A Promise of Ankles Read online

  Domenica agreed, and wondered what the definition of a cutting-edge artist might be.

  “One who can’t paint,” said Angus. “Nor draw. Nor sculpt. The real cutting-edge types are distinguished by their inability to do any of these things. And now, to make things worse, they’re finding it increasingly difficult to épater the bourgeoisie.

  “How sad for them,” mused Domenica. “I suppose the bourgeoisie is unshockable now. It has seen everything there is to be seen.”

  “And has no energy left to express disapproval, even if it felt it,” remarked Angus. “Except when the Turner Prize is announced each year, and there’s a ritual huff and puff in the press about the mind-numbing banality of what’s served up.”

  At the mention of the Turner Prize, Cyril stirred in his sleep, and uttered a barely audible, somnolent growl. He had been trained to lift his leg at the mention of the Turner Prize, one of the few terms that Cyril recognised, along with walk, biscuits, sit, and bad dog. Domenica had disapproved. “You can be very childish, at times, Angus,” she said, adding, “like many men.” But Angus did not mind, and enjoyed demonstrating Cyril’s trick to people he bumped into in the street. Childish it may have been, but we were, after all, homo ludens, and if we couldn’t have a bit of fun at the expense of an artistic establishment that took itself so seriously, then what could we do? If anybody needed to be épated, it was that cultural establishment with its shibboleths, obsessions, and deadening, Pravda-like conformity.

  He looked down at Cyril, still fast asleep at his feet, occupying the subfusc rug that was his undisputed territory. Then he transferred his gaze to the blue Spode teacup on the table in front of him. This teacup was as powerful a trigger of memory as the Madeleine cake had been to Proust. In this case, the memory evoked was not one of a room, like that in the house at Combray, but of an unfortunate incident that had occurred several years previously and that had involved their neighbour, Antonia Collie. Antonia had experienced an episode of Stendhal Syndrome in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence and since then had become closely involved with an Italian socialite nun and aphorist, Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. Relations between Antonia and Domenica had long been prickly, owing to a long-running dispute as to the ownership of a room that Antonia believed had been wrongly incorporated into Domenica’s flat despite its belonging, in Antonia’s eyes, to her own flat. In spite of this argument – every bit as significant, in the mind of both parties, as the dispute between Peru and Ecuador as to the ownership of a contested section of the Amazon Basin – the two women had continued to recognise the normal incidents of good-neighbourliness, including a willingness to lend each other things needed at short notice. One such loan had involved a blue Spode teacup that, in Domenica’s view, Antonia omitted to return. That had led to Domenica and Angus secretly letting themselves into Antonia’s flat to repossess the cup. It was some time later that Domenica discovered that she had two blue Spode cups in her flat, which meant that they had, in fact, wrongfully taken one that Antonia possessed legitimately. It was because of this background that Angus always felt uneasy when drinking his coffee out of the blue Spode cup. And it was a guilty unease that he felt, although of course it was now far too late to remedy the situation. If they took the cup back, then it would be noticed by Antonia, who might suspect them of involvement. Doing nothing, although strictly speaking the wrong thing to do, was in this case exactly the right thing.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a cry from Domenica. “There they are,” she alerted him, lifting the binoculars to her eyes. “They’re coming out.”

  Angus rose to his feet and joined Domenica at the window. “He looks like a student,” he said.

  Domenica squinted into the binoculars. “He looks very…very respectable. Neat hair. Not at all scruffy.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive,” Angus warned her.

  Domenica lowered the binoculars. “I shall go out while they’re standing there,” she said. “In that way I shall be able to strike up an acquaintance and get the measure of our new neighbour.”

  Angus had taken the glasses from her and was conducting his own assessment of the young man on the street down below. “Red trousers,” he said. “That tells us a lot.”

  Domenica burst out laughing. “Is it all in the genes (jeans)?”

  Angus looked at her. He gave a shrug. “I d(i)na ken.”

