“Dei Fiori di Montagna.”

  “Yes, with all due respect to her, what can she possibly bring to the table? She’s an Italian nun, after all. Do Italian nuns have particular insights into the needs of Scottish gardens?”

  Antonia was not prepared to let that rest. “As a matter of fact, she does. She’s very good at botanical names. She knows them all. I am constantly astonished at her knowledge of such things.”

  “But we all know the names of the trees in the gardens,” said Domenica. “I could identify every one of them for you if you need assistance in that department. I wouldn’t want you to be in the dark, so to speak, about any of our trees.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Antonia. “But I am quite cognisant of them, you know.”

  Domenica looked out of the window. Outside, the very trees under discussion were caught by a breeze, making their branches sway gently. This was very dangerous territory because of Angus’s ambition to build a shed. He had several allies on the gardens committee who had assured him that they would allow a shed, provided it was open to all. Now it was possible that the balance of power would shift, and she could imagine Antonia delighting in the chance to veto a shed.

  The branches of the trees moved once again in the wind. The winds must come from somewhere when they blow…The line of poetry came to her unbidden. It was so beautiful. But who had written it? The winds must come from somewhere when they blow…

  16

  Wee Moupie

  Big Lou had changed the opening hours of her coffee bar. A piece of laminated paper, stuck to the front door, announced that the premises would shut at four in the afternoon. It made no real difference to the business—the two hours between then and the old closing time of six were never particularly busy. The notice announcing this change had been couched in tactful terms. After extensive consultation with customers, it has been decided to close the coffee bar at 4 p.m. each day rather than 6 p.m. It was true that there had been consultation, but it had hardly been extensive. In fact, it had consisted of no more than a brief conversation with Matthew, who had said, “Sure, why not?” and one with Angus Lordie, who had said, “I didn’t know you were open after four anyway.” In Big Lou’s view, these two regular customers could be taken as speaking for the entire public, and the decision was made.

  The reason for this change had nothing to do with any laziness on Big Lou’s part. She had been used to working long hours all her life; even as a small girl, she had put in lengthy periods working on the family farm, helping with the lambing, rounding up sheep, mucking out the byre—all the tasks that a farm-child takes in her stride. And she came from a part of the world where hard work was taken for granted, where people accepted responsibility for themselves and their families, and where leisure was a rare treat. There was always something to do on a farm, there was always something to be cleaned, or painted, or put away. That was the way it had always been, from the days when the hay was scythed by hand, the cattle were driven to market along drove roads, and everybody retired to bed by eight at the latest, tired to the bone from the day’s work.

  The reason for the change in opening hours was connected with Big Lou’s foster son, Finlay. She had taken this little boy, Bertie’s contemporary, into her home after he had had a bad start in life with parents who, for various reasons, were unable to give him the love and attention he deserved. That was what he needed above all other things, and that was what Lou, in the bigness of her heart, gave him unconditionally. From being shy and withdrawn, uncertain as to where he stood in the face of confusing life events, Finlay had blossomed into a secure and happy child, safely settled at Flora Stevenson primary school in Stockbridge, and now a promising member of a small ballet class.

  At the end of each school day, Finlay was picked up by a woman with whom Big Lou had an arrangement. This woman looked after three children after school, keeping them in her flat in Stockbridge until a parent collected them at the end of the working day. This small after-school club suited all parties: the woman earned a bit of money and the parents were secure in the knowledge that their children would be well looked after.

  This arrangement might have continued unchanged had it not been for Finlay’s suddenly expressed desire to go to ballet classes. This had happened when Lou’s eye was caught by a television showing of The Red Shoes. It was on an evening when Finlay was up late, having been unable to settle because of a gastric upset. He was lying on a couch with her, enjoying the joint treat of more time with Lou and late-night television. When The Red Shoes started, Lou assumed that Finlay would at last doze off, allowing her to transfer him to his bed. The opposite, though, was the case, and Finlay, from being somnolent, rapidly became alert.

  He watched the film intently, and at the end said, “Lou, can I do that? Do you think I can do that?”

  “Do what, Wee Moupie?” Wee Moupie was her pet name for Finlay—a name that he appeared to accept quite happily. The name just came to Big Lou, as fond names for children so often can. A moup was a Scottish rabbit, and that might have been the inspiration—Big Lou was not quite sure. But it suited him, as such names usually do.

  “Dance.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “You liked it? You liked the dancing?”

  Finlay nodded vigorously. “Very much, Lou. I really want to do it myself. Could I, do you think?”

  The request was made with earnestness and urgency. Even so, Lou was hesitant. “You haven’t tried it yet,” she said. “It’s one thing watching people dancing on television—it’s another, you know, to actually dance yourself. It’s a lot of hard work.”

  “I don’t care,” said Finlay. “I’d still like to do it.”

  Big Lou smiled indulgently. “Not many boys do ballet,” she said. “It’s mostly girls, I think.”

