A walk to Stockbridge

‘ Cyril seems in fine fettle,” remarked James Holloway as he and Angus made their way down India Street.

Hearing his name mentioned, Cyril glanced up appreciatively. A dog’s name is, to a dog, mood music of the most desirable sort. While we might tire of the constant iteration of our names – dogs did not, as Angus now explained to James.

“The point about these creatures,” he said, gesturing to Cyril, “is that they have very simple word association capabilities. They have a vocabulary, of course, but it’s usually relatively small. Some dogs have no words at all, other than their name – Cyril has a bit more than that, but his name, obviously, is the most important word in the world – for him.”

The second mention of his name brought another appreciative glance from Cyril. This time he smiled, his gold tooth flashing briefly in the sun.

“Yes,” continued Angus, “the best thing for him would be to hear a constant refrain of Cyril, Cyril, Cyril – sung by a mass choir, if you will, but uncomplicated by further words. That would be heaven.” He paused. “Of course, human beings tend to assume our divinities are similarly pleased by our recital of their names. Perhaps it’s the same thing. Why engage in the endless repetition of the same few words? What if God were to say: I heard you the first time? No need to go on and on.”

James smiled. “But the purpose of prayer, surely, is to remind ourselves of something. Om is rather interesting in that respect.

“Om,” muttered Angus.

“Yes. People say it at the beginning of a yoga class, for example. They take a deep breath and say Om.”

“Of course, it has a broad meaning,” James continued. “It’s meant to be the sound of the universe, isn’t it? It brings together mind, body and spirit.”

“That’s a lot of work for a small word,” Angus said. He looked down at Cyril. “Do you think that the canine equivalent is woof?”

James laughed.

“No,” said Angus. “That’s a serious suggestion. When a dog says woof, does he actually mean anything?”

James said he thought that would depend on the context. The bark of a guard dog might be a warning, for instance. It was reasonable to give such a bark the meaning Look out! or There’s something going on over there!

“Or I want my dinner,” added Angus. “Precisely. And in that case, surely, a bark becomes language.”

“On the other hand,” Angus went on, “a lot of barks are simply expressions of an emotional state – excitement, anticipation, sheer joy. Those barks, I would have thought, are getting close to Om

– the canine variety of Om, that is.” He paused. “Have you ever heard a wolf howl, James?”

James shook his head. “I can imagine it sends shivers up the spine.”

“It does,” said Angus. “Rather like MistCovered Mountains played on the pipes. Or Highland Cathedral, too, I suppose. When you’re at Murrayfield Stadium and the rugby is about to begin and the pipe band plays Highland Cathedral, well …” A thought occurred; wolves had been forgotten. “It’s actually what one might call an Om moment, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps the whole crowd might chant Om before kickoff,” suggested James, with a smile.

“It might help,” said Angus. “As long as the Scottish side knew it was for them. And Om, I fear, doesn’t lend itself to partiality. One can hardly say Om and then add, to the other team, But not for you, actually. No, I don’t think Om works that way. Om is inherently universal. Just as Peace be with you, is intended universally, and without the qualification, But not with you, or you, or you … seriatim, so to speak.”

Angus warmed to his theme. “We’re very lucky to have the pipes,” he said. “They’re one of Scotland’s greatest assets, you know. We don’t necessarily talk about them as such, of course, but they are. The sound of the pipes binds us – gives us a sense of identity.” He paused. “Does that sound corny? Or even dangerous?”

James shook his head. “I would have thought we wanted a sense of community. I would have thought that we wanted to care for one another.”

“We do,” said Angus. “Or, shall I say, most of us do. And other people have similar things that make them feel Yes, this is who we are. This is something that we all share. German slap dancing, for example. That’s hilarious to an outsider – these men dressed in lederhosen stamping their feet and slapping their thighs while an oompah band plays away in the background. Priceless, but look at the faces of the people watching, and you see something else – a sort of cultural recognition; a sort of this is ours look. And …” he hesitated. But then he thought, yes, one could extrapolate from that. “And that surely is the basis of the feeling that we’re all in this together; that we must share with one another and try to treat one another well.”

“Nobody would argue with that,” said James. “Unless one were a radical individualist, and they’re somewhat tiresome, as a rule …”

“Profoundly tiresome,” said Angus. “And they’re on very shaky ground philosophically. If they were consistent they couldn’t rely on anybody for anything. They couldn’t phone the police if they needed help; they couldn’t expect anybody to empty their rubbish bins on alternate Fridays; they couldn’t go to the dentist, because dentistry involves a commitment to co-operative effort at some point – there have to be people who train dentists and so on. Life becomes nasty, brutish and short, as Hobbes said, I believe …”

“Unless he’s being misquoted,” said James. “Perhaps he said that life in the state of nature was nasty, British, and short.”

They both laughed.

Cyril, looking up, barked.

“Cyril has a great sense of humour,” said Angus.

He barked again.

“That sounded a bit like Om,” said James. “Do you think that Cyril’s learning?”

They had reached the junction of India Street and Gloucester Place. As they rounded the corner, Cyril tugged at his lead. He had realised now where they were going, and he was particularly fond of the Water of Leith, in which Angus would allow him to splash and retrieve sticks at the end of a walk.

“We need to talk about this exhibition I’m getting together” said Angus. “It’s at the Scottish Arts Club. We’re planning a little show, as I think I mentioned to you, and I wanted your advice on a selection issue. The idea is that the show is of paintings in members’ private collections – not their own work, of course, but stuff from their collections.” “Nice,” said James.

“Yes, but we’ve been offered rather too much, and we have to decide which works to choose. It’s delicate, and as curator I’m going to have to justify my selection.”

“That’s what curators do,” said James. “And the trouble is that one of the paintings I’m being pressed to show is, in my view, simply not by the painter the owner claims it’s by.”

“Oh,” said James. “Awkward.”

“It’s a portrait, you see,” said Angus. “And you know about portraits.” He paused. “And it’s also not of the person it claims to be of.”

“What a rotten painting,” said James.

‘The pipes are one of Scotland’s greatest assets, you know,’ said Angus. ‘Their sound binds us, gives us a sense of identity.‘

He paused. ‘Does that sound corny? Or even dangerous?’

© 2020 Alexander Mccall Smith Available in book form as A Promise of Ankles from November (Polygon, £16.99). The Peppermint Tea Chronicles the 13th in the 44 Scotland Street series is now available in paperback, price £8.99.