Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [41]
“Groovy?” asked Matthew.
“Yes,” said Leonie. “I was in quite a groovy street the other day. I forget what it was called. But it was definitely groovy. The doors were all painted different colours and there was this strange old shop that sold the most amazing old clothes.”
“Stockbridge,” said Matthew. “It must have been in Stockbridge. St Stephen’s Street, probably.”
“I can’t remember,” said Leonie. “But it was just like one or two streets we have in Melbourne. In fact, there’s a street there that has the same sort of old clothes shops. Vintage clothing, they call it. They sell all sorts of things. Old military uniforms. Flapper dresses. Sweaters just like yours . . .”
It slipped out. She had not thought about what she was saying, and the remark slipped out. And she knew immediately what she had done, and regretted it. For his part, Matthew was assailed by the remark. It came from the side, struck him, and lodged. His distressed-oatmeal cashmere sweater, which he had paid so much for at Stewart Christie in Queen Street . . . She reached out and took his arm. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
He tried to smile. “My sweater? This thing? It’s just an old . . .”
“I really didn’t mean it. I promise you. Look . . . there’s nothing wrong with it. There really isn’t. I like beige.”
Matthew bridled slightly. “Beige? It’s not beige. It’s distressed oatmeal.”
She thought: porridge. It’s a porridge-coloured sweater. They Leonie Talks
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must like porridge-coloured clothes in Scotland, and I’ve gone and hurt this really gentle, nice man with my stupid Australian tactlessness.
“I really didn’t mean . . .”
They had now reached the end of Cumberland Street and Matthew, who wanted to change the subject, pointed out St Vincent’s Church and the beginning of St Stephen’s Street. “And up on the corner there was where Madame Doubtfire had her shop,” he said. “She was a real person whose name was used by Anne Fine in her book. My father knew the original Madame Doubtfire. She was an old lady who kept a large number of cats and claimed that she ‘had danced before the Tsar’. That’s what she told everybody. Danced before the Tsar.”
“Who’s the Tsar?” asked Leonie.
Matthew hesitated. Was it possible that there were people who did not know who the Tsar was? He was about to explain, when Leonie said, “Oh him! The president of Russia.”
He burst out laughing, and immediately regretted it. The laughter had slipped out, as had her remark about his sweater. It just slipped out, as the best laughter will always do, in spontaneity, uncontrollable. He recovered himself quickly and looked grave. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that the Tsar was not exactly a president.”
Leonie did not seem offended. “I never learned much history,”
she explained. “I was always drawing in history lessons. I drew houses – all the time.”
“And so you became an architect.”
“Yes.” She looked at him, and smiled. “What about you? I bet you knew that you were artistic when you were a little boy. Did you draw things too?”
Matthew felt flattered. Am I artistic? I suppose I am. I own a gallery. I can talk about art. “Yes,” he said solemnly, “I knew. I always knew.”
They continued their conversation easily. There was no further talk about sweaters or tsars. They moved on to the subject of where Leonie lived. She explained how she had a studio flat in a converted bonded warehouse in Leith. “It’s very fashionable to 86
The Boy in the Tree
live in a bonded warehouse,” she said. “It’s the same as living in a loft in New York. All the really fashionable people live in lofts in New York. Bonded warehouses and lofts provide very flexible space. You can put in moveable room dividers. Tent walls. Living curtains.”
“What’s a living curtain?” Matthew asked.
“It’s a curtain you live behind,” answered Leonie. “Curtains are replacing walls. Take your flat, for example. Do you really need your walls?”
Matthew thought that he did, but he decided it sounded rather