“I don’t know, Pat. I don’t know. I have the feeling that we’ve seen the dismantling of civilisation, brick by brick, and now we’re looking at the void. We thought that we were liberating people from oppressive cultural circumstances, but we were, in fact, taking something away from them. We were killing off civility and concern. We were undermining all those little ties of loyalty and consideration and affection that are necessary for human flourishing. We thought that tradition was bad, that it created hidebound societies, that it held people down. But, in fact, what tradition was doing all along was affirming community and the sense that we are members one of one another. Do 342
we really love and respect one another more in the absence of tradition and manners and all the rest? Or have we merely converted one another into moral strangers – making our countries nothing more than hotels for the convenience of guests who are required only to avoid stepping on the toes of other guests?”
Domenica put down her recipe book. “I’m so sorry, Pat,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to listen to all this from me. I know that one could argue the exact opposite of what I’ve just said. I know that one might point out that moral progress of all sorts has been made – and it has. In many respects we are more aware of others’ feelings than we used to be. And, of course, there’s the ready availability of porcini mushrooms . . .”
They both laughed, and Domenica looked at her watch. “The guests will be here in an hour,” she said. “And we still have a great deal to do. Open the wine, will you, Pat? We must let it breathe. It’s very kind of you to bring those bottles.”
“I found them in the cupboard,” said Pat. “They belong to Bruce, actually, and I didn’t have the chance to ask him. But he’s always helped himself to my wine and replaced it later with cheap Australian red. So I thought I’d do the same.”
“Quite right,” said Domenica.
Pat stood up and went over to the table where she had placed the three bottles of wine.
“Chateau Petrus,” she said, reading the label. “I wonder if they’ll be any good?”
“No idea,” said Domenica. “Never heard of it.”
They stood around the fireplace in Domenica’s drawing room, glasses of wine in their hands, the guests of Domenica. They were her friends, and here and there the friend of a friend. Angus Lordie was there, wearing a frayed cravat and a jacket patched with leather at the elbows and cuffs; without Cyril, now, who
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was tied to a railing below and who was happy, nonetheless, with the smells of Scotland Street in his nostrils and the occasional glimpse of a furtive cat on the other side of the street. And standing next to Angus, smiling at a remark which the painter had made, James Holloway, Domenica’s friend of many years, and Judy Steel too, perched on the arm of a chair and talking to one who was sunk within the chair, Willy Dalrymple, who had been the only one to recognise the Chateau Petrus and had complimented Domenica on it. And then there was Olivia Dalrymple and Pat herself, and Matthew, who had come as her guest, and who stood on the other side of the fireplace, curiously remote in his attitude towards her, Pat thought – but Matthew had his moody periods, and this must be one.
The conversation had ranged widely. They had considered the question of the Reverend Robert Walker skating on Duddingston Loch and had been equally divided. Some believed that it was beyond doubt by Raeburn; others were convinced by the Danloux hypothesis. The summer: some believed that it had confirmed that global warming had arrived; others felt that the summer had been indistinguishable from any other summer of recent memory. And so the areas of potential agreement and disagreement had revealed themselves, to be dissected and discussed and passed over for the next topic.
At nine o’clock, Domenica led her guests through to the dining room, where they sat about her large mahogany table while she and Pat went through to the kitchen to collect the first course.
“That wine is quite delicious,” said Domenica. “Willy seemed to imply that it was something special.”
Pat felt a momentary pang of doubt. Bruce had told her that she could help herself; she clearly remembered his saying so, and he had himself taken two bottles of her Chilean Merlot on one occasion. So she had nothing to worry about, and she put the thought out of her mind.
The risotto was perfect, acclaimed by all, and after the plates had been cleared away, Angus Lordie tapped his glass with a spoon. The glass, which was empty, the Chateau Petrus having 344
been consumed to the last drop, rang out clear across several conversations and brought them to silence.
“Dear friends,” he said, “we are coming to the end of something here. When I was a little boy I hated things to end, as all children do, except their childhood – no child, of course, wants his childhood to go on forever. And when I became a young man, I found that I still hated things to end, though now, of course, I was learning how quickly and hard upon each other’s heels do the endings come.
“Today, our dear friend, Domenica, told us that she was proposing to go away for some time. She is a scholar, and she obeys the tides of scholarship. These tides, she told us, now take her to the distant Malacca Straits, to a particularly demanding piece of fieldwork. I have my own views on that project, but I respect Domenica for her bravery in going to live amongst those whom she intends to study.
“We who are left behind in Edinburgh can only imagine the dangers which she will face. But tonight we can assure her that she goes with our love, which is what we would wish, I’m sure, to any friend about to undertake a journey. You go off clad in the clothes of our love. For that, surely, is what friendship is all about – about the giving of love and the assurance of love.”
Angus stopped, and there was silence. He looked at Domenica, across the table, and she smiled at him.
“Dear Angus,” she said. “A poem is called for.”
“It is,” said James Holloway.
Angus looked down at his plate, at the crumbs that lay upon it; all that was left.
“Very well,” he said. “A poem about small things, I think.”
He stood up, closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them as he began to speak.
