Nicola had heard her do this, and did not approve. It was only too easy to laugh at the aspirations of others and ignore one’s own. But where did you start with somebody like Irene? Where could you possibly start? The Macpherson house was, in fact, a rather comfortable one, and not at all pretentious. It was typical of the sort of house built in the 1880s by speculative builders who had bought land to the south of Edinburgh, and were creating new suburbs for those wishing to migrate from the New Town and the reekiness of Auld Reekie. In this way Morningside had come into existence, providing families with the rus in urbe benefits of fresher air and a view of the Pentland Hills. That Morningside came, in due course, to be synonymous with a rather prissy respectability did not detract from the haven it provided for those keen to pursue the universal suburban dream—space, security, and, if you were lucky, just enough garden room, in the fleeting Scottish summer, to unfold a deck chair or grow a single row of beans.

  The Macpherson house in Albert Terrace, perched on the crest of the hill that fell away down into Morningside, was fortunate in having a large walled garden in which there were several well-established trees. At the end of this garden was an area that Ranald’s father had allowed to grow wild, and this had become overgrown with brambles, rhododendrons and a luxuriant and impenetrable stand of bamboo. From the perspective of a small boy, it was a jungle, every bit as full of possibility as a slice of real jungle in Africa or the Far East.

  “I think there may be wild animals in my garden,” Ranald once said to Bertie. “I think I’ve seen signs of them.”

  “You’re jolly brave,” said Bertie. “There are no wild animals in the Drummond Place Gardens.”

  “I’m not saying that there are zebras or anything like that,” said Ranald. “But I think there may be one or two of those big cats—you know, jaguars, or panthers, or something like that. I’ve read that some of those have got loose and are hiding in people’s gardens.”

  “Or wolves?” asked Bertie. “Do you think there might be wolves?”

  Ranald was not sure. “Sometimes I’ve heard howling,” he said. “But I think that might just have been a dog somewhere. But it might be a wolf for all I know.”

  “It’s best to be careful,” said Bertie.

  When they arrived, it was Ranald who opened the front door to them.

  “Well, well,” exclaimed Nicola. “Look at Ranald, Bertie—he’s wearing his kilt. Isn’t that nice?”

  “Why are you wearing your kilt, Ranald?” asked Bertie.

  Ranald pointed over his shoulder into the house. “I always do on Saturdays, Bertie. My dad has his Scottish country dance group. He likes me to wear the kilt when they’re here.”

  “Isn’t that nice?” said Nicola, peering beyond Ranald into the hall beyond. “To have Scottish country dancing on a Saturday afternoon…In Morningside…” She paused.

  “Well, I’ll come back for Bertie at six-thirty. I think that’s what your mummy said, Ranald.”

  Ranald nodded. “She said that Bertie can have his tea here and then go back to Scotland Street. She said he’d get a better meal here.”

  “Did she now?” said Nicola.

  She bent down and kissed the top of Bertie’s head. Once she had gone, Bertie followed Ranald Braveheart Macpherson along a corridor to his room. He always enjoyed being in the Macpherson house, as the walls were lined with pictures of clan events—battles and gatherings, farewells and arrivals—all the things that made Scottish history so stirring. He paused at a large colored engraving of Charles Edward Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie no less, about to embark on a rowing boat. The oarsmen, of whom there were four, were all obvious Highlanders, windswept and wild in their appearance, their brows set to the task in hand. In the background, towering above a range of Highland mountains, storm clouds signalled tricky weather ahead.

  “That’s Bonnie Prince Charlie,” said Ranald. “My dad is a big fan of his. He says he’s going to come back one of these days.”

  Bertie frowned. “I don’t think so, Ranald. I think Prince Charlie’s dead.”

  Ranald Braveheart Macpherson looked at Bertie with dismay. “Dead, Bertie? Since when?”

