– and she was part of that world, in a very attenuated sense –
but he had no right to make such sweeping statements about the attitudes of other people. How did he know anything about her views, other than that she did not think that there was much chance of developing a relationship with him, and this on the grounds of her objection to the use of the expression hah, hah?
Anybody might object to that, just as they might object to any overused phrase, and it seemed quite unreasonable for him to accuse her – and so many others – of being snobbish. It was not snobbish, she thought, to object to those who said hah, hah. That was an entirely personal reaction, and we were entitled, surely, to personal reactions to a mannerism. We did not have to like the way other people walked, or talked, or the way they drank their coffee or combed their hair. Or did we have to like everything?
Was it inclusive to like everything?
They had parted in a civil fashion. After a small amount of rather stiff conversation, Chris had looked at his watch and remembered another commitment, just seconds before Pat had been planning to recover from a similar lapse of memory.
“Maybe we’ll meet again,” he had said, looking dubiously around at the décor of the wine bar and at the other customers.
“You never know.”
“Maybe,” said Pat. “And I’m really sorry if I offended you. I really am . . .”
He raised a hand. “Water under the bridge. Don’t worry. It’s just that this place gets me down from time to time. It’s not your fault. Maybe I should go back to Falkirk.”
“You can’t go back to Falkirk,” said Pat. She said this and then stopped: it sounded as if she was expressing a major truth about life, and about Falkirk, which was not the case.
Chris looked at her quizzically. “Why not?”
“Well, maybe you can. Maybe Falkirk’s all right to go back to, if you come from there to begin with, if you see what I mean. What I wanted to say was that in general, in life, you can’t go back.”
He looked at his watch. “I actually do have to see somebody,”
he said. “I really must go.”
After Chris had gone, Pat stood by herself at the bar for a
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short while. The barman, who had observed the scene, came over towards her, casually wiping the bar with a cloth.
“Chris gone?” he asked.
Pat looked down into her glass. “He did hear,” she said quietly.
“He heard what I said about his laugh. I feel terrible.”
The barman reached over and touched her lightly on the wrist.
“You shouldn’t. That was nothing. You should hear some of the things that are said in this place. Horrible things. Cruel things.
What you said was nothing.”
Pat looked at him. “But he was upset. He said that’s how people are in this city.”
“He’s a bit marginal if you ask me,” said the barman. “I see all types in this job, and I know. He’s a cop, by the way. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did. But how did you know? Had you met him before?”
The barman winked at her. “I can tell a mile off. And it’s not a good idea to get too involved with cops. They can be difficult.”
He paused. “Anyway, you see that guy at the end there, the one in the cord jacket? He’s been wanting to talk to you all evening.
But take my advice, don’t.”
Pat glanced at the young man, who had remained at his place further down the bar throughout her ill-fated encounter with Chris.
120
Irene and Stuart: A Breakfast Conversazione He was picking at a small dish of olives before him, looking ahead, although now he glanced at her quickly, and then looked away again.
“Why?” asked Pat.
“Just don’t,” said the barman. “I know. Just don’t.”
The barman turned away. He had customers to deal with and Pat, left by herself, finished the last of her drink, and walked out of the wine bar. She noticed that the young man in the cord jacket watched her as she left, but she kept her eyes on the door and did not glance in his direction. It was fine outside, and night was just beginning to fall. She looked up at the sky, which was clear. It was still blue, but only just, and in minutes would shade into darkness.
47. Irene and Stuart: A Breakfast Conversazione It was a Saturday, and there was no need for Stuart to rush to catch the bus to work, yet he was an early riser and by the time that Irene got up he had already chopped the nuts and sliced the bananas for the Bircher muesli. He had also gone out to the newsagent for the papers, and was reading a review when Irene came into the kitchen.
“Anything?” asked Irene, making for the pot of coffee on the edge of the Aga.
“Practically nothing. A new biography of James the Sixth,”
said Stuart. “It’s getting a good review here from somebody or other.”
Irene opened the kitchen blind and looked out onto Scotland Street.
JAMIE SEXT: James VI of Scotland, James I of England (1566-1625), son of Mary Queen of Scots. Became the infant King of Scotland on the forced abdication of his mother in 1567. When Elizabeth of England died in 1603, he became King of England, being the great-grandson of James IV’s English wife, Margaret Tudor.
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“I have no idea,” she said, “no idea at all why people continue to write royal biographies. They go on and on. Even about the Duke of Windsor, about whom there was nothing to be said at all, other than to make a diagnosis.”
Stuart lowered the paper. “Some of these kings were influential,” he said. “They ran things then.”
“That’s not what history is about,” snapped Irene. “History is about ordinary people. How they lived. What they ate. That sort of thing.”
Stuart looked down at the review. “And ideas,” he said, mildly.
“History is about ideas. And monarchs tended to have some influence in that direction. Take Jamie Sext, for example. He had ideas on language. He was quite enlightened. He would have enjoyed the newspapers, if they had been around.”
Irene stared at him. “Which newspaper?” she asked. But he did not answer, and she continued: “What a peculiar thing to say!”
“No,” said Stuart. “Not really. In fact, it’s quite interesting to speculate what people would have read if these papers had existed.
Queen Victoria, for example, read The Times, but what would Prince Albert have read?”
“The Frankfurter Allgemeine?” ventured Irene.
They both laughed. This was undoubtedly very funny.
“And was she amused by The Times?” asked Stuart.
“No,” said Irene. “She was not.”
Irene joined him at the table.
“Enough levity,” she said. “We must talk about Bertie. We have to do something. I can’t face going back to that awful Macfadzean woman. So Bertie’s going to have to go elsewhere.”
“Couldn’t he wait?” asked Stuart. “He knows a great deal as it is. Couldn’t we give him a gap year?”
“A gap year?”
Stuart seemed pleased with his suggestion. “Yes, a gap year between nursery and primary school. So what if he’s only five?
Why not? Gap years are all the rage.”
Irene looked pensive. “You know, you might have something there. It could be a year in which he did his Grade seven theory and one or two other things. It would take him out of the 122
Irene and Stuart: A Breakfast Conversazione system for a while and allow him to flourish. We could make a programme.”
“Send him abroad? Perhaps he could work in a village in South America, or Africa even.”
Irene thought for a moment, as if weighing up the suggestion.