34

Major Events

All that had happened on a Friday. And if Friday had seemed eventful, what with Torquil’s washing of the stairs, Nicola’s conversation with Stuart about Glasgow, Matthew and Elspeth’s anniversary dinner – shared with James – at which Roger Collins’ porcini soup had been served, it was but as nothing compared with Saturday, a day that began with stillness and promise as a zone of high pressure drifted up from France, avoided England, and then, finding just the right atmospheric conditions, settled over Scotland and Norway, generously promising both northern countries at least four days of balmy, almost sultry conditions. It was still very early summer, not a time at which anybody in Scotland, other than the most incorrigible optimists, could even think about putting their overcoats away until autumn. But now, as Edinburgh looked forward to a day of uninterrupted sunshine, Montesquieu’s observations on the association between climate and disposition were everywhere laid out for ratification: in the spring in the step of the city’s early morning walkers, in the appearance of bright, short-sleeved clothing, in the figures in Princes Street Gardens, sprawled out on the grass, careless of latitude, feeling – or almost feeling – the very blades of grass beneath them beginning to perk up with the challenge of summer.

Major events lay ahead that Saturday morning. Bertie, still exhilarated at the prospect of Glasgow, was due to go into town with his grandmother and his younger brother. Nicola was to purchase a pair of jeans for him and a red bandana for Ulysses, if one were to be available.

“We may be unsuccessful in that search,” Nicola warned. “Bandanas are not the sort of thing one sees these days, but we shall try.”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “And Ulysses won’t mind, Granny. He doesn’t really know what’s going on.”

For Stuart’s part, the morning had the particular promise of a meeting – for coffee – with Katie. This was to take place at Big Lou’s, and then they planned to go for a walk at Cramond, followed by lunch in South Queensferry. Stuart was excited by the prospect – so much so that when he shaved that morning, he traced a heart on the bathroom mirror, using shaving cream. It was a childish thing to do, he thought, but it had been spontaneous, and if you ever reached the stage in life, he told himself, when you could not be bothered to draw hearts on mirrors, then surely your life would be the flatter for that.

Out at Nine Mile Burn, Elspeth and Matthew had quite separate plans, at least for the first part of the day, and these plans were significant. Elspeth had recently made a new friend in Alice, a young woman she had met at the West Linton Mother and Toddler Group. That group had been formed by various members of a local National Childbirth Trust pre-natal class, who had stayed in touch with one another after the birth of their children. Elspeth had got on particularly well with Alice, who lived in a nearby village. She was married to an architect, and had herself completed several years of her architectural training at the Glasgow School of Art before she had decided that she wanted to do something different and had set up a small business making silk flowers. That had proved successful, and even after she started a family – she had a daughter slightly younger than Elspeth’s triplets – she had been able to establish a small workshop in the grounds of their house. There she employed – on a part-time basis – a Syrian woman whose husband had a job in a laboratory at the Veterinary School at Easter Bush and a young woman who had previously been a motorcycle mechanic but who had decided to abandon that career and move back to live with her parents in West Linton. “I was trying to prove something to myself,” she confessed to Alice. “And to others, I suppose. Anyway, I hate motorcycles now. I’m more into flowers and stuff. Much more.”

Elspeth had arranged to visit Alice that morning and then to have a picnic with the boys and with Alice’s daughter, Wee Alice. Alice knew of a burn down near Peebles where the children could play safely in the water and where she and Elspeth could catch up on each other’s news. Their friendship was an easy one: they agreed on most subjects, and those on which they disagreed were never raised. They liked the same films and books, and exchanged boxed sets of DVDs. Alice had offered to teach Elspeth how to make silk flowers, and had said that she might even be able to use her at times when they had large orders to fulfil. “We’re beginning to send them to France,” she said. “They go to Lyon. Apparently, there’s a lot of interest in silk flowers in Lyon.” But then she stopped. “Of course, you don’t really need to work. I was forgetting. Matthew’s not short of money, I gather.”

Elspeth was tactful. “He doesn’t flash it around. And everyone has to be careful.”

“Yes, but you don’t actually need to work, do you?” She sighed. “Architecture’s odd. Colin’s really good at his job, but he ends up doing rubbish work half the time. Kitchen extensions and so on. He’d like to design concert halls and airports.”

Elspeth looked away, embarrassed by Alice’s remark about Matthew’s circumstances. Matthew was discreet, and not at all showy; they lived simply enough. Of course, the house was large, but it had not been all that expensive, and was not in very good condition. The problem was envy – not that she was accusing Alice of that – but it was a problem with an awful lot of people. “Everyone wants to feel useful,” she said. “And I think you should work if you can.”

They had left the subject there, and if Elspeth were to learn how to make silk flowers, it would be for her own enjoyment rather than to participate in Alice’s business.

For his part, Matthew had agreed with James that he would drive him over to Single Malt House to check up on his uncle, the Duke of Johannesburg, whose behaviour was causing James some concern.

“I don’t want to go by myself,” James said. “If you wouldn’t mind coming with me…”

Matthew had readily agreed. “I hope everything’s all right,” he said.

“I don’t think it is,” replied James. “In fact, far from it.”

That outing promised to be revelatory, and it was, but, as it happened, it was considerably less dramatic than the experience ahead of Angus, and indeed of Cyril, on a planned walk to the Moray Pleasure Gardens, to which Angus had an informal key. Calling in on India Street, Angus proposed to invite his friend, James Holloway, to accompany him and Cyril as their walk continued in the gardens between Moray Place and the Water of Leith below – a wild spot within the city, a noted example of rus in urbe, where cliffs descended to the river bed, and where groves of trees, clumps of shrubs, and meandering paths provided plenty of challenge and olfactory entertainment for Cyril. Angus wanted to sound out James about an exhibition he was curating at the Scottish Arts Club, and they could discuss it as they walked while Cyril, free of his leash, heady with freedom, ran in circles, endured the taunting of nimble squirrels, and generally behaved as nature had designed dogs to behave.