Espresso Tales Read online

  “I would have thought,” said Angus, “that we are more responsible for what we do rather than for what we don’t do. If I didn’t start something, then I’m not sure that it’s my duty to stop it.”

  “Oh yes?” asked Big Lou. “Oh yes?”

  Cyril looked at Big Lou and then at his master. Like all dogs, he was attempting to understand what was happening in the human world, but this was difficult to read, and he looked away. His was a world of floors and low things, and smells; a whole room, a world of smells, waiting for dogs to locate them and file away for future use.

  Angus met Big Lou’s challenge. “Yes,” he said. “I’m pretty sure about that. Don’t blame me for what I haven’t done. Simple. I didn’t start the Cuban missile crisis. I was around at the time, I suppose. But I didn’t start it.”

  Big Lou smiled. “That may be so, but let me tell you about something I’ve just read.” She paused, looking directly at Angus Lordie. “Do you want to hear about it?”

  Angus nodded graciously. “You are constantly entertaining, most excellent Lou,” he said. “We are all ears, aren’t we, Matthew?”

  “Well,” said Lou. “What I’ve been reading about is this. It’s a chapter in a book by a philosopher, and it’s called The Case of the Two Wicked Uncles. That’s what it’s called.”

  She leant forward on the bar as she continued. “There’s Uncle A and Uncle B, you see. Both of these uncles have a nephew, who’s just a wee boy, about eight maybe. If this bairn dies before they do, then each stands to come into a lot of money.

  “Uncle A goes to see his nephew one day. He arrives at the house and finds that the parents have gone out for some reason, leaving the boy alone in the house.”

  “Somewhat unlikely,” said Angus, smiling at Matthew. “Parents don’t leave eight-year-olds in the house. Not these days.”

  Lou sighed. “It’s a story, remember. Philosophers like to tell stories. They don’t have to be true. Anyway, Uncle A goes upstairs and finds that the nephew has decided to take a bath. The door to the bathroom is open and he goes in, sees the boy in the water, and decides, on the spur of the moment, to drown the poor bairn. Which he does, knowing that he will come into all that money.”

  “Good God!” said Angus Lordie.

  “Yes,” said Big Lou. “Not a nice uncle. Now here’s what Uncle B does. He goes off the same day to see his particular nephew and finds exactly the same situation there. When Uncle B goes upstairs in that other house, he sees the bathroom door open and goes in to see what’s happening. There’s his nephew, in the bath, but with his head under the water. He realises that the poor boy has slipped, knocked himself unconscious, and is submerged. He realises that if he doesn’t drag him out of the water–which will be a very simple thing to do–the boy will soon drown. He also realises that if this happens, then he will come into all the money. He does nothing.”

  “He stands there?” asked Matthew.

  “Aye,” said Big Lou. “He stands there. That’s Uncle B for you. Standing there, doing nothing.”

  For a few moments there was silence. The story had touched both Matthew and Angus Lordie in a curious way. It was almost as if it had been true; that they had been hearing something shocking that was reported in the newspaper. Cyril, disturbed by the silence, looked up from the floor and stared at his master. Then he looked at Matthew’s ankles again, scratched at an ear, and closed his eyes.

  “So,” said Big Lou, breaking the silence. “What you have to decide is this. Is Uncle A, who does something, worse than Uncle B, who does nothing? You just said to me, Angus, that we are only responsible for the things we do and not for the things we don’t do. Yes, you did. Don’t deny it. So are you going to say that Uncle B did nothing wrong? Is that what you’re going to say?” She paused. “But also, you tell me this: is Uncle A worse than Uncle B, or is there no difference between them? Well? Come on. You tell me.”

  Angus looked down at the table.

  “Let me think,” he said.

  32. The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions

  While Angus Lordie thought, Big Lou, lips pursed in an almost undetectable smile, made him another cup of coffee. She knew what Angus Lordie thought of her–that she was just a woman who made coffee for people. Big Lou was used to this. Back home in Arbroath, they had thought that she was just a girl–she had heard one of her male relatives say just that–and that somebody who was just a girl had nothing really important to say about anything. And in Aberdeen, where she had worked for years in the Granite Nursing Home, she had been just one of the assistants, somebody who helped, who cleaned up, who made the beds. And nobody had ever suggested to her that she might be something other than this.

