene had been patient. “That, of course, was some time ago, and your upbringing, as we both know, was not exactly enlightened, was it? Attitudes are different now.”

  “Attitudes may be different,” said Stuart, “but are boys? Boys are much the same as they always were, I would have thought.”

  Irene was not prepared to let such a patently false argument go unrefuted. “Boys are not the same!” she said. “No! Definitely not! Boys are constructed socially. We make them what they are. A patriarchal society produces patriarchal boys. A civilised society produces civilised boys.”

  Stuart looked doubtful. “But boys still want to do boyish things. If you put them in a room with dolls and toy cars, won’t they choose the cars? Isn’t that what they do?”

  Irene sighed. “Only boys who have had no other options will go for cars. Some boys will go for other things.”

  “Dolls?”

  “Yes, dolls. If you give them the chance. Boys love playing with dolls.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yes. As I said, if you make the environment right.”

  Stuart thought for a moment. “Well, look at Bertie. He loves trains, doesn’t he? He’s always going on about the train set at the nursery school. He loves it.”

  “Bertie loves trains because of their social possibilities,” said Irene quickly. “The train set enables him to act out social dramas. Bertie likes trains for what they represent.”

  Matters had been left at that, but doubts about Stuart’s commitment had lingered in Irene’s mind, and she often reflected, as she was doing now on her stroll down Cumberland Street, that raising a gifted child was not easy if one did not have the complete support of the other parent. And this difficulty was compounded, surely, by the absence of support from that nursery school woman, Christabel Macfadzean, that cow, thought Irene, who clearly resented Bertie’s talents and seemed determined to prevent him from developing them – all in a spirit of misplaced egalitarianism. Irene, of course, was deeply committed to egalitarianism in all its forms, but this did not prevent the paying of adequate attention to gifted children. Society needed special people if egalitarian goals were to be met. Unexceptional people – ordinary people, as Irene called them – were often distressingly non-egalitarian in their views.

  She reached the end of Cumberland Street and decided not to take the more direct route along Circus Lane, but to make her way along Circus Place, where she might just treat herself to a latte before the Floatarium. There was a café there she liked, where she could read the papers in comfort and occasionally make a start on one of the more challenging crosswords. Irene had thought of teaching Bertie how to do crosswords, but had decided that his programme was probably a bit too full at the moment. What with his Grade seven music theory examination coming up – Bertie was the youngest Scottish entrant for that examination that the Royal College of Music had ever registered – and with his new course of mathematics tutorials, there would be little time to take him through the conventions of crosswords. Perhaps he should learn bridge first, although it might be difficult to find partners for a bridge four. Stuart was not keen, and when Irene had raised the possibility of playing the occasional hand with that woman upstairs, that Macdonald woman, she had actually laughed at the thought that Bertie might play.

  There was something odd about that woman, thought Irene. She was a type which one often encountered in Edinburgh. A woman with intellectual pretensions and a haughty manner. There were so many of them, she reflected; so many.

  35. Latte Interrupta

  It was while she was sitting in the small café in Royal Circus with her generous cup of latte, skimming through the morning newspaper, that Irene’s mobile phone (with its characteristic Stockhausen ring) notified her of the incoming call from the East New Town Nursery. Christabel Macfadzean came right to the point. Would Irene mind coming round to the nursery immediately? Yes, Bertie was perfectly all right, but an incident had nonetheless occurred and it would be necessary to discuss it with her.

  Irene thought that she might finish her latte. It was an imposition to be summoned back to the nursery, and she would have to cancel her appointment at the Floatarium. But Christabel Macfadzean would not think of that, of course; in her view, parents had nothing better to do than drop everything and listen to her complaints. Obviously there had been some little spat between Bertie and one of the other children, presumably over that wretched train set. That was no reason to drag her into it. If Christabel Macfadzean had bothered to acquaint herself with the works of Melanie Klein, then she would have been in a position to understand these so-called “incidents” and she would not over-react – as Irene was fairly certain she was doing right now.

  Irene’s growing irritation prevented her from enjoying the rest of her coffee. She folded the newspaper and tossed it onto a side table. Then, having exchanged a few brief words with the young woman behind the counter, she began to make her way to the nursery. As she walked, she rehearsed what she would say to Christabel Macfadzean. She was adamant that she would not allow Bertie to be victimised. An incident, as Christabel Macfadzean called them, required two participants, and there was not reason to imagine that Bertie had started it.

  By the time she arrived at the nursery, Irene was ready for whatever conflict lay ahead. So when Christabel Macfadzean’s assistant opened the door and ushered her in, Irene was ready to go on the offensive.

  “I’m surprised that you deemed it necessary to call me,” she said to Christabel when she appeared from behind the water-play table. “I was actually rather busy. This is not really convenient.”

  Christabel Macfadzean dried her hands carefully on a small red towel.

  “There has been an incident,” she said calmly. “It is always my policy to involve the parents when an incident is sufficiently serious. I would be failing in my duty if I did not do so.”

  She looked up and fixed Irene with a firm stare. She knew that this woman would be difficult, but she was looking forward to the encounter with al
l the pleasure of one who knew that her position was quite unassailable.

  “Incident?” said Irene sharply. “Surely the life of a nursery school is filled with incident. Children are always acting out little dramas, aren’t they, as Melanie Klein pointed out. You’re familiar with the works of Melanie Klein, I take it?”

  Christabel Macfadzean closed her eyes for a few moments. Ignoring the question, she said: “There are little dramas and big dramas. Then there are incidents. This is an incident which requires parental involvement. We can’t cope here with serious bad behaviour all by ourselves. We have to invoke parental assistance.”

  Irene drew in her breath. “Serious bad behaviour? A little spat over the train set? Do you call that serious bad behaviour? Well, really …”

  Christabel Macfadzean interrupted her. “It has nothing to do with the train set – nothing at all.”

  Irene glared at her. “Well, something equally trivial, no doubt.”

  “No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “It’s by no means trivial.” This is most enjoyable, she thought. This particular galleon is having the wind taken right out of her sails, and it is a most agreeable experience, for me at least.

  “Well,” said Irene. “Perhaps you would be good enough to let me know what it is. Has Bertie been involved in a fight? Fighting is to be expected of little boys, you know, particularly if they are not adequately supervised …”

  This last remark drew an angry snort from Christabel Macfadzean. “I shall pass over that comment,” she said. “I shall assume that I misheard you. No, there has been no fighting. What there has been is vandalism.”

  Irene laughed. “Vandalism! Children break things all the time! There’s no call for a fuss!”

  “No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “This incident did not involve the breaking of anything. It involved the writing of graffiti. In the toilet – all over one wall – in large letters.”

  “And what makes you assume that it was Bertie?” Irene asked belligerently. “Are you not rather jumping to conclusions?”