Katie listened. Then she stood up. “What about coffee? Or tea? Would you prefer tea?”

  “Tea,” said Stuart. “If it’s no trouble.”

  “Ordinary or peppermint? Or I think I’ve got lemon and ginger.”

  Toss caution to the winds, thought Stuart. “Peppermint,” he replied.

  35

  Spinach for Strength

  “Here’s your peppermint tea,” she said. “It’s great for…well, for more or less everything, I think. Stomach. Nerves. Skin.”

  “These things make big promises, don’t they?” said Stuart, taking the mug from her.

  She nodded, and took a sip of her own tea. “I think people stop taking notice of a lot of these claims. We’ve got so used to being told we should eat this, that and the next thing—we can’t take it all in.”

  Stuart smiled. “Perhaps more producers could start telling us that their products are positively bad for us. Then we’d take notice. This won’t do you any good, we’re afraid. That sort of thing.”

  “But they already do,” said Katie. “Cigarette packets spell it out, I think.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do. And rightly so. I hate smoking.” Stuart paused. He had assumed that Katie did not smoke, but suddenly he realized he did not know. He knew so little about her. So he quickly added, “I’m sorry—I don’t know if you smoke.”

  She shook her head—quite vigorously. “I can’t stand it either. One of the biggest, best things that’s happened in my lifetime is the ban on smoking in public places.” She took another sip of her peppermint tea. “My father used to travel a lot by plane. He was a plastic surgeon and he went to a lot of conferences because he was chairman of something or other in the College of Surgeons. He said that when he got off the plane his clothes stank of cigarette smoke, even when he was sitting in the nonsmoking section.”

  “Shared air,” said Stuart. “When you’re on a plane you share the air.”

  “We all share the air,” said Katie. “That’s why pollution is something for all of us to worry about. China pollutes the air with its endless factories and we all feel it.”

  “We’re not entirely innocent ourselves,” Stuart pointed out.

  “No, maybe not. But not everybody is equally guilty.”

  Stuart asked about her father. “Does he do facelifts—that sort of thing?”

  She frowned. “He’s retired now. But no, he was really opposed to cosmetic surgery. You know, the vanity variety. He looked after people who had burns or things like that. People who had been smashed up in accidents.”

  “I’m glad he didn’t do cosmetic surgery,” said Stuart. “I think that there’s nothing worse than those awful stretched faces that you see after people have had their tightening operations. They look like the masked players in a Japanese Noh play. Ghastly.”

  “I think it’s best to be content with the way you look,” said Katie.

  Stuart looked at her and thought yes, if you look like you. But what if you don’t, and you’re unhappy about your nose or your double chin or whatever?

  Katie looked away, as if she were embarrassed. “I don’t mean to be unkind,” she said.

  “No,” he said quickly. “You weren’t. You’re right. We should be what we are. Maybe it’s a great mistake to tell people they can be what they want themselves to be. I can’t be an Olympic rower, for instance.”

  Katie laughed. “I don’t know. If you drink enough peppermint tea…”

  “No,” said Stuart. “It’s spinach you need for strength. Look at Popeye.”

  “Was Popeye happy, do you think?”

  It was such an odd question. Was he? He sang a bit, and he seemed to have a smile on his face in most of the drawings. And he had a reasonably good relationship with Olive Oyl, it seemed. Yes, Popeye was happy enough and probably didn’t want to be something other than what he was.

  “I think Popeye was happy enough with his life,” Stuart said. “I always rather liked him. And I liked Olive too. I liked her long legs and the way she tied her hair in a bun.”

  Katie agreed. “She was lovely. But a bit sad, I think. She seemed vulnerable, somehow.”

  There was silence. Stuart looked at his hands. I am not all that strong, he said to himself. I’m weak, in fact. You don’t have to be strong to be a statistician. And then he thought: ridiculous thought. Ridiculous.

  Katie thought: How am I going to tell him?

  “I was trying to remember what your thesis is about,” Stuart said suddenly. “I know it’s Scottish poetry, but what…”

  “It’s changed a bit,” she replied. “PhD theses can go through all sorts of changes. But I think I know what the final focus of mine is going to be. Place.”

