The World According to Bertie (22 page)

57. He Felt a Wave of Contentment Come Over Him

“It's amazing how petty some people are,” said Bruce. “They get really, really upset about tiny things. You know, really tiny things.” Julia Donald looked at him adoringly. “Such as?” she asked.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Well, Caroline was one of these OCD-types–you know, obsessive-compulsive disorder. She used to line the conditioner bottles up in the shower just like this, plonk plonk plonk, and she would go absolutely mental if you touched any of them. And of course you have to have a bit of room to move in a shower…” At this, he winked at Julia. “Ideally, showers should have enough room for two. Saves energy.”

Julia giggled. “And it's somehow more…more friendly.”

“Precisely,” said Bruce, glancing for a finely timed moment in the direction of the bathroom, which lay behind him in Julia's flat. “Anyway, Caroline would go through the roof if any of her stupid conditioner bottles was moved. Ballistic. Stupid woman.”

“You'd think that she'd have better things to do,” said Julia. “I can't bear obsessively tidy people.”

Bruce glanced around her sitting room–their sitting room now. In the New Town, of course, he knew it would be called a drawing room, depending on how one defined oneself. As a surveyor, he had prided himself on being able to tell exactly when a living room would be described as such, or as a lounge (never), or when it would be a drawing room. It was not always easy, but there were many clues. A drawing room was genteel, and there were many drawing rooms in Edinburgh; this, he was sure, was one.

“It's so comfortable,” he said, smiling at Julia. “It's so comfortable, sitting here in the…in the…”

“Drawing room,” she supplied.

Well, thought Bruce, that settles that. There were few surprises in life if one had fine social antennae, which, he thought, I have. He looked at Julia. She was very attractive–in a slightly outdoorsy way, and by that he did not mean rustic, or agricultural, but more…well, grouse-moorish. There was a breed of women who frequented grouse moors, standing around outside Land Rovers while their husbands and boyfriends peppered birds with lead-shot, an activity which, in an atavistic, tribal way appeared to give them pleasure. Some of these women themselves actually shot–ladies who shoot their lunch, as
Country Life
had so wittily put it. These women wore green down-filled jackets and green Wellingtons and liked dogs–although they only seemed to have one breed of dog, which was a Labrador. They liked Labradors and Aga cookers, thought Bruce, and smiled at the thought. That was Julia.

And Julia, looking at Bruce, thought: he is so gorgeous, so hunkalato. It's his shape, really–the whole shape of him. And that cleft in his chin. Do men have plastic surgery to put clefts in? Why not? Silly thought. I can just see him standing in his dressing gown in front of the Aga, cup of coffee in his hand, hair still wet from the shower, and mine, all mine! But who's going to make the first move? He will, of course. Or he'd better. He won't wait long.

And what if he says to me: are you, you know…What should I say? No, it's not wrong, not really. If I don't get him, then some girl is going to get her claws into him and he may not be as happy with her as he is with me. I'll make him happy–of course I will. He'll be really happy with me, and the baby. Baby! A real little baby! Mine. Mr and Mrs Bruce Anderson. Or, rather, Bruce and Julia Anderson. And little Rory Anderson? Charlotte Anderson? And we can still have lots of fun because we'll get somebody to help. A Swedish girl, maybe. No. Not a Swede. They're pretty and we want somebody homely. So it'll have to be a girl from…(and here she mentally named a town in Scotland, known for its homely girls).

Bruce stretched out his arms. “Yes, it's really great being here, Julia. Thanks a lot.” He glanced at his watch. “I thought that I might have a shower, and then how about I cook some pasta?”

“Great,” said Julia. “Fab idea.”

Bruce rose to his feet. “Where's the shower?” he asked.

Julia gestured to the corridor. “Along there.” She paused. “It's a bit temperamental,” she said. “I need to get the plumber to come and take a look at it. But there's a trick to working it. You have to turn the lever all the way to the right and then a little bit to the left. I can show you how to do it.”

Bruce smiled. “But won't you get wet? Unless…”

She smiled encouragingly. “Unless what, Brucie?”

“Unless…”

She rose to her feet, kicking off her shoes as she did so. “You go,” she said. “I'll just be a sec.”

