44 Scotland St

VOLUME 14 CHAPTER 16 AT THE WALLY DUG

Irene said to Stuart, “So, Stuart: dinner à deux, I imagine, with your young friend?” Stuart ignored the taunt. “There’s a quiche in the fridge for you,” he said. “It’s chopped ham and sun-dried tomato. And there’s a salad too – it’s already dressed.”

Irene sniffed. “You shouldn’t put dressing on a salad until you’re ready to eat it. It kills it dead after half an hour.”

“Well, there you are,” said Stuart. “That’s what’s available.”

He turned to leave the kitchen.

“I take it that you’re finding something you didn’t see in me,” said Irene. “Men being men.”

Stuart caught his breath. He gave Irene what he hoped was a withering glance, and made his way out of the flat. He felt his heart beating within him; that would be adrenaline, he thought, the fight or flight hormone produced by such situations of stress. Well, he had opted for flight, which was ultimately better, he decided. Bertie might see him as William Wallace, but that was not really him. He wanted only harmony and freedom from constant criticism and sniping. He wanted normality.

He went out onto Scotland Street and started the five-minute walk to the Wally Dug. Although it was summer, and the city was filling with visitors, in that quiet part of the New Town there were few people about: a man taking a dog for a walk; a young couple strolling hand in hand, completely absorbed in the miracle that was one another; a woman loading an estate car with bunches of cut flowers and plants in small terracotta pots.

It was quiet, too, at the Wally Dug, with only four or five people in the bar, none of whom he recognised. There was a point in life, he thought, where you might expect to go into a bar and recognise nobody; and then a further point, still a distant one for Stuart, but one that he could nonetheless at least envisage, where one would go into a bar and realise that one is the oldest person there.

Stuart ordered a half pint of Campbell’s and sat down at one of the tables in the back. He looked at his watch. He was early, but only by ten minutes. Even if Katie were to be five or ten minutes late, this meant that within twenty minutes, at the most, he would be seeing her. The thought excited him, and he felt his heart beat more noticeably. Our revealing hearts, he thought: they give everything away. He had read somewhere that the idea of a broken heart was not an impossible one; that the heart, pre-eminently amongst organs, reacted to the emotions. So perhaps the heart was indeed where feelings of love were located. You did give people your heart; your heart was snatched away from you by one for whom you fell.

And the heart, having its chambers, may have room for more than one love; in Stuart’s heart, there was a chamber for his sons, for Bertie and Ulysses, one for his mother, and one for somebody like Katie.

He looked at his watch again. Time would drag, because of his anticipation; he knew that. But then he saw the door swing open and Katie came in. He rose to his feet automatically, and spilled his glass of beer across the table. She saw it happen; saw him reach forward, too late to prevent disaster.

“Oh, look,” he said. “Just look. Stupid me …”

She laughed. “I’m always doing that.” “Spilling things?” he mopped at the pool of beer with his handkerchief, now soaked.

“Yes, and breaking things too.” A woman behind the bar came round with a cloth and tidied up.

“I feel very stupid,” said Stuart.

She laughed. “Don’t worry. It happens. Sit at that table there. This will dry.”

They moved, and Stuart ordered Katie a drink. She wanted orange juice. “I like wine,” she said, “but not always. Some - times.”

He said that he thought it a good idea not to drink wine all the time. And then he laughed. “That sounds so odd. Don’t drink wine all the time.”

“Two or three times a week,” she said. “That won’t harm you.”

He looked at her, his eyes falling to the linen blouse she was wearing. He loved linen, particularly green linen, which this was.

“Linen,” he muttered.

She had intercepted his gaze. “My blouse? You like it, then?”

“Love it.” And then he asked, “Have you been working on the PHD?”

Katie was doing a PHD on twentiethcentury Scottish poetry. She spent a lot of time, she had told him, in the National Library.

“No,” she said. “I’ve been …” She looked embarrassed. “I’ve been indulging myself. I know I should be working on the thesis, but …well, every so often, I want to do my own writing. And I do. Today has been one of those days.”

“Poetry?” asked Stuart. “You told me you write poetry – and you gave me that poem once. Remember?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ve got a ridiculous plan.”

“Tell me.”

“You won’t laugh?”

“Of course not.”

She took a sip of her orange juice. “I’m writing sonnets. I want to write a series of sonnets about friendship and love. That’s my plan.”

Stuart smiled. “But that’s wonderful.” She seemed pleased “Do you think so?” “Yes.”

She gave him a searching look. “Do you know Shakespeare’s Sonnets?”

He replied that he knew one or two lines – nothing more. “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes … etc etc?”

“That’s one of them. There are rather a lot. Not all of them are as memorable as that.”

“And yours?” asked Stuart. “They’ll be in strict sonnet form. Or fairly strict.”

He looked at her. He was in love. It hit him as a wave hits you when wading in the sea – or that is what it felt like. It made him feel elated. It was love, as forceful and as powerful as a wave. He wanted to say to her: Look, I’m in love with you; head over heels; utterly; completely; insanely. But instead he said, “Would you read one to me? One of your sonnets?”

She blushed. “Do you really want me to?”

“Of course.” He reached out and took her hand. He could not believe he was holding it. She did not resist. She returned the pressure of his fingers, and that meant only one thing: they were lovers. He had a lover. And suddenly it felt as if a great burden was lifted from him: a burden of guilt and regret. He had done his best with his marriage: it was not his fault. He had gone through life tiptoe - ing round Irene’s sensitivities, apologising for being who he was, and now it was over. There would be no more apologies. He was free.

‘He reached out and took her hand. He could not believe he was holding it. She did not resist. She returned the pressure of

his fingers, and that meant only one thing: they were lovers’