  “Oh ages, Ranald. Months and months. Ages. That’s why that song goes Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa…You know the one? That means Bonnie Charlie’s now away. That means he’s dead, Ranald.”

  Ranald’s lip quivered. “My dad’s going to be really sad, Bertie.”

  Bertie looked sympathetic. ‘Maybe someone else will come instead, Ranald. You never know.”

  Ranald shook his head. “I bet it was the Campbells. I bet they got rid of Prince Charlie.”

  “Very likely,” said Bertie. “Campbells are very wicked people, Ranald. Everybody knows that.”

  They moved on to Ranald’s room. Drifting through from the drawing room came the first strains of “Mairi’s Wedding” as interpreted by Jimmy Shand and his Band.

  “My dad and his friends are going to start dancing,” said Ranald. “They always play that tune when they’re about to begin.”

  In the sitting room, unseen at that point by Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, six couples, the men in kilts, the women in long tartan skirts and white tops, took their places for the first dance. This was a regular meeting, brought about after Ranald’s father’s conviction by Edinburgh Sheriff Court for a regulatory financial offense connected with his company. It was not an offense of dishonesty, but it did involve disregard of the law, and for that the sheriff deemed it appropriate to impose a community service order. The resulting sentence was two hundred hours of Scottish country dancing, the first forty of which had already been danced, and the remaining one hundred and sixty were yet to be completed.

  25

  The Reel of the 51st

  It did not take long for Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson to get bored with the Scottish country dancing that was taking place in the Macphersons’ large sitting room. Jimmy Shand, played on an expensive stereo system, wheezed his way through the repertoire, bringing Auchtermuchty into the heart of Morningside. Close one’s eyes and one might be in Oban, in the bar of the Royal Hotel, or in Tobermory, at a ceilidh in the Western Isles Hotel; open them and one was back in Edinburgh, watching six couples work their way through the intricacies of increasingly obscure traditional dances. Some of these dances had no discernible beginning, nor middle, nor indeed end, and just went on and on until the accordionist and his colleagues succumbed to fatigue or, as in the case of one famous regular ceilidh in an Argyll village hall, until the accordionist, being too drunk to continue playing, fell backwards off his chair, thereby signalling an end to the evening of polite and couthie entertainment.

  “Have you had enough of this, Bertie?” whispered Ranald as the dancers prepared for the third Gay Gordons of the afternoon.

  Bertie nodded. “I wouldn’t mind doing something else, Ranald,” he replied. “But it’s your house—you decide.”

  Ranald leaned closer to his friend. “I’ve had an idea, Bertie. Would you like to hear what it is?”

  Bertie said that he would.

  “Then we’ll need to go to my room,” said Ranald. “I’ll tell you there.”

  They left just as the music started. On the first bar, several of the dancers let out a whoop of delight—that signal, familiar to all practitioners of Scottish country dancing, that at least somebody is enjoying himself.

  In his bedroom, the door closed firmly against the music, Ranald told Bertie of his plan.

  “I saw something in the Evening News,” he said. “It was an advertisement for a circus, Bertie. I asked my Mummy to read it to me…”

  “You should learn how to read, Ranald,” said Bertie. “It’s really useful, you know.”

  “I know that,” said Ranald. “I’m planning to learn next week. I’ve been a bit busy, you see.”

  “And write too,” said Bertie. “That’s useful too.”

  “I will,” said Ranald. “But do you want to hear about my idea?”

  “Yes.”

  Ranald lowered his voice. ‘There’s a circus on the Meadows—just down the road, Bertie. It’s a proper circus, with clowns and a trapeze and everything. A real circus.”

  Bertie’s eyes widened. “A trapeze?”

  Ranald nodded. “Yes. And some performing dogs too, I think. There was a picture of them in the paper.”

  “I wish I could go,” said Bertie. “I can mention it to my grandmother, Ranald. Then maybe you could come too, if she took us.”

