cause the drowning. Whereas Uncle A caused it to happen.”
Big Lou listened intently. “Oh,” she said. “So it’s all down to causing things? Is that it?”
“Absolutely, most cogitative Lou,” said Angus. “That’s your answer for you.”
“Maybe if Uncle B were to . . .” Matthew began, but was interrupted by Big Lou.
“So it’s cause then,” she said. “But the problem is this. I could say to you, surely, that Uncle B’s omission to act was a cause of the drowning just as much as Uncle A’s positive act was. Ken what I mean?”
Angus Lordie looked momentarily confused. Serves him right, thought Matthew. It was a bad mistake to condescend to Big Lou, as Angus was about to find out.
Big Lou reached for her cloth and gave the counter a wipe.
“You see, there’s no reason why we should not see omissions to act as being as causally potent as positive actions. It’s simply wrong to think that failures to act can’t cause things – they do.
It’s just that our ordinary idea of how things are caused is too tied to ideas of physical causation, of pushing and shoving. But it’s more subtle than that.”
“So there’s no difference between Uncle A and Uncle B then?”
asked Matthew.
“Not really,” said Big Lou. “The book I’m reading says that ordinary people – the man in the street – would always say that Uncle A was worse, while the philosopher would say that there was no real difference.” She finished her sentence, and then looked at Angus Lordie.
Angus Lordie picked up his coffee cup and drained the last few drops. “Well, Lou,” he said. “That’s pretty impressive. I’ll have to think about what you said. You could be right.”
“I am right,” said Big Lou.
“Could be,” said Angus, looking for support from Matthew, but getting none. He looked at Cyril, who returned his gaze directly, but gave no further sign.
Matthew now spoke. “There could be a difference, though.
There could be a difference between things we do on the spur of the moment and things we do after a bit of thought.”
Big Lou looked at him with interest. “Maybe,” she said.
“So in this case,” Matthew went on, “Uncle A had a bit of time – maybe only a minute or so to think about it. Then he acted. Whereas Uncle B acted – or failed to act – spontaneously.”
Angus Lordie snorted dismissively. “Doesn’t work,” he said.
“They have had exactly the same amount of time to think about it. Uncle A thinks about it while he’s holding the boy’s head under the water. Uncle B thinks about it while he stands there and watches the poor boy drown. No difference, in my view.”
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Big Lou wanted to side with Matthew, but could not. “Yes,”
she conceded, a note of reluctance in her voice. “Angus is probably right – in this case. But you’re right, too, Matthew, when it comes to most of the things we do. There must be a difference between the things you do on a sudden urge and the things you do after you’ve thought about them for a long time.”
“So what do you think, Lou?” asked Angus. “Is there a difference between Uncle A and Uncle B as far as you’re concerned?
What did that book of yours say?”
“It hinted at an answer,” said Big Lou. “But mostly it just raised the question. Books don’t always give the answers, you know. Sometimes they just raise the questions.”
Angus smiled. “So nothing’s certain, then?”
“That’s right,” said Big Lou.
“Except death and taxes,” interjected Matthew. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“They don’t pay taxes in Italy,” observed Angus. “I knew a painter in Naples who never paid taxes – ever. Very good painter too.”
“What happened to him?” asked Matthew.
“He died,” said Angus.
In the days that followed his visit to George Street with his mother, Bertie had been preoccupied with his plan. The purchase of the Watson’s blazer from Aitken and Niven was feasible only with the co-operation of the boy from round the corner.
Unfortunately, there was a difficulty with this as he was not sure exactly where this new friend lived. He had met him only on the one occasion and although the other boy had given him his name – he was called Paddy – he had not been specific as to where he lived. He had pointed in the direction of the far end of Fettes Row, which was just round the corner, when
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Bertie had asked him, but he had given no number.
Nor had he given Bertie his surname, which would have allowed the telephone directory to be consulted. So all that Bertie could do if he wanted to contact him was to wait in the street in the hope that he might appear.
