The World According to Bertie (31 page)

82. A Shopping Trip for a Special Dinner Date

When Matthew locked up the gallery and went out onto Dundas Street that evening, he felt almost light-headed with relief. He had dreaded the break-up with Pat. He had imagined that there would be recriminations, threats, tears, and there had been none of that, unless, of course, one counted the brief and really rather silly exchange over beige and distressed oatmeal. And one should not really make much of such an adolescent flare-up, in which nothing really hurtful was said, and which led, anyway, to immediate apologies.

After Matthew had given Pat the painting–which was a rather nice little Stanley Spencer watercolour, a generous present by any standards–they had finished their conversation with what Matthew described as housekeeping matters.

Pat should not feel that she should give up her part-time job at the gallery; that position had nothing to do with their relationship, and he did not think it would be at all difficult for them to continue to see one another as colleagues and friends. Pat agreed, but thought that she would consider it anyway. Her university work was becoming more pressing, and she was not sure how much time she could devote to working in the gallery. But if she did find that she had to give the job up, or do fewer hours, she had a friend in the same degree course who was currently doing bar work and who would love to have a change. Matthew thanked her for this. “You've never let me down,” he said. “Never.”

With that disposed of, the rest of the morning had passed in amicable companionship, with only the occasional reference to their new situation.

“You'll find somebody else,” said Matthew at one point. “There are plenty of boys. Plenty.”

“Not all of them are nice,” said Pat. “In fact, some of them are really awful.”

Matthew nodded. “Wolf, for example.”

Pat said nothing.

“And others,” said Matthew quickly. “But there are some nice ones. And you'll meet them, I'm sure.”

“I don't know if I want to,” said Pat. “I think I might have a boy-free time for a while. It's nice to be single, you know. It's…it's uncluttered.”

Matthew was not so certain about that. He had endured long periods of being uncluttered, and, on balance, he preferred to be cluttered. He thought of Elspeth Harmony. He would see her that night–he had asked her to have dinner with him and she had agreed. He would cook something special–he had a new risotto recipe that he had mastered and he would give her that. And champagne? Or would that be a little bit too much? Yes, it would. Perhaps they would have a New Zealand white instead. Or something from Western Australia. Margaret River, perhaps.

And what would he wear? That was more difficult, as he obviously could not wear his distressed-oatmeal sweater–not after those remarks that Pat had made. It was not beige! It was not! But there was no point in going over that–it was obvious that distressed oatmeal was not a colour of which every woman approved, and in that case he would wear…

“Pat,” he said. “What should I wear? I mean, what should I wear for special occasions?”

She guessed at what he was talking about. “For when you're seeing what's-her-name? Elspeth Harm…”

“Harmony.”

“Yes, her. Well, let me see. Don't think that…”

“I won't wear my sweater. Don't worry.”

“Good. Well, look, Matthew. You have to decide what your colour is. Then go for that. Build around it.”

Matthew looked interested. “Build around my colour?”

Pat looked at him intensely. “Yes. And your colour, I would have thought is…ultramarine.”

Matthew stared at her. “As in Vermeer?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “Do you know how Vermeer got that lovely shade of blue? By crushing lapis lazuli.”

“Of course I knew that,” said Matthew.

“And that's why there's that terrific light in his pictures. The girl with the pearl earring, for instance. That blue in her headscarf.”

“Do you think I should wear that exact blue?”

Pat nodded. “I think so. But you shouldn't wear everything in that blue, of course. Maybe a shirt in that blue and then get some trousers which are…well, maybe blackish, but not pure black. Charcoal. That's it. Charcoal trousers, Matthew, and an ultramarine shirt.”

“And a tie?”

“No, definitely not. Just the shirt, with the top button undone. And don't, whatever you do, have a button-down collar. Just have it normal. Try to be normal, Matthew.”

Pat went off to the university at lunchtime, leaving Matthew to spend the afternoon in the gallery by himself. He closed early, and made his way up to Stewart Christie in Queen Street. The window was full of brown and green clothes–a hacking jacket, an olive-green overcoat with corduroy elbow patches, green kilt hose–but they were able to produce several blue shirts which struck Matthew as being close to ultramarine. He chose two of these, along with a pair of charcoal trousers and several pairs of Argyle socks, which he needed anyway. Then he made his way down Albany Place, crossed Heriot Row, and was in India Street, where his flat was.

India Street was, in Matthew's view, the most appealing street in the New Town. If he thought of the streets in the immediate vicinity, each of them had slight drawbacks, some of which it was difficult to put one's finger on, an elusive matter of feng shui, perhaps, those almost indefinable factors of light or orientation that can make the difference between the presence or absence of architectural blessedness. This, he thought as he walked down his side of the street, is where I want to live–and I am living there. I am a fortunate man.

And he discovered, as he thought of his good fortune, that what he wanted to do more than anything else was to share it. In recent days, he had given two valuable gifts, and the act of giving had filled him with pleasure. Now he would give more; he would sweep Elspeth Harmony up, celebrate her, take her from whatever place she now lived in, and offer her his flat in India Street, his fortune, himself, everything.

He looked at the parcel he was carrying, the parcel in which the ultramarine shirt and the charcoal trousers were wrapped. He saw himself in this new garb, opening the door to Elspeth Harmony, ushering her into the flat. In the background, the enticing smell of cooking and music. I have to get this right, he thought. If this doesn't work, then there's no hope for me.

He climbed the stairs to his front door and let himself in. On the hall table, a red light blinked insistently from the telephone: somebody had left a message.

He dropped the parcel and pressed the button to play the message. It will be from her, he thought.

It was.