  “Place?”

  “Yes. The importance of place in Scottish poetry from 1930 until…well, until yesterday, I suppose.”

  He waited for her to explain further.

  “A lot of poets write about place and how they feel about one place in particular. Remember MacDiarmid’s lines about the rose of all the world, and about how that was not for him? He wanted only the little white rose of Scotland. I don’t know if you know that poem, but it always gets to me. That bit about how Scotland’s rose smells sharp and sweet and…well, then he says it breaks the heart.”

  Stuart said nothing. He listened. He could listen to her for hours, he thought. He loved what she said. It was so different from what Irene would say to him. He blushed. He was not disloyal by nature, and he did not want to compare, but this was so different. And imagine, he thought—just imagine living with this? With talk about roses and the breaking of the heart, and Popeye and Popeye’s sweetheart, Olive Oyl. Imagine.

  Katie glanced at her watch. “You know, I’m really glad you came, Stuart. I’m really pleased.”

  Stuart felt a wave of relief. He had not done the wrong thing. He had been worried about that, but he should not have been. It was the right thing to do—exactly the right thing.

  “I’m really pleased,” Katie continued. “But I have to go out quite soon, I’m afraid. I agreed to babysit for my professor and his wife. His mother lives in Dundee and has had an operation. They’re going up there to get her out of Ninewells Hospital. One of their kids has got a cold and they don’t want her to give it to his grandmother just when she comes out of hospital.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But I wondered if you’d like to come to dinner next week?”

  Stuart beamed. “I’d love that.”

  “Tuesday evening?”

  “Yes. Yes. That’s fine.”

  Katie rose to her feet and took Stuart’s mug. “I’d like you to meet George,” she said. “I know that he’s free on Tuesdays.”

  “George?” asked Stuart.

  Two words to end a world. “My boyfriend.”

  36

  Not Quite Scottish Enough

  At about the time that Stuart was making his way back from Howe Street, filled with despair, but committed nonetheless to dinner at Katie’s the following Tuesday, Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson were waiting to catch a 23 bus at a bus stop in Tollcross. In a robust supermarket bag made of green hessian lay the puppy given to the boys by Wee MacTavish, the performing dog trainer. This gift, mischievous in its intention and certainly self-interested—Wee MacTavish needed to reduce the size of the litter—had been received with enthusiasm by both boys, even if Bertie had felt considerable misgivings about taking on a dog without the consent of his father.

  “Lots of boys have dogs without their parents’ permission,” Ranald reassured him. “It’s perfectly normal, Bertie. Old people don’t notice these things—particularly if they’ve been drinking.”

  Bertie expressed reservations. “I’m not sure that my dad drinks all that much,” he said. “Statisticians don’t, you know. I think your dad probably drinks much more than mine does.”

  “I’m sure that’s right,” said Ranald, a certain pride in his voice. “My dad really loves whisky, you know, Bertie. He can drink a big glass just like that. He says that he’s doing it because it’s a patriotic thing to do. My dad is really proud of being Scottish, Bertie. I think he thinks your dad isn’t quite Scottish enough.”

  Bertie looked down at the ground. “That’s not my fault, Ranald,” he said.

  “Never mind, Bertie,” said Ranald. “There’s always a chance your dad might become more Scottish. People can, you know.”

  “If they drink enough whisky?”

  Ranald Braveheart Macpherson nodded. “That’s one of the ways, I think, Bertie. But there are others. Fighting, I think. And playing lots of golf.”

  “And inventing things?” asked Bertie.

  “Yes,” said Ranald. “Scotsmen have invented bags of things, Bertie. All the time.”

  Bertie imagined what his mother might have made of that statement. Ranald needed correcting. “And Scottish ladies too, Ranald,” he said.

  “Oh yes,” said Ranald, and then asked Bertie, “Such as?”

  “Such as what, Ranald?”

  “What things have Scottish ladies invented, Bertie? I just want to know, that’s all.”

