Espresso Tales

“Yes,” she said. “You could call it a moment of insight. I just 248 Cyril’s Moment of Glory

had an insight there into what happened a little while ago in Dr Fairbairn’s room. You won’t know, but Dr Fairbairn and I had a tiny argument. Nothing serious, of course.”

Bertie pretended to be surprised. “A wee stooshie?” he asked.

Irene frowned. “I’m not sure if I’d call it a stooshie, and I’m not sure if I want you using words like that, Bertie.”

“Is it a rude word, Mummy?” asked Bertie. “Is it like . . .”

“It’s not rude,” said Irene. “It’s more, how shall I put it, it’s more vernacular, shall we say? It’s Scots.”

“Is Scots rude?” persisted Bertie.

“No,” said Irene. “Scots isn’t exactly rude. It’s just that we don’t use a lot of it in Edinburgh.”

Bertie said nothing. An idea had come to him. He would start talking Scots! That would annoy his mother. That would show her that although she could force him to wear pink dungarees she could not control his tongue! Ha! That would show her.

“Anyway,” said Irene, “we must get home. You have a saxophone lesson in half an hour, I believe, and you must do your homework before then.”

“Aye,” said Bertie quietly. “Nae time for onything else.”

“What was that, Bertie?” asked Irene. “Did you say something?”

“I didnae,” said Bertie.

“What?”

“No spikkin,” muttered Bertie.

“Really, you are a very strange little boy sometimes,” said Irene, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. “Muttering to yourself like that.”

Continuing down the street, they were now directly outside Big Lou’s coffee bar. They reached it just as Matthew and Angus Lordie came up the steps to the pavement, their coffee conversation having been brought to an end by the sudden prolonged howling of Cyril. The canine angst which had produced this outburst had presumably resolved itself as quickly as it had come into existence, as Cyril now seemed quite cheerful and wagged his tail enthusiastically at the sight of Bertie. Cyril liked boys; he liked the way they smelled – just a little bit off; and he liked Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff 249

the way they jumped around. Boys and dogs are natural allies, thought Cyril.

When he saw Bertie, Cyril rushed forward and sat down on the pavement in front of him, offering him a paw to shake.

“Bonnie dug,” Bertie said, taking the paw, and crouching down to Cyril’s level. “Guid dug.”

Cyril moved forward to lick Bertie’s face enthusiastically, making Bertie squeal with delight.

“Bertie!” shouted Irene. “Get away from that smelly creature!

Don’t let him lick you!” And then, turning to Cyril, she leant forward and shouted at him: “Bad, smelly dog! Shoo! Shoo!”

As a dog, Cyril did not have a large vocabulary. But there are some words all dogs understand. They know what “walk” means.

They know what “good dog” means, and “fetch”. And Cyril knew, too, what “smelly” meant, and he bitterly resented it. He had seen this tall woman before, walking in Drummond Place, and he did not like her. And now she was calling him both bad and smelly. It was just too much!

Irene’s ankles came into focus. They were close, and exposed.

He hadn’t started this, she had. No dog, not even the most heroic, could resist. He lunged forward, opened his jaws, his gold tooth catching the light, glinting wickedly, and then he bit Irene’s right ankle. It was glorious. It was satisfying. It was so richly deserved.

76. Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff Bruce had been deeply disturbed by what George had said to him over the telephone. He had been buoyed by his purchase of the Petrus at such a favourable price, but had been completely deflated by George’s suggestion that the wine might be something quite different – an ordinary wine put into bogus Petrus bottles by calculating forgers.

At first, he had denied the possibility that George might be right. He had not even seen the wine in question; how 250 Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff could he pontificate on it? The problem with George, of course, was that he was so unadventurous. The idea of making an unconventional purchase, of buying something other than through the regular channels, was obviously alien to his cautious, accountant’s personality. Poor George! He had always been the timid one, even at Morrison’s Academy, where he would never do anything that was remotely likely to get him into trouble. What a mouse he was! But then mice sometimes had their uses, thought Bruce – especially if they had money.

But then, but then . . . perhaps George was right, to an extent at least, in saying that one had to be suspicious of bargains. If the Petrus was worth what it appeared to be worth, then why should Harry sell it to him at such a marked-down price? If it was worth more, and if, as Harry claimed, people were clamboring to get it, then why should he sell it to him at such a reduced price? It was not as if he had given him an extra few per cent discount – the sort of discount one feels that one has to give to a friend – he had cut savagely into the market price. He had effectively given away the three cases of wine.

The thought that George might be right made Bruce very uncomfortable. He had paid a lot of money for the wine and he had done so out of his own bank account. He had also paid the first month’s rental on the shop, again from his own account, and the debit side of the business would be mounting up rather sharply. And yet he had not obtained a single penny from George, even although George had assured him that the money would be available once he had sold the bonds. But how long did it take to sell bonds? Surely a call to one’s broker was all that was required ?