Love Over Scotland

their difficult lives. She did not think that the acquaintanceship with Angus would go anywhere.

It was curious, was it not, that people expected those who were by themselves to be looking for somebody else. There were plenty of people – and she was one – who rather relished being on their own. If she met a man who interested her – and, thinking over the last year, she found it difficult to bring any such man to mind

– then she might be prepared to contemplate an affair, or should she call it an involvement? The word “affair” was an odd one. It had suggestions of the illicit about it. And it implied the existence of a terminus: affairs were not meant to last. That, she thought, was why Graham Greene was right in that title of his, The End of the Affair. There was a sad inevitability about that.

Antonia turned away from the window and smiled. Graham Greene! That was Angus Lordie’s problem. He was a Graham Greene-ish character, just like that dentist who had run out of gas and went down to the jetty every day to see if the boat would bring him new supplies. Dentists on jetties; whisky priests; seedy colonial officials; and now a failed portrait painter in the unfashionable end of the Edinburgh New Town. C’est ca! Greeneland.

76. Brunello di Montalcino

Had he known that Antonia was mentally comparing him to a character from a Graham Greene novel, Angus Lordie’s existing dislike of his prospective guest would have doubled, or quadru-pled perhaps. And had he known that a literary comparison was being made, he would himself have sought comparisons of his own. There she was, writing her novel in Domenica’s flat, not doing anything of importance really. And the novel – if it existed at all – might never be published anyway. Plenty of people were writing novels; in fact, if one did a survey in the street, half of Edinburgh was writing a novel, and this meant that there really weren’t enough characters to go round. Unless, of course, one wrote about people who were themselves writing novels. And what would the novels that these fictional characters were writing be about? Well, they would be novels about people writing novels.

Angus Lordie stood in his kitchen, his blue and white striped apron tied about his waist, contemplating the appetising collection of ingredients he had bought from Valvona & Crolla. Even if he was not looking forward to receiving Antonia, he was certainly looking forward to the experience of cooking the meal.

He glanced at his watch; it was now five o’clock, which meant that it would be roughly three hours before Antonia arrived (provided, he thought, that she knew that an invitation for seven-thirty meant ten to eight). There were always people who did not understand this, and who arrived on time, but he did not think Antonia would be one of these. So he had his three hours to prepare the meal.

He had planned the menu carefully. They would start with ravioli Caprese, ravioli stuffed with a mixture of parmesan and goat’s milk cheese. Angus had decided against using sheep’s milk caciotta, the sort used in Tuscany, on the grounds that in Capri itself he had read that caciotta was made of goat’s milk. That is something that he thought he might raise with Antonia, telling her, perhaps, that he had assumed that she would want the Caprian version rather than the Tuscan. That would catch her out, because she would not know anything about that. They 238 Brunello di Montalcino

would then move on, for their main course, to sogliole alla Veneziana, sole with Venetian sauce. That would involve a white wine sauce in which he would put a lot of garlic, and with it he would serve carciofi ripieni alla Mafalda, stuffed artichokes which he had learned to make by reading Elizabeth David’s Italian Food.

That was quite a complex recipe, involving more garlic and some anchovies, but he had plenty of time to get everything ready; and what was the time now that he had laid out all the ingredients? – five-thirty, which was time, perhaps, for a drink. He had obtained two bottles of a southern wine, a Ciro Bianco from Calabria, and he already had a supply of Biondi-Santi Brunello di Montalcino, which a friend had given him in payment for a portrait a few months ago.

Antonia would know nothing about Brunello, of course. He might mention Montalcino and ask her whether she thought it had been spoilt. “You don’t know Montalcino? Oh, you should go there. But maybe it’s a bit late, now that it’s become so popular. That’s the trouble with Tuscany. Terribly busy.”

He had opened one of the bottles of Brunello to let it breathe, and while he was thinking these delicious thoughts involving the putting of Antonia in her place, he decided to allow himself a glass of the elegant Italian wine. He raised the glass to the light and stared at it lovingly. It would be wonderful to be back in Montalcino, perhaps walking in the woods with Cyril. Would Cyril have a good nose for truffles? he wondered. It would be interesting to take him there now that dogs could get a passport.

The Brunello slipped down very easily and Angus decided to refill his glass. The second helping would be more subtle, he felt, and he could savour it as he prepared the stuffed artichokes.

He took a sip and closed his eyes. It was delicious. But what he needed now was some music, and this is where Cyril came in.

Angus had taught Cyril very few tricks. There were some dogs who were trained to carry the newspaper back from the paper shop, walking obediently behind their master, the day’s news clamped in their jaws.

That, thought Angus, was a rather pointless trick. Like Mr Warburton in Somerset Maugham’s The Outstation, a pristine Brunello di Montalcino 239

newspaper was one of Angus Lordie’s main delights, and it would not do to have canine toothmarks all over the front page.

But Cyril’s inability to perform such standard tricks did not mean that he could do nothing useful. In fact, Cyril had been trained to perform a trick of which he was inordinately proud and which Angus Lordie felt was positively useful. On the command “Cyril! Music!” the obedient dog would bound through to the drawing room and press the on/off button of the CD player with his nose.

That would activate the disc, one of which Angus always kept in the player, and music would be heard. And in anticipation of the Italian cuisine planned for Antonia, Angus had loaded a disc of Florentine music of the sixteenth century.

On his master’s command, Cyril dashed off to perform his trick. In the kitchen, Angus called out his thanks and cut off a small piece of anchovy to feed to Cyril as a reward. Then, into the white enamel bowl from which Cyril was given liquid treats, he poured a small quantity of Brunello di Montalcino.

It was far too good a wine to give to a dog in normal circumstances, but Angus was still enjoying the euphoria of being re-united with Cyril after his recent kidnap, and felt that an exception should be made.

Cyril wolfed down the anchovy fragment and then turned to the Brunello, which he sniffed at appreciatively before licking it quickly from the bowl. By this time, Angus had poured himself a third glass of the Brunello.

It’s extraordinary how the level of a good wine in the bottle sinks so quickly, he said to himself as he lifted the bottle to the light.