44 Scotland Street

“Do you feel like eating?”

Sally looked him up and down. “I could eat you up,” she said.

Bruce laughed. “Cool.”

71. At the Scottish National Portrait Gallery While Bruce and Sally were engaged in culinary self-appraisal in the Cumberland Bar, Domenica and Pat were making their way up the stairs at the National Portrait Gallery in Queen Street.

“Such an edifying building,” observed Domenica. “A wonderful mixture of Gothic and Italianate. There are two galleries I really love – this one and the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Do you know New York?”

Pat did not. “In which case,” Domenica continued, “you should go there as soon as you get the chance. Such an exhilarating place. And the Metropolitan Museum is such a wonderful box of delights. It has all those marvellous collections donated by wealthy New Yorkers who spend all their lives acquiring things and then give them away.”

“Perhaps they feel guilty,” suggested Pat.

Domenica did not agree. “The very rich don’t do guilt,” she said, adding, “as one might say today. President Bush said that he didn’t do nuances. Isn’t that wonderful! The verb ‘do’ does so much these days. Even I’m beginning to do ‘do’.”

They reached the top of the stairs and made their way into the hall where rows of chairs had been set up for the lecture.

There was already a fair crowd, and they had to find seats at the back. Domenica waved to one or two people whom she recognised and then turned to address Pat, her voice lowered.

“Now this is interesting,” she said. “This is a very interesting audience. There are some people here who are just itching to have their portraits painted. They come to everything that the gallery organises. They sit through every lecture, without fail.

They give large donations. All for the sake of immortality in oils.

And the sad thing is – it never works. Poor dears. They just aren’t of sufficient public interest. Fascinating to themselves and their friends, but not of sufficient public interest.”

Domenica smiled wickedly. “There was a very embarrassing incident some years ago. Somebody – and I really can’t name him – had a portrait of himself painted and offered it to the gallery. This put them in a terrible spot. The painting could just At the Scottish National Portrait Gallery 197

have been lost, so to speak, which would have been a solution of sorts, I suppose, but galleries can’t just lose paintings – that’s not what they’re meant to do. So they were obliged to say that he just wasn’t of sufficient public interest. So sad, because he really thought he was of great public interest.

“Then there are people who are of some interest, but not quite enough, or at least not quite enough while they’re still alive. It will be fine when they’re dead, but the gallery can hardly tell them that the best thing to do is to die. That would be rude. It’s rather like the way we treat our poets. We’re tremendously nice to them after they’re dead. Mind you, some poets are rather awkward when they’re still alive. MacDiarmid could be a little troublesome after a bottle of Glenfiddich. He became much safer post-mortem.”

“I can tell you the most remarkable story about MacDiarmid,”

Domenica continued. “And I saw this all happen myself – I saw the whole thing. You know the Signet Library, near St Giles?

Yes? Well, I was working there one day, years ago. They had let me use it to have a look at some rather interesting early anthro-pological works they had. I was tucked away in a corner, completely absorbed in my books, and I didn’t notice that they had set out tables for a dinner. And then suddenly people started coming in, all men, all dressed in evening dress. And I thought that I might just stay where I was – nobody could see me – and find out what they were up to. You know how men are – they have these all-male societies as part of their bonding rituals. Tragic, really, but there we are. Poor dears. Anyway, it transpired that a terribly important guest was coming to this one, none other than the Duke of Edinburgh himself. Frightfully smart in his evening dress. And there, too, was MacDiarmid, all crabbit and cantankerous in his kilt and enjoying his whisky. I was watching all this from my corner, feeling a bit like an anthropologist observing a ritual, which I suppose I was.

A little later on, the Duke stood up to make a speech and I’m sorry to say that MacDiarmid started to barrack him. He was republican, you see. And what happened? Well, a very well-built judge, Lord somebody, lifted the poet up and carried 198

At the Scottish National Portrait Gallery him out of the room. So amusing. The poet’s legs were kicking about nineteen to the dozen, but to no avail. And I watched the whole thing and concluded that it was some sort of metaphor. But I’ve never worked out what it was a metaphor for!”

“Is that true?” asked Pat.

Domenica looked severe. “My dear,” she said, “I never make things up. But, shh, here comes our lecturer, the excellent James Holloway. We must listen to him. He’s very good.”

Pat had been distracted by Domenica’s monologue and James Holloway was several minutes into his lecture before she began to concentrate on what he was saying. But as Domenica had predicted, it was interesting, and the time passed quickly. There was enthusiastic applause and then the audience withdrew to another room where glasses of wine and snacks were being offered.

Domenica seemed in her element. Acknowledging greetings from several people, she drew Pat over to a place near a window where a sallow, rather ascetic-looking man was standing on his own.

“Angus,” she said. “This young lady is my neighbour, which makes her a neighbour, or almost, of yours.” She turned to Pat.

“And this, my dear, is Angus Lordie, who lives in Drummond Place, just round the corner from us. You may have seen him walking his dog in the Drummond Place Gardens. Frightful dog you’ve got, Angus. Frightfully smelly.”

Angus looked at Pat and smiled warmly. “Domenica here is jealous, you see. She’d like me to take her for a walk in the Drummond Place Gardens, but I take Cyril, my dog, instead.

Much better company.”