  Matthew, in silence, stared up at the ceiling, thinking of uncles. He might so easily have been drowned by one of his uncles when he was eight, he thought. But which of his two uncles would have been most likely to drown him? His Uncle Willy in Dunblane, the one who farmed and who used to take him up the hillside on his all-terrain tractor to look at the sheep? Or his Uncle Malcolm in the West, who ran a marina and was a keen sailor? Uncle Willy might have drowned him in sheep dip, up at the high fank, and nobody would have been there to see it. It would have been a lonely death, under those wide Perthshire skies, and he would have closed his eyes to the sight of the heather and the mottled grey of the stones that made the fank. But Uncle Willy was an elder of the Kirk and would never have drowned anybody, let alone his nephew. No. It would not have been Uncle Willy.

  Would Uncle Malcolm have pushed him overboard from his yacht, he wondered? Hardly. And yet, now that he came to think of it, Uncle Malcolm had a temper and might, just might, have drowned him in a rage. Matthew remembered crewing for him off Colonsay when he was much younger and clearing away the breakfast things from the galley. He had tossed the dregs from a couple of tea cups into the sea and had done the same with the contents of a mug beside the sink. Unfortunately, that had contained his uncle’s false teeth in their sterilising solution, and the teeth had been lost at sea. His uncle had shouted at him then–strange, gummy shouts which had frightened him. Yes, Uncle Malcolm was the suspect in his case.

  Suddenly, Angus Lordie clapped his hands together, causing Cyril to start and leap to his feet. “Uncle A,” he said. “Uncle B is off the hook. He did nothing, yes? And even if he hadn’t been there the boy would have drowned. So he didn’t cause the drowning. Whereas Uncle A caused it to happen.”

  Big Lou listened intently. “Oh,” she said. “So it’s all down to causing things? Is that it?”

  “Absolutely, most cogitative Lou,” said Angus. “That’s your answer for you.”

  “Maybe if Uncle B were to…” Matthew began, but was interrupted by Big Lou.

  “So it’s cause then,” she said. “But the problem is this. I could say to you, surely, that Uncle B’s omission to act was a cause of the drowning just as much as Uncle A’s positive act was. Ken what I mean?”

  Angus Lordie looked momentarily confused. Serves him right, thought Matthew. It was a bad mistake to condescend to Big Lou, as Angus was about to find out.

  Big Lou reached for her cloth and gave the counter a wipe. “You see, there’s no reason why we should not see omissions to act as being as causally potent as positive actions. It’s simply wrong to think that failures to act can’t cause things–they do. It’s just that our ordinary idea of how things are caused is too tied to ideas of physical causation, of pushing and shoving. But it’s more subtle than that.”

  “So there’s no difference between Uncle A and Uncle B then?” asked Matthew.

  “Not really,” said Big Lou. “The book I’m reading says that ordinary people–the man in the street–would always say that Uncle A was worse, while the philosopher would say that there was no real difference.” She finished her sentence, and then looked at Angus Lordie.

  Angus Lordie picked up his coffee cup and drained the last few drops. “Well, Lou,” he said. “That’s pretty impressive. I’ll have t
o think about what you said. You could be right.”

  “I am right,” said Big Lou.

  “Could be,” said Angus, looking for support from Matthew, but getting none. He looked at Cyril, who returned his gaze directly, but gave no further sign.

  Matthew now spoke. “There could be a difference, though. There could be a difference between things we do on the spur of the moment and things we do after a bit of thought.”

  Big Lou looked at him with interest. “Maybe,” she said.

  “So in this case,” Matthew went on, “Uncle A had a bit of time–maybe only a minute or so to think about it. Then he acted. Whereas Uncle B acted–or failed to act–spontaneously.”

