“Fascinating,” he said. “The painting on the top is rubbish, of course, but a deft application of paint-stripper might show something rather interesting. Would you like me to do it for you? We could do it in my studio.”
Matthew hesitated. “Well . . .”
“What a good idea!” exclaimed Pat. “Don’t you agree, Matthew?”
Matthew turned and looked at Pat, reproach in his eyes.
He did not like people making decisions for him, but this is what they inevitably did. One day I’m going to say no, he thought. I’m going to become myself. But then he said: “I suppose so. Yes, I suppose it would be good to see what’s underneath.”
“What about this evening?” said Angus Lordie. “You two come round to the studio. And bring Domenica. We’ll make a party of it.”
The time was agreed, and Angus Lordie, with Cyril at his side, set off up the road. As he walked, he thought of the painting. It was really very exciting. He had his ideas, of course, as to what lay underneath, and if he were proved right, then that would have major implications for Matthew. And it would be nice, too, to be credited with the discovery, just as Sir Timothy Clifford had got a lot of credit when he discovered a da Vinci drawing under a sofa in the New Club. (That had made the papers!) There would be mention of his own discovery in the newspapers and perhaps a photograph of himself and Cyril. He would be modest, of course, and would downplay the significance of what he had done. Anybody could have seen it, he might say. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
“But it required your expert hand to reveal the secret!” the reporter would say. And he would smile, and say, self-effacingly:
“Yes, perhaps it did. Perhaps it did.”
“Angus is an extremely good host,” Domenica had said, and she was right. He welcomed his guests with a tray of devils on horseback and small oat-cakes on which thick-cut slices of smoked salmon had been balanced. Then there were crackers with boiled egg, ersatz caviar, and small circles of mayonnaise.
All of this was provided in generous quantities.
His flat, which occupied the top two floors of a Drummond Place stair, was built with a generosity which escapes modern builders; the ceilings soared up to fifteen feet, the dark pine wainscoting reached waist-level, and the floor boards were a good twelve inches wide. And everywhere on the walls there were paintings and hangings – portraits, landscapes, figurative studies. A Cadell picture of a man in a top hat, raffish as the proprietor, smiled down above the fireplace in the drawing room. A large Philipson, crowded with cathedrals and ladies, occupied the expanse of wall to its side, and a magnificent Cowie, schoolgirls in a painter’s loft, hung beside that.
And then there were the bookshelves, which filled the hall and the dining room; towering constructions with books stacked two and three deep. Domenica, drink in hand, stopped beside one of these and exclaimed with delight as she drew out a volume.
“Ruthven Todd!” she said. “Nobody reads him these days, and they should. Look at this.
Angus Lordie came to her side, licking mayonnaise off his fingers.
“That contains a very fine poem, Domenica,” he said. “
Domenica turned a page. “
“
Pat looked puzzled. “Why did he write that?”
320
“Because it’s true,” said Angus Lordie. “Or, at least it used to be true. Todd was born into haut-bourgeois Edinburgh, which used to be just like that. Brittle. Exclusive. Turned in on itself.
And immensely snobbish.”
“And still is a bit like that,” said Domenica quietly. “In its worst moments.”
“But much better than it used to be,” Angus Lordie countered.
“You very rarely see those real, cold Edinburgh attitudes these days. The arrogance of those people is broken. They just can’t get away with it. That horrid disapproval of anything that moves
– that’s gone.”
Domenica did not appear to be completely convinced. “I’m not sure,” she said. “What makes Edinburgh different from other cities in these islands? It is different, you know. I think that there is still a certain hauteur, a certain intellectual crustiness. It’s not nearly as marked as it was in Todd’s day, but . . .”
Angus Lordie smiled. “But Domenica rather likes all that,”
he suggested mischievously. “She’s a bit of a Jean Brodie, you see.”
Pat looked at Domenica, wondering whether she would take offence. Hadn’t Jean Brodie been a fascist? Wasn’t that the whole point about Spain and the betrayal and all the rest? Matthew simply looked confused. What was this man talking about? And where was that peculiar dog of his?
They were all standing in the drawing room overlooking the Drummond Place Gardens. It was about nine o’clock, and the sky was still light. The branches of the trees moved gently against the sky and the stone of the buildings opposite, for there was a slight breeze. Pat sipped at the drink that Angus Lordie had given her – a gin and tonic flavoured with lime; she was happy to be here, with these people, with Matthew, whom she liked more and more for his gentleness; with Angus Lordie, who amused her and seemed so grateful for her company, and who was not a threat to anyone; and with Domenica, whom she admired. What a difference, she thought, between this