  That was a highly sophisticated response, although the difficulty of rendering parenthesis in speech meant that the joke fell quite flat.

  3

  Student Neighbours

  Outside in the street the letting agent was finishing off his conversation with the young man whom Domenica had spotted from her window. The viewing of the flat had been entirely satisfactory from the point of view of both parties. The agent had proposed a rent that was fifteen per cent above the going rate for such a property, and this had been accepted without demur. From the point of the lessee, the agent’s flexibility as to date of entry and willingness to countenance a sub-let during the Festival – subject, of course, to a rent increase during that period of thirty per cent – made the entire deal an attractive one.

  “We’d like to move in tomorrow,” said the young man. “I know that’s not much notice, but we’re all sleeping on friends’ couches and you know how that is.”

  The agent thought for a moment. When had he last slept on somebody’s couch? A long time ago, and he had been woken rudely when somebody came into the room and sat on him. As luck would have it, though, the person who sat on him was very attractive, and that made all the difference…It was at this point that Domenica appeared from the door at the foot of the No. 44 common stair. She smiled at the agent and offered her hand to the young man. “I take it,” she said, “that you’re our new neighbour in the ground-floor flat. I thought I’d come and say welcome to Scotland Street.”

  The young man nodded his head and smiled. “I’m Torquil,” he said. “And I am. Or will be tomorrow.”

  The agent looked at his watch. He had business to attend to, and so, after hurriedly agreeing on the collection of the keys, he left Domenica and the young man standing at the front door.

  Domenica looked at Torquil. He was a tall young man, with a neat haircut and a broad, friendly smile. His features were immediately appealing; in fact, she thought, this was a remarkably good-looking young man.

  “I take it you’re a student,” she said.

  Torquil inclined his head. “Classics.”

  Domenica’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know anybody still studied classics,” she said. “Well, I suppose some must, but it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

  Torquil fixed his warm smile on his new neighbour. “Maybe. But there are more of us than you might imagine.”

  “My husband will be pleased to hear that,” Domenica said. Angus was in favour of classics, and enjoyed quoting snippets of Horace and Virgil. She gestured towards the windows of the ground-floor flat. “I imagine you’ll be sharing.”

  “Yes,” said Torquil. “There are going to be five of us.”

  Domenica made a quick mental calculation. She knew the flat in question, and as far as she could remember there were only three bedrooms. Of course, there was a living room at the back that could be used as a bedroom, but even then, somebody would have to share.

  “I hope it’s not going to be too crowded,” she said. “These flats are not as big as some in Drummond Place or further up the hill.”

  Torquil grinned as he replied. “We’re not fussy,” he said.

  “The other boys?” she asked. “They’re students too?”

  “Two of them are boys,” said Torquil. “Two of them apart from me, of course. Three boys and two girls.”

  Domenica continued with her calculation. If they kept the living room as it was, as a common room, then they would have three bedrooms at their disposal. If the girls shared a room, that
would mean that one other room would have to be shared by two boys, and one would then have a bedroom to himself. Or it could be that one of the girls was in a relationship with one of the boys – possibly Torquil – and that would mean that the two of them could share, the other could have a room to herself, and the two remaining boys could share the third bedroom.

  Domenica put the sleeping arrangements out of her mind and asked what the others were studying. “Well,” said Torquil, “there’s Rose, for starters. She’s in her third year of architecture. She comes from Kelso. Then there’s Dave, who used to go out with Rose but doesn’t any more. They’re still good friends, though, and I think Rose might want Dave back, except I don’t think that’s going to happen. Because Dave…well, it’s just not going to happen.” He looked bemused.

  How could he be so sure, Domenica asked herself. Had Dave said, I’m not going back to Rose – and that’s final? Or was it because Dave was enamoured of somebody else – and Rose was unaware of this? Could there be something between Dave and Torquil? If there was, then Torquil could be reasonably certain that Rose’s chances were slight, but why would Dave have been involved with Rose in the first place if his inclinations had been otherwise?