  It was a difficult subject to deal with. Where she came from—the rural hinterland—there would have been no doubt about how boys, among themselves, viewed ballet. She doubted whether those attitudes would have changed all that much. But this was Edinburgh, of course, and things might be expected to be different, especially in Stockbridge where boys were probably encouraged to be in touch with their balletic side. Or was it altogether wrong to regard ballet as a feminine interest? There was a widespread tendency to do that, but was that now considered outdated if not actually impermissible? Big Lou was not sure: the problem with the Zeitgeist, she felt, was that it was not always easy to tell if you were in touch with it quite as closely as you were meant to be.

  “I don’t care,” said Finlay. “I bet I’d be good at it.”

  He smiled at her, and her heart gave a lurch. Finlay’s arrival in her life had been a miracle, she thought, and that original miracle had been compounded time and time again as she witnessed the occasions of the small boy’s happiness. She could scarcely believe how easy it had been to bring him joy; how much he had appreciated the attention she gave him; how much he valued the fact that in her flat in Canonmills he had a room of his own, filled with his things, and decorated according to his taste. For there on the walls were his framed picture of the Hearts football team, the players lined up and smiling as if victory in all their endeavors was all but assured; there, hanging from the ceiling, were his model planes, painstakingly assembled from balsa wood kits; and there, on the dresser, was his stuffed Pluto the dog, faithful companion of Mickey Mouse, which he had brought with him from the children’s home.

  “You really want to try it?”

  He nodded eagerly. “Really, really, really.”

  “Then I’ll find out where there’s a class.”

  Finlay flung himself into her arms and kissed her. He smelled of freckles, and untidy hair, and boy. She let her cheek linger against his. She said, “Oh, Wee Moupie…”

  He looked at her, and smiled again.

  17

  A Worrying Prospect

  With her changed hours, Big Lou was able to collect Finlay at four-thirty from his after-school club and take him directly to his ballet class in St. Stephen Street. This class took place in a converted church, now a yoga and dance studio, where the instructor, a woman in her thirties, who wore her hair tied back, almost painfully so, in the manner of ballet dancers, coached children through the grammar of dance, the ballet positions that they would practice repetitively day after day. A dapper pianist, seated at an old upright, played medleys with the beat of which the pupils synchronised, like marionettes, their movements—their pliés, tendus and so on—at the barre.

  Big Lou had expected Finlay to lose interest after a few lessons, as his teacher at Flora Stevenson, in her last report, had mentioned a lack of persistence. The novelty of ballet lessons, she felt, with all their demands, would soon pall, particularly since he was the only boy in the class of ten. That this had not happened after five lessons caused her mild surprise; that it had not happened after twelve was even more significant.

  “You’re really enjoying ballet, aren’t you, Wee Moupie?” she said one evening as she walked him back to the flat in Canonmills.

  Finlay nodded. “Yes, Lou. I really like it.”

  “So I see.”

  He was silent for a while. They were now rounding the corner at the old St. Stephen’s Church, where the road dipped down toward Fettes Row. She looked down at him as he walked beside her. His hand, still damp after the exertions of the lesson, clasped her own hand tightly. It was so small, and yet he held on to her so—perhaps because he was frightened of losing her, as he had lost other things in his life.

  “I’m always going to look after you, Wee Moupie,” she said, her voice lowered, as if she were telling him a secret. She did not know why she should suddenly say that, but she said it nonetheless.

  “Thanks.” His voice was almost inaudible, but he said, “Thanks.” Then he went on, “She says I’m really good at it.”

  “She?” asked Big Lou. “She who?”

  “Her,” said Finlay. “The ballet teacher. Miss Murray.”

  “She said that, did she?”

  “Yes. She said that she’s going to talk to you about it. She said I can really dance.”

  Big Lou smiled. “Well, that’s good to know.”

  And the following Friday, when Big Lou went to collect Finlay, Miss Murray indicated that she wanted to speak to her. “You sit down over there, Finlay, while I speak to Mummy about something.”

  Big Lou said, “I’m not actually his mother. I’m a foster parent.”

  Miss Murray frowned. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

  “It makes no difference,” said Big Lou. “I just thought you should know.”

  “Thanks. And of course it makes no difference.” Miss Murray paused. “Well, maybe it does.”

  Big Lou looked surprised. “In what way?” she asked.

  Miss Murray led Lou over to the other side of the studio, where there were two bent-pine chairs, both uncomfortable-looking. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything better,” she apologised. “We use as much of the space as possible for the actual classes.”

  As she sat down, Big Lou looked at the wall behind her. A framed photograph showed several adults—the studio’s staff, by the look of things—standing to the side of a small group of young girls, one of whom was proudly holding a trophy. Next to that photograph, in a cheap gilt frame, was a black and white photographic studio portrait of a male dancer, wide-eyed, with high cheekbones; a Slavic face, thought Big Lou. At the foot of the photograph was an indecipherable signature, scrawled in fading ink.

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” said Miss Murray. “Your wee boy, Finlay, is…well, I don’t know any other word for it—he’s exceptional.”

  Big Lou said nothing. She waited for the teacher to continue.