Bruce went through to his bedroom and stood for a moment in front of his window. Julia was all right, he supposed, but it was clear to him that she would keep him occupied. There were some women who were simply high maintenance, in his terms, and she, he imagined, was one of them. That could be managed, he thought, but it could become difficult if they started to cling. That was the point at which one had to make it clear to them that men were not there to be used, and that they should not be tied down too much. And that, thought Bruce, was the problem. Women get hold of a man and then they think they own him. That would not happen to him, and if Julia had ideas along those lines, then she would have to be disabused of them. He was happy to keep Julia happy, but he was not going to be tied down. That would have to be made quite clear–a little bit later.

He gazed out of the window, which overlooked Howe Street, a street that sloped down sharply to sweep round into the elegant crescents of Royal Circus. It was one of Bruce's favourite streets in that part of Edinburgh, and he felt a wave of contentment come over him. Here I am, he thought, exactly where I want to be. I have a place to live. I have a woman who is wild keen on me. I have no rent to pay and probably no electricity bills, etc., etc. And I even have a job, financed by Julia, bless her. Perfection.

He moved away from the window. In the background, down the corridor, he could hear the shower being run. Duty calls, he said to himself.

58. Patriotism and the Jacobite Connection

While Bruce was entertaining Julia in her flat in Howe Street, Big Lou was busy with one of her periodic cleanings of the coffeehouse in Dundas Street. It was a Saturday, and Saturdays were always quieter than weekdays, with many of the usual customers–office people–at home in places such as Barnton or Corstorphine, contemplating their gardens or their dirty cars and resolving to do something about both of them, but perhaps tomorrow rather than today. Dundas Street itself was reasonably busy, but for some reason many of the people in the street had things other than coffee on their minds, and this left Big Lou the time to do her cleaning.

Big Lou came from a background of cleanliness. The east coast of Scotland may at times be a cold, even a harsh place to live, but it was a well-scrubbed and self-respecting part of the world. In Arbroath, where Big Lou hailed from, kitchens were almost always spotless, and even the most modest of houses would make some attempt at a formal front room. You just did not leave things lying about, just as you did not waste things, nor spend money profligately. There was an idea of order there, forged in a tradition of stewardship and careful use of what resources the land, and the sea, provided. And what, thought Big Lou, is wrong with that? If the rest of Scotland followed the rules of places such as Arbroath or Carnoustie, then life would be better for all, of that Big Lou was quite convinced.

That Saturday, as Big Lou polished the inner windowsills of the coffeehouse, she saw her new boyfriend, Robbie Cromach, descending the steps that led down from the street. Big Lou straightened up and tucked her duster into her pocket. She liked to look her best for Robbie, who was something of a natty dresser himself, and here she was in her working clothes, hair all over the place, and no lipstick to speak of.

“Noo den,” said Robbie, as he came in the door. “What's up with you, Lou?”

It was rather a strange greeting, but it was one which he used whenever he saw her, and she had become used to it. “Noo den,” she understood, was Shetlandic for now then; Robbie's mother was from Shetland, and he liked to use the occasional bit of dialect. But noo den? Big Lou had been told that one might say, in reply: “Aye, aye boy, foo is du?” but she had decided that this sounded too like “you're fu',” which was, of course, an accusation of drunkenness.

“Nothing much, Robbie,” said Big Lou. “Just cleaning up.”

Robbie crossed the room and gave Big Lou a kiss on the cheek. He looked at his watch. “I've arranged with some of the lads to meet here,” he said. “Can you do us a few cups of coffee?”

“Of course.” Big Lou paused. “The lads? The usual…”

Robbie nodded. “Aye. Michael, Jimmy, Heather. That's all. Maybe Willie will turn up, but I don't think so.”

Big Lou moved to her counter, took four cups off the shelf, and lined them up in a row. She looked at Robbie. She did not like these friends of his–she had tried–but there was something about them that she just did not take to. Michael, she supposed, was not too bad, but that Heather woman–Heather McDowall–she was, well, away with the fairies if you asked Lou, and Jimmy, she thought, was just rather pathetic, a train-spotting type who seemed to have latched onto Michael and who followed him round as if waiting for some priceless pearl of wisdom to fall from the older man's lips.

