“As long as they drink,” said Angus. “Vegetarians who drink a couple of glasses of wine a day do terribly well.”
“A thirty-five per cent improvement in mortality,” said Domenica.
Angus Lordie peered at the sausages. “And yet the government can’t exactly encourage us to drink, can it?”
“Certainly not,” said Domenica. “We know that the government itself drinks, but on this issue it has to be hypocritical.”
Angus Lordie, who had stopped painting when Domenica arrived, moved to the window. Picking up a rag, he wiped a small spot of oil paint off his hands. “I’ve never understood the objection to hypocrisy,” he said. “There must be some circumstances in which it’s permissible to be hypocritical.”
“Such as?”
“Let me think,” said Angus. “Yes. On the receipt of a present that one doesn’t like. Do you really think that one should say how much one likes it?”
Domenica thought about this. “I suppose so. But is that being hypocritical, or is it something different?”
“Hypocrisy is saying one thing and doing another,” said Angus. “If you say that you like the gift and say how much you’re looking forward to using it or looking at it, or whatever, then surely you’re being a hypocrite.” He paused for a moment. “So, should a politician tell other people not to drink or not to eat sausages, and all the while he drinks and eats sausages himself, then he’s being hypocritical. But it may be the right thing for him to do.”
“But would you yourself choose to be hypocritical?”
Angus replaced the oily rag on a table. He smiled. “I’m as Domenica Takes Food to Angus
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weak as anybody else,” he said. “I suppose I’ve told my share of lies. I’ve been hypocritical on occasions.”
Domenica laughed. “Tell me, then. You don’t like sausages.”
“No, I don’t,” said Angus.
Domenica saw that he meant it. “You should have told me,”
she said.
“But I didn’t want to offend you. And I can’t stand apple pie either.”
Domenica frowned. “But why not tell me? You would just have wasted them. I would have gone away thinking that you would be enjoying my little offerings and all the time you’d be putting them out in the bin.”
Angus shook his head. “I would not,” he said defensively. “I would have given the sausages to Cyril, and I would have put the apple pie out in the gardens for the squirrels.”
“I will not have you giving my Crombie sausages to that dog of yours,” said Domenica. “You presume on my friendship, Angus!”
“I didn’t ask you to bring me sausages,” said Angus peevishly.
“And I certainly shall not bring you any sausages in the future,” said Domenica stoutly.
“Good,” said Angus. “So, no sausages then.”
They looked at one another reproachfully. Then Angus shrugged. “What are we to do about these sausages?” he said, gesturing to the package on the table. “I suppose you’d better take them back and eat them in Scotland Street.”
“But I don’t like sausages myself,” said Domenica. “I can’t stand them, in fact.”
For a few moments they stared mutely at the package of sausages.
“Do you know anybody who would like them?” asked Domenica. “Any of your neighbours?”
“My neighbours would find it very strange if I started offering them sausages,” said Angus. “We don’t have that sort of relationship.”
“I wasn’t aware that there was a category of relationship which permitted the giving and taking of sausages,” said Domenica.
288 Bruce Reflects
“Well, there is,” said Angus. “You have to know people quite well before you start giving them sausages.”
Domenica said nothing. She knew that Angus occasionally became argumentative, and there was no point in engaging with him when he was in such a mood. “Well, let’s . . .”
Angus cut her short. “Before we abandon the subject of sausages,” he said, “I must tell you about an occasion on which I was obliged to eat sausages – and with every visible sign of enjoyment. It was at a terribly grand house in Sutherland. I went there for lunch one day and there were ten people round the table. We were looking forward to a good meal, but we certainly didn’t get that. We had sausages with boiled potatoes. And that was it. But what I remember about that meal was that the subject of flying boats came up. I don’t know how it did, but somebody must have raised it.
“And I said to our hostess: ‘You know, Your Grace, you should get yourself a flying boat. You’ve got that great stretch of loch out there – it’s ideal for a flying boat.’ And you know what she said? She said: ‘But we do have a flying boat somewhere or other.’ Then she turned to the factor, who was sitting down at the end of the table, and she said: ‘Mr Grant, have you seen the flying boat? Do you know where it is?’”
That was all there was to the story. Angus Lordie looked at Domenica. Then he burst into laughter, into wild peals of laughter.
And Domenica laughed too. It was extremely funny for some reason. It may have been hard to put one’s finger on the reason, but neither of them was in any doubt but that it was terribly funny.
But it was also rather sad. And again, to work out why it should be sad, required a measure of reflection.
88. Bruce Reflects
After his unfortunate experience with George and his new fiancée, Bruce returned to Scotland Street in what almost amounted to a state of shock. He had set off for his shop in a Bruce Reflects
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mood of confidence and optimism, but this had been conclu-sively shattered by the confrontation with his erstwhile business backer, now his former friend. There was to be no money from George, and with the disappearance of that support his liabilities now exceeded his assets. The payment to the wine dealer in Leith could not be put off for more than a short time, and now he simply did not have sufficient funds to pay. He would have to return all the stock, virtually every bottle of it, and that would leave him with empty shelves, including in that new section of which he was so proud – the innovative Wines for Her.
Pat was in her room when Bruce returned. For a moment he hesitated, unsure whether to knock on her door and offer to make her a cup of coffee. He did not want her to think that he needed her company in any way – she should be in no doubt that he could take or leave that as he wished – but eventually his need for comfort and reassurance got the better of him.
Pat greeted him politely. Yes, that was kind of him; she would join him for a cup of coffee in the kitchen in a few moments.
“So,” she said. “The business. How’s it going?”
“Great,” Bruce started to say. “Just great . . .”
He broke off. He looked at the floor. “Actually,” he went on,
“it’s going badly. Really badly.”
Pat raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with that shop you’re renting?”
Bruce shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. In fact, Pat, it’s awful.” He sat down at the kitchen table, his head sunk in his hands.
Pat looked down at him. Poor Bruce – to be so vain and so pleased with yourself and then to become so obviously wretched.
It was difficult not to sympathise with him.
“Money?” she said.
Bruce nodded miserably. “I’ve been let down.”
“By?”
“By somebody I was at school with back in Crieff,” said Bruce.
“He should have stayed there.”
Pat frowned. “Why are you rude about Crieff, Bruce? Aren’t you proud of the place you came from?”
290 Bruce Reflects