Edinburgh person might be expected to hear with particular relish. The Establishment could be seen in public, of course, at certain events, or on the golf course at Muirfield, but very few people would have imagined that it went so far as to convene an annual general meeting. Nor would most people know who the chairman of the Edinburgh Establishment was, and Pat had been looking forward to breaking that news to Matthew. But when she saw him, with his deflated look and his sense of defeat, she could hardly bring herself to reveal to him just how much excitement there had been the previous evening.
If he asked her, she would say that she had done nothing very 274
much, for that, she suspected, was what Matthew himself would have done.
The gallery was curiously busy that morning – or at least for the first part of the morning. Several sales were made, including that of a large and particularly fine McCosh study of ornamental fowls. This was, at least, a painting upon which Matthew could expound with knowledge and enthusiasm. He knew Ted McCosh, and was able to explain the trouble he took to mix his own paints and prepare his painting surfaces in exactly the way in which the seventeenth-century Dutch masters would have done, and the client, a large-bellied man from Angus, a ruddy-faced countryman who would have comfortably fitted in a Rowlandson etching, was delighted with his purchase. Could more such paintings be obtained? They could: Ted painted fowl industriously in his studio in Carrington. How contented the ornamental poultry looked in their sylvan setting. Indeed they did.
The sale of the McCosh lifted Matthew’s spirits, with the result that he suggested that both he and Pat should go for coffee that morning. They could leave a note to the effect that anybody who needed them could find them in Big Lou’s coffee shop.
Pat was relieved by the invitation. She was concerned that Matthew might be feeling resentful of her, and she was not sure whether she could manage to work with a disappointed suitor.
But there was none of this as they crossed the street to the coffee bar and picked their way down Big Lou’s hazardous steps, scene of a minor fall all those years ago by Hugh MacDiarmid on his way to what was then a bookshop.
Big Lou welcomed them from behind her counter. There were one or two customers there already, but no sign of Ronnie or Pete.
“The boys seem to be going somewhere else,” said Big Lou, shrugging her shoulders. “Pete owes me fifty pounds, so I think that’s the last I’ll see of them.”
“You shouldn’t lend money,” said Matthew. “You can see that they’re a bad risk.”
275
“You might not say that if you wanted to borrow off me,” said Lou simply.
They sat down in one of the booths. Matthew stretched out, and smiled.
“Maybe we’re turning the corner,” he said. “Maybe the art market’s picking up.”
Pat smiled. She wanted Matthew to be a success, but she doubted whether it would be as the owner of a gallery. Perhaps there was some other business for which he would show a real aptitude. Perhaps he could . . . perhaps he could be a consultant. There were plenty of people who advertised themselves as consultants, but were rather vague about what exactly it was that one might consult them about. These people offered advice, and people appeared to pay for this advice, although the basis on which the advice was offered sometimes seemed a little bit questionable. There was a boy from Pat’s year at school who was already a consultant at the age of twenty. She had seen him featured in the style section of a newspaper as a “successful consultant”. But how could he advise anybody on anything, when he had not had the time to do anything himself?
Poor Matthew – sitting there with his cappuccino and his label-less shirt, looking pleased with himself because they had sold a few paintings – it would be good, Pat thought, to be able to help him find somebody, a girlfriend who would appreciate him; but how dull it would be for her, how dreary to wait for something to happen, when nothing ever would.
It was while Pat was thinking this, and Matthew was staring dreamily at the froth on the top of his cappuccino, that they heard Big Lou greet another customer.
“Mr Peploe,” she said loudly.
At the mention of the name, Matthew sat up and looked round at the newcomer. He saw a dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties, with a strong face and with eyes that seemed to be amused by something.
Big Lou caught Matthew’s eye. “This is Guy Peploe,” she 276
Matthew looked confused. “Peploe?” he said weakly.
Big Lou laughed. “I met Mr Peploe a few days ago. He’s from the Scottish Gallery over the road. He said that they usually have their own coffee in the gallery, but that he would pop in and try mine. So here he is!”
“I see,” said Matthew. He looked at Pat for reassurance. This was dangerous.
“And I told him about your painting,” went on Big Lou. “And he said that of course he would look at it for you. He said you shouldn’t be shy. He’s always looking at paintings for people. And if it’s a Peploe, he’ll know. He’s Samuel Peploe’s grandson, you see.”
“Oh,” said Matthew weakly. “I haven’t got it with me. Sorry.”
“But you brought it in this morning,” said Pat. “I saw it. I’ll go and fetch it.”
Guy Peploe smiled politely. “I’d be very happy to take a look,”
he said. “I’m very interested.”
It was difficult for Matthew to do anything but agree. So Pat went back across the road to fetch the Peploe?, leaving Matthew sitting awkwardly under the gaze of Guy Peploe, who seemed to be quietly summing him up.