  Angus Lordie snorted dismissively. “Doesn’t work,” he said. “They have had exactly the same amount of time to think about it. Uncle A thinks about it while he’s holding the boy’s head under the water. Uncle B thinks about it while he stands there and watches the poor boy drown. No difference, in my view.”

  Big Lou wanted to side with Matthew, but could not. “Yes,” she conceded, a note of reluctance in her voice. “Angus is probably right–in this case. But you’re right, too, Matthew, when it comes to most of the things we do. There must be a difference between the things you do on a sudden urge and the things you do after you’ve thought about them for a long time.”

  “So what do you think, Lou?” asked Angus. “Is there a difference between Uncle A and Uncle B as far as you’re concerned? What did that book of yours say?”

  “It hinted at an answer,” said Big Lou. “But mostly it just raised the question. Books don’t always give the answers, you know. Sometimes they just raise the questions.”

  Angus smiled. “So nothing’s certain, then?”

  “That’s right,” said Big Lou.

  “Except death and taxes,” interjected Matthew. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

  “They don’t pay taxes in Italy,” observed Angus. “I knew a painter in Naples who never paid taxes–ever. Very good painter too.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Matthew.

  “He died,” said Angus.

  33. Bertie Makes a Move

  In the days that followed his visit to George Street with his mother, Bertie had been preoccupied with his plan. The purchase of the Watson’s blazer from Aitken and Niven was feasible only with the co-operation of the boy from round the corner.

  Unfortunately, there was a difficulty with this as he was not sure exactly where this new friend lived. He had met him only on the one occasion and although the other boy had given him his name–he was called Paddy–he had not been specific as to where he lived. He had pointed in the direction of the far end of Fettes Row, which was just round the corner, when Bertie had asked him, but he had given no number.

  Nor had he given Bertie his surname, which would have allowed the telephone directory to be consulted. So all that Bertie could do if he wanted to contact him was to wait in the street in the hope that he might appear.

  And there was a difficulty with doing even that. Bertie was now allowed out alone in Scotland Street and Drummond Place, provided that he did not cross any busy roads and provided that he told Irene exactly where he was going. This allowed him to sit on the steps outside No 44 and watch people going in and out of their houses. It also allowed him to stand at the end of Scotland Street Lane in the hope of seeing one of the motorcycles that occasionally roared out of the vintage-motorcycle garage (out of bounds).

  Bertie liked the motorcyclists, who sometimes waved or nodded to him. He would like to have a motorcycle like that, which he could ride to rugby matches, and he would do so, he thought, when he was bigger.

  His mother would not like it, of course–she said that motorcycles were noisy things–worse than cars–and that if she were the Lord Provost of Edinburgh she would ban them from the streets. But even if he got hold of a motorcycle, she would still try to spoil it for him, thought Bertie. Motorcyclists wore leather outfits, sometimes with badges on them; she would force him to wear leather dungarees, he thought, and all the other motorcyclists would laugh at him.

  If Paddy lived on Fettes Row, then he would have to go and seek him there. But again there were obstacles. Although one section of Fettes Row was accessible, the other section, where Paddy lived, lay beyond Dundas Street, and the crossing of Dundas Street was definitely forbidden.

  Bertie wrestled with this. He could not tell his mother that he was going to the other side of Fettes Row because she would forbid him outright. And if he lied, which he did not want to do–for he was a truthful boy (apart from his habit of occasionally giving a false name)–then he would surely give himself away with his blushes. So he would have to develop a form of words which allowed for the crossing of Dundas Street.

  “Can I go down to Royal Crescent?” he asked one afternoon.

  Irene glanced up from the book she was reading, a new biography of Melanie Klein. For a moment she wondered how Melanie Klein would have answered had anybody asked her permission to go to Royal Crescent. It would have been too simple just to say yes. Perhaps she would have said: Why do you want to go to Royal Crescent?

  “Why?” she said.

  Bertie shrugged. “I want to play.”

  Irene looked back at the book. The biographer had reached a point where Kleinian theories of play were on the point of being discussed at an important meeting in London. Melanie was anxious about the implications of a possible attack from Freudian loyalists who believed she had strayed too far from the fold. The pace of the account, with all its intrigue, was building up.