  “No, I mean it,” Miss Murray continued. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. He’s the most gifted pupil I’ve ever had. Ever. In eight years of teaching here.”

  Big Lou laughed. “Well, who would have thought?”

  “Yes, who would have thought? I suppose that’s what everybody says when they come across something that they really weren’t prepared for. And I wasn’t prepared for this. He’s a bit of a prodigy, I think.”

  “You mean…”

  Miss Murray sounded even more convinced. “Yes, a prodigy. He’s just got it…in him. It’s there, in him. He dances like an angel.”

  Big Lou smiled. “He’s a great wee boy.”

  “Oh, he’s that all right,” Miss Murray agreed. “But this boy, Mrs…”

  “Call me Big Lou. Everybody does.”

  Miss Murray blushed. “Lou?”

  “If that’s what you want. Others call me Big Lou—it’s my name, you see.”

  Miss Murray thought she could never use such a ridiculous name. She could not.

  “The point is, Lou,” she said, “is that we need to get Finlay to a ballet school. Or you could consider it. I’d just like to get that possibility onto the table.”

  “But he is at ballet school,” said Big Lou. “He comes here—to you.”

  Miss Murray shook her head. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean a proper, full-time ballet school. There are places, you know, where they take children and school them while at the same time giving them all the tuition they need to dance.”

  Big Lou’s gaze returned to the photograph of the male ballet dancer. “Aye, I’ve heard of those places.”

  “Well, I think he could get in. He would have to audition, of course, and he might not get a place, although I’m pretty sure he would.” She paused. “I don’t see how they could refuse somebody like him. He really is…” She searched for the right word, and decided on special.

  Big Lou was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “But have we got one of these schools in Edinburgh?”

  Miss Murray shook her head. “No, we haven’t—unfortunately. I wish we did.”

  “So…”

  “No, don’t worry,” said Miss Murray. “These places are boarding schools. The children go and stay there.”

  Big Lou averted her gaze. The little boy whom she had at long last found would be taken away from her. How could she even consider such a proposition?

  Miss Murray was staring at her. “Well?”

  “I’ll think,” said Big Lou.

  18

  She Would Do Anything for Him

  That evening, after Finlay had finished the macaroni cheese she prepared for his supper, and following his bath, Big Lou tucked him up in his bed and began to read him the nightly story which they never missed and which, for both of them, had become an unmissable feature of the day. The story that night was about Babar the elephant, and the doings of his children, Pom, Flora, Alexander and Isabelle. It was the first book in the series, and it contained a section that Big Lou had been forewarned to omit—the death of Babar’s mother, at the hands of a cruel hunter. It was this event that had propelled Babar to seek refuge in the city, where he benefited so obviously from French culture. As she read the saga of the kingdom of the elephants, Big Lou began to notice that Finlay was not paying as much attention as he normally did to the story.

  “Have you had enough of Babar?” she asked.

  The boy looked up at her. The space rocket quilt, littered with stars and floating astronauts, was pulled up to his chin. “No,” he said. “I don’t mind Babar.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded. “I like elephants.”

  Big Lou continued to read. But then she saw him fidget. “I think you want another story,” she said, closing the book. “Am I right? Are you too big for Babar now?”

  Finlay shook his head. “No. I like Babar.” And then, “What did she say to you?”

  “Who?” But Big Lou knew whom he meant.

  “Miss Murray.”

  Big Lou looked up at the ceiling. She did not know how she would answer this. You could not lie to children, but did you always have to tell them everything?

  “She talked about your dancing. She said you were very good.”

  The answer seemed to please him.

  “And?” he said.

  “Well, she told me you were the best pupil she had ever had.”

  He looked thoughtful. “And did she tell you about this special school? Did she say anything about that?”

  Big Lou was not prepared for this. It had not occurred to her that Miss Murray would have said anything about ballet school to Finlay. It was completely inappropriate, in her view, that the teacher should have done so.

  “She did say something,” she answered slowly.

  “And can I go?” asked Finlay.

  Big Lou hesitated. She felt a surge of anger, directed toward the teacher. Of course, a child would assume far too much. Of course Finlay would assume that the mention of a possibility was a promise that it would happen; that’s how children viewed the world—possibility, probability, and certainty were all the same to them.

  Big Lou reached out and took his hand. “Now listen, Wee Moupie,” she said. “I’m really pleased that you’re enjoying your dancing. Really pleased. But there are lots of other things in your life, you know.”

  The disappointment on Finlay’s face was only too apparent.

  “But she said…”

  Big Lou stopped him. “I’ll talk to Miss Murray,” she said. “I don’t think she promised anything, did she?”

  Finlay shook his head. “She said I could go to a special school where you danced all the time. She said that.”

  “But that’s not how it is,” said Big Lou. “Yes, there are schools where there’s a lot of dance. But you have to do other things, you know. Ordinary schoolwork. Sums. Spelling. All that.”

  He was silent.

  Big Lou pressed on. “And you’re happy at Flora Stevenson, aren’t you? You’ve got all your friends. You wouldn’t want to leave them, would you?”