Women get hold of a man and then they think they own him.
That would not happen to him, and if Julia had ideas along those lines, then she would have to be disabused of them. He was happy to keep Julia happy, but he was not going to be tied down. That would have to be made quite clear – a little bit later.
He gazed out of the window, which overlooked Howe Street, a street that sloped down sharply to sweep round into the elegant crescents of Royal Circus. It was one of Bruce’s favourite streets in that part of Edinburgh, and he felt a wave of contentment come over him. Here I am, he thought, exactly where I want to be. I have a place to live. I have a woman who is wild keen on me. I have no rent to pay and probably no electricity bills, 194
Perfection.
He moved away from the window. In the background, down the corridor, he could hear the shower being run. Duty calls, he said to himself.
Big Lou came from a background of cleanliness. The east coast of Scotland may at times be a cold, even a harsh place to live, but it was a well-scrubbed and self-respecting part of the world. In Arbroath, where Big Lou hailed from, kitchens were almost always spotless, and even the most modest of houses would make some attempt at a formal front room. You just did not leave things lying about, just as you did not waste things, nor spend money profligately. There was an idea of order there, forged in a tradition of stewardship and careful use of what resources the land, and the sea, provided. And what, thought Big Lou, is wrong with that? If the rest of Scotland followed the rules of places such as Arbroath or Carnoustie, then life would be better for all, of that Big Lou was quite convinced.
That Saturday, as Big Lou polished the inner windowsills of the coffeehouse, she saw her new boyfriend, Robbie Cromach,
descending the steps that led down from the street. Big Lou straightened up and tucked her duster into her pocket. She liked to look her best for Robbie, who was something of a natty dresser himself, and here she was in her working clothes, hair all over the place, and no lipstick to speak of.
“Noo den,” said Robbie, as he came in the door. “What’s up with you, Lou?”
It was rather a strange greeting, but it was one which he used whenever he saw her, and she had become used to it. “Noo den,”
she understood, was Shetlandic for now then; Robbie’s mother was from Shetland, and he liked to use the occasional bit of dialect. But noo den? Big Lou had been told that one might say, in reply: “Aye, aye boy, foo is du?” but she had decided that this sounded too like “you’re fu’,” which was, of course, an accusation of drunkenness.
“Nothing much, Robbie,” said Big Lou. “Just cleaning up.”
Robbie crossed the room and gave Big Lou a kiss on the cheek. He looked at his watch. “I’ve arranged with some of the lads to meet here,” he said. “Can you do us a few cups of coffee?”
“Of course.” Big Lou paused. “The lads? The usual . . .”
Robbie nodded. “Aye. Michael, Jimmy, Heather. That’s all.
Maybe Willie will turn up, but I don’t think so.”
Big Lou moved to her counter, took four cups off the shelf, and lined them up in a row. She looked at Robbie. She did not like these friends of his – she had tried – but there was something about them that she just did not take to. Michael, she supposed, was not too bad, but that Heather woman – Heather McDowall – she was, well, away with the fairies if you asked Lou, and Jimmy, she thought, was just rather pathetic, a train-spotting type who seemed to have latched onto Michael and who followed him round as if waiting for some priceless pearl of wisdom to fall from the older man’s lips.
Robbie, of course, was a different matter. He was immensely attractive in Big Lou’s eyes, and in the eyes of others too – Big Lou knew that. Women can tell when the heads of other women are turned; they see it – the heads turn, ever so slightly, but they turn, as an attractive man walks by. And he was good company,
196
“This is a meeting?” asked Big Lou. “Or purely social?”
Robbie, leaning against the counter, looked about him quickly, as if searching for those who might overhear. “I wanted to have a word with you about that, Lou,” he said. “You know how I feel about . . . about historical matters.”
Lou nodded. “You’ve told me, Robbie,” she said. “You’re a Scottish patriot. That’s fine by me. I’m not really political myself, you know. But it’s fine by me that you should be.”
Robbie appeared pleased with this. “Good,” he said. “But there’s a particular angle here, Lou. Some of us feel very strongly about the monarchy.”
“I know that, Robbie,” Big Lou said. “And I support the monarchy too. Look at the Queen, at all the hard work she does. And Prince Charles too – not that many people give him credit for it. They’re always sniping at him and in the meantime he’s dashing around doing these things for other people.”
“Yes, yes,” said Robbie, a note of impatience in his voice. “I’m not denying any of that. They do a fine job. But there’s still a problem, Lou. We had our own line of kings in Scotland, you know, and they took the throne away from us and gave it to the Germans. The Germans! To a line of wee German lairdies! Did they ask us? Did they ask the permission of our parliament?”
