Bertie Plays the Blues Read online

  That was Miss Fraser, who lived for Scottish history; who paid an annual pilgrimage to the Wallace Monument; who wept for the Covenanters; and whose voice and manner were imitated by generations of small girls until she retired to a small flat in Musselburgh – “I shall be so close to the site of the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh – remember the Rough Wooing, girls? – and not far from the scene of that resounding victory at Prestonpans: I shall be very happy, girls.” She gave us so much, thought Pat as she looked at the Declaration, so much love – in her way – and we repaid her with so little. I shall go and see her.

  Big Lou was watching Pat and wondering what she was thinking. Was she trying to remember exactly what the Declaration of Arbroath was? Was it possible that nobody taught anybody about it any more? Was it possible that Scottish history was being ignored by a nation that was encouraged to forget who it was and where it had come from?

  “They wrote to the Pope …” she began.

  “I know,” Pat reassured her. “I don’t suppose he received many letters from Arbroath …”

  Big Lou continued. “When I was at school we learned the words off by heart. I could recite it from start to finish. I was eleven.”

  Pat looked at her and smiled. “I knew a boy who could recite ‘Tam O’Shanter’ word-perfect when he was eight.”

  Big Lou nodded. “There used to be lots of boys like that,” she said. “But still … Do you remember this bit?” She pointed to a section of the Declaration. “May it please you to admonish and exhort the King of the English, who ought to be satisfied with what belongs to him … to leave us Scots in peace, who live in this poor little Scotland, beyond which there is no dwelling place at all, and covet nothing but our own.”

  Pat nodded. “I remember that. It always seemed to me to be such a sad plea. Poor little Scotland.”

  “We have had our sorrows,” said Big Lou. “Edward I. Flodden. The Darien Disaster. The near collapse of the Royal Bank of Scotland.”

  “Some of those were our own fault,” said Pat. “Don’t you think so, Lou?”

  Lou thought for a moment. “Yes, perhaps; except for Edward I. He was bad luck.” She thought further. “Of the other three, one was caused by bad judgement, one by me-too-ism, and another by either pride or greed, I’m not sure which.”

  “Both?” suggested Pat.

  18. Measuring Up

  While Big Lou and Pat were contemplating the Declaration of Arbroath, Domenica Macdonald was standing with her fiancé, Angus Lordie, and her lawyer, Lesley Kerr, outside the door of Antonia Collie’s Scotland Street flat, key in hand.

  “I must confess I feel somewhat furtive,” said Domenica. “I know that I’m fully entitled to go inside – indeed Antonia asked me to go in as often as I could to see that all was well, but somehow …”

  “You need not reproach yourself,” said Lesley. “We are merely going in to measure up for the sale. That’s all. And what we see inside will, of course, be kept confidential.”

  “Of course,” said Domenica.

  “Of course,” added Angus hurriedly. He doubted that there would be anything of any great interest in Antonia’s flat anyway; piles of books about Scottish saints and those unfortunate Russell Flint prints she insisted on displaying. It was extraordinary what people hung on their walls, he thought; perfectly reasonable people who should know better put dreadful things up: pictures of matadors by late French expressionists, for example, that induced nausea and, in some cases, even more severe symptoms; pictures by prolific Russian artists of well-padded female nudes that were enough to discourage even the most hetero-normatively compliant of men; there were so many crimes against art, Angus thought – and not all of them committed by the judges of the Turner Prize.

  “Of course, it’s really a question of what you like, Angus,” Big Lou had once said to him. “Some people like one thing and others don’t. That’s what it boils down to.”

  “Oh no, it does not!” Angus retorted. “There is good art, Lou, and there is bad art. And there are aesthetic and even moral criteria for distinguishing between the two.”

  This fragment of conversation – the beginnings of a heated debate that had gone nowhere – came into his mind as Domenica began to unlock Antonia’s door; and went right out of his mind as they stepped into the hall. Closing the door behind them, Domenica suggested that Lesley might wish to start there and work out into the surrounding rooms.

  The lawyer looked about her. “It’s a very charming hall,” she said. “Some flats have very poky entrances, but this one has all this light.” She pointed to the skylight, through which could be seen a slice of Edinburgh sky – high, blue, with only traces of wispy cirrus.

  She moved to examine one of the walls more closely. “It could perhaps do with a coat of paint, but I think we should leave it. The new owners may have their own ideas as to colour schemes, and I always recommend that it should be left up to them, if possible. Of course, if things are really shabby, then there’s a case for freshening a property up before it goes on the market. But most buyers can see beyond the immediate state of things.”

  “Exactly,” said Angus. “And what about baking bread?”

  Domenica looked at him curiously. “Baking bread?”

  Lesley Kerr laughed. “Oh yes. People often ask about that. They’ve read somewhere that the smell of baking bread in the background makes prospective buyers feel more positive about a house or flat.”

  “And flowers?” asked Domenica.

  “They might help,” said Lesley. “But you’re never going to impress a surveyor. A surveyor will probably be suspicious if he smells too much baking bread.”

