Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [155]
“That’s fine by me,” he said. He leaned forward, so that nobody else might hear what he had to say. “And do you know something, Matthew? Well, here’s something you should know: I’m proud of you. I never told you that, and I should have. I’m proud of what you are. I’m proud of the fact that, unlike me, you’ve never trodden on anybody else, or even considered doing that. And that makes you more of a man than I am, in my book.”
Matthew could not say anything. So he stood there with his father, and Gordon put his arm about his son’s shoulder and left it there, to reassure him, to show what he felt but could not find the words to say.
100. Big Lou
Big Lou watched as Matthew and his father went their separate ways, Matthew to his gallery over the road and Gordon up the hill in the direction of Queen Street. It had been obvious to her Big Lou
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what was going on: a reconciliation of some sort between father and son. That pleased her; Big Lou did not like conflict and estrangement – what was the point, she thought, in being at odds with those whom we should love when our time on this earth was so very short?
She stared out of the window onto the steps that climbed up to Dundas Street. The coffee bar was now empty, but a customer would no doubt soon appear. Angus Lordie, perhaps, with that dog of his, or one of the antique dealers from down the road, from the Three Estaits, who would entertain Lou with news from the auction rooms.
But it was the postman who arrived, a thin-faced man who came from Dundee and always asked Big Lou about Arbroath, although she had nothing to tell him. This morning he extracted a couple of letters from his sack and placed them carefully on the counter.
“Arbroath,” he said, looking at Big Lou’s face with searching eyes. “Did you know some people called McNair? He was a joiner there, a long time ago. Then they moved to Dundee.”
Big Lou shook her head. “Sorry, Willy. It’s been a long time.”
She glanced at the letters. Was it? Yes, it was.
“They had a daughter who went to Glasgow,” continued the postman. “I think she trained as a nurse at Yorkhill.” Scotland was like that; long stories, endless links, things that halfhappened. Big Lou was staring at the letters. “Oh yes,” she said. “I didn’t know anybody called McNair. They might have been there while I was, but you know how it is when you’re younger. You just think of yourself.”
“That’s it,” he said. “You’re right there, Lou.”
Big Lou looked down at the letters and then glanced at her watch.
“Won’t keep you,” said the postman. “Cheerio, Lou.”
As he turned to leave, she reached for one of the letters and slit the envelope open with a bread-knife. The postmark had told her who it was, and now she unfolded the letter within and saw his characteristic handwriting, the same writing that had 328 Big Lou
been on the letter which she had cherished for all those years, the years of his absence.
“Dear Lou,” she read, “you know, don’t you, what a bad letterwriter I am. This is not because I find it difficult to write things down – I don’t. It’s just because I find it hard to write to you, because I have treated you so badly. Well, maybe I haven’t treated you badly, exactly, but I have not been very good about telling you things. And then there were all those years in which I never wrote to you at all although I knew that you must have been wondering what I was doing and when I was going to come back to Scotland.
“Well, I let you down on that, didn’t I? When I wrote to you and told you that I was going to be in Edinburgh you must have wondered whether I was going to remember my promise to invite you over to Texas. And I had not even had the decency to write to you and tell you that I was married and that I had moved to Mobile. I’m sorry about that, Lou. I should have told you. Men sometimes don’t think about these things and then they are surprised when women are upset about it. I want you