“Who was in the Cumberland Bar this evening?” asked Pat.
“The usual crowd,” said Matthew. “But I only spoke to Angus Lordie. You’ve heard about Cyril?”
“I have,” said Pat. “And it’s awful. My father says that they’ll have him put down, for sure. He said that he has a patient whose dog was put down for biting. My father said that the owner experienced real grief and suffered from depression for a long time. You’d think that they’d take that into account before they order dogs to be destroyed. Those dogs are members of somebody’s family.”
“Exactly,” said Matthew. “And Angus is really upset, as you can imagine. Anyway, he told me about Big Lou’s new boyfriend, Robert something-or-other. It’s one of those very Scottish surnames – Crolloch or something like that. Crumblie, maybe.
Robert Crumblie? No, I don’t think so.”
144
“Smellie? That’s a common name.”
Matthew laughed. “Yes, it is. I knew a boy called Smellie at school. The family came from Fife, where they often have these interesting names. There are people called McSporran up there, which is fine, but you have to admit it is a pretty striking name.
Like Smellie.”
Pat was intrigued. “What was Smellie like?”
Matthew thought for a moment. He was trying to remember what Smellie’s first name was. Archie MacPherson Smellie. That was it. And then he smiled at the memory.
“Archie,” he said. “Archie Smellie. He was a great betting man, or, I suppose, betting boy. He had a numbers racket at school, which we all paid into. You would choose a number between one and fifty and Archie would write it down in his book. Then, each week, Archie would announce which number he was going to pay up on, and you’d get fifteen times your stake if it was your number.”
“How did he choose the number?”
Matthew laughed. “That’s the point. Archie never told us that, and sometimes there were weeks in which he said no number came up and he pocketed the whole proceeds. You’d think that we would have seen through it, but we didn’t. I suppose we were very trusting.”
“And what became of him?”
“He became an accountant,” said Matthew. “I saw him the other day in Great King Street. He was walking along in the opposite direction. I stopped him and said: ‘Hello, Smellie,’ and he stared at me for a moment. Then I think he vaguely recognised me and muttered: ‘Actually, it’s Smiley these days.’ ”
“That’s sad that he felt that he had to change his name.”
Matthew agreed, but said that he understood. “Your name defines you,” he said. “And I don’t see why you should go through life being called something that embarrasses you. Mind you, some people make a point of sticking to an embarrassing name.
They more or less challenge you to laugh. People like that show great courage, I think.”
Pat tried to think of people she knew who had shown courage in the face of an embarrassing name. She could not think of anybody.
But Matthew could. “I know somebody called Winterpoo,”
he said. “Martin Winterpoo. Poor chap. But he’s stuck to his name, which shows great qualities, in my view.” He paused.
“Would you like to be called something different, Pat?”
Pat hesitated before answering. The truth of the matter was that she would. Pat was such a brief name, so without character.
It said nothing about its bearer. And it was androgynous.
She looked at Matthew. “You think I should be called something else? Is that what you think?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I just asked you. There’s nothing wrong with being called Pat.”
Pat looked down at the tablecloth. “And what about your own name, Matthew? What about that? If I’m Pat, then you’re Matt.”
Reaching for the champagne, Matthew topped up Pat’s glass.
We’re arguing again, he thought. It seems to happen rather too often recently. We’re like two boxers dancing around one another in the ring, waiting to land a blow. This thought depressed him, and he did not want to be depressed; not tonight, with the Bollinger on the table and the prospect of a party at the Duke’s house. He decided to change the subject.
“What should we call the Duke?” he asked. “Your Grace?”
“No,” said Pat. “That’s far too formal. I think that we should probably just call him Johannesburg.”
“Is that what dukes are called by their friends?”
Pat shrugged. “No, they use their first names. Harry, or Jim, or whatever. But he called himself Johannesburg.”
“I see,” said Matthew. He paused. “Do you think that he’s a real duke, Pat? I looked him up in
Nothing.”
