A Time of Love and Tartan Read online

  “I’m all right,” she said.

  He reached across the table and patted her hand gently. “Good,” he said. “And you were about to ask how I was, weren’t you?”

  “Was I?”

  He winked. “I think you were. Well, there’s nothing wrong with me. Rien. But I could do with a cup of coffee.” He paused. “Are you going to go and get something for yourself?”

  Pat seethed. “What do you want?” she asked. This was intended to be a question about the point of their meeting: Bruce clearly wanted something.

  “Thanks,” said Bruce. “I need to make a phone call. I’ll do that while you’re fetching. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll have a latte – semi-skimmed, if poss. I’ll keep the table.”

  Pat caught her breath. She wanted to storm out; she wanted to tell this outrageous man that his charms would no longer work on her; that she saw through everything; through the hair gel, through the banter, through every arrogant assumption about female psychology; through the whole, outrageous act – she saw right through it. But instead she asked him whether he took sugar.

  “Nyet,” Bruce replied. “No sugar, thanks.” Then he added. “I thought you’d remember that – you know, from the old days.”

  As she stood at the counter waiting to be served, Pat reflected on what Bruce had just said. It was typical of his solipsism that he should imagine that she would remember every little detail of his preferences. Who would possibly remember, after some years, whether or not somebody else took sugar? If the other person was immensely important, of course, one might remember a little detail like that – if one went to tea with the Pope, for example, one might say, years after the event, He doesn’t take sugar in his coffee, you know. Or he might make some small remark about something very insignificant, and one would remember that, with all the clarity with which important events can be incised into memory. Such as, The Pope said that his watch wasn’t keeping very good time. Something like that. To which, of course, the reply might be that the watch of such a personage is calibrated in centuries rather than minutes and hours . . .

  She waited her turn. Two young Japanese women were ahead of her, talking to one another in hushed tones. One of them glanced at Pat and smiled; it was a tiny feeler of empathy, and she felt it touch her briefly, a flicker of warmth. They were strangers to her, far, she thought, from everything that was familiar to them, visiting this café for its literary associations. They were pilgrims, in a sense, not all that different in their quest from those who went to a religious shrine, to a grotto where some manifestation was said to have occurred a long time ago, or to a river bank where the water was in some way holy and capable of washing away all the pains and cares and grubbiness of our ordinary lives.

  She took the tray with two coffees back to the table. Bruce had finished his call, and was tucking his phone back into his pocket.

  His tone, when he spoke, was business-like. “Right,” he said. “You’ll be wondering why I wanted to see you. Here’s the inf. I’m going to be setting myself up in business.” He smiled at her and told her what he had planned. Then came the proposition. “And I want you, Pat, to work with me. How about it?’

  She stared at him. “Are you serious?” she asked. “I mean, as in serious?”

  Those Things for Which We’re Grateful

  While Pat and Bruce had their conversation in the Elephant House, Bertie Pollock (7) sat in his classroom at the Steiner School, looking out of its west-facing window. He knew it faced west, as he had recently acquired a compass from his friend, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. In turn, Ranald had been given it as a present by his godfather, who had forgotten that he had given exactly the same present the year before, and even the year before that.

  “You have this one, Bertie,” said Ranald. “It’s jolly important to have a compass. If you get lost, you’ll always know which direction you should go.”

  Bertie thanked him effusively. “You’re really kind, Ranald,” he said. “I wish I could give you something in return, but I don’t really have much stuff.”

  “I’d noticed that,” said Ranald. “But don’t worry, Bertie, when you get older you might have more stuff and then you can give me some of it. I’ll keep a note of what I give you so that you’ll know how much stuff you have to give me.”

  That struck Bertie as perfectly fair, and it made it easier for him to accept the compass that Ranald had passed on. There was a small instruction booklet that came with it, and this explained the points of direction, and gave a short note on magnetic deviation. For Bertie, though, the real point of having a compass was to know which way was west, as west was important to him in more ways than one. Directly west of the Steiner School, only one block away, was George Watson’s College, where Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was a pupil and where Bertie had spent a brief time – not quite a whole day – in a plum-coloured school blazer to which he was not entitled. That day had ended ignominiously when he had been pushed to the ground and roundly kicked on the rugby field – an experience that had prompted him to run back to the Steiner School, where rugby was blessedly unknown.

