The waiter went off to fetch the champagne and the glasses.
By the time that he returned, Gordon had discreetly opened his wallet and extracted a crisp Bank of Scotland fifty-pound note, which he slipped into the waiter’s hand.
“You’re very kind,” said the waiter.
Janis thought: But there’s 10,999,950 more where that came from.
Angus Lordie did not often receive a visit from Domenica, but every now and then she would call in on him, usually unannounced, and usually bringing him a small present of food, normally cheese scones, which she baked herself.
“I’m convinced that you don’t feed yourself properly, Angus,”
said Domenica, placing a small bag of provisions on his kitchen table. “I’ve made you an apple pie and there’s a pound of sausages from that marvellous butcher down at the end of Broughton Street – the one who makes the real sausages. You do remember that wonderful line from Barbara Pym, do you not, where one of the characters says that men need meat? Not men in the sense of people in general, but men in the sense of
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“And yet you’ve brought me a pound of sausages,” said Angus.
“For which, thank you very much indeed. But doesn’t that suggest that you, too, feel that men need meat?”
“Not at all,” said Domenica. “Men can get their protein from anywhere in the protein chain, if there’s such a thing. You’d be better off not eating meat at all, you know. Look at the statistics for the survival of vegetarians. They do much better. Perhaps I should take those sausages back.”
“As long as they drink,” said Angus. “Vegetarians who drink a couple of glasses of wine a day do terribly well.”
“A thirty-five per cent improvement in mortality,” said Domenica.
Angus Lordie peered at the sausages. “And yet the government can’t exactly encourage us to drink, can it?”
“Certainly not,” said Domenica. “We know that the government itself drinks, but on this issue it has to be hypocritical.”
Angus Lordie, who had stopped painting when Domenica arrived, moved to the window. Picking up a rag, he wiped a small spot of oil paint off his hands. “I’ve never understood the objection to hypocrisy,” he said. “There must be some circumstances in which it’s permissible to be hypocritical.”
“Such as?”
“Let me think,” said Angus. “Yes. On the receipt of a present that one doesn’t like. Do you really think that one should say how much one likes it?”
Domenica thought about this. “I suppose so. But is that being hypocritical, or is it something different?”
“Hypocrisy is saying one thing and doing another,” said Angus. “If you say that you like the gift and say how much you’re looking forward to using it or looking at it, or whatever, then surely you’re being a hypocrite.” He paused for a moment. “So, should a politician tell other people not to drink or not to eat sausages, and all the while he drinks and eats sausages himself, then he’s being hypocritical. But it may be the right thing for him to do.”
“But would you yourself choose to be hypocritical?”
Angus replaced the oily rag on a table. He smiled. “I’m as
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weak as anybody else,” he said. “I suppose I’ve told my share of lies. I’ve been hypocritical on occasions.”
Domenica laughed. “Tell me, then. You don’t like sausages.”
“No, I don’t,” said Angus.
Domenica saw that he meant it. “You should have told me,”
she said.
“But I didn’t want to offend you. And I can’t stand apple pie either.”
Domenica frowned. “But why not tell me? You would just have wasted them. I would have gone away thinking that you would be enjoying my little offerings and all the time you’d be putting them out in the bin.”
Angus shook his head. “I would not,” he said defensively. “I would have given the sausages to Cyril, and I would have put the apple pie out in the gardens for the squirrels.”
“I will not have you giving my Crombie sausages to that dog of yours,” said Domenica. “You presume on my friendship, Angus!”
“I didn’t ask you to bring me sausages,” said Angus peevishly.
“And I certainly shall not bring you any sausages in the future,” said Domenica stoutly.
“Good,” said Angus. “So, no sausages then.”
They looked at one another reproachfully. Then Angus shrugged. “What are we to do about these sausages?” he said, gesturing to the package on the table. “I suppose you’d better take them back and eat them in Scotland Street.”
