44 Scotland Street 4ss-1 Read online

  tea-room for this meeting, because Jenners made her feel secure, and had always done so. Other shops might come and go, and one or two parvenus had indeed recently set up in the city, but she, quite rightly, remained loyal to Jenners. There was nothing unsettling about Jenners, as she had cause to reflect when-ever she approached Edinburgh on a train from the west and saw the satisfying sign Jenners Depository. This signalled to the world that whatever one might find on the shelves of Jenners itself, there was more in the depository, round the back. This was reassuring in the most fundamental way.

  There was nothing reassuring about Lizzie. She was twenty-three now, and had done very little with her life. At school she had been unexceptional; she had never attracted negative attention, but nor had she attracted any praise or distinction.

  Her reports had been solid – “might get a B at Higher level, provided she puts in more work”; “almost made it to the second team this year – a solid effort” and so on. And then there had been three years at a college which gave her a vague, unspecified qualification. This qualification had so far produced no proper job, and she had moved from temporary post to temporary post, none of which seemed to suit her.

  Both Sasha and Todd thought that marriage was the only solution.

  “We can’t support her indefinitely,” said Todd to his wife.

  “Somebody else is going to have to take on the burden.”

  “She’s not a burden,” said Sasha. “All she’s doing is looking for herself.”

  “She should be looking for a husband,” retorted Todd.

  “Possibly,” said Sasha. “But then, it’s not easy these days. These young men one meets don’t seem to be thinking of marriage.”

  Todd shook his head. “Yet marriages take place. Look at the back of Scottish Field. What do you see? Wedding photographs.

  Mother/Daughter Issues

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  Nice fellows in their kilts getting married in places like Stirling and Balfron.”

  Sasha sighed. What her husband said was true. Such a world existed – it had certainly existed in their time – but their own daughter seemed not to be part of it. Was there anything wrong with her, she wondered. There had been no signs of anything like that – no unsuitable friends with short-cropped hair and a tendency to wear rather inelegant jackets – so at least that was not the problem. Thank heavens they did not have to face the problem faced by friends in the Braids whose daughter, an otherwise reasonable girl, had brought home a female welder. What did one talk to a female welder about, Sasha wondered. Presumably there was something one could say, but she had no idea what it might be.

  Now, in the tea-room at Jenners, scene, over so many years, of such rich exchanges of gossip, Sasha fixed Lizzie with the maternal gaze to which her daughter was so accustomed.

  “You’re looking thin,” Sasha said. “You’re not on one of those faddish diets, are you? Really, the damage those people do! Doctor what’s-his-name, and people like that. I’m not suggesting that one should over-eat, but one wants to have something to cover one’s poor skeleton.”

  She pushed the plate of iced cakes over the table towards her daughter.

  Lizzie pushed them away. “No thanks. And I don’t think I’m looking particularly thin. In fact, I’d say I’m about the right weight for my height.”

  Sasha raised an eyebrow. Lizzie was flat-chested in her view, and a judicious coating of plumpness might help in that respect.

  But of course she could never raise the issue with her daughter, just as she could say nothing about the dowdy clothes and the lack of make-up.

  Taking a cake, Sasha cut it in half. Marzipan: her favourite.

  Battenberg cakes were hard to beat, particularly when dissected along the squares; she had little time for chocolate cake – sticky, amorphous, and over-sweet substance that it was.

  “You know,” she said, discreetly licking at her fingers, “you could do rather more with yourself than you do. I’m not being 100

  The Facts of Life

  critical, of course. Not at all. I just think that if you paid a little bit more attention to your clothes . . .”

  “And my face,” interjected Lizzie. “Maybe I should do something about my face.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your face,” said Sasha. “I said nothing about your face. You have a very nice face. I’ve got nothing against your face.”

  “In fact,” said Lizzie, “people say that I look quite like you.

  In the face, that is.”

  Sasha picked up the second half of her cake and examined it closely. “Do they?” she said. “Well, isn’t that nice? Not that I see it myself, but perhaps others do. Surprising, though.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” said Lizzie.

  Sasha laughed lightly. “Now,” she said, “that’s enough about faces. I’ve got something much more important to talk to you about.”

  39. The Facts of Life

  “Something important?” asked Lizzie. There was doubt in her voice: what was important to her mother was usually rather unimportant to her.

  “Very,” said Sasha, glancing about her, as if those at neighbouring tables might eavesdrop on some great disclosure. “You will have heard that the ball is coming up. Soon.”

  “The ball?”

  “You know,” said Sasha. “The Conservative ball. The South Edinburgh Conservative Ball.”

  Lizzie looked bored. “Oh, that one. That’s nice. You’ll be going, I take it. I hope that you enjoy yourselves.”

  “We shall,” said Sasha, firmly. “And we’d very much appreciate it if you would come in our party. Both Daddy and I. We’d both appreciate it. Very much.” She fixed her daughter with a stare as she spoke. A message was being communicated.

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  101

  Lizzie looked at her mother. She was so sad, she thought. Imagine living a life in which the highlight of one’s existence was a political ball. How sad. “Depends,” she said. “Depends when it is.”