  Beyond Watson’s, over Craiglea ridge and a touch more to the south than to the west, lay the Pentland Hills, where Bertie had once gone fishing with his father and where, after they had been lost in a suddenly-descending haar, they had ended up seeking directions at a farmhouse. Had Bertie had his compass, he felt, they would not have been lost in the first place, but that would have meant that he would never have met the farmer’s son, Andy, with whom he had established immediate and deep rapport. So a compass, he decided, like so many things in this life, brought both advantages and disadvantages.

  Yet the west still called, and called strongly, because in that direction lay what to Bertie was the promised land – Glasgow. No matter how constrained he might feel in Edinburgh; no matter how trapped in the programme of yoga and psychotherapy planned for him by his mother, there was always Glasgow, an irresistible presence – rather like a great lighthouse in the darkness sending out its pulsating message. This is Glasgow calling . . . And surely readier than all others to answer the call of Glasgow was Bertie. Glasgow was freedom; Glasgow was excitement; Glasgow was a yoga- and psychotherapy-free zone.

  But in Edinburgh that morning the members of Bertie’s class had been given the task of writing a list.

  “Lists are very important,” said the teacher, Miss Campbell. “We use them for all sorts of purposes. Can anybody think of the sort of lists people make?”

  She surveyed the class. There were a few thoughtful expressions, but no hands went up.

  Then Olive put up her hand. “Mummies make lists of things for daddies to do,” she volunteered.

  Miss Campbell hesitated. The staff tried as far as possible to avoid role stereotypes, but sometimes these seemed so accurately to reflect what happened in real life.

  “Well, that’s true,” she said. “But daddies may also make lists of things for mummies to do, don’t you think?”

  Olive shook her head. “Not in my experience, Miss Campbell. Mummies don’t need these lists because they’re the ones who decide what needs to be done. So those things are already in their heads, you see.”

  Miss Campbell gritted her teeth. She was all for equality in relations between the sexes, but she found it very hard to agree with Olive on anything. She had no desire to encourage her, and agreement might simply urge her on.

  A further thought had occurred to Olive. “Of course, I suppose you might not know about that sort of thing, Miss Campbell, since you don’t have a husband, do you?”

  Miss Campbell closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten – in Gaelic. She had heard about the reason for the dismissal of Elspeth Harmony, who had pinched Olive’s ear in full view of the rest of the class. At the time she had been shocked by what seemed a completely unacceptable lapse in professional standards, but now she was not so sure. It must have been immensely satisfying to pinch Olive, and as she thought of this she felt the thumb and inde
x finger of her right hand move slightly apart, as if in readiness for just such an attack. But she could never do that, of course, whatever the provocation, whatever the temptation. And so she finished counting up to ten in Gaelic and then opened her eyes again.

  Pansy now joined in. “Of course, somebody might ask her to marry him, Olive.” And then to Miss Campbell she said, “Has anybody ever asked you to marry him, Miss Campbell? And if not, do you think anybody might?”

  Bertie turned to Pansy. “You shouldn’t ask that sort of thing, Pansy,” he said. “And I bet nobody’s ever going to ask you or Olive.”

  This brought a cheer from Tofu. “You bet they won’t,” he called out. “Unless they’re mad, of course. They might get somebody from the loony bin.”

  Olive drew in her breath. “Did you hear that, Miss Campbell? Did you hear what Tofu just said? He called the Royal Edinburgh Hospital the loony bin.”

  “You shouldn’t say that, Tofu,” said Miss Campbell reproachfully.

  “Make him stand in the corner,” said Pansy. “For two hours, Miss Campbell.”

  “Shall I hit him for you?” asked Larch.

  “I think we need to return to lists,” said Miss Campbell. “Let me suggest a list we could all make – and shall do so right now. A list of all the things we’re grateful for.”

  The members of the class exchanged glances, but jotters were taken from desks and pencils readied.