83. The Matthew He Wanted Her to Know

Matthew listened to the message left for him by Elspeth Harmony. In the rather sparsely furnished hall of his flat in India Street, the recorded voice, with its clear diction–it was, after all, the voice of a teacher–echoed in the emptiness. And it seemed to Matthew that the chambers of the heart were themselves empty, desolate, now without hope.

“I'm really very sorry,” Elspeth began. “It was very sweet of you to ask me to dinner, but I can't make it after all. I'm a bit upset about something and I don't feel that I would be very good company. I'm so sorry. Maybe some other time.”

He played the message through and the machine automatically went on to the next message, which was from a company that had tried to deliver something and could not. The company spoke in injured tones, as if it expected that people should always be in to receive its parcels. Matthew ignored that message; his thoughts were on what Elspeth had said. Women had all sorts of excuses to get out of an unwanted date: family issues–my mother's in town–I'd much prefer to be seeing you, but you know how it is. And then: I've had a headache since lunchtime and I think I should just get an early night, so sorry. He listened again to what Elspeth had to say. There was no doubt that the tone was sincere, and from that Matthew took a few scraps of comfort. This was not a diplomatic excuse concealing a simple reluctance to have dinner with him; this was the voice of somebody who was clearly upset, and for good reason.

He switched off the machine and stood up from the crouching position in which he had been listening to the message. How he reacted to this would, he thought, determine whether he saw Elspeth again. If he did nothing, then she might think that he simply did not care; if, on the other hand, he tried to persuade her to come, in spite of everything–whatever everything was–then he might appear equally selfish. He decided to call her.

As the telephone rang at the other end, Matthew tried to imagine the scene. Her address was on the other side of town, in a street sandwiched between Sciennes and Newington, and he thought of her flat, with its modest brass plate on the door,
HARMONY
, and its window box with a small display of nasturtiums. Or was that mere romanticism? No, he thought, it is not. Her name is Harmony, and there's no reason why she should not have a window box with nasturtiums, none at all.

“Elspeth Harmony.”

The voice was quiet, the tones those of one who had been thinking of something else when the telephone had rung.

“It's Matthew here. I got your message. Are you all right?”

There was a momentary pause. Then: “Yes, I'm all right. But I'm sorry about tonight. I just couldn't face it.”

Matthew's heart sank. Perhaps it had just been a lame excuse after all. “Oh,” he said. “But…”

Elspeth interrupted him. “It's nothing to do with you. Please don't think that.”

He imagined her sitting in a chair in the kitchen, looking out at the nasturtiums.

“Has something happened?”

“Yes,” she said. And then, after a momentary hesitation, “I've lost my job. Or rather, I'm about to lose my job.”

Matthew gasped.

“Yes,” Elspeth went on. “There was an incident at the school yesterday and…and, well, I'm afraid that I've been suspended, pending an inquiry. But they think that it might be best for me to go before then. I'm rather upset by this. Teaching, you see, has been my life…”

She broke off, and Matthew for a moment thought that she had begun to cry.

“I'd like to come and see you,” he said firmly. “If I get a taxi now, I'll be at your place in ten, fifteen minutes.”

She sounded tearful. “I don't know. I really don't…”

“No, I'll be there,” said Matthew. “Ten minutes. Just wait for me.”

He put down the receiver and went into his bedroom to change into a new ultramarine shirt. But then he stopped. He looked at the shirt that he had laid on the bed. No, that shirt was not him, that was Pat's idea of what she thought he should be. The real Matthew, the one that wanted to go and help Elspeth Harmony in whatever distress she was suffering, was not the Matthew of ultramarine shirts and charcoal trousers; it was the Matthew of distressed-oatmeal sweaters and crushed-strawberry trousers; that was who he was, and that was the person whom he wished Elspeth Harmony to know.

The taxi arrived promptly, and Matthew gave the driver instructions. They travelled in silence and, in the light traffic, they were there in little more than ten minutes.

“Number eighteen?” asked the driver, as they entered the small cul-de-sac. “I had an aunt who lived at number eight. Dead now, of course, but she used to make terrific scones. We used to go there for tea as children. There were always scones. And she made us kids eat up. Come on now, plenty more scones. Come on!”

Matthew smiled. There used to always be scones. The taxi driver was much older, but even Matthew's Scotland had changed since his own childhood, not all that many years ago. Things like that were less common–aunts who made scones. There were career aunts now, who had no time to bake scones.

They stopped outside number 18 and he looked up towards the third floor, where Elspeth Harmony lived. There were window boxes at two of the windows and a small splash of red. Nasturtiums. He smiled.

She let him in, and he could tell that she had been crying. He moved forward and put an arm around her shoulder.

“You mustn't cry,” he said. “You mustn't.”

“I feel so stupid,” she said. “I feel that I've let everyone down.”

“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Matthew.

She told him, and he listened carefully. When she had finished, he shook his head in astonishment. “So all you did was give her a little pinch on the ear?”

Elspeth nodded. “There was really no excuse,” she said. “But there are one or two of the children who are seriously provocative. There's a boy called Tofu, who really tries my patience. And then there's Olive, whose ear…whose ear I pinched.”

“It's entirely understandable,” said Matthew. “Teaching is so demanding, and you get so little support. That pinch will have done Olive no harm–probably a lot of good.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” said Matthew. But then he went on, rather sadly, “But I suppose that's not the world we live in, with all these regulations and busybodies about.” He paused. “I think you've struck a blow for sanity. Or rather, pinched one.”

She thought this very funny and laughed.

“I'm rather fed up with teaching anyway,” Elspeth said.

Matthew thought: if you married me, then you'd never have to work again. Unless you wanted to, of course.