“I know that this stuff’s not hot,” said Bruce quickly. “The person I bought it from is in the rugby club. He doesn’t go in for dealing in stolen property. And how could it not be what it claims to be? I’ve looked at it. The labels say Chateau Petrus –
complete with a picture of the man himself, Saint Peter.”
George let him finish. Then he said: “Have you heard of wine frauds, Bruce?”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing. He swallowed. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Wine frauds? Forgery?”
“Yes,” said George. “Everybody knows about those fake watches and designer jeans. But not everybody knows that there are gallons of fake wine out there. There’s been a big problem with it in the Far East. I’ve read all about it. There are gangs that make replica bottles and labels and slap them on bottles of 230 Cyril Howls
French plonk. Then they sell it to the victim. The patsy, they call him.”
Bruce looked at his reflection in the microwave again. Do I look like a patsy? he asked himself. And then it occurred to him that he had just called Pat “patsy”. And he was the real patsy all along.
70. Cyril Howls
Matthew was the first to arrive at Big Lou’s that morning. Big Lou, standing at her coffee bar, wiping the surface with a cloth, nodded a greeting to him.
“You know, Big Lou,” said Matthew, “you’re a bit like Sisyphus with that cloth of yours. Wiping, wiping, wiping.” He paused, and smiled at her. “Do you know who Sisyphus was?”
Big Lou bristled. “As it happens, I ken fine well who he was.
He had to push a rock up a hill until it rolled down again and then he pushed it up. And so on.” She gave the counter a furious wipe. “Do you know who Albert Camus was?”
Matthew shook his head. “Some Frenchman, I suppose.”
“Well, before you start condescending to me, Matthew, my friend, you might go and look him up. He wrote a book called The Myth of Sisyphus. Have you read it?”
Matthew held up his hands in surrender. “Nope. Never read it. But you have, Lou? You must have.”
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “I’ve read it. And it’s all about finding meaning in life and getting through this world without committing suicide. Camus says that we can find meaning in a limited context and that is enough. He says we shall never be able to answer the really big questions.”
“I never thought we could,” said Matthew, taking his accustomed seat. “I’ve never even been able to find out what the really big questions are.”
Big Lou tossed her cloth aside and began to prepare Matthew’s cup of coffee. As she did so, the door opened and Cyril Howls
231
Angus Lordie walked in, accompanied by his dog, Cyril.
“Lou, my love, make one for me too,” said Angus. “Very strong. I have to paint a tricky sitter today, and I need my strength.”
“And what’s wrong with him?” asked Lou.
“Actually, it’s a woman,” said Angus. “And that’s the problem.
She’s got three chins too many and I don’t know what to do about them.”
“Leave them out,” said Lou. “No woman would object to that.”
“I could do that,” said Angus. “But then will it look like her at all? People expect one to get a fair likeness.”
“You’ll think of something,” said Lou. “Here’s your coffee.
And don’t let that dug of yours drink out of my saucer. I don’t want any of his germs to end up on the crockery.”
“There’s nothing so healthy as a dog’s mouth,” said Angus Lordie defensively. “Cats’ mouths are full of all sorts of dreadful beasties, but a dog’s lick is positively antiseptic. That’s well-known.”
Angus moved over to the table where Matthew was sitting and took the seat opposite him. Cyril, released from his leash, lay down at his master’s feet, his tail curled about him, his nose tucked into the hair of his stomach, but one eye half-open, looking at Matthew’s right ankle, which was just a few inches away.
“You went for that dinner with your father?” asked Angus.
“Weren’t you rather dreading it?”
“I was dreading it,” said Matthew. “But I went along.”
“And?”
“And it wasn’t a roaring success. He brought his new . . .” it was an effort for him to say the word, but he said it nonetheless, “. . . mistress.”
“How interesting!” said Angus.
Big Lou raised an eyebrow. “Mistress? What do you mean by that, Matthew?”
“Well, that’s what she is,” he said. “She’s his mistress.”
“But he’s a widower, isn’t he?” Big Lou persisted. “You shouldn’t call her that! That’s downright insulting.”
232 Cyril Howls
Angus Lordie shook a finger at him. “Yes, Matthew! You should be ashamed of yourself ! She’s his partner, that’s what she is. That’s the approved term these days. Tut, tut!”
Matthew shrugged. “Whatever you say. But I think of her as his mistress.”
“Well, you need to think again,” said Big Lou. “What’s she like, anyway?”
“A gold-digger,” said Matthew.
Big Lou stared at him. “How do you know she’s a gold-digger? Did she say or do anything that made you think that?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” said Matthew. “There she is, at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger than him, probably more, and she’s all over him. She must know that he’s not short of the readies.”
“Maybe she likes him,” said Big Lou. “Ten years isn’t all that big a gap.”
While this discussion was raging back and forth, Cyril had edged slightly closer to Matthew’s ankles. He was now no longer curled up, but was lying flat on the ground, his front paws extended before him, his chin resting on the ground between his legs, his eyes fixed on the exposed flesh above the top of Matthew’s socks.
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233
Cyril was a good dog. Although he liked to drink beer in the Cumberland Bar and to wink at girls, he had few other vices, and in particular he was not aggressive. He liked people, in general, and was always happy to lick any hand which was extended to him in friendship. If people insisted on throwing sticks, Cyril would always fetch them, although he found this tedious and pointless. But he liked to oblige, and he knew that it was obliging to do the things that people expected dogs to do.
But there was something about Matthew’s ankles that was just absurdly tempting. They were not fat ankles, they were average ankles. Nor were they any different in colour from most of the other ankles that dogs usually saw. In smell, they were neutral, and so there was no olfactory clue to their attractiveness. It’s just that they were immensely attractive to a dog, and at that moment Cyril could think of nothing else that he would prefer to do than to bite them.
But he could not. He knew the consequences of succumbing to the temptation. There would be the most awful row and he would be beaten by his father, as he thought of Angus. There would be raised voices and words that frightened him. And worst of all there would be disgrace, and a feeling that the human world did not want him to be part of it. There would be rejection and exclusion in the most unambiguous sense.
Suddenly, Cyril stood up. He turned away from Matthew’s ankles – put them beyond temptation – and began to howl. He lifted his head in the air and howled, pouring into the sound all the sadness of his world and of the canine condition. It was a howl of such regret and sorrow as to melt ilka heart, ilka heart.
And none of those present knew why he cried.
71. Crushed Strawberry
Trudging up Dundas Street with his mother, deep in thought, Bertie reflected on the dire course of events over the past few days. He had enjoyed Tofu’s party immensely – and had decided 234 Crushed Strawberry