Espresso Tales

journey: to David Robinson, books editor of The Scotsman, to Iain Martin, editor of Scotland on Sunday, John McGurk, editor of The Scotsman, and Neville Moir of Polygon, that most perceptive and sympathetic of editors. And my thanks are given, too, to Florence Christie, leader of the fans of Bertie, and my friend, Michael Lamont, who has been one of the few readers who showed any sympathy for Bruce. And finally, I would like to thank William Lyons, arts editor of Scotland on Sunday, who gave me advice on wine matters and who features in the story as himself. Not having tasted Chateau Petrus myself, I assume that what he says about it is correct.

Alexander McCall Smith

Edinburgh

E S P R E S S O T A L E S

Chapter title

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1. Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

It was summer. The forward movement of the year, so tentative in the early months of spring, now seemed quite relentless.

The longest day, which always seemed to arrive indecently early, had passed in a bluster of wind and light rain, but had been followed by a glorious burst of warmth that penetrated the very stones of Edinburgh.

Out on the pavements, small clusters of tables and chairs appeared here and there, populated by knots of people who could hardly believe that they were sitting outside, in Scotland, in late summer. All of them knew that this simply could not last.

September was not far off, and after that, as was well-known to all but the most confused, was October – and darkness. And Scottish weather, true to its cultural traditions, made one thing abundantly clear: you paid for what you enjoyed, and you usually paid quite promptly. This was a principle which was inevitably observed by nature in Scotland. That vista of mountains and sea lochs was all very well, but what was that coming up behind you? A cloud of midges.

Pat Macgregor walked past just such cafe-hedonists on her way back to Scotland Street. She had crossed the town on foot earlier that day to have lunch with her father – her mother was still away, this time visiting another troublesome sister in Forfar

– and her father had invited her for Saturday lunch in the Canny Man’s on Morningside Road. This was a curious place, an Edinburgh institution, with its cluttered shelves of non-sequitur objects and its numerous pictures. And, like the trophies on the walls, the denizens of the place had more than passing historical or aesthetic interest about them. Here one might on a Saturday afternoon meet a well-known raconteur enjoying a glass of beer with an old friend, or, very occasionally, one

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Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

might spot Ramsey Dunbarton, from the Braids, who many years ago had played the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre (with such conspicuous success).

There was no such interest that day. A mousy-looking man in a blue suit sat silently in a corner with a woman companion; the silence that reigned between them being broken only by the occasional sigh by one or other of them. He looked steadfastly down at the menu of open sandwiches, as if defeated by the choice and by life; her gaze moved about – out of the window, at the small slice of sky between the Morningside Road tene-ments, at the barman polishing glasses, at the tiles on the floor.

As she waited for her father to arrive, Pat found herself wondering at the road which had brought them to this arid point

– a lifetime of small talk, perhaps, that had simply run out of steam; or perhaps this is what came of being married. Surely not, she thought; her own parents were still able to look at one another and find at least something to say, although often there was a formality in their conversation that made her uncomfortable – as if they were talking a language, like court Japanese, that imposed heavily on them to be correct.

In Pat’s company, her father seemed more comfortable.

Leaning back in the bench seat at the Canny Man’s while he perused the menu, his conversation took its usual course, moving, by easy association, from topic to topic.

Semiotics, Pubs, Decisions

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“This is, of course, the Canny Man’s,” he observed. “You’ll notice that the sign outside says something quite different. The Volunteer Arms. But everybody – or everybody in the know, that is – calls it the Canny Man’s. And that pub down on the way to Slateford is called the Gravediggers, although the sign outside says Athletic Arms. These are verbal tests, you see.

Designed to distinguish.”

Pat looked at him blankly. Her father was intelligible, but not all the time.

“These tests are designed to exclude others from the discourse

– just as the word discourse itself is designed to do. These words are intended to say to people: this is a group thing. If you don’t understand what we’re talking about, you’re not a member of the group.

“So, if you call this place the Canny Man’s it shows that you belong, that you know what’s what in Edinburgh. And that, you know, is what everybody wants, underneath. We want to belong.”

He laid the menu down on the table and looked at his daughter. “Do you know what the NB is?”

Pat shook her head and was about to reply that she did not; but he cut her short with a smile and a half-raised hand. “An unfair question,” he said. “At least to somebody of your age.

But anybody over forty would know that the NB is the North British Hotel, which is today called the Balmoral – that great pile down at the end of Princes Street. That was always the NB