  “Number one,” wrote Bertie. “Mummy and Daddy.” Then he paused. He so wanted to cross out mummy, but he could not; he just could not.

  Glencoe Again

  Miss Campbell’s eye alighted on Bertie. Of all the children in the class, she imagined that Bertie would be the one who would best understand gratitude, and it was for this reason that she picked him to read out his list.

  “We shall start with Bertie,” she announced. “We’re all interested to hear your list of the things you’re grateful for, Bertie. I wonder what they’ll be?” She paused. “We shall soon see, shall we not? Please read us your list, Bertie.”

  Bertie’s heart sank. “Couldn’t we hear Tofu’s list first, Miss Campbell?” he asked.

  “Hah!” said Tofu. “You can’t, because my list has got nothing in it!”

  “Stupid!” crowed Olive. “You hear that, Miss Campbell? Tofu’s not grateful for anything. That’s because everybody hates him. If everybody hates you, there’s nothing to be grateful for.”

  Miss Campbell looked disapprovingly at Olive. “Hush, Olive dear. That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “But it’s true,” persisted Olive. “Some of the girls have already got a list, Miss Campbell. It’s a list of horrid boys, and Tofu’s at the top of it because everybody hates him.”

  “I don’t care,” said Tofu. “They hate you, Olive, more than they hate me. I’ve seen lists with your name at the top and Pansy’s second. There are bags of lists like that.”

  This brought a squeal of protest from Pansy. “They don’t hate me, Miss Campbell. People don’t hate me.”

  “Of course they don’t, Pansy,” said Miss Campbell reassuringly. Turning to Tofu, she administered a stern warning. “Tofu, you are not to say things like that. I won’t have any talk in this classroom of people hating one another; is that quite clear?”

  That brought a sullen nod of assent.

  “Right,” said Miss Campbell. “Now let’s think more positively. Bertie is going to read us his list of things that he’s grateful for in his life and I, for one, am very eager to hear it.”

  An air of expectation filled the classroom as Bertie unfolded his piece of paper.

  “Things I’m grateful for, by Bertie Pollock,” he said.

  “A very good start,” said Miss Campbell. “Please carry on, Bertie.”

  “Number one,” said Bertie. “My mummy and daddy.”

  Miss Campbell clapped her hands together. “Well, isn’t that a lovely beginning, boys and girls! I think it is. Because we all know that without our mummy and daddy none of us would be here. So it’s quite right to be grateful for mummy and daddy.”

  “Or a donor,” muttered Tofu.

  Miss Campbell’s eyes widened. “Did you say something, Tofu?”

  Tofu shook his head. “Nothing, Miss Campbell.”

  Miss Campbell hesitated. There was some territory best left unexplored, and this was an example of that. She turned again to Bertie. “Please carry on, Bertie. What’s next on your list?”

  Bertie looked at the paper. “Number two,” he continued. “I’m grateful I live in Scotland.”

  Miss Campbell smiled. “Now isn’t that nice, boys and girls? Bertie is grateful that he lives in Scotland. It’s very important to be proud of your country, boys and girls – not proud in a silly, boastful sense, but grateful for all that your country gives you.”

  Olive looked doubtful. Her hand went up. Miss Campbell tried to ignore her, but she was insistent.

  “Yes, Olive?”

  Olive looked accusingly at Bertie as she voiced her objection. “But what about England?” she said. “Not everybody comes from Scotland.”

  “That’s true, Olive,” said Miss Campbell. “But Bertie wasn’t talking about England. Bertie happens to be a Scottish boy and so he was talking, quite understandably, about Scotland.”

  Olive was not to be easily put off. “Yes, but there are some people from England in this class. Hiawatha, for instance, he’s English. He was born in England, you see.”

  Hiawatha frowned. “I can’t help that, Olive. Nobody asked me where I wanted to be born.”

  Olive looked at Hiawatha tolerantly. “I know you can’t help that, Hiawatha. I was only thinking of how you must have felt when Bertie went on about being Scottish. You must have felt really small – sort of unwanted.”