  “Dave is studying environmental science,” he continued. “Third year – we’re all third year, actually. Dave is a good friend of Alistair – they were at school together in Stirling. Alistair is doing mathematics, which he doesn’t like very much but which he’s going to have to stick with because you can’t change just like that in your third year. Anyway, I think Alistair is too thick to be doing mathematics. You shouldn’t do mathematics if you’re thick. You should do something like estate management or sports science. Sports science is a really good course for thick people – it’s made for them, really.”

  Domenica raised an eyebrow. She was not sure whether he was being playful. “I’m not sure everybody would agree,” she said.

  Torquil did not argue. He moved on to Phoebe. “She’s a bit odd,” he said. “We all love her – don’t get me wrong – but she’s definitely not your average person. She comes from Findhorn and some people say that they’re all weird up there. I don’t think that’s necessarily true. But I think that Phoebe definitely has weird parents. She admits it. She says, ‘My parents are seriously weird.’ That’s what she herself says.”

  So that’s that, thought Domenica. “I mustn’t keep you,” she said. “We’re two floors above you, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of one another. It’s a very pleasant street.”

  Was it? She thought, on balance, it was. But the problem with a pleasant street was that it could rapidly become less pleasant if difficult or noisy neighbours moved in. Students were, on the whole, difficult neighbours, but she would give Torquil and his friends the benefit of the doubt and welcome them. Build a silver bridge and it will be friends who will cross on it. That was probably true, even if it had about it the ring of a Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna aphorism.

  She looked at Torquil again. He really was very striking, an Adonis in every respect, and she found herself wondering: who does he share a room with? It was not an appropriate thought – at least, not one for her to think – but she was certainly pleased that the new neighbours would be interesting. Life would be dull, Domenica reminded herself, if we all ended up living next to people who were just like ourselves.

  4

  That Dreadful Woman

  The following day was a Saturday. In the Pollock flat in Scotland Street, one floor below Angus and Domenica, Stuart’s mother, Nicola, was making breakfast for her son and two grandsons. She had spent the night in the flat rather than return to her own flat round the corner in Northumberland Street; she would usually do this if babysitting in the evening for Stuart, as she had done the previous night. Stuart was reluctant to ask his mother to babysit in the evening, as she gave up most of her days to look after Bertie and Ulysses, but on this occasion he had arranged to have dinner with his new friend, Katie. That was something that Nicola was keen to encourage; in the earlier days of Stuart’s marriage to Irene, Nicola had done her best to keep good relations with her daughter-in-law before eventually realising that it was just impossible. After reaching that conclusion, she had simply kept out of Irene’s way, not doing anything to provoke a matrimonial split, but being immensely relieved when the fault lines in the marriage eventually made themselves clear. And when Irene announced that she was leaving Edinburgh to pursue studies for a PhD in Aberdeen, Nicola found it impossible to conceal her glee.

  “I can’t say I’m exactly devastated,” she said to Stuart. “Much as I admire Irene…”

  Stuart had looked at her balefully. “You don’t admire her, Mother. You may as well be honest.”

  Nicola hesitated, but then she said, “No, you’re right. I can’t stand her. I’ve never been able to. Sorry about that, darling, but she really is the most dreadful cow.”

  It was not the language of a tactful mother-in-law, but at least it was direct, and Stuart knew that his mother was at heart completely devoted to him. Like so many mothers, all she had ever wanted in this life was that her son should be happy. That was her raison d’être, he had decided, and it was a humbling thought – that another should devote herself so wholeheartedly and unconditionally to your interests. Mothers loved; mothers plotted; mothers turned a blind eye to the most egregious defects in their sons. Daughters were different, and were often judged more severely by their mothers, but when it came to sons, mothers could forgive anything.

