They completed the transaction beside a washbasin. Tofu quickly removed his jeans and slipped into the crushed-strawberry dungarees vacated by Bertie. And Bertie, his breath coming in short bursts from the sheer excitement of it, donned the jeans handed to him by Tofu. Both garments were a perfect fit on their new owners. Then, the exchange completed, Tofu wolfed down the hot-dog, licking every last drop of tomato sauce off his fingers.
Then he belched with satisfaction.
“Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “That was really good. Now let’s get back to my dad.”
“Won’t he notice that I’m wearing your jeans?” asked Bertie.
“Never,” said Tofu. “He doesn’t care what I wear. He never notices. He’s too busy thinking about nuts and carrots.”
They rejoined the bowling group and enjoyed a further half hour of intensive bowling. Bertie did not do badly for one who had never bowled before, coming second to Tofu. Merlin came last, but said that this was because he had a sore wrist and he would probably have come first had he been uninjured. Hiawatha said nothing about the result.
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Bertie was fetched and taken home by Irene, who remained tight-lipped about the outing and did not ask her son how it had gone. Bertie, realising that his presence at the party was a defeat for her and a victory for his father, tactfully made no mention of how much fun he had had, and talked instead of a saxophone piece he was preparing for his next music examination. Then, when they were driving back down Lothian Road, Irene suddenly said to Bertie: “This is very strange. I thought we had five gears on our car. This gear-lever seems to have only four.”
Bertie felt a cold knot of fear within him. “Does it matter?”
he asked. “Isn’t four enough? Isn’t it a bit selfish to want five?”
Bruce took occupation of his newly-rented shop at nine o’clock on a Monday morning. His excitement over the move made him wake up at six, considerably earlier than he had been accustomed to waking up since the beginning of his enforced idleness.
He arose from his bed, opened the shutters, and looked out at the day. The sun was almost up, but not quite; autumn was round the corner and the days were starting to shorten. It was a good time of year to start a business, especially a wine dealership. He could expect a high volume of sales in November and December, as people stocked up for the frantic round of entertaining that marked the end of the year. Those were the months when people felt that they had to see their friends or somehow risk losing them. Nobody saw anybody in January and February, although Bruce thought by that time he would have built up a group of discerning customers who would appreciate his know-how and return for their normal requirements. So that would carry him through the dark months of the new year and then it would be spring, and time for large orders of New Zealand sparkling and light California whites!
He went through to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Is this the face of a surveyor, he asked himself, or is
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it the face of a wine merchant? Wine merchants were urbane, elegant, poised; all of which . . . well, false modesty aside, Bruce recognised all of those qualities in himself. He would fit the part admirably.
He showered, glanced in the full-length mirror, lingering a little perhaps, and then applied copious quantities of after-shower body-cooler skin-reviver, and, of course, a slick of clove gel to his hair. Ready, he thought. No: I must remember the clothes. So he got dressed.
He left Scotland Street at ten to nine and set off jauntily in the direction of St Stephen Street, in a basement of which his new business premises awaited him. Scotland Street was coming to life. There was the man who ran the historic motorcycle garage in the lane; Bruce nodded to him and received a wave in return; there was Mr Stephen Horrobin looking out of his window; there was Iseabail Macleod setting off to her work on the Scottish dictionary; such an interesting street, thought Bruce, and now a wine merchant to add to the mix!
He walked down Cumberland Street and crossed St Vincent Street. His shop was at the Stockbridge end of St Stephen Street, near the Bailie Bar, tucked under an antique dealer’s and a shop that sold paste jewellery. It was not quite as large as he would have liked it to be, but it was big enough, and there was always the possibility of opening up an old under-street cellar that might do for the storage of wine. The rent, though, was bearable, and flush with the agreed injection of funds from his friend George, Bruce was confident that he would have no difficulty in acquiring an impressive stock list. And he was confident that in time the shop would become a place of pilgrimage for the discerning Edinburgh wine-buyer. After all, he asked himself: is there much competition? There were certainly a few fuddy-duddy people here and there, but they were so middle-aged, and nowadays people want youth, vigour and good looks. All of which I have, thought Bruce; that, together with a knowledge of wine and a good palate.
The agent from the letting solicitors was waiting for him at the door. He was a serious-looking young man with horn-rimmed 222
glasses and a slightly-worried expression. “Oh no,” Bruce said to himself. “Yawn, yawn.” They shook hands, the young man wrinkling his nose slightly at the cloves.
“Essence of cloves,” said Bruce. “Like it?”
They moved inside.
“You should find everything in order,” said the agent. “We had a slight leak in the sink in the back room, but the plumber came in and fixed that. Everything seems in good order. Lights.
Look.” He moved to the switch and turned it on.
The agent stared at him. “And I gather that you don’t need to do much to the fittings.”
Bruce looked at the shelves. They were exactly the right size for the display of wine bottles.
“Perfect for bottles,” said Bruce, taking the keys from the young man. “And will I have the pleasure of selling you wine in the near future? I’ll have an excellent range.”
