And he did, muttering something to his friend, who went on to order a drink.
“You,” he said, smiling.
“Yes,” she said. “Me.”
He bent down to speak to her. Rose looked up, glanced at him, and then at Pat. She thought: this is what happens to girls like that. They only have to walk into a room and they get men like that flocking round them. Bees to honey. And I can’t even get Matthew to notice me. Not even that.
“Were you in that Italian film?” Pat asked. “
Peter shook his head. “No. We went to an Australian comedy.
About an airline pilot and a nurse who get stuck in the Outback with a couple of Shakespearean actors.”
“I think I’ve heard about that one,” said Pat. “It’s a great idea for a film.”
She waited for Peter to say something, but for a few moments there was a silence. Then he said: “Do you want to
97
come round some time? To Cumberland Street?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “That would be great.”
“Tomorrow evening?”
Pat nodded. She sensed that Rose had been listening.
Big Lou stood in front of her new coffee-making machine, polishing its gleaming stainless-steel spouts, and admiring the fine Italian lines of the reservoir and high-pressure steam chamber. Only the Italians could produce a machine of this beauty; only the Italians would care enough to do so.
But she had more to think about than aesthetics; over the late summer, several major developments had taken place at Big Lou’s coffee bar. The purchase of this expensive new machine was one of the most important, and satisfying, and had attracted a great deal of attention from her regular customers, especially from Matthew, who had fallen in love with it the moment he had seen it. To gaze at the machine was pleasure enough; to turn the levers and control the outflow of steam – as Matthew was occasionally permitted to do – was a positive joy.
Another of these developments was the removal of the expensive newspaper rack. In its place she had installed a small table, which she had acquired from a saleroom on Leith Walk. On this table she stacked copies of the day’s papers and any magazines which were left behind by customers, provided, of course, Big Lou approved of them. The
98
A further development was an important change in the mid-morning coffee regulars. Matthew still came every morning, of course, and stayed longer than anybody else, but the two furniture restorers had disappeared entirely. It was almost as if they had been written out of a story, thought Lou; simply no longer on the page. They had disappeared, and had taken their world with them. But just as they had gone, others had arrived. Mrs Constance, for instance, with her curious unkempt hair, had appeared one morning and had announced herself as “the woman from upstairs” – her flat being more or less immediately above the coffee bar. She was silent, for the most part, but occasionally joined in the conversation with observations that were remarkably acute.
Then there was Angus Lordie, the portrait painter from Drummond Place, and occasional poet. He had ventured into the coffee bar one morning and had found Matthew, whom he knew, engaged in conversation with Big Lou. Big Lou had been unsure about Angus Lordie to begin with, but had accepted his presence after she had taken to Cyril, his dog.
“There’s something strange about that creature,” she had remarked to Matthew. “He keeps looking at me and I could swear that he winks from time to time.”
“Yes, he does wink,” said Matthew. “Pat says that he winks at her all the time – as if they were sharing a secret. And he has a gold tooth, you know. It’s most peculiar. But then Angus is peculiar too. They suit one another.”
“Aye, well, he gives Cyril coffee,” Big Lou went on. “He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. He slips a saucer under the table and Cyril drinks it. The other day he ordered two cups of cappuc-cino. He assumed I would think they were both for him, but one was for Cyril. I saw him drink it – from the cup. He had the foam from the milk all around his jaws afterwards.”
Matthew nodded. “Cyril drinks beer too,” he said. “He’s a regular at the Cumberland Bar. Quite an intelligent dog, I think.
And a good friend to Angus.”
She had thought about that over the following days. Big Lou was a sympathetic person and aware of loneliness. She had been
99
by herself since she had come down to live in Edinburgh. Her solution had been to immerse herself in the books which she had inherited from the bookshop which had previously occupied the coffee-bar premises. These books were on a wide range of subjects – philosophy, topography, literature, and even dogs
– and Big Lou was patiently making her way through all of these, one by one, completing an education which had been cut short at the age of sixteen.
That morning, nobody had come in before Matthew, and for a few minutes he and Big Lou were alone
