VOLUME 14 CHAPTER 15 A LOVER IN ABERDEEN

Stuart had been dreading spending the evening in Scotland Street with Irene, and when she announced that she did not object to his going out, he immediately retreated to the bathroom – the one place in the flat where he felt secure from Irene’s prying eyes – and telephoned his new friend, Katie.

“Look,” he said, his voice lowered, “I know that I said I was likely to be tied up this weekend, but ...”

“Why are you whispering?” she asked. “Are you in a library?”

“No, I’m in Scotland Street. I’m in my flat … It’s just that Irene is down from Aberdeen and I don’t want her to hear me.” He waited. He had told her about Irene, but he was not sure that he had explained the situation adequately. Stuart was loyal by nature, and it went against the grain of his character to disparage somebody to whom he was still married and who was, after all, the mother of his children. It was possible, he thought, that Katie simply did not grasp the full extent of Irene’s contrariness. It was possible, too, that she would think that his explanation of their estrangement was no different from the unexceptional my wife doesn’t understand me plea of so many wandering husbands.

There was silence at the other end of the line. Then Katie said, “I’m uncomfortable with this, Stuart. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. I don’t like the idea.”

“Of what? Of seeing me?”

“Of having to communicate in whispers. Of deceiving somebody.”

Stuart sighed. His fears were proving well-founded. “I’m not deceiving anybody,” he pleaded. “The situation really is as I’ve explained it. Irene left me to go to

Aberdeen because she has …” He hesitated. It was still hard for him to say this, but he felt that he had to. “Because she has a lover there. She has a lover in Aberdeen.”

There, he had said it. She has a lover in Aberdeen. It was such an explosive thing to say. A lover in Aberdeen. Having a lover simpliciter was unremarkable enough; to have a lover in Glasgow or London was a little bit more exotic, but to have a lover in Aberdeen was in a different league altogether. It was a bit like confessing to having a lover in the Arctic Circle. “Well, I suppose …”

“She’s the one who left,” he interjected. “It wasn’t my fault., and I don’t see why I should feel guilty about it.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And she was never all that keen on marriage,” Stuart continued. “Especially marriage to me.”

Katie made a sympathetic noise.

“So that’s why I don’t think I’m deceiving anybody,” Stuart concluded, his tone now that of one who has been unfairly accused. There was a brief silence, then Katie said, “I’m sorry, Stuart. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, and just at that moment there was a knocking on the door.

“Stuart,” shouted Irene, “what are you doing in there?”

Katie overheard. “Is that her?” she asked.

“Yes,” whispered Stuart. “She’s knocking on the door.” He was glad that Katie had heard Irene shouting. Now she might be able to understand what he had put up with. Her moved the phone a bit closer to the keyhole, so as better to might pick up Irene’s voice.

“Stuart?” repeated Irene.

“Are you talking to somebody?”

“What did she say?” asked Katie. Stuart cupped his hand over the receiver. “I’m dictating a memo,” he called out to Irene.

“What about?” asked Irene, knocking again as she spoke. “Something private,” said Stuart. “Have you gone mad?” asked Irene. Stuart now addressed Katie. “Listen,” he said. “Can I see you in about half an hour?”

Katie replied immediately. “Yes. Where?”

Stuart thought of the first place that came to mind. “The Wally Dug Bar. Northumberland Street. On the corner.” “I know it,” said Katie.

“I have to go,” said Stuart. Outside the bathroom, there was an ominous silence. Plucking up his courage, Stuart unlocked the door and began to open it. As he did so, his eye caught a drawing that Bertie had done and that he himself had stuck on one of the door panels. It was a portrait, in the stick-man style of child’s drawing, and it portrayed Stuart in a kilt, wielding what looked like a claymore. Underneath was written, in faltering lettering, MY DAD IN HIS KOLT (sic), and beneath that the signature, BERTIE.

He stared at the drawing, his emotions welling up within him. That was him: MY DAD – seen from the perspective of a little boy who was barely seven, who wanted from the world no more than that which any seven-yearold boy wants – a Swiss Army penknife, a dog, friendship and adventure, and a mother and a father. That was all. And yet even if he could provide some of these things for Bertie, he could not provide them all, no matter how hard he tried.

He saw that Irene was no longer waiting outside the bathroom, and so he was able to look again at the drawing.

Why had Bertie chosen to portray him with a large sword in his hand? He thought he knew: Bertie had recently expressed an interest in William Wallace, of whom he had read in a book that Nicola had found for him: A Boy’s Book of Scotland and Scottish Things, published by Messrs Nelson, at their printing works in Edinburgh in 1956. Nicola had obtained it from her friend Mary Davidson, who collected books for the Christian Aid sale and who had spotted this as being ideal for somebody of Bertie’s age. Bertie had been thrilled because the editors of A Boy’s Book of Scotland and Scottish Things had a vision of Scotland that was misty, romantic and totally at odds with the contemporary official version of the country. Scotland, in their view, was all about plotting, revenge, acts of astonishing bravery, explorers, inventors, the Forth Railway Bridge, and oatmeal porridge. People such as Olive and Pansy were written out of this conception of the country, as were the English, who were only marginally portrayed in their role as members of Edward’s army, ruthless Redcoats at Culloden, and frightened occupants of Northumbrian farms cowering in the face of entirely justified Scottish raids to retrieve stolen cattle from English stock-thieves.

And here, thought Stuart, am I, imagined in that vanished world that never was anyway, pictured by that little boy with his wavering pencil, pictured with love, with pride, and with an intensity that shone through with as much force as that which drove Michelangelo, Titian or Rembrandt van Rijn to put pigment to canvas, board, or plaster.

Oh, my darling Bertie, Stuart thought. I love you so much, so much. And I’m going to do everything – everything – I possibly can to make your life better, to allow you to be a boy, which is not some - thing you need be ashamed of or apologise for. I promise you that, Bertie; I promise you.

And with that he went into the kitchen, where Irene was waiting for him.

Just at that moment there was a knocking on the door. ’Stuart,’ shouted Irene, ‘what are you doing in there?’

Katie overheard. ‘Is that her?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ whispered Stuart. ‘She’s knocking on the door.’ He was glad that Katie had heard Irene shouting. Now she might be

able to understand what he had put up with.

© 2020 Alexander Mccall Smith Alexander Mccall Smith welcomes comments from readers. Write to him c/o The Editor, The Scotsman, Orchard Brae House, 30 Queensferry Road, Edinburgh, EH4 2HS or via e-mail at scotlandstreet@scotsman.com