The World According to Bertie

“True,” said Domenica, drawing a line through the name.

“Mind you, that is the most perennially fascinating subject, don’t you find? Ourselves.”

Angus thought about this. He did not talk about himself, and so he could not agree, but when he thought of others he could see the truth of Domenica’s observation. Most people were delighted to talk about themselves and their doings, asked or unasked.

“And we can’t have him,” he said, pointing at another name.

“Because if we have him, then we can’t have her. And if one had to choose, I would have thought that she was the one we really wanted.”

Domenica scrutinised the list. “Yes,” she said. “I’d forgotten about that. Was it true, do you think? Do you think that he really did that?”

“Apparently he did,” said Angus, shaking his head over the foibles of humanity. Edinburgh was a city that took note of these things. Indeed, he had heard that there was a book somewhere in Heriot Row in which these things were all written down, so that they could be remembered. The book, he had been told, was in the hands of a carefully chosen committee (although anybody was entitled to nominate an incident for inclusion), and went back as far as 1956. It had once been proposed that the record should be expunged ten years after an event, but this suggestion had been turned down on the grounds that many of the older scandals still gave a great deal of enjoyment to people and it would be wrong to deprive them of that.

The guest list that evening had been fully approved by Angus, and he was looking forward to the good conversation that he knew would take place. As he sat there, watching Domenica carry out a few last-minute preparations, Angus thought about the painting he had begun a few days before and which now dominated his studio. It was an extremely large canvas, ten feet by six, and he was at present sketch-ing in the outlines of his planned great work on kindness: a 336 Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe seated woman, beneficent, portrayed in the style of Celtic illuminations, comforts a crouching boy, a figure of modern Scotland.

“I’m working on an important picture,” he said to Domenica,

“on the theme of kindness.”

Domenica, who had been peering into a pot on the top of the stove, looked over her shoulder at Angus. “A very good subject for a picture,” she said. “I approve. Do you have a title for it yet?”

Angus shook his head. He thought of it simply as Kindness, but he knew that this sounded a bit weak, a bit too self-explanatory.

“In that case,” said Domenica, “I suggest that you call it Let the More Loving One.”

Angus frowned. “Let the More Loving One?”

Domenica turned away from the stove. “It’s a line from Auden,” she said. “‘If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me.’”

They were both silent for a moment. Behind Domenica, the pot on the stove simmered quietly; there was a square of light on the ceiling, reflected off window glass, shimmering, late light.

Angus thought: yes, that is precisely the sentiment. That’s it exactly. That’s all we need to remember in this life; two lines to guide us.

99. Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe They sat at the table, Domenica’s guests, all in perfect agreement, at least on the proposition that the first course was exceptional. At the head of the table sat Domenica herself, anthropologist, widow of the late proprietor of the Cochin Sunrise Electricity Factory, author of numerous scholarly papers including, most recently, “Intellectual Property and Piracy in a Malaccan Village.” At the opposite end of the table, in a position which indicated his special status in this house Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe 337

as old friend and quasi-host, sat Angus Lordie, portraitist and occasional poet, pillar of the Scottish Arts Club, and member of the Royal Scottish Academy. On Domenica’s right sat James Holloway, art historian and a friend of Domenica of many years’ standing, whose advice she had sought on many occasions, and followed. On his right, Pat, the attractive but somewhat bland student who had got to know Domenica when she lived next door as tenant of Bruce Anderson, the surveyor –

now the fiance of Julia Donald – an unrepentant, a narcissist, a success. Then there were David Robinson and Joyce Robinson, both old friends of Domenica; her neighbour, Antonia, invited at the last moment out of guilt; Ricky Demarco, that great man, the irrepressible enthusiast of the arts, artist, impresario; Allan Maclean of Dochgarroch, chief-tain of the Macleans of the North, and Anne Maclean; and, of course, Humphrey and Jill Holmes. That was all, but it was a good sample of Edinburgh society, and there were many who were not there who, had they known, would have given much to have been present.

Angus looked about the table. He had been charged by Domenica with responsibility for ensuring that everybody’s glass was well filled, and they were. Now, sitting back, he savoured both the timbale and the conversation.

“It’s a disaster,” said Ricky Demarco. “A complete disaster.”

Silence fell about the table as all eyes turned to Demarco.

Was he referring to the timbale?

“Yes,” he said. “The Festival Fringe is in great danger.”

Most were relieved that the subject was the arts and not salmon timbale; David Robinson, in particular, looked interested. People were always predicting the demise of the Edinburgh Festival, he reflected, but somehow it always got better. And the same was true of the Fringe, the Festival’s unruly unofficial partner, which seemed to get bigger and bigger each year.

“Danger of what?” asked David.

“Drowning in stand-up comics,” said Demarco. “Haven’t you 338 Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe seen how many of them there are? They flock to Edinburgh, flock like geese over the horizon.” He waved a hand airily.