Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [102]
What’s wrong with that?”
“Because the shape of your head has nothing to do with what you’re like inside,” said Matthew. “Character comes from . . .”
He hesitated. Where did character come from? The way you were brought up? Genes? Or a bit of both? “From the mind,”
he said. “That’s where character comes from.”
Gordon nodded. “And the mind shows itself physically, doesn’t it? Well, don’t shake your head like that – which, incidentally, proves my point. Your shaking head shows a state of mind within you. Yes, it does. It does.”
Matthew sighed. “Nobody believes in phrenology any more, Dad. It’s so . . . so nineteenth century.”
“Oh is it?” challenged Gordon. “And you think they knew nothing in the nineteenth century? Is that what you’re saying?
Well, I’m telling you this: I judge a man by the cut of his jib. I can tell.”
The argument had fizzled out, and later that day Matthew had stolen a glance at himself in the mirror, at his eyes. They had flecks of grey, of course, a feature which some girls had found interesting, and attractive, but which now seemed to Matthew to say something about his personality: he was a greyflecked person. He knew that phrenology was nonsense, and yet, years later, he found himself making judgments similar to those made by his father; slippery people looked slippery; they really did. And how we become like our parents! How their scorned advice – based, we felt in our superiority, on prejudices and muddled folk wisdom – how their opinions are subsequently borne out by our own discoveries and sense of the world, one after one. And as this happens, we realise with increasing horror that proposition which we would never have entertained before: our mothers were right!
The Rootsie-Tootsie Club 213
Had the scorned phrenologists got their hands on Eddie, they would have reached much the same conclusion as had Matthew. Eddie had a thin face – not in itself a matter for judgment – but a thin face combined with shifty, darting eyes and topped with greasy, unwashed hair conveyed an impression of seediness. It was, quite simply, not the face of an honest person – or so Matthew had concluded on first encountering Eddie. And combined with this impression of unreliability – backed up, of course, by Matthew’s knowledge of Eddie’s past – was the conviction that Eddie was planning to take advantage of Big Lou by getting her to back his restaurant endeavour. Matthew had been horrified to discover that Big Lou was proposing to lend Eddie the money to buy a restaurant without anybody even looking at the accounts. Matthew may not have been a conspicuously successful businessman in the past, but his gallery now turned a profit and he knew the importance of keeping a good set of books.
When Eddie entered the coffee bar, Matthew was carrying his cup back from the counter to his accustomed seat by the wall.
“Good morning, Eddie,” Matthew said politely. Eddie nodded, but did not return the greeting. “Lou, doll,”
he said. “Big news!”
Big Lou leaned over the counter to plant a kiss on Eddie’s sallow cheek. He smelled of tobacco and cooking oil and . . . She drew back. There had been another smell – that cheap, cloying perfume that teenage girls like to use. That was there too. “What’s the news, Eddie?” she asked.
“We’re going to be a club,” Eddie announced. “Not a restaurant after all. This boy came round – this boy I know from the old days – and he’s putting in a bit of money too, on top of what you’re subbing me, and we’re going to make it a club.”
Big Lou was silent. A club for whom? she wondered.
“There’s money in clubs,” Eddie went on. “And it’s less work just serving drinks. Less overheads. Although you have to pay the waitresses and the dancers.”
Big Lou’s voice was faint. “Dancers?”
214 An Unfortunate Incident
Eddie reached for a stool and drew it up to the counter. Matthew, who had been listening while pretending to read the newspaper, glanced at him as he sat down. He’s a funny shape, he thought.
“Aye,” said Eddie. “Pole dancers. Not every day, but maybe once