  “Next week,” said Sasha. “I know I haven’t given you much notice, but it’s next Friday, at the Braid Hills Hotel. It’s such a nice place for it.”

  Lizzie pursed her lips. She was in a difficult situation. She did not want to go to the ball, but she was realistic enough to understand her position. Her parents paid her rent and gave her an allowance. She accepted this, in spite of her pride, and she understood that in return there were a few duties that she had to discharge. Attendance at the Conservative Ball had always been one of these. This was what her mother’s look meant.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll come.”

  Sasha looked relieved. “That will be very nice.” She picked up her table napkin – paper! – and removed a crumb of marzipan from the edge of her lower lip. She would have liked to have licked her lips, and would have done so at home, but she couldn’t in town. “We’ll make up a small party. Daddy’s arranged that.”

  Lizzie, who had been looking out of the window, turned to face her mother. “A party?”

  Sasha smiled. “Yes, of course. A small party. Just the three of us and . . .”

  “That’s fine. The three of us. That’s fine.”

  “And a fourth.”

  Lizzie said nothing. She tried to meet her mother’s gaze, but Sasha looked away.

  “A young man,” said Sasha. “A very charming young man from the office. He’s called Bruce. We thought it would be a good idea to ask him to join us.”

  Lizzie sighed. “Why? Why can’t we just go by ourselves?”

  Sasha leaned forward conspiratorially. “Because there’s hardly anybody going,” she whispered. “Nobody has bought a ticket –

  or virtually nobody.”

  Lizzie looked at her mother in frank astonishment. “Nobody?”

  “Yes,” said Sasha. “Even the people on the committee have found some excuse or other. It’s appalling.”

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  The Facts of Life

  “We
ll, then, why don’t you cancel it? Surely that would be simplest?”

  Sasha shook her head. “No, it’s not going to be cancelled.

  Imagine if people heard about that. We’d be the laughing stock.

  The ball is going ahead. Your father has made up his mind.”

  Lizzie thought for a moment. “And Bruce? What about him?”

  Sasha answered quickly. “Very charming. A good-looking young man too. He lives down in the New Town somewhere.”

  She paused, and then added: “Unattached.”

  For a moment there was a silence. Then Lizzie laughed. “So,”

  she said. “So.”

  “Yes,” said Sasha. “So. And it’s about time, if I may say so, that you started to think of finding a suitable man. It’s all very well enjoying yourself, but you can’t leave it too late.”

  Lizzie closed her eyes. “I’m on the shelf, am I?”

  Sasha picked up her coffee and took a sip. She would remain calm in this conversation; she was determined about that. “You know very well what I’m talking about. There are some people who just miss the bus. You may think that you’ve got plenty of time, but you haven’t. The years go by. Then you suddenly realise that you’re thirty-something and the men who are interested in getting married aren’t interested in you any more – they’re interested in girls in their mid-twenties. Oh yes, you may laugh, but that’s the truth of the matter. If you want a husband, don’t drag your feet – just don’t drag your feet.”

  Lizzie waited until her mother had finished. Then: “But you’re assuming that I want a husband.”

  Sasha stared at her daughter. “Of course you want a husband.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Actually, I don’t have much of a view on that. I’m quite happy as I am. There’s nothing wrong with being single.”

  Sasha put down her coffee cup. She would have to choose her words carefully. “All right. You’re single. Where does the money come from? You tell me that. Where does the money come from?”

  Lizzie did not respond, and after a few moments Sasha provided the answer herself.

  “Money comes from men,” she said.

  40. In Nets of Golden Wires

  Carried down on the Jenners escalator, mother and daughter, one I

  step apart, but separated by a continent of difference.

  must be patient with her, thought Sasha; and Lizzie, for her part, thought exactly the same. She’ll come round to our way of thinking –

  it’s just a question of time, thought Sasha; and Lizzie said to herself: God help me from ever, ever becoming like her. She actually said it. She said: money comes from men! She felt herself blush at the thought, a warm feeling of shame, mixed with embarrassment, for Sasha. If her mother thought this, then what did her parents’ marriage amount to? An agreement as to property? That would make her the by-product of an arrangement of convenience; no more than that.

  They descended from the first floor in silence. Then, halfway down, Lizzie turned to the left and saw, standing on the ascending escalator, a young man, perhaps her age, perhaps a year or two older; a young man who was wearing a dark-olive shirt and a grey windcheater, and whose face reminded her, more than anything else, of one of those youths who stood as models for Renaissance painters. Had he been naked, and pierced by arrows, then he was Saint Sebastian in full martyrdom; but his expression was not one of agony, or even of anxiety; he had something to do in Jenners, and was going about his business calmly. Look at me! willed Lizzie. Look!

  But he did not seem to notice her, and his gaze remained fixed ahead.

  They passed one another in seconds, and Lizzie, transfixed, turned round to watch him disappear behind her. She noticed the shape of the shoulders, and the neck, so vulnerable, so perfect, and the colour of his hair, and she was filled at that moment with a sudden sense of longing. The vision of male beauty which had been vouchsafed her struck her with sudden and great force, and she knew that she had to see this young man again; she had to speak to him.