  “But I think we should go right now,” said Ranald. “There’s going to be an afternoon show today—a matinée. We could easily go.”

  Bertie stared at his friend. Was he suggesting what Bertie thought he might be? Was he actually proposing to go unaccompanied? The idea, so bold and dangerous, nonetheless appealed.

  “By bus?” Bertie asked.

  “Yes,” said Ranald. “There’s one that goes from the end of the road.”

  A practical issue occurred to Bertie. “But how are we going to pay, Ranald? I haven’t got any money with me.”

  Ranald did not think this would be a problem. “I’ve got stacks of money in my piggy bank, Bertie. Dollars, euros, the lot. Dad gives them to me. I’ll pay.”

  “I’ll pay you back, Ranald. One of these days I’ll pay you back.”

  Ranald was generous. “No need, Bertie. You can be my slave, if you like. That could do instead.”

  Bertie was hesitant. The last person whose slave he agreed to be was Tofu, in return for two back numbers of the Beano. It had not been a good bargain, as Tofu had extracted his pound of flesh—and more—remorselessly until Bertie had stood up to him and said that his period of voluntary servitude was at an end. Ranald was a more reasonable master, though, and suggested that if Bertie carried his books in and out of the classroom for a week and did his arithmetic homework for him, that would be more than adequate.

  They set off, slipping out of the house unnoticed by the adults, who were halfway through a three-couple longwise set of the Reel of the 51st Division. Catching a 23 bus before it lumbered down the brae toward Holy Corner, Ranald and Bertie barely had time to find their seats on the top deck before they reached their stop at Tollcross. Thereafter it was a ten-minute walk to the Meadows and to the sight of a striped big top, pitched amongst the trees of the park, the saltire flying proudly from the top of the protruding central pole.

  Ranald nudged Bertie. “That’s it, Bertie. That’s the circus I told you about. You see, I was right.”

  Bertie was almost too excited to speak. “Yes,” he said. “You were right, Ranald.”

  They ran across the grass to the ticket office, a small tent pitched near the entrance to the big top. Behind a counter, smoking a cigarette and talking on a mobile phone, a woman with a prominent neck tattoo looked down on the two boys.

  “Are youses under ten?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Bertie.

  “No,” said Ranald.

  “Make up your minds,” said the woman curtly. And then into the phone, “There are some weans here who dinnae ken their own age.”

  Something was said at the other end of the line, and the woman laughed.

  “Half price,” she said to Ranald, who had extracted a Royal Bank of Scotland twenty-pound note from his pocket.

  Ranald paid, and then he and Bertie made their way toward the entrance.

  “So, boys,” said the attendant to whom Ranald handed the tickets. “You look like a couple of likely lads.”

  Ranald and Bertie looked up at the man. They could not help but notice that he had one good eye and one that was clouded and opaque. His teeth were blackened and his lips seemed stained yellow with nicotine. He had only one complete arm, the other terminating in a stainless steel hook to which a cigarette holder had been attached.

  As they found their way to two empty seats, Ranald said to Bertie, “That man, Bertie…”

  “The one with the funny eye?”

  “Yes,” said Ranald. “Do you think he’s English? I think he looks it.”

  Bertie nodded. “Maybe, Ranald.”

  Ranald Braveheart Macpherson lowered his voice. “My dad says you have to watch out for the English. The English and Campbells.” He paused. “Perhaps we should be ready to run, Bertie.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bertie, adding, “And you know something, Ranald: people can’t help it if they’re English. And Campbells can’t either. It’s not nice to blame people who can’t help it.”

  Ranald looked doubtful. “Are you sure, Bertie?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “I’m very sure, Ranald.”