  She extracted her electronic tape measure and took a few readings. “Very nice,” she said, writing in her Moleskine notebook.

  They went into the sitting room. There was a slight fustiness in the air – the result, Domenica explained, of the flat being closed up for so long. “I open the windows whenever I come in,” she said. “I air the place as much as I can, but air goes off, doesn’t it? It gets stale.”

  While Lesley busied herself with measurements, Angus sidled up to look at a framed print of a Highland ghillie standing with his dogs; behind him a cloud-wreathed mountain; a distant loch. His gaze moved on: there was that Russell Flint to which he had so strenuously objected; and then … a small oil of a woman arranging flowers. He had not seen this before and he wondered how it could have escaped his notice. He moved forward and peered more closely at the painting.

  “Something interesting you?” asked Domenica from the other side of the room.

  Angus continued to scrutinise the painting. “I’m not at all sure, but I think that this might be …”

  “A Cadell?” asked Domenica. “It looks a bit like it.”

  Angus nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  He moved away from the painting, as Lesley was now ready to measure the kitchen. “It’s a charming little flat,” she said. “I imagine it will sell quite well. This light is a great feature – there’s something to be said for living on the top floor. It’s so airy.”

  At first Domenica was silent. If she was going to try to buy the flat, then she was not at all keen for its better points to push the price up. “And an awful lot of stairs,” she said. “That will put off a lot of people – even people who are fit don’t like the thought of trudging all that way up. And cupolas leak, I believe.”

  “That’s true,” said Lesley. “But remember that Scotland Street is a very popular street. Convenience and atmosphere may well outweigh any drawbacks.”

  Domenica said nothing. She was beginning to accept that she was going to have to compete for the flat; well, she would do that, and she would be cheerful about it. After all, it was only money, and there was no point, she felt, in leaving money to her distant heirs. She stopped. After she married, she would have a very close heir indeed – her husband. And yet she was sure that she would outlast Angus: it was the lot of women to survive their husbands – as act
uaries were only too ready to point out. Those were morbid thoughts, though, and she did not want to think them when she should be enjoying herself snooping round her neighbour’s flat. Who wouldn’t enjoy such a heaven-sent opportunity – to go round a neighbour’s place, seeing a life laid bare?

  “Antonia has very poor taste,” muttered Angus.

  “Poor woman,” said Domenica. “She …”

  She did not finish. She had spotted a postcard lying on the floor where it had fluttered down from the letterbox. She reached down and picked it up.

  19. The Privacy, or Otherwise, of Postcards

  “What does it say?” asked Angus.

  “It’s addressed to Antonia,” said Domenica.

  “Of course it is. It’s her flat, after all.”

  Domenica shot him a disapproving glance. “I know that. The point is: should I read something addressed to another?”

  Angus hesitated. “A postcard … I thought that postcards were more or less in the public domain. If you want to write something confidential, you write a letter.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Domenica. “You don’t imagine that anybody else is going to read a postcard. You assume that the card will be delivered to the person it’s addressed to – not passed around the neighbourhood for inspection and comment.”

  Angus peered at the card. Domenica’s thumb was obscuring the message and he could make nothing out. She noticed his interest, and moved her thumb further down so as to obscure the message more completely.

  “But what if it’s something important?” he protested. “What if it’s something we have to act on?”

  “Unlikely,” said Domenica. “It’s probably something entirely personal. A card from a friend on holiday, or something like that.” She paused. “It could even be from one of her lovers. Who knows?”

  “Here’s an idea,” he said. “Let’s give the card to Lesley and ask her to read it. She’s a lawyer, after all, and can read it in her professional capacity. Then, if she thinks that we need to know the contents, she can authorise us to look at it. How about that?”

  Domenica could find no fault with this suggestion. Lesley, having taken all the necessary measurements, was now inspecting the basin and shower in the bathroom. Domenica took the postcard through to her there and asked her to read it. “Not aloud,” she said. “Read it as … as a lawyer to see if it’s personal or whether it says something we should act on or tell Antonia about.”

  Lesley nodded. “I think I can do that quite properly,” she said. “There’s a doctrine in Scots law called negotiorum gestio. It comes from Roman law.”

  “There you are,” said Angus. “I told you.”

  “You didn’t,” said Domenica. “You didn’t say anything about negoti …”

  “Negotiorum gestio,” supplied Lesley. Being an Edinburgh lawyer, her command of Latin was naturally better than average.

  “Yes,” said Domenica. “Negotio …”

  “… rum gestio,” prompted Lesley.

  “Exactly.”

  “Same thing,” said Angus. “Just because one doesn’t know the Latin for a rule doesn’t mean that one doesn’t understand the rule itself.” He looked enquiringly at Lesley. “What does this … this neg …”

  Once again Lesley came to the rescue. “… otiorum gestio mean?”

  Lesley closed her eyes momentarily, and was back in the lecture theatre at the University of Edinburgh listening to the late Professor T.B. Smith – Professor Sir Thomas Smith, as he became – talking about negotiorum gestio in Scots law. “If a man sees that his neighbour’s house is flooding and he engages a plumber to deal with it – his neighbour being absent abroad – then it’s surely right, ladies and gentlemen, that he should be able to claim from the neighbour such expenses as he necessarily expends in dealing with the emergency.”

  This had been greeted with a general nodding of heads, at least in the forward, more engaged rows of the lecture theatre. Yes, it was quite in accord with our sense of justice that such a public-spirited person should be compensated. And now, faced with the postcard, she reasoned that if an obligation could come into existence under the principles of negotiorum gestio, then there must be a right to determine in the first place whether action needs to be taken.

  She looked at the postcard. The handwriting was easy to interpret; a firm, rather elegant script that a graphologist would have readily identified as belonging to a person of aesthetic sensibility. The message itself was brief – and not at all confidential.

  “I don’t think there’s anything in the slightest bit private about this,” she said. “Indeed, I think that you need to read it, Domenica. I think that it requires action.”

  Domenica took the card and read it quickly before handing it on to Angus.

  “Dear Ant,” he read. He looked at Domenica and smiled. “I don’t see her as an Ant, do you? A term of endearment?”

  “Short for Antonia,” said Domenica. “Carry on.”

  “This is pour memoire,” Angus read. “My visit is coming up – at long last. Thank you so much for agreeing to put me up. I have great hopes of being able to achieve a considerable amount in the month I’m in Edinburgh, which is just what I need. I have so much work to do, I can’t tell you, but I know that I shall get through it like a … what is the correct metaphor? My metaphors seem to be deserting me these days – do you think that’s a feature of where we all are anno domini, or is it just because one gets tired of the metaphorical as one goes through life? Perhaps we can discuss this when I arrive next Wednesday. Eleven thirty in the morning. I can come straight from the Waverley.” He looked at Domenica. “And then there’s a signature I can’t make out. Can you?”

  Domenica had not looked at the signature. Now she strained to make it out. “Magnus something.”

  Angus took the card back. “Magnus … Is it Cameron? Campbell?” He held the card sideways and squinted at it. “Why do people not sign their names clearly? Is it because they’re hiding something.” He paused. “No, it’s Campbell. Definitely Campbell.”

  Domenica frowned. “Are you sure?”

  Angus shrugged. “I think so. Did she ever mention a Magnus Campbell to you?”

  “No. Not that I recall.”

  “Obviously one of her friends,” said Angus. “She knew a lot of men, didn’t she? Do you think he was one of her old lovers?”

  Domenica did not reply. She was looking out of the window. Magnus Campbell was one of her old lovers. That was the problem. If it was the same Magnus Campbell, of course; there were bound to be numerous Magnus Campbells and she could not be sure. And yet, in spite of the plurality of Magnus Campbells, the name still had the power to tug at her heart, a shibboleth to unlock secrets long concealed; a reminder of love once glimpsed and then lost. Such names never lose their power, their ability to make us stop in our emotional tracks and remember the vision Venus sends to lovers in, as Auden put it, their ordinary swoon.

  20. The Presence of the Sun

  Angus left Scotland Street to return to his studio. He was intrigued by the possibility that Antonia had a Cadell – and a rather charming one at that. She had never expressed any views on art, although she had obviously been susceptible to it, given that she had suffered an attack of Stendhal Syndrome in Florence. That was not a condition that affected philistines: one had to be open to beauty to be overcome by it. This meant that those who were indifferent to art were immune, as those who have been exposed to a virus may be spared infection on subsequent exposure. No, that was perhaps not the best analogy, he thought: exposure to art did not confer immunity to its power – rather, it made one all the more likely to be affected. The real philistine did not notice art, and would therefore never be a candidate for Stendhal Syndrome, no matter how long he stood in the middle of the Uffizi or the National Gallery of Scotland, or anywhere else where great art was to be found.

  Cyril had been left behind in the studio and was delighted when his master returned. No matter how deeply he was asl
eep, the sound of the key in the lock was sufficient to wake the dog from his slumbers and send him bounding to the front door, ready to greet Angus on his return. The initial welcome would then be followed by an enthusiastic headlong dash around the flat, during which the excited dog displaced rugs, bumped into furniture, and sustained such a yelping as would pass for the wailing of an Irish Banshee, only in a more cheerful note, as Banshees wail in a melancholy fashion about impending bad news, and the return of Angus was never that – in Cyril’s view at least. For Cyril, the presence of Angus was like that of the sun in the sky: it was there, it was necessary, it was life-giving.

  And when the sun went behind a cloud, just as human spirits might drop, so too would Cyril’s world contract into a tight glove of solitude when Angus went out without him. He had no understanding of the fact that Angus went far; in his mind, Angus went to the door, the door closed, and Angus stood on the other side of the door until such time as he chose to open it and come back in. Why his master should stand for hours on the wrong side of the front door was a question beyond the scope of his canine intellect. There was no reason for things to happen in Cyril’s universe; they just happened, and one reacted accordingly. Squirrels, for example, ran up trees when chased. There was no reason for them to do that – it’s just what they did. And dogs chased squirrels in the same spirit: that is what they did.