  She had been standing in front of her mother, and so she got off the escalator first when they reached the bottom and turned to face Sasha.

  “We might try some perfumes,” said Sasha. “My bottle of Estée Lauder is almost empty and I thought I might try something else. You could help me choose.”

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  In Nets of Golden Wires

  Lizzie thought quickly. “You go,” she said. “There’s something I want to look for upstairs. Sorry, I forgot.”

  “What is it?” asked Sasha.

  Lizzie thought for a moment. She was tempted to reply: a man, but did not, saying instead: “Oh, I just wanted to look around. But don’t you worry about it, you go ahead.”

  She moved forward to give Sasha a quick peck on the cheek, and then, without waiting for her mother to protest, she stepped back onto the ascending escalator. Looking up, she saw that the young man had disappeared, but presumably he had taken the next escalator up; there was nothing for men on the mezzanine floor. So she strode up the steps, turning quickly to wave to Sasha, who was still standing, in puzzlement, staring up at her.

  She knew that what she was doing was ridiculous. It was ridiculous to see somebody – on an escalator, too – and fall in love with him. People did not do that sort of thing. And yet she had. She had seen this man and she ached to see him again.

  Why? Because of the beauty of his expression? Because she knew, just to look at him, that he would be kind to her? How absurd, utterly absurd. And yet that is exactly how she felt. I am caught by love in nets of golden wires.

  When she reached the first floor, she looked about her quickly.

  There was no sign of the young man, and she decided, again, that he must have gone further up. The food hall; that was it; that was where a young man would be going. He would be planning a dinner party for some friends and needed something special. He was used to Jenners, having been taken there with his mother – one of those matrons in the tea-room – and now he was coming back to do his own shopping.

  Lizzie rushed to change escalators and arrived, slightly breathless, on the second floor. She made her way to the food hall and looked down the aisles. There were rows of shortbread tins and traditional oatcakes; lines of marmalade jars; nests of pickles and spices. A be-aproned woman came up to her with a tray and offered her a small piece of cheese on a stick. Lizzie took it, almost automatically, and thanked her.

  “I’m looking for a man,” she said.

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  105

  “Aren’t we all?” said the woman, offering her another piece of cheese.

  Lizzie smiled. “He came up the escalator, and he seems to have disappeared. A young man in a grey windcheater. Tall.

  Good-looking.”

  The woman sighed. “Sounds ideal. He’d suit me fine.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  Lizzie wandered off. The store was too big. The world was empty. She had lost him.

  41. Your Cupboard or Mine?

  “I’m not sure,” said Pat. “I’m not sure if that’s a very good idea.”

  Matthew looked surprised. It seemed obvious to him, but then sometimes he discovered that others found it hard to grasp the self-evident. This had given rise to difficulties during his business career, such as it was. He had assumed that staff would understand the reasons for doing things in a particular way, only to discover that they had no idea. This meant that he had to spell things out to them, and this, in turn, seemed to irritate them. He had wondered whether he was going about it in the right way, and had discussed the issue with his father, but even his father had not seemed to grasp the point that he was trying to make.

  “It really is the best thing to do,” he assured her. “We talked about it over coffee. Everybody agreed that it would be better for the Peploe? to be looked after somewhere else. It was Pete’s idea, actually, but Ronnie and Lou liked the idea too.”

  “But why? Why can’t you tak
e it back to your place and put it in a cupboard? Why put it in my cupboard?”

  They were sitting at Matthew’s desk in the gallery, and Matthew had his feet up on the surface of the desk while he leaned back in his leather captain’s chair. Pat noticed his shoes, which were an elegant pair of brogues, leather-soled. Matthew noticed her 106

  Your Cupboard or Mine?

  looking at his shoes and smiled. “Church’s,” he said. “They make very good shoes for men. They last. But they’re pricey.”

  Pat nodded. “They’re very smart. I don’t like big clumping shoes, like some of the shoes that you see men wearing. I like thin shoes, like those. I always look at men’s shoes.”

  “But do you know how much these shoes cost?” Matthew asked. “Do you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two hundred and fifty pounds,” he said, adding: “That’s for two.”

  He waited for Pat to laugh, but she did not. She was looking at his shoes again. “What sort of shoes do you think the First Minister wears?” she asked.

  Matthew shrugged. It was a curious question to ask. He had no interest in politicians, and he would have had some difficulty in remembering the name of the First Minister. Come to think of it, who was he? Or was that the previous one? “We never see his feet, do we? Are they keeping them from us?”

  “Maybe.”

  Matthew, slightly self-consciously, now lifted his feet off the desk.

  “I expect he buys his shoes in Glasgow,” he said. “Not Edinburgh.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, while this remark was digested. Then Pat returned to the issue of the cupboard. “But why can’t you keep the Peploe? in your cupboard . . . along with your Church’s shoes?”

  Matthew sighed. “Because it will be obvious to whoever is trying to steal it that it could be at my place. I’m in the phone book. They could look me up and then do my place over.

  Whereas you . . . well, you’re not exactly in the phone book, I take it. They won’t know who you are.”

  I’m anonymous, thought Pat. I’m not even in the phone book.