Robbie, of course, was a different matter. He was immensely attractive in Big Lou's eyes, and in the eyes of others too–Big Lou knew that. Women can tell when the heads of other women are turned; they see it–the heads turn, ever so slightly, but they turn, as an attractive man walks by. And he was good company, and gentle, which was something that Big Lou admired in a man, but had seen so rarely.

“This is a meeting?” asked Big Lou. “Or purely social?”

Robbie, leaning against the counter, looked about him quickly, as if searching for those who might overhear. “I wanted to have a word with you about that, Lou,” he said. “You know how I feel about…about historical matters.”

Lou nodded. “You've told me, Robbie,” she said. “You're a Scottish patriot. That's fine by me. I'm not really political myself, you know. But it's fine by me that you should be.”

Robbie appeared pleased with this. “Good,” he said. “But there's a particular angle here, Lou. Some of us feel very strongly about the monarchy.”

“I know that, Robbie,” Big Lou said. “And I support the monarchy too. Look at the Queen, at all the hard work she does. And Prince Charles too–not that many people give him credit for it. They're always sniping at him and in the meantime he's dashing around doing these things for other people.”

“Yes, yes,” said Robbie, a note of impatience in his voice. “I'm not denying any of that. They do a fine job. But there's still a problem, Lou. We had our own line of kings in Scotland, you know, and they took the throne away from us and gave it to the Germans. The Germans! To a line of wee German lairdies! Did they ask us? Did they ask the permission of our parliament?” Robbie was now becoming flushed. “They did not ask us, Lou! They did not. And we don't accept it.” He shook his head. “We just won't accept it, Lou!”

Big Lou stood there. She said nothing.

“So,” said Robbie. “There are some of us who will not let this pass. Not while we have breath in our bodies.”

He looked at Big Lou, waiting for a response.

“I'm not sure,” she began. What else could she say? she wondered. Big Lou remembered something that an aunt of hers had once said: “A man needs a hobby, Lou–remember that and you can't go far wrong. Always let your man have a hobby and he won't stray.”

“I suppose it's all right with me, Robbie,” she said.

Robbie relaxed. “Well, that's good, Lou. I'm pleased that we can count you in on this.”

On what? thought Big Lou.

Robbie provided the answer. “We're Jacobites, you see, Lou. And we like to talk about the cause. And we like to remind people from time to time who is the real king of Scotland.”

“Oh,” said Big Lou. “Where does he live, this real king?”

“Germany,” replied Robbie.

59. A Visitor from Belgium Is Expected

Only a few minutes elapsed between Big Lou's conversation with Robbie about the Jacobite cause and the arrival in her coffeehouse of the Jacobites in person. Big Lou, her back turned to the door, did not see them come in, and turned round to find Michael, Jimmy, and Heather, now seated at a table with Robbie. They sneaked in, she thought, behind my back, furtively.

She made coffee and took it over on a tray. Michael looked up and smiled at her. “Thank you, Lou,” he said. “Won't you join us?”

Big Lou looked at Robbie, who nodded his encouragement. “Why not, Lou?”

Big Lou sat down. Jimmy was on one side of her, Heather McDowall on the other.

“I love your coffee,” said Heather. “Mmm. Smell that, folks. Gorgeous.”

“It's just coffee,” said Big Lou. “That's all.”

“But it's the way you make it,” enthused Heather. “That's where the skill lies. Oh yes.”

Big Lou said nothing. She did not like this woman, with her gushing ways, and as for Jimmy, sitting there, his eyes fixed on Michael, he's like an adoring dog, thought Big Lou; it's unhealthy.

Michael cleared his throat. “Is Lou…?” he began tentatively. “Is Lou…on board?”

Robbie glanced at Lou. “You're a sympathiser, aren't you, Lou?” he asked. There was an eagerness in his tone which made Big Lou realise that it was important to him that she should agree with him on this issue. That was a problem, she thought, but it was a problem that many women had, and husbands too, come to think of it. Could one be out of political sympathy with one's spouse? There were probably plenty of couples who voted different ways in the privacy of the polling booth, but that probably only applied when the spouses concerned were not particularly political. It was rare–if not almost unheard of–for the wives or husbands of active politicians to take a different political view from that of their spouses. It was implicit, thought Big Lou, that the wife of the prime minister did not support the Opposition, although there were cases–and she had heard of one or two–where the wives or husbands of ministers of religion were less than enthusiastic about religion. But she was in no doubt of the fact that Robbie wanted her support, and she was similarly in no doubt that she wanted Robbie.

