Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [21]
And how could she spend time with this other person, this socalled Wolf (what a completely ridiculous name!), when she might spend time with him? He disliked Wolf, intensely, although he had not met him. He would be some awful braying type from somewhere in the south of England, the sort brought up to be completely self-confident, even arrogant. And the thought that Pat should waste herself on such a person was almost too much to bear.
When Matthew entered Big Lou’s coffee bar, Big Lou herself 42
Distressed Oatmeal
was standing in her accustomed position behind the stainlesssteel service bar, reading a small book. It was evidently compelling reading, and she barely gave Matthew a glance as he came through the door. Matthew nodded to her and went to sit down in his usual place. Glumly, he opened the newspaper on the table in front of him and scanned the headlines. His state of distraction, though, was such that not even the headlines were taken in, let alone the reports.
Big Lou said something to him, which he missed. She looked at him sharply and repeated herself.
“I said that’s an orra jumper you’re wearing,” she said. Matthew stared at her. He was vaguely familiar with the Scots word “orra”, but he thought it applied to tractormen, for some reason. An orra man was a farm worker, was he not? And why would Big Lou refer to his cashmere sweater in those terms?
He felt flustered and annoyed.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Big Lou went on.
“You’re looking awfie ill.”
“I’m not ill,” said Matthew curtly.
Big Lou seemed taken aback by the rebuff. “Of course by ill, I don’t mean ill in the way in which you mean it,” said Big Lou.
“In Arbroath, when we say that somebody’s ill-looking we just mean that they don’t look themselves. That’s all.”
“I don’t care what you say in Arbroath,” said Matthew. And immediately regretted his rudeness. Matthew was, by nature, a courteous person and it was unlike him to speak in such a manner. Big Lou knew this and realised that something was amiss. But the way to deal with it, she thought, was not to barge in and ask him what was troubling him, but to allow him to bring it up in his own good time. So she said nothing, and busied herself with the preparation of his cappuccino.
Matthew sat in misery. I’m useless, he thought. Nobody likes me. I have no friends. I have no girlfriend. And who would want to go out with me? Name one person who has ever expressed an interest. Name just one. He thought. No names came to mind.
He looked down at the sleeves of his distressed-oatmeal cash- Distressed Oatmeal 43
mere sweater and then at the legs of his crushed-strawberry trousers. Perhaps Big Lou was right. Perhaps the sweater was really no more than an orra jumper, whatever that meant. And as for his trousers, who wore crushed strawberry these days?
Matthew was not sure what the answer to that question was. Somebody wore them, obviously, but perhaps he was not that sort of person. Perhaps he had just succeeded in making himself look ridiculous.
He sipped at the coffee Big Lou had now brought him, and she, back behind the bar, had returned to her book. She sneaked a glance at Matthew. I should not have said that, she thought. Heaven knows what he spent on that jumper. And as for those trousers . . . Poor Matthew! There was not a nasty bone in his body, which was more than one could say about most men, Big Lou thought, but somehow Matthew just seemed to miss it. Matthew drained the last dregs of coffee from his cup. He wanted another cup, but he felt so miserable that he could hardly bring himself to speak to Lou. Sensing this, Big Lou quietly prepared another cappuccino and brought it over to him. She sat down next to him.
“Matthew,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn