44 Scotland Street (30 page)

“My dear,” he said to Pat, touching her gently on the wrist, “you are so kind, so considerate, to listen to the conversation of an academician of my years – barely fifty, I might add.”

“I’m interested in this story,” said Pat. “This Moderator person sounds awful. And you had to paint him!”

“Indeed I did,” said Angus Lordie. “But, do you know, as I began the task it seemed to me as if I had become possessed. It was almost as if I had been taken over by an entirely foreign energy. I had absolutely no difficulty in beginning. I saw the portrait in my mind’s eye, even before I began.

“I had set up a large canvas, you’ll understand – I normally paint portraits on a generous scale. But now, as I looked at this tiny, crabbit man, sitting there in his clerical black suit and staring at me with a sort of threatening disapproval, I found that I sketched in a tiny portrait, three inches square, right in the middle of the big canvas. This just seemed to be the right thing to do. He was a small-minded man, in my view, and it seemed utterly appropriate to do a small portrait of him.

“We had several sittings. I didn’t let him see what I was doing, you’ll understand, and so he had no idea of the picture which was emerging in the middle of the canvas – a picture which set out to express all the sheer malice and narrowness of the man. I thought it was very accurate. I had boiled down his spirit and it came to a tiny half-teaspoon of brimstone.”

Pat listened in fascination. She could imagine what might have happened next; the Reverend MacNichol would see the picture – which is exactly what happened, as Angus Lordie explained.

“It was during the third sitting,” said Angus Lordie. “I went

out of the studio to answer the telephone, and while I was out MacNichol took it upon himself to get up and have a peek at progress so far. When I came back into the studio he was standing there, purple with rage, wagging a finger at me. ‘How dare you insult a man of the cloth,’ he yelled at me. ‘You wicked, wicked man!’

“I tried to pacify him, but he would have none of it. He fetched his hat – a black Homburg which was far too big for a tiny man like that – shoved it down over his ears, and marched out of the studio. But as he left, he turned to face me and said: ‘You will be sorry, Mr Lordie! You will find out what it is to incur the wrath of the Discontinued Brethren!’ Then he left, and I sat down, somewhat shocked, and considered my position.

“What had happened, I was later told, was that he had pronounced some sort of Free Presbyterian
fatwa
on me. I was shocked. What exactly will they try to do to me? Put me to the sword? Burn me out of my studio? I have absolutely no idea what the implications are, as this happened only a few days ago.”

Pat was silent. Many people find it hard to know what to say to one who has just had a
fatwa
pronounced on him, and Pat was one of these. Words somehow seem inadequate in such circumstances, and any further enquiry tactless. It might help to ask: “Is it a temporary
fatwa
, or a permanent one?” But Pat just shook her head in disbelief – not at the story, of course – but at the mentality of those who would pronounce a
fatwa
on another.

Angus Lordie sighed. “Still,” he said. “One must not complain. Portraiture has its risks, and I suppose a dissident Free Presbyterian
fatwa
is one of them. Not that one would expect to encounter such a thing every day … But, to more cheerful subjects. Would you like to visit my studio some time? I’m just round the corner from Scotland Street, on the same side of the square as Sydney used to be – Sydney Goodsir Smith, of course. And Nigel McIsaac too. Nigel was a very fine artist – lovely, light-filled pictures – and I still see Mary McIsaac in the square from time to time.”

He looked over towards the other side of the room where a young man was circulating with a bottle of wine, refreshing glasses. “I’m so bad at catching the eyes of young men at parties,” he said airily. “Such a limitation! Perhaps you could do it for me?”

Pat looked across the room and immediately attracted the attention of the waiter, who came over to them and refilled Angus Lordie’s glass. Pat, who was generally abstemious, asked for only half a glass.

Angus Lordie looked again at Pat. His gaze was intense, Pat felt, and it was almost as if he were appraising her. But she did not feel threatened in any way – why? Because he was an artist looking at a potential subject, rather than a middle-aged roué looking at a girl?

“Yes,” he said, resuming the interrupted conversation. “Sydney was one of the lights of this city, one of our great makars. Would it be rude of me to say that I assume that you’ve not read any of his work? No? Well, there’s a treat for you. He was a great man – a great man. He loved his drink, you know, as all our poets have done. If the Scottish Arts Council had any imagination, it would have a system of whisky grants for poets, rather like the Civil List pension that Grieve got. Each poet would receive a couple of bottles a month – once they had produced a decent work between covers. What a gesture that would be!

“Sydney sometimes had these sessions that would last all night and into the morning. Conversation. Friendship. Wonderful ideas bouncing about. Beautiful invented words. And, do you know, he had this terribly funny toast that he would give from time to time. He’d raise his glass and say: ‘
Death to the French!
‘ Wonderfully funny.”

Pat frowned. “But why would he say that?”

Angus Lordie looked at her in astonishment. “But, my dear, he didn’t mean it! Good heavens! Do you think any of us here –” and with a gesture he embraced the entire room and the northern part of the city from Queen Street onwards, “Do you think any of us here actually mean anything we say? My dear!”

“I do,” said Pat.

“You mean everything you say?”Angus Lordie exclaimed. “My dear, how innocent you are!” He paused. Then: “Would you mind posing for me – in my studio? Would you mind?”

GRIEVE: Christopher Murray Grieve, better known as the Scottish poet Hugh MacDiarmid.

74. A Man’s Dressing-gown

Domenica and Pat left the reception at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery shortly before nine. Pat was hungry but she nevertheless turned down Domenica’s invitation to join her in her flat for a mushroom omelette. She liked her neighbour, and enjoyed her company, but she knew that if she accepted then she would not get to bed before eleven at least, as Domenica liked to talk. Her conversation ranged widely and it was entertaining enough, but Pat felt emotionally exhausted and she wanted nothing more than to take to her bed with a sandwich, a glass of milk, and a telephone. She had not spoken to her father for some time and she felt that a chat with him would help, as it always did.

She said goodbye to Domenica on the landing.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” said the older woman. “And remember what I said. Whatever you do, don’t let him upset you. Just don’t.”

Pat smiled at her. “I won’t,” she assured her. “I promise you.”

“Good,” said Domenica, and leaned forward and planted a kiss on Pat’s cheek. Her lips felt dry against her skin and there was a faint odour of expensive perfume. For a moment Pat stood still; she had not expected this intimacy – if it was an intimacy. Everybody kissed one another these days; kisses meant nothing.

Then the moment of uncertainty passed, and she thanked Domenica for the evening. “You’ve been so kind to me,” she said.

“I haven’t,” said Domenica, turning her key in the door. “I’ve been a neighbour, that’s all. And you’re a sweet girl.”

Domenica’s door closed behind her and Pat went into her own flat. The hall was in darkness as she entered and she reached to switch on a light. Then she stopped; light was emanating from under Bruce’s door. So he’s back, she thought. He can’t have had much of an evening.

The thought pleased her. She wanted him to be there – as in a sense that meant that he was with her. And that was what she wanted; she wanted it against all the promptings of the rational part of her being.

She stood still for a moment, in the darkness of the hall, debating with herself what to do. She and Bruce had parted on awkward terms that evening. She had been angered by his failure to apologise for giving away her painting, and she had stormed out of the kitchen. Now she felt that she wanted to make it up with him; she should tell him that she was not holding it against him and that all she wanted was for him to give her the telephone number of the people who had won the picture. Getting it back from them might not be easy, and Bruce’s support might be needed in that, but in the meantime she could do all that was necessary.

She decided to knock on his door and speak to him. Perhaps he would suggest that they have coffee together or that … What do I really want? she asked herself.

She now stood before his door and knocked gently. There was silence inside, and then, hesitantly, Bruce’s voice called out. “Pat?”

There was something in the tone, in the way he answered, that made her realise immediately that he was not alone in the room. And the realisation filled her with embarrassment, that she had disturbed them, and with intense, searing jealousy.

Horrified, she moved away from Bruce’s door and ran over the hall to her own room, slamming the door behind her. She thought she heard Bruce’s door open, but she was not sure, and she wanted to shut out all sound from that quarter. She threw herself down on the bed, her hands over her eyes.

She lay there for over half an hour, doing nothing, her eyes closed. She felt as if she was paralysed by misery, and that even the effort of lifting the telephone and keying in her parents’ number would be too much. But somehow she managed that, and heard her father answer at the other end.

“Are you all right?”

She took a moment to answer; then, “Yes. I’m all right. I suppose.”

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

She made an effort to sound more cheerful. “I’ve lost something at work – something that was entrusted to me.”

“Tell him,” said her father simply. He had the ability to diagnose problems even before they were explained. “Tell your boss about it. Own up.”

“I was going to do that,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Her father paused before answering. “There is nothing – and I mean nothing – that doesn’t look less serious if confessed, or shared. Try it. Tell your boss tomorrow what has happened. Tell the truth, and you’ll see how the world carries on. Just try it.”

She spoke to her father for a few minutes longer before ringing off. She felt slightly better just for having spoken to him, and now she got off the bed and walked towards the door. She did not want to go out of her room but she would have to cross the hall to get to the bathroom. She could not bear the thought of seeing Bruce – not just now – but she thought that he would be unlikely to come out.

She crossed the hall to the bathroom. The light still showed under Bruce’s door –
At least they aren’t in there together in the
dark
, she thought – but no sound came from the room.
And what
does that mean?
she asked herself.

Inside the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror and brushed her teeth. Then she washed her face, splashing it with cold water afterwards.

“Hallo.”

She spun round. A tall young woman, with streaky blonde

hair, was standing in the door. She was wearing Bruce’s dressing gown and her hair was dishevelled.

Pat stared at the young woman.

“What do you want?” she asked. She did not intend to sound as brutally rude, but that was how the question emerged.

The other girl was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Nothing,” she said. “At least, nothing from you.”

She turned on her heel and disappeared and Pat stared into the mirror. At least she had seen her face, and this would enable her to answer the question which every jealous person wishes to have answered.
Is she/he more attractive than I am?

And the answer in this case, she thought, was yes. And there was something else – another respect in which she was outclassed; another respect in which she could not compete. She could never wear a man’s dressing gown like that, with such complete shamelessness.

75. News of a Loss

There was every temptation to put off the moment when she would confess to Matthew that the Peploe? was no longer in her possession, but Pat resisted this firmly and successfully. When Matthew came into the gallery the following morning – twenty minutes after Pat had arrived – he barely had time to hang up his coat before she made her confession.

Matthew listened carefully. He did not interrupt her, nor did his expression reveal any emotion. When Pat had finished, she looked down at the ground, almost afraid to look back up at him, but then she did and she saw that the anger she had expected simply was not there.

“It’s not your fault,” Matthew said evenly. “You couldn’t have imagined that he would do such an inconsiderate thing.” He paused, and shook his head in puzzlement. “Why on earth did he assume that the painting belonged to nobody? Somebody had to have put it there.”

“He assumes a lot,” said Pat. “He’s a little on the arrogant side.” As she spoke, she wondered where Bruce would be now, and what he would be doing. She had never wondered that before, but now she did.

“I think I’ve met him,” said Matthew. “He goes to the Cumberland, doesn’t he? Tall, with hair like this …”

Pat nodded. Bruce was tall, and his hair did go like that; and why should it make her catch her breath just to think of him?

Matthew sat down at his desk and looked at Pat. “We’ll get it back,” he said. “As you’ve just said, it still belongs to us, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what my neighbour pointed out,” said Pat. “I hope she’s right.”

“I’m sure she’s right,” said Matthew. “So all we need to do is to find out who these people are – the people who won it – and ask them to give it back.”