44 Scotland Street

There were two young women – slightly older than Pat – and three young men. Matthew called them “the crowd” and they seemed to do everything together. The crowd went to dinner; it went to see the occasional film; it sometimes went to a party in Glasgow over the weekend (“One of the crowd comes from Glasgow,” Matthew had explained). And that, as far as Pat could work out, was Matthew’s life.

The taxi arrived and they set off for Morningside Road.

“Holy Corner,” said Matthew, as they traversed the famous crossroads with its four churches.

“Yes,” said Pat. “Holy Corner.” She did not add anything, as it was difficult to see what else one could say.

Then they passed the Churchhill Theatre, scene of Ramsey Dunbarton’s triumph all those years ago as the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers.

“The Churchhill Theatre,” observed Matthew.

Pat did not say anything. There was no point in contradicting the obvious, and equally little point in confirming it. Of course if one did not know that this was the Churchhill Theatre, one might express surprise, or interest. But Pat knew.

The taxi crested the hill, and there, dropping down below them was Morningside Road. At the end of the road, beyond the 226

Morningside Ladies

well-set houses, the Pentland Hills could be seen, half wreathed in low cloud. It was a reminder that the city had a hinterland – a landscape of soft hills and fertile fields, of old mining villages, of lochs and burns. She looked away, and saw Matthew staring down at his hands. It occurred to her then that he was nervous.

“You mustn’t worry,” she said. “We’ll get your painting back.”

He looked at her, and smiled weakly. “I’m such a failure,” he said. “I really am. Everything I touch goes wrong. And now there’s this. The one painting of any interest in the gallery, and it ends up in a charity shop in Morningside! I’m just thinking what my old man would say. He’d split his sides laughing.”

Pat reached out and took his hand. “You’re not a failure,” she said. “You’re kind, you’re considerate, you’re . . . .”

The taxi driver was watching. He had heard what Matthew had said and now he witnessed Pat’s attempt to comfort him. This was not unusual, in his experience. Men were in a mess these days – virtually all of them. Women had destabilised them; made them uncertain about themselves; undermined their confidence.

And then, when the men fell to pieces, the women tried to put them together again. But it was too late. The damage was done.

The taxi driver sighed. None of this applied to him. He went to his golf club two or three times a week. He was safe there.

No women there; a refuge. I am certainly not a new man, he thought – unlike that wimp in the back there. Good God! Look at him! What a wimp!

81. Morningside Ladies

“See,” whispered Matthew as they stood outside the charity shop.

“There they are. Morningside ladies.”

Pat peered in through the large plate-glass window. There were three ladies in the shop – one standing behind the counter, one adjusting a rack of clothing and one stacking a pile of books on a shelf.

Morningside Ladies

227

She glanced at the contents of the window. A wally dug, deprived of its mirror-image partner, and lonely; an Indian brass candlestick in the shape of a rearing cobra; several pieces of mock-Wemyss chinaware; an Oor Wullie annual for 1972; and then a painting, but not the Peploe?. Yet the subject of this painting was uncannily similar to that of the painting they sought – a view of a shore and hills behind it. Pat nudged Matthew, who was peering through the window into the depths of the shop.

“Look at that.” She pointed to the painting.

“Not ours,” said Matthew gloomily.

“I know, but it looks so like it,” said Pat.

“Everybody paints Mull from Iona,” said Matthew. “There are hundreds of those paintings. Virtually every house in Edinburgh has one.”

“And in Mull?” asked Pat.

“They have pictures of Edinburgh,” replied Matthew. “It’s rather touching.”

They stood for a few moments more outside the shop before Matthew indicated that they should go in. As he pushed open the door, a bell rang in the back of the shop and the three women turned round and looked at them. The woman who had been stacking the books abandoned her task and came over to them.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked pleasantly. “We’ve just received a new consignment of clothing and there are some rather nice things in it. We could let you have first look if you like.”

Pat glanced at the clothes on the rack. Who could possibly wear that? she thought as her eye was caught by a brown suede fringed jacket. And Matthew, looking in the same direction, noticed a loud red tie and shuddered involuntarily.

The woman intercepted their glances. “Of course they’re not to everybody’s taste,” she said quickly. “But students and people like that often find something they like.”

Pat was quick to reassure her. “Of course they will,” she said.

“I have a friend who gets all her clothes from shops like these.