44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [87]
182
Playing with Electricity
It was Bertie who proposed a solution. “May I ask him, Mummy? May I ask him the answer to his question? If it’s Mr Dalyell, then he could give us the answer.”
Irene smiled. “Of course you may ask him, Bertie. Go and ask him what’s the answer to his famous question.”
Bertie immediately rose to his feet and approached the other table, where he stood on his toes and whispered something into the ear of the slightly surprised politician. There then ensued a brief conversation, during which Bertie nodded his head in understanding.
“Well?” pressed Irene when Bertie returned. “Who was it?”
“It was Mr Dalyell after all,” said Bertie. “And he told me the answer.”
“And?” said Irene.
Bertie looked at his mother. She was always forcing him to do things. She made him learn Italian. She made him play the saxophone. Now she was forcing him to give her the answer to the West Lothian Question. He would have to punish her again.
“I’m not going to tell you,” he said simply. “Mind your own business.”
67. Playing with Electricity
Pat returned to the flat that evening slightly later than usual. The gallery had been unusually busy and she and Matthew had been obliged to deal with a series of demanding customers. When they had eventually closed the gallery, Matthew had suggested that they go for a drink in the Cumberland Bar. Pat had hesitated; she was beginning to like Matthew, but she thought that on balance she would keep her relationship with him on a strictly business level; there was nothing else there, and she would not want to give him any encouragement. If she went for a drink with him, he might misread the situation and it would then become embarrassing to extricate herself. But had Matthew given any sign Playing with Electricity
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of interest in her? She thought perhaps he had, although it was difficult to put one’s finger on precisely why she should think this. But what was more significant was her desire to get back to the flat. She had found that as the afternoon drew on, she had thought increasingly frequently of the prospect of returning that evening and seeing Bruce. A few days ago, this would have brought on a sense of irritation; now it was something different. She wanted to see him. She was looking forward to going back to Scotland Street and finding him there. Even the smell of cloves, the scent of his hair gel which signalled his presence, was attractive to her.
She did not reflect on this to any extent; indeed she hardly dared admit it to herself. I do not like him, she told herself; I cannot like him. I have disliked him right from the beginning. He’s self-satisfied; he thinks that every woman fancies him; in reality he’s just . . . What was he, now that she came to search for an adjective that would sum Bruce up? And why, in the midst of this deprecation should the word gorgeous come to mind?
Matthew did not seem to be too disappointed when she declined his invitation. “I’m going to the Cumberland anyway,”
he said. “Walk that far with me. It’s on your way.”
They made their way down Dundas Street in companionable silence. A few of the shops were still open; others were closed and shuttered. The fact that Matthew said nothing did not make Pat feel awkward. He was easy company, and it did not seem necessary to say anything. It would have been different with Bruce, she thought; she could not imagine being silent with him. And that surely was a bad sign. There is no point in cultivating the friendship of those with whom we feel we have to talk. And yet, and yet . . . friendship was one thing; was she thinking of something altogether