  26

  Price on Application

  At the same time that Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson were being admitted to the afternoon performance of the Grand Glasgow and Greater Clyde Circus, in its temporary site on the Meadows, Pat Macgregor was accompanying her part-time employer to a sale of Scottish art. This was taking place in the Lyon & Turnbull auction rooms in Broughton Place, where Matthew had spent a large part of that Friday afternoon viewing the lots. From his perspective it was an unusually exciting sale: at least two of the paintings on offer were, he thought, being put up at an attractively low estimate, and several others, he felt, could benefit from upgraded attributions. These were all attractive propositions to any dealer who might wish to sell them on, and he had decided that he would make every effort to get at least two paintings, or even possibly three, at this sale.

  For Pat, participation in a sale was a new experience. Although she had worked at Matthew’s gallery for some years now, and although she had an undergraduate degree in the history of art, her responsibilities had mostly revolved around dealing with customers who dropped into the gallery from the street—passing trade, as Matthew referred to them. This she did as a backup to Matthew if he was otherwise engaged, or on her own at such times as Matthew was out of the gallery, at coffee or lunch, or on some errand dictated by Elspeth. Living out at Nine Mile Burn and being responsible for triplets meant that Elspeth rarely had the chance to come into town unencumbered. It was then left to Matthew to go to Valvona & Crolla or, more prosaically, the dry cleaner’s or chemist’s.

  Matthew had recently made a trip to London with a friend to visit an art fair. This friend, who had been an art dealer for considerably longer than had Matthew, had generously instructed him in the ways of art fairs, and in the specific language that, like some ancient shibboleth, distinguished the art trade’s insiders from those merely seeking admission. It was important, for instance, to say that a painting was with a gallery rather than to say that the gallery had the painting. Similarly, there were conventions as to the appropriate circumstances in which price could be mentioned. If advertising in one of the glossier magazines, for example in Country Life, it was in distinctly bad taste to mention the price at which a painting was being offered. This suggested that the sort of person who might want to buy it might actually need to know the price in advance, and in respect of some paintings that was simply not the case. Rather, the painting should be represented as just being there, as if it had descended from somewhere; yes, it was for sale, but that was only as an act of generosity—an act of sharing—rather than as part of a commercial transaction.

  The use of the acronym POA was similarly a matter of some delicacy. If a gallery inserted a price list into a catalogue—an important courtesy—then even if most prices were given, there were some that should not, and the term Price on Application should be used. This conveyed the important message: This is really expensive. It also said: We are a bit embarrassed about this, but there we are. Some things are indecently expensive, and saying POA shows people that you, the seller, are conscious of how these high prices may look a bit bad, even greedy. So to say POA means that the prospective purchaser will understand that you would love to give it to them for less, but cannot. Incidentally, it also allows the inquirer to show the seller that he or she is the sort of person who is unperturbed by the letters POA.

  Of course there is the additional implication—that the seller of the painting does not want anyone to know how much he has received for it. This may be because he does not want people to think that the painting went for what might seem a rather low sum, or that he does not want others, including the person he is currently divorcing, to know how much he has raised by the sale.

  “It’s a messy business at times, the art trade,” Matthew’s friend had said. “Basically, Matthew, we’re all car salesmen, aren’t we? Everybody is. We’re all selling cars.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with selling cars,” Matthew responded. “I have some very good friends who sell cars—and where would we be without them?”

  “Oh, I agree,” said the friend. “And at least car salesmen don’t say POA, do they? They’re upfront about it. They say things like Price on the road. How much more direct can you get than that?”

  “And we should say Price on the wall?” suggested Matthew.

  “Ha,” said his friend. “Very funny.”

  In the plane on the way back from London, Matthew had picked up a business magazine from the back of the seat in front and had paged, without much interest, through the articles on MBA courses and so on (POA). He thought these magazines insufferably dull, but on this occasion he found himself reading an article that really did engage his attention. This was by somebody described as a “motivational enabler,” and it was about how you, as an employer, might do more for the development of your staff. “Don’t take your staff for granted,” the article warned. “Skills atrophy—remember that: skills atrophy unless developed. Skills are like muscles: use them or lose them.”