“Yes — Independent Labour Party. He knew Jimmy Maxton.”
“I thought so. An industrial serf who wants to abolish the aristocracy. He probably thought Utopia was dawning after the war when Attlee nationalized the mines and transport and health services.”
“What about me?” cried the teacher. “What about you, for that matter?”
“We are the God-damned bourgeoisie — the middle or muddle class, son. The aristos, you see, don’t know how to talk to serfs because they speak a different language. So they pay folk from serf backgrounds a bit extra to help them manage the rest. So we get foremen and sergeant majors and policemen and lawyers and civil servants and teachers like you. And since aristos hate entertaining each other with anything but sex they pay big money to folk who can manufacture the dolce vita for them: chefs and clothes designers and models and prostitutes and artists and talented photographers like me. You need talent to enjoy the dolce vita if you arenae an aristocrat. For the rest it isnae so easy.”
“Does all that … waffle … mean I cannae enjoy myself because I’ve no special talent?”
“If the cap fits wear it, son. And if you’re one of the majority who would rather not face facts then all I can advise is nil desperandum and soldier on with the fixed grin of an idiot.”
The teacher shook his head hopelessly. McCrimmon’s speech reminded him of a Marxist uncle whose speeches had bored him when he was small, yet McCrimmon was certainly no Marxist.
Then he heard the bell ring again and the bar manager shout, “Time up ladies and gentlemen! Drink up and clear out! You’ve had your fun so hurry along! Some of us have beds to go to!”
“Christ,” groaned McCrimmon between swigs of porter, “why am I in a city … largest in a so-called country … where pubs shut at half past nine? Scotland is afflicted by three plagues. The first … ignorance of life. Third … envy of success. Second is … God it’s hot in here. What did I say third was?”
“Envy of success.”
“I was right. Let’s clear out. Where,” McCrimmon demanded on the pavement outside, “where can we go? Where’s the party? There’s always a party somewhere.”
The teacher had drunk very little compared with McCrimmon. The cool night air restored his mental clarity. He knew that the comfort of home was the best he would get but longing for one sip of unfamiliar social pleasure made him linger and murmur that Tom and Jean Forbes were having a party to celebrate their first wedding anniversary — they had told him so without inviting him to it; he might not be welcome.
“Forget Tom and Jean Forbes,” cried McCrimmon, putting an arm round the teacher’s shoulder and marching him westward, “I’ll be your entrance ticket, son. Nobody can shut out The Vivid Scotchman. That’s what they call me in Soho — The Vivid Scotchman. Over breakfast this morning I promised myself a wank or a woman before another day dawned. With a party looming up the latter option becomes a practical certainty.”
7
The Forbes lived in the top flat of a spacious nineteenth-century tenement. Tom opened the front door and said pleasantly, “Hullo! So you both found your way here after all.”
“Time has not blunted your acute powers of observation Tommy,” said McCrimmon strolling in with the teacher behind him.
“Drop you coats in there,” said Tom pointing to a bedroom. “If you’re hungry there’s plenty to eat in the kitchen but I’m afraid the booze is running out.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” said McCrimmon grimly. A slender girl in jeans, checked blouse and open sheepskin coat stood within the bedroom door. McCrimmon paused and said to her on a note of gentle astonishment, “Hullo, long time no see. How are you getting on? Someone told me you were engaged. Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“I’m not engaged and I’m getting on quite well.”
“You don’t remember me?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry,” said the girl. The teacher dropped his coat on a pile of coats on the bed, regretting his connection with McCrimmon. He was embarrassed by hearing him say, “Don’t apologize, I feel the same way. As soon as I saw your face I realized I’d known it for years though I’ve never met you before in my life. That gives us something to celebrate, eh? Let’s find where they’ve hidden the booze. I think you can help me with a couple of Sunday Times articles I’m taking pictures for.”
“I can’t, I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Bring her too. Bring him if he’s a boyfriend. Romance, not sex is what I’m after. Romance and glamour are the raw materials of my profession. Sex is a distraction. You are perfectly safe with me.”
The teacher hurried into the lobby.
Only a husband and wife who both earned professional wages could afford such a flat, thought the teacher enviously. The ceilings were over twice the height of those in his semi-detached council house. He peeped into a living-room which could have held his own living-room and the kitchen beside it and the two bedrooms and bathroom above. Politely chatting well-dressed people showed this was not a suddenly improvised party but one whose guests had been invited days, perhaps weeks before. The crippled teacher who had given him a lift sat by the fire talking with Jean so he recoiled into the lobby. Friday night is my night off, he had told her, I go into town and let the unexpected happen. If she saw him she would know he had gatecrashed. At the end of a short corridor he found a kitchen where chatting couples and trios were so tightly packed that a lonely man was not noticeable. Filling a plate with salad and cold meat he stood eating with a fork in a corner by a refrigerator. Again voices pressed painfully in on him.
“It’s a good wee car. It’s not a great wee car but it’s not a bad wee car. Anyway it suits me.”
“Take it easy. Let yourself go. What use is worrying? That’s my philosophy.”
“I said you’ve stopped trying. You’ve let yourself go. You’re sliding to the bottom I told him, but you aren’t going to take me with you.”
These did not shut out earlier voices.
“You need talent to enjoy the dolce vita.”
“He never starts anything. He waits until someone else suggests something then hangs about hoping to be included.”
“Ye big fat stupit wet plaster ye!”
“I could have belted him if I’d wanted to,” thought the teacher unhappily then a sound recalled him wholly to the present. Through a lull in surrounding talk came the pure voice of a singer: “I never will marry, I’ll be no man’s wife, I have vowed to be single, All the days of my life.” He set down the plate and went toward the music.
In a dim room next door a dozen people sat or squatted on the carpet listening to a plain stout woman of forty or fifty who sat on a sofa under a standard lamp. With hands folded on lap she sang of hopeless love, sudden death and failed endeavour, sang so sweetly, quietly and firmly that the teacher felt her singing was the one truly good thing he had met that day and for many days. He was grateful. He was even grateful to Plenderleith who sat by the singer striking quiet harmonious chords on a guitar. She sang Barbara Allan, The Bonnie Earl of Murray, Henry Martin then coughed, blew out her cheeks and said, “That’s all tonight folks.”