The World According to Bertie

minimalism in music?”

Matthew looked down at his feet. “Well, I’m not sure . . .”

“You mean people like Glass and Adams?” Pat interjected.

“Yes,” said Humphrey. “Some people are very sniffy about them. I heard somebody say the other day that it’s amazing how people like Adams make so much out of three notes. Which isn’t exactly fair. There’s quite a lot there, you know, if you start to look at Part and people like that.”

“I like Part,” said Pat.

“Oh, so do I,” said Humphrey.

“And then there’s Max Richter,” said Pat. “Do you know that he lives in Edinburgh? His music’s wonderful. Really haunting.”

“I shall look out for him,” said Humphrey. “Johannesburg wouldn’t be interested, of course. He listens to the pipes mostly.

And some nineteenth-century stuff. Italian operas and so on.

One of his boys is shaping up to be quite a good piper. That’s him coming in now.”

152 Minimalism Is Not Confined to the Canvas They looked in the direction of a boy who had entered the room, holding a plate of smoked salmon on small squares of bread. From behind a blond fringe, the boy looked back at them.

“Will you play for us, East Lothian?” asked Humphrey.

“Yes,” answered the boy. “Later.”

“Good boy,” said Humphrey. “Johannesburg has three boys, you know. That lad’s East Lothian. Then there’s West Lothian and Midlothian. Real boys. And he’s taught them to do things that boys used to know how to do. How to make a sporran out of a badger you find run over on the road. How to repair a lobster creel. Things like that. I think . . .”

He was interrupted by the return of the Duke, who had gone out of the room once he had made the introductions.

“I have my cheque book,” said the Duke, holding up a rectan-gular green leather wallet. “If I don’t pay for the painting now, I shall forget. So . . .” He unfolded the wallet, and leaning it on Humphrey’s back, scribbled out a cheque, which he handed to Matthew with a flourish.

Matthew looked at the cheque. The Duke’s handwriting was firm and clear – strong, masculine downstrokes. Three hundred and twenty pounds.

Matthew’s expression gave it away.

“Something wrong?” asked the Duke. There was concern in his voice.

“I . . .” Matthew began.

Pat took the cheque from him and glanced at it. “Actually, the painting was thirty-two thousand pounds,” she said.

“Good heavens!” said the Duke. “I thought . . . Well I must have assumed that there was a decimal point before the last two zeros. Thirty-two thousand pounds! Sorry. The exchequer can’t rise to that.”

“This’ll do,” said Pat firmly. “Our mistake. This’ll do fine, won’t it, Matthew?”

Matthew glanced at Humphrey, who was smiling benignly.

Elsewhere in the room, there was silence, as other guests had He Wanted Her Only to Answer His Question 153

realised what was going on. It was easy to imagine a mistake of this nature being made. And three hundred and twenty pounds was quite enough for that particular painting, far too much, really.

“I shall be more careful in my labelling in future,” Matthew said magnanimously. “Of course that’s all right.”

The tension which had suffused the room now dissipated.

People began to talk again freely, and the Duke reached for a bottle of wine to refill glasses.

“That was good of you,” murmured Humphrey.

“It was nothing,” said Matthew. “It really was.”

“But it wasn’t,” protested Humphrey.

“I meant the painting was nothing,” said Matthew, which was true.

46. He Wanted Her Only to Answer His Question Later in the evening, Matthew, wanting, he said, to get some air, suggested that they go out into the garden. Pat nodded and followed him out through the hall. She had gone out into gardens with boys before this and knew what it meant. Boys were usually not very interested in gardens, except at night, when their interest sharpened. Outside, the evening was unusually warm for the time of the year, almost balmy; the air was still, the branches of the oak trees farther up the steeply sloping garden were motion-less.

For a few moments, they stood on the driveway. Matthew reached for Pat’s hand. “Look at that,” he said, gesturing up at the sky. “We don’t often see that in town, do we? All that?”

The sky was a dark, black velvet, rich and deep, studded here and there with small points of starlight, one or two of which seemed to burn with great intensity.

“No,” she said. “All those yellow streetlights. Light pollu-tion.”

154 He Wanted Her Only to Answer His Question Matthew squeezed her hand. This time, she returned the pressure, did not let go of his hand.