  “That’s fine, Bertie. You play. And then maybe we can talk about how you played. Would that be all right? You could tell Mummy about your little games?”

  Bertie pursed his lips. It was none of her business how he played. He wanted to play Chase the Dentist, but she said that it was too violent, and he could never find anybody to play it with him. But he did not want to argue about that now; bland acceptance was a better policy.

  “And then I’ll go round to the end of the street and then come back,” he said.

  Every word of the sentence had been rehearsed, and he delivered his line faultlessly. It was true, after all, and there was no need to feel ashamed or to blush over what he had said. Royal Crescent and Fettes Row were, strictly speaking, separate streets, but in a broad sense they were the same street, as Fettes Row was a continuation of Royal Crescent. And the section of Fettes Row which lay on the far side of Dundas Street could, of course, be described as the same street as the bit that lay on the near side. So he felt that it was quite reasonable for him to say that he was going to the end of the street, even if he knew that Irene might misinterpret what he said. A boy was not responsible for the misinterpretations of his mother, he thought. That was carrying things far too far.

  Irene nodded. “Be careful,” she said. “And don’t be too long.” She paused, and looked up again from her book. “And have you done your Italian today, Bertie?”

  Bertie had taken the precaution of doing his Italian exercises to prevent their being used as a way of thwarting his plan.

  “Si, si,” he said. “Ciao, Mama!”

  “Ciao, ciao, bambino!” Irene muttered, and returned to her Melanie Klein. It was typical, she thought, that institutional forces should have sought to discredit truly innovative developments in the international psychoanalytical movement. It was absolutely typical.

  For a moment she allowed her mind to wander. Dr Fairbairn had been something of a pioneer himself–a recent pioneer–with his theory of the juvenile tantrum. But he must have encountered opposition to his theories when he first published his study of Wee Fraser.

  Presumably there were those who were envious of his success, who wanted to bring him down because they hated the fact that he had done something. There were always people like that, she thought. They are unsettled by the good fortune, or the happiness, of others. They allowed envy, that most corrosive of human emotions, to prompt them to ma
ke sneering remarks.

  And all they achieved in this way was an increase in the sum total of the world’s unhappiness and a contraction, a deformation, of their own hearts.

  34. Bertie Prepares to Cross Dundas Street

  Bertie left the front door of 44 Scotland Street in that state of heightened excitement of mind and senses that goes with the performance of the dangerous, or the plainly forbidden. He had not lied to his mother–he was certain of that–but at the same time what he was proposing to do was clearly outside the understanding that existed between them.

  He thought for a moment: I am going to cross Dundas Street, alone, and the enormity of his adventure came home to him. In such a state of anticipation might Adam have reached up to pick the fruit, thought Bertie, although as all boys, and men, knew, that was really Eve’s fault. If he was breaking the rules, then, it was obviously his mother’s fault for making them in the first place.

  This thought encouraged him, and he smiled as he began to walk along Royal Crescent and then to Fettes Row, with its fateful conjunction with Dundas Street. He knew that this mission might prove futile, that there might be no trace of Paddy, and that he would return with nothing accomplished. But it was at least a first step in the execution of his plan, and he was confident that sooner or later he would meet up with Paddy and put his proposal to him. And Paddy would accept, of course; he was that sort of boy. He went fishing in the Pentland Hills and caught trout. For a boy who did that, the task which Bertie had planned for him would be simplicity itself.

  Bertie had decided that he would walk up and down Fettes Row for half an hour or so in the hope that Paddy might emerge. It was a warm afternoon, part of an Indian summer in which Edinburgh was basking, and Paddy might well come out on to the street to play. But even if he did not, then Bertie had brought with him a small piece of blackboard chalk, and with this he would leave a message for Paddy on some of the stairs that led up to the front doors on Fettes Row. PADDY, he would write, MEET ME IN SCOTLAND STREET SOON. URGENT. SECRET. BERTIE.