  As it happened, Bertie had been drilled by his mother to deal with subversive questions of this sort. She had told him about the many great strides taken by Scottish women over the centuries, including the role that Mary Queen of Scots had played in the development of shortbread. And then there was Mrs. McLintock, who, in the first half of the eighteenth century, published the first printed recipe for the same delicacy. That was just a taster, Bertie said. “There are plenty of other things, apart from inventing shortbread, that Scottish ladies have done. I’ll tell you about them one day, Ranald.”

  The conversation, which had taken this distinctly interesting turn, did not get any further, as a number 23 bus now hove into sight and the boys had to prepare to board it. Their puppy, snugly ensconced in its bag, now appeared to be sleeping soundly. As they made their way onto the bus and settled in their seats, the puppy gave a few halfhearted whimpers, and then lapsed back into sleep.

  “What are we going to call him?” Ranald asked, as the bus picked up speed.

  “Perhaps we could call him MacTavish,” said Bertie. “After Mr. MacTavish.”

  Ranald agreed this was a good idea. “We’re very lucky to have a dog, Bertie,” he said.

  “Are you going to tell your parents?” Bertie asked.

  Ranald hesitated. “Maybe not just yet. When he’s a bit bigger I could, but not right now. It’ll be a nice surprise for them.”

  The journey did not take long, and when they left the bus in Morningside near the Church Hill Theatre MacTavish was still soundly asleep. In this state they carried him back to Ranald’s house, slipping around the side into his back garden. There, in the shed in which the gardening tools and lawnmower were kept, the puppy was installed, a bundle of old hessian sacking for his bed.

  “He’ll need food,” said Bertie.

  Ranald thought for a moment. “There’s lots in our fridge,” he said. “My mummy’s always eating. She’s got bags of food. She won’t notice if we take some for MacTavish.”

  Inside the house, the reels afternoon was drawing to a close. A final Dashing White Sergeant, with the appropriate accompaniment from Jimmy Shand and his Band, marked the completion of three solid hours of Scottish country dancing.

  “Enter that in the logbook,” Ranald’s father whispered to his wife. “One hundred and fifty-seven hours to go. The end’s in sight.”

  Ranald’s mother sighed. “Hardly. And quite frankly, I feel you should be more apologetic about this whole business.”

  Ranald’s father raised a finger to his lips. “Hush, my dear. We wouldn’t want everybody to know. It wasn’t my fault that the accountants forgot to do what they were meant to do. And I’d remind you the sheriff accepted that there was no dishonesty on my part. I am not a criminal, my dear. It was an oversight—no more than that.”

  “Yet now we’re having to do all this Scottish country dancing community service,” his wife retorted. “Well, that’s just grand, isn’t it? You’re negligent, and I have to suffer the consequences.”

  George spun around. “How much money did you have when I married you, Ishbel?” he asked, his voice lowered, but rising slightly in indignation.

  “Oh, really! What a ridiculous question.”

  He was not deterred. “And how much do you have now? Rather more, I’d say. And who’s responsible for that? Me. OK? Me.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “Please, George. Ranald’s watching us.”

  Ranald and Bertie were now in the hall, watching the adults in the living room. Ishbel went over to greet the boys.

  “You were playing for a long time,” she said. “Did you enjoy yourselves?”

  “Yes,” said Ranald, glancing conspiratorially at Bertie as he replied.

  Ranald’s mother was staring at something. “What’s that lead for, Ranald?” she asked. “Did you find it somewhere?”

  Ranald turned quickly to Bertie. “It’s Bertie’s,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you had a dog, Bertie,” said Ishbel.

  Bertie looked up at Ranald’s mother. He had always been truthful. Scouting for Boys was clear about that: you should never tell a lie. He lowered his eyes to the lead that Wee MacTavish had given Ranald.

  An idea came to him. Some time ago, in one of his psychotherapy sessions with Dr. Fairbairn, Bertie had told the therapist about Tofu. Dr. Fairbairn had been intrigued; he thought that Tofu was an imaginary friend, and had quizzed Bertie along those lines. But Tofu was real—unfortunately very real.