  And yet this maternal objective of Nicola’s was clearly incompatible with Irene and all her works. Something had to give, and that, it transpired, was Irene. Up until her announcement that she was going to Aberdeen, she had seemed invincible, a stubborn fact of life, as immutable and solid as the Hoover Dam or the Great Wall of China. Well, stone and cement will last, while our human arrangements may prove less firm of foundation. Irene, whose shadow he thought of as a long one, was suddenly no longer there – except for the occasional weekend – and he was like a prisoner suddenly released from durance vile. It was heady, it was exhilarating, even if he was still in the foothills of freedom.

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” he said to his mother. “I tried to make it work – I really did.”

  “Of course you did, darling. You tried and tried. I saw it. I would never have had the patience you showed. I would have poisoned her long ago…Sorry, darling, I don’t really mean that. What I should say is that I would have been tempted to poison her.” She smiled as she remembered something. “Speaking of which, I read something terribly amusing the other day. It was about the way in which the CIA made plans to dispose of various leaders they considered to be hostile. You’ll remember the exploding cigars they tried to get Castro to smoke?”

  Stuart had read about those.

  “They had various committees to plot that sort of thing,” Nicola continued. “And they gave these committees code names. One of them was set up to plan the poisoning of the then Prime Minister of Iraq – that was back in the early Sixties. They called it the Health Alteration Committee.”

  “That’s a bit scary,” said Stuart.

  “Indeed,” said Nicola. “But there we are. I really am sorry you’ve had to put up with that dreadful woman…sorry, your wife…for so long. But now, at long last, freedom!”

  “To an extent,” said Stuart.

  “She hasn’t changed her mind, has she?” asked Nicola anxiously.

  “No, but she always said that she’ll come back for weekends from time to time – to see the boys.”

  “As she should,” said Nicola. “As long as she doesn’t stay too long.”

  “She’s coming back today,” said Stuart flatly. “She sent me a message. She said: Back today. Get boys ready.”

  “That was all?”

  Stuart nodded. “That was all.”

  “Oh well,” said Nicola. �
��It takes a very low mind to talk in telegraphese. However, be that as it may, I shall make myself scarce. I can come back tomorrow – if she’s gone by then.”

  Stuart explained that Irene had announced she would catch a three o’clock train back to Aberdeen the following day – Sunday. Nicola did a rapid calculation. That meant that she would only be in Edinburgh for twenty-six hours or so – and there was a limit to the psychological damage one could do in twenty-six-hours.

  That Saturday, as it happened, Bertie had with him his friend, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. Ranald had been brought over to the flat after school on Friday by arrangement between Nicola and Ranald’s mother. Ranald’s father had been subject to a significant Community Payback Order, imposed on him by Edinburgh Sheriff Court after pleading guilty to an offence relating to company accounts. It was not an offence of dishonesty as much as one of negligence, and the Sheriff had thought that community service would be a fitting punishment. With this he had imposed a period of two hundred hours of Scottish country dancing, and it was this sentence that Ranald’s father tackled each Friday evening when a variety of country dance enthusiasts descended on the Macpherson house in Albert Terrace and clocked up the necessary hours in the doing of “Gay Gordons”, “The Dashing White Sergeant”, and “Dukes of Perth”. Ranald found these evenings tedious, and so was relieved when Nicola had suggested to his mother that there should be a Scotland Street sleepover.

  Now Bertie and Ranald were in Bertie’s room, poring over a previously clandestine copy of Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys, when Bertie suddenly looked at the clock on the wall and said, “My mummy’s coming soon, Ranald – we’d better look out.”

  Ranald looked disappointed. His hours with Bertie were the highlight of his life. They were the firmest of friends; they were blood-brothers, the bond having been sealed by the stabbing of two palms with a pin; they were comrades-in-arms in all the battles that went with being seven. “My dad says your mummy is a real minger,” said Ranald. “I’d never say that, Bertie – it’s my dad. But I think lots of people agree with him, you know.”