44 Scotland Street:
Chapter 5 of Alexander Mccall Smith’s latest series
Stuart’s mother, Nicola, had been married to a Portuguese wine grower, Abril Tamares de Lumiares. It had not been an unhappy marriage, but it had not been strong enough to survive the efforts of their housekeeper, Maria, to displace Nicola in favour of herself. To achieve the objective of prising Abril away from his wife, the housekeeper had invoked the assistance of the local priest. This priest had never been happy with the presence of a Protestant Scotswoman in a house long noted for its piety and general support for the Church. In their view, Nicola was a historical aberration – a weed planted in a Catholic vineyard that could justifiably be resisted.
The marriage itself could in time be annulled; the priest had spoken to the bishop, who took the view that marriage to a Protestant was indicative of such mental reservation – and possibly even mental instability – as to negate the consent necessary for the marital bond. There would be little difficulty, he thought, in having the whole thing set aside, leaving Abril to marry the housekeeper, who happened to be the priest’s cousin. That, of course, was an irrelevant detail, but it did have a bearing on a promise that the housekeeper had made to send her cousin on a pilgrimage to the Basilica della Santa Casa in Loreto once she found herself in charge of Abril’s finances.
The campaign proved to be remarkably easy. Although they lived in reasonable harmony, Abril and Nicola had drifted apart in their interests and Maria’s repeated whisperings had convinced him that God wanted him to marry her. In addition, she was considerably younger than Nicola and Abril, who had begun to experience that mid-life anxiety that derails so many otherwise uxorious men, found himself increasingly drawn to the housekeeper. With God added to the equation, it was an unequal battle, and while Nicola was visiting Scotland, she received a letter from Abril in which he revealed that he had decided to leave her for the housekeeper.
It was a dent to her amour propre ,asany desertion must be, but it proved unexpectedly transient. Nicola found that she was happy to be back in Scotland, where the climate suited her better. And it was her place, after all: she had been brought up in the Borders and once again seeing that gentle, rolling countryside, with its well-kept farms, she was reminded that the landscape in which we spend our childhood remains the backdrop against which our inmost lives are led.
Abril Tamares de Lumiares had been generous in his provision for her, and although she was prepared to roll up her sleeves and get a job, Nicola would have enough to live on without finding employment. In addition to the divorce settlement, she had modest resources of her own, inherited from a childless aunt in St Andrews. The major part of this legacy had been invested in shares in the Clydesdale Bank, a bank that had not been enticed by any of the heady temptations that spelled ruin for other financial institutions. That investment had held its value, as had the other major asset in the aunt’s estate that now passed to Nicola – a small pie factory in Glasgow. This factory, formerly trading under the name Pies for Protestants Ltd but now called Inclusive Pies, employed no more than three people. It did not make a large profit, but it had never encumbered itself with debt.
Inclusive Pies made mutton pies of a sort that is consumed only in Scotland and known as the Scotch Pie. These pies are made in a hot-water pastry mould, with space between the rim of the pie and the pastry lid, below which the meat is to be found. This space can be filled with a variety of unhealthy fillings, baked beans or mashed potato often being thought suitable. In the case of the pies sold by Nicola’s pie company, this space was taken up with extra grease, skimmed off the large vats in which the mutton filling was cooked. When the pie was heated, this grease would liquefy, giving off a smell of the nutmeg that had been added to it.
Extra grease has always been popular in Scotland, and the pies found a ready market. But an additional stroke of marketing genius had made them perennially popular: this was their name, which was The Pure Dead Brilliant Scotch Pie (Nae Messing). People liked that. They did not like their food to be messed about with, and any product that assured them that this had not happened was bound to succeed.
When Stuart revealed to Bertie that his grandmother owned a pie factory in Glasgow his eyes opened wide with awe. “Real pies, daddy?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Stuart. “Mutton pies. They’re called Scotch Pies, Bertie. You should ask Granny to get hold of one for you. I’m sure they’d send one over from Glasgow.”
In Bertie’s mind, the fact that the pies came from Glasgow was an additional attraction. He had long wanted to live in Glasgow, where he imagined he would be free. There was no psychotherapy in Glasgow; there was no yoga to speak of; and now there were mutton pies. This promised land, only forty miles away by train, was a world to which Bertie had always felt drawn. Now here he was with a real Glasgow connection – and to a pie factory at that.
On the day Irene left for Aberdeen, Nicola returned to Scotland Street with Bertie and Ulysses and a bag she had extracted from the fridge of her rented flat in Northumberland Street. She kept the contents of this bag secret, in spite of several polite but pointed questions from Bertie, until now, around the kitchen table in Scotland Street, she revealed four Pure Dead Brilliant Scotch Pies (Nae Messing).
“I thought we might all have one for our tea,” said Nicola, unwrapping one of the pies from its greaseproof paper.
“Even Ulysses?” asked Bertie. “Mummy usually just feeds him on carrots.” Nicola and Stuart exchanged glances. “Even Ulysses,” said Nicola. “Babies love Scotch Pies over in Glasgow. That’s what they feed them over there.”
“Do they give them Irn Bru in their baby bottles?” asked Bertie.
Nicola smiled. “Possibly, Bertie. They do a lot of things differently in Glasgow. It’s a city of great character.”
The pies were put into the oven and heated. The smell of mutton and nutmeg filled the room. Stuart sat down. He closed his eyes. He felt happy.
© 2018 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
The space beneath the pastry lid can be filled with a variety of unhealthy fillings, and in the pies made by Nicola’s company, this was taken up with grease – always popular in Scotland