Dr Fairbairn pushed his way up to the front of the bus and burst out of the door. We repeat our mistakes, he reflected, as he made his way hurriedly down the road. Endlessly. In ways that speak so eloquently of our deepest inner urges.
86. In the Café St Honoré
Janis and Gordon met that night at eight o’clock at the Café St Honoré. Gordon had suggested dinner, and Janis had readily accepted, as she had been hoping for an opportunity to give him the Crosbie which she had bought from Matthew. The painting had appealed to her when she first saw it, and when she took it home, to her house in the Stockbridge colonies, she had become even more taken with it. She had wrapped it carefully in the red gift paper which she used in her florist shop, and had written a short message on an accompanying card. For Gordon, who has made these last few months so happy for me – Janis.
Gordon had suggested that he call for her in a taxi, but she had decided to walk up the hill to the dinner engagement, as it was a fine evening. The first signs of autumn could be detected by those on the look-out for them, a slight sharpening of the air, an attenuation of the light. But for now, on that still evening, there was still every reason to be out under the pale sky, every reason to be walking through the streets of Edinburgh with the prospect of conversation and companionship at one’s destina-tion. Which is what we are all looking for, thought Janis – in our various ways.
She thought about her day as she walked up Howe Street.
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They had been busy at the shop, and she and her two assistants had been exhausted when they closed the door at six. There had been a large delivery for two weddings they were doing the following day and there had also been a steady stream of customers. In the mid-afternoon, a man had come in and chosen a large spray of roses. She had prepared the flowers and had handed them to him.
“They are for my wife,” he had said. “They are for her.”
Janis had smiled. “I’m sure she will like them,” she had said.
The man had looked down at the flowers, staring at them for several moments, and then she had realised . . . and he had raised his head again and she had seen the tears. She reached out and placed a hand on his forearm, to comfort him, and thought: We buy flowers for the dead. That is the one thing we buy for them.
Such moments as those were part of the florist’s day, and were handled as professionally as she could manage. But it was impossible not to be reminded in her work of the transience of human life and of how we can transform it by moments of kindness and consideration.
Gordon was already there when she arrived, seated in a table by the window. He rose to his feet, knocking over a glass as he did so. The glass rolled briefly on the table and then fell to the ground, splintering into fragments.
“I’m so clumsy,” he said to the waiter who appeared to deal with the situation.
“It’s nothing, sir,” said the waiter. “People do far worse than this. Whole tables of things end up on the floor.”
She smiled in appreciation at the waiter’s kindness and then turned her attention to the menu which had been put in front of her. For a few minutes they discussed what they would have and then, in the brief silence that followed, she reached for the small parcel which she had placed at her feet.
“I’ve brought you a present. It’s not a very big present, but I hope you like it.”
His eyes widened. “But it’s not my birthday.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
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She passed the red parcel over to him and he took it from her gingerly.
“Open it.”
He slid a finger under a flap of the paper and peeled it back.
The card was exposed and he took this out and read it.
“That’s very kind of you to say that.”
“I mean it.”
“Well, thank you. I’m the one who should be giving you a present. These months have been happy ones for me, too.”
He took off the rest of the paper and held the painting out at arm’s length. He said nothing at first, and then he smiled at her. “I like harbours,” he said. “And I particularly like this one.”
“Matthew thought you would,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow at the mention of his son’s name. “My Matthew? He said that?”
“It was his idea,” Janis said. “I wanted to get you something.
He thought you would like this.”
I’m not telling a complete lie, she told herself. Matthew had implied that he would like it and had not actively discouraged her from buying the painting. That, by a short leap, could be interpreted as being behind the idea. Gordon looked at the painting again. “That was thoughtful of him,” he said. He paused. “How was he? I mean, how did you find him? The other night at the club . . .”
Janis shook her head. “I understand,” she said. “It can’t be easy for him. People are jealous of their parents. They don’t like to see them with other people. It doesn’t matter if you’re eight or twenty-eight. These feelings can be very strong.”
He looked down at the tablecloth. “I don’t know what to do.
If we ask him to join us for anything, we’ll just have a repeat of last time. Surly, immature behaviour.”
“That’s because he loves you. If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t care at all.”
“But it makes it very hard for you, doesn’t it?” he said. “And it’ll be even harder when we tell him that we’re getting married . . .”
He stopped himself. He coloured deeply. He reached for his Domenica Takes Food to Angus
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table napkin and the sudden action sent another glass to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. “That was a slip of the tongue.
I wasn’t . . .”
“But I accept,” said Janis. “Don’t worry. I accept.”
The waiter reappeared, brush and pan in hand.
“I’ve done it again,” said Gordon. “I’ll pay for all these glasses.
Please add them to the bill.”
The waiter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Do you have any champagne glasses?” asked Gordon. “Not that I intend to break those. But I think we’re going to need a bottle of champagne.”
The waiter went off to fetch the champagne and the glasses.
By the time that he returned, Gordon had discreetly opened his wallet and extracted a crisp Bank of Scotland fifty-pound note, which he slipped into the waiter’s hand.
“You’re very kind,” said the waiter.
Janis thought: But there’s 10,999,950 more where that came from.
87. Domenica Takes Food to Angus
Angus Lordie did not often receive a visit from Domenica, but every now and then she would call in on him, usually unannounced, and usually bringing him a small present of food, normally cheese scones, which she baked herself.
“I’m convinced that you don’t feed yourself properly, Angus,”
said Domenica, placing a small bag of provisions on his kitchen table. “I’ve made you an apple pie and there’s a pound of sausages from that marvellous butcher down at the end of Broughton Street – the one who makes the real sausages. You do remember that wonderful line from Barbara Pym, do you not, where one of the characters says that men need meat? Not men in the sense of people in general, but men in the sense of males. Priceless!”
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“And yet you’ve brought me a pound of sausages,” said Angus.
“For which, thank you very much indeed. But doesn’t that suggest that you, too, feel that men need meat?”
“Not at all,” said Domenica. “Men can get their protein from anywhere in the protein chain, if there’s such a thing. You’d be better off not eating meat at all, you know. Look at the statistics for the survival of vegetarians. They do much better. Perhaps I should take those sausages back.”