“Well,” began Big Lou, “I see nothing wrong in taking an interest in…in historical matters. If it makes you happy. After all…” She was on the point of saying it makes absolutely no difference, but decided not to, even if it was perfectly obvious that nothing that these people believed in relation to the succession to the crown would have the slightest impact on anything.

“That's fine, then,” said Michael. “Welcome to the movement, Lou.”

Lou inclined her head graciously. “Thank you.” She was not sure if she was expected to say anything more than that, but it became apparent that she was not, as Michael immediately moved the conversation on.

“Now, friends,” he said. “Heather has some very interesting news to report.” He turned to Heather, who was sitting back in her chair, arms folded in the satisfied manner of one who is harbouring information that others do not have.

“Extremely interesting,” Heather said. “News from Belgium.”

Big Lou watched her, repelled, yet fascinated, by the air of triumph. There's something wrong with this woman, she thought.

Heather lowered her voice. “Our visitor,” she said, “has confirmed that he is coming. He will arrive. It's confirmed.”

For a few moments, there was complete silence. Jimmy was staring at Michael, waiting for his response; Robbie had clasped his hands together and glanced at Big Lou, as if to gauge her reaction; Michael had reached out across the table to grip Heather's forearm.

When Michael spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “When?” he asked.

Heather leaned forward. “Just over three weeks from now,” she whispered. “Three weeks on Friday.”

Again, a silence descended. The Jacobites looked at one another, to all intents and purposes, thought Big Lou, like children who had just heard of an impending treat. They were to receive a visitor from Belgium; obviously somebody of importance in their movement, a historian perhaps or…No, that was highly unlikely; in fact it was absurd.

“Who exactly…?” Big Lou began to ask.

Michael interrupted her, raising a finger in the air in warning. “One minute,” he said. “Before further details are revealed, I must ask you, Lou, to give your word that this conversation will be kept confidential. It's absolutely imperative that…”

Robbie now interrupted Michael. “You will, won't you, Lou? You won't speak about this, will you?”

Big Lou shrugged. “I don't like secrets very much,” she said. “But then I don't talk about things it's no business of mine to talk about.”

“That's fine, then,” said Robbie, turning to Michael. “Lou's fine on that.”

Michael looked doubtful for a moment, but Robbie held his gaze and eventually he nodded. “All right, this is it. We're receiving a visit from a member of the Stuart family. He's coming to Scotland. A direct descendant of Charles Edward Stuart, or Bonnie Prince Charlie as you may know him, Lou.”

Jimmy, who had been hanging on Michael's every word, now turned and looked at Big Lou. She noticed, as he did so, a trace of milk from his cappuccino making a thin line around his weak, immature mouth. “See,” he said. “Just like Charlie himself. A Young Pretender.”

Big Lou stared at him. “Really?” she said. “Coming to Scotland to claim his kingdom?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Michael, glancing discouragingly at Jimmy. “What Jimmy means is that there are parallels. As you know, Charles Edward Stuart came to incite an uprising against the usurpers. Conditions are different today. This is more of a consciousness-raising exercise. This member of the Stuart family is not exactly acting on behalf of His Majesty King Francis, whom we recognise as the rightful king, even if he's never made that claim himself and doesn't use that title. His Majesty keeps himself out of all of this. He's very dignified. This young man's a descendant of Charles through a subsidiary line. He's coming for a few weeks to assist us in our endeavours.”

“So this is not the Forty-Five all over again?” asked Big Lou.

Michael laughed, waving a hand in the air. “Hardly! No, this is more of a courtesy call by a member of the family to those in this country who have kept alive the claims of the Stuarts. That's all.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy, slightly aggressively. “That's all. We're not bampots, you know.”

Big Lou looked at him. “Have you finished with that coffee cup?” she asked.