  “Imaginary,” said Bertie.

  Ranald’s mother caught her husband’s eye and they both smiled.

  “Of course,” she said. “Of course.” She bent down to kiss Ranald on the tip of his head. Ranald blushed deep red.

  After his mother had gone back to the guests, Ranald breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re a very good liar, Bertie,” she said.

  “I didn’t lie, Ranald!” Bertie protested. “I said imaginary, that’s all. It’s because your mother’s so stupid, Ranald. Sorry to have to tell you that, but there are some things you just have to face.”

  “I know,” said Ranald. “But it’s not my fault she’s so stupid, Bertie.”

  “I know that, Ranald,” said Bertie, putting a comforting arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Nobody’s mother is their fault, you know.” He was thinking of his own.

  “Thanks, Bertie,” said Ranald. “You’re a real friend.”

  They went into the kitchen, where they found a large steak in the fridge.

  “Just right for MacTavish,” said Ranald.

  Bertie nodded enthusiastically. Keeping a dog was easier than he had imagined. Grown-ups, he thought, made things sound much more difficult than they really were.

  37

  Men and Clothes

  It was proving to be an eventful Saturday. For Stuart, it was a day of mixed emotions—of elation at his reunion with Katie, and of bleak disappointment at the discovery that she had acquired a new boyfriend. He understood, though, that there was no reason why she should not do this—after all, it was he who had brought their nascent affair to an abrupt end, and he had done so, he accepted, with rather less tact than might have been required. He had been craven—yes, that was the only word for it—in the face of a stern ultimatum from Irene. But then, how else could he have reacted to her threat to take the children away from him? Oh, the hypocrisy of it, the sheer, unadulterated hypocrisy. She and her psychotherapist friend; she with her cozy chats—very cozy—with Dr. Fairbairn about Melanie Klein and Jung and all the rest of them, while all the time something else altogether was going on. And then to make him give up his friendship with Katie, because that’s what it was: friendship, just friendship—well, with additional closeness, of course, although there was nothing sordid about it…And now it was all wrecked and he had nothing, nothing in his life.

  That was Stuart’s Saturday. For his mother, Nicola, it had been an altogether different sort of day. She had delivered Bertie to the house of his friend, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson—not without some misgivings about the quality of parental supervision in those latitudes: Scottish country dancing on a Saturday afternoon? There was something odd about that, she felt. People were entitled to dance reels if that was what they wanted to do, but on a Saturday afternoon? There was something vaguely suspicious about that, she thought—as odd as receiving an invitation, as she recently had, from a long-lost school friend to join her and her husband at their house in Peebles for an afternoon of carpet bowls. That might be the sort of thing that went on in Peebles on a Saturday afternoon, but Nicola was having none of it. Carpet bowls in Peebles was a symptom, she said to herself, and I am not there quite yet.

  After dropping off Bertie, Nicola had taken Ulysses to Luca’s Ice-Cream Parlor at Holy Corner. Ulysses was on the young side to be given ice cream in public, and had succeeded in covering not only the table but the floor beneath it with vanilla and chocolate chip ice cream in equal measure. The young man on duty, however, was accustomed to this and even offered to replace the spilt and thrown ice cream with new supplies. Nicola declined, with thanks, but reflected, as he returned to his post, on his courtesy. We can still produce them, she told herself; we can still produce young men with manners, and decency, who are prepared to spend their Saturday afternoons working in ice-cream parlors and be pleasant to people like me, taking all the mess and stickiness in their stride.

  She had then taken Ulysses to La Barantine, a coffee house and bakery in Bruntsfield, where, while she enjoyed a relaxed double-shot latte, he had thrown fragments of croissant over the floor and into the hair of a woman at a nearby table. Once again, decency and understanding had been the reaction of those affected, which left Nicola with an even greater appreciation of the civility of the city in which she lived. Was the rest of the world like Edinburgh, she wondered, or did she simply have the good fortune to live in one of the few remaining places where people treated one another with comity and enlightenment even as they were subjected to a barrage of croissants?