  Hiawatha did not reply. Pansy, however, always standing by in her role as Olive’s principal lieutenant, voiced her agreement. “Yes, poor Hiawatha,” she said. “Sitting there being English . . . ”

  Bertie felt that he needed to explain. “I didn’t mean to say anything about being English,” he protested. “I like English people. I wouldn’t want to say anything nasty.”

  “Did not mean,” said Olive, with heavy sarcasm. “Lots of people say things they don’t mean to say, but still say them.”

  Miss Campbell felt it was time to return to the subject. “That’s enough, Olive. I think we should get back to Bertie.”

  “I was only trying to protect others from being hurt,” said Olive. “I was only thinking of Hiawatha’s feelings.” She paused. “But there’s something else, Miss Campbell.”

  The teacher sighed. “What is it, Olive?”

  “My dad says that we shouldn’t be too pleased with ourselves. He said that we should always remember the bad things that have happened in Scottish history.”

  Miss Campbell nodded. “I think that’s quite right, Olive. I think we should always take a balanced view.”

  Olive was now in her stride. “Such as the Massacre of Glencoe. My dad thinks we shouldn’t forget that.”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” echoed Pansy, trying hard to remember what the Massacre of Glencoe was all about.

  Larch, who had been largely silent, now joined in. “Yes,” he said, “we should remember what the English did at Glencoe.” He stared at Hiawatha as he spoke; Larch was violent, and a historical casus belli was as good as anything else.

  “The English!” exploded Olive. “It wasn’t the English, Larch. You obviously know nothing about Scottish history. It was the . . . ” She paused. There was complete silence in the classroom. “It was the Campbells.”

  All eyes turned to Miss Campbell, who laughed nervously.

  “There may be some truth in that,” she said. “But we must remember, boys and girls, that it was a long time ago that the Campbells fell upon the MacDonalds.”

  “In their own house,” contributed Olive. “After the MacDonalds had given them their tea.”

  “It was a very long time ago,”
repeated Miss Campbell.

  There was a further silence, eventually broken by Olive. “Was your grandfather there, Miss Campbell?” she asked.

  Unsettling Thoughts

  Domenica MacDonald, anthropologist and resident of Scotland Street, was now Domenica Lordie . . . or was she? Domenica may have married Angus Lordie, portrait painter and stalwart of the Scottish Arts Club, but that did not mean that she had ceased to be who she was – which was Domenica, daughter of the late Patrick Auchterlonie Macdonald and Euphemia Constance Macdonald or Scrimgeour. Identity was a complex matter, but one thing was clear: in Scotland you did not automatically change your name to that of your husband, and there was certainly no legal requirement to that effect.

  Domenica had been happy enough to be married, but did not feel that it was the defining feature of her life. Angus was her second husband. Her first, whom she had met and married in South India, had been a mild and rather unmemorable man, a member of a family who owned what they referred to as an electricity factory outside Cochin. This business, a small coal-fired generating station, had been her husband’s pride and joy, but it had also been the cause of his death – by electrocution. Widowhood had saved her from a restrictive marriage. She had loved her first husband – vaguely – but she had not been in love with him. There was a distinction, she felt, between the state of loving another and being in love. The latter involved a surrender to a state of incompleteness: the object of your love was necessary for your continued existence – or so you thought. Loving another was wanting to own that person – to have him or her as completely as possible. You appended the other to your life – you incorporated him within your immediate, personal world.

  As an anthropologist, she had spent her entire professional life trying to understand people, how they behaved, and why they did what they did. The scientific study of human society answered some of those questions, but said nothing at all about why we liked the things we did. So an anthropologist might work out how people organised their private lives, might throw light on patterns of courtship and marriage – which were matters of love, after all – but might have nothing to say about the thing that was at the core of all that – about the mystery of love. Nor did psychology throw much light on what made people experience love for another. The psychologist might understand the place of love in the pantheon of emotions, but may say nothing about what it actually was. It was the same with consciousness: we understood how consciousness might come into existence – neuroscience claimed even to have pinpointed the region of the brain that appeared to weld mental activity into an awareness of self – but an understanding of the fundamental notion of consciousness continued to evade philosophers. Love was like that: it happened, and it made a big difference, but what it actually was, what its wellsprings were, was a question that philosophers had yet to answer.