44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [9]
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into something even bigger. So he had decided that he might as well accept his son’s limitations and set him up in a business where he would have virtually no staff to deal with and where there was very little business to be done anyway – a sinecure, in other words. A gallery was perfect. Matthew could sit there all day and would therefore technically be working – something which he believed to be very important. He would make no money, but then money appeared not to interest him. It was all very perplexing.
But he’s my son, thought Matthew’s father. He may not be good for very much, but he’s honest, he treats his parents with consideration, and he’s my own flesh and blood. And it could be much worse: there were sons who caused their fathers much greater pain than that. He’s a failure, he thought; but he’s a good failure and he’s my failure.
And for Matthew’s part, he knew that he was no businessman. He would have liked to have succeeded in the ventures that his father had planned for him, because he liked his father. My father may have the soul of a Rotarian, thought Matthew, but he’s my Rotarian, and that’s what counts.
5. Attributions and Provenances
It was not Pat’s first job, of course. There had been that disastrous first gap year, with all the varying jobs that that had entailed. She had worked for the person she could now only think of as that man for at least four months, and had it not been for the fire – which was in no sense her fault – then she might have spent even longer in that airless, windowless room. And one or two of the other jobs had hardly been much better, although she had never encountered employers quite as bad as he had been. This was clearly going to be very different. To start with, there was nothing objectionable about Matthew. He had been offhand at the interview, quite casual, in fact, but he had not been rude 16
Attributions and Provenances
to her. Now, as she reported for work on that first Tuesday, she noticed that when she came into the room Matthew stood up to greet her, holding out his hand in a welcoming way. The standing up was something that her mother would have noticed and approved of; if a man stands up, she had said, you know that he’s going to respect you. Watch your father – when anybody comes into the room he stands up, no matter who they are. That’s because he’s a . . . She had hesitated, looking at her daughter. No, she could not bring herself to say it.
“Because he’s a what?” Pat had challenged. It was always gratifying to expose parents as hopelessly old-fashioned. She was going to say gentleman, wasn’t she? Hah!
“Because he’s a psychiatrist,” her mother had said quickly. There! She would find out soon enough, the difference between the types of men, if she did not already know it. And I will not be patronised by her, just because she’s twenty and I’ve reached the age of . . . My God! Have I?
Matthew, sitting down again, unaware of the memory he had triggered, indicated the chair in front of his desk.
“We should talk about the job,” he said. “There are a few things to sort out.”
Pat nodded, and sat down. Then she looked at Matthew, who looked back at her.
“Now then,” Matthew said. “The job. This is a gallery, see, and our business is to sell paintings. That’s it. That’s the bottom line.”
Pat smiled. “Yes.” This was surprising. But why was the sale of paintings the bottom line? She was not at all sure what bottom lines were, although everybody talked about them, but perhaps he would explain.
Matthew sat back in his chair, propping his feet on an upturned wastepaper basket at the side of the desk.
“I freely admit