44 Scotland Street (38 page)

91. God Looks Down on Belgium

“And where,” asked Domenica Macdonald, as she opened her door to them, “is your malodorous dog?”

Angus Lordie seemed not to be taken aback by what struck Pat as a less than warm welcome. But Pat’s concern proved to be misplaced. The relationship between her neighbour, Domenica, and her newly-acquired friend, Angus Lordie, was an easy one, and the banter they exchanged was good-natured. In the course of the evening, Angus Lordie was to describe Domenica – to her face – as a “frightful blue-stocking”, and in return she informed him that he was a “well-known failure”, a “roué” and “a painter of dubious talent”.

“If you are referring to Cyril,” said Angus Lordie, “he is outside, tied to a railing, enjoying the smells of this odiferous street. He misses such smells in Drummond Place, with its rather better air. He is quite happy.”

Domenica ushered them into her study. “I really am rather pleased that you came to see me,” she said, as she took a half-f bottle of Macallan out of a cupboard. “I’ve been worrying about this
fatwa
of yours, Angus. Have those dissident Free Presbyterians shown their hand yet?”

Pat remembered the talk about the dissenting Free Presbyterian
fatwa
imposed upon Angus Lordie as a result of his uncomplimentary portrait of their Moderator. Angus Lordie had not mentioned anything more about it, and certainly his demeanour was not that of one labouring under a
fatwa
.

“Oh that,” said Angus Lordie, accepting the generous glass of whisky which Domenica had poured for him. “Yes, they’ve done one or two things to signal their displeasure, but I think that the whole thing will probably blow over.”

“And what precisely have they done?” asked Domenica.

“A group of them came and sang Gaelic psalms outside my door,” he replied. “You know those awful dirges that they go in for? Well, we had a bit of that. I went out and thanked them afterwards and they looked a bit disconcerted. They mumbled something about how I would hear from them again, but they didn’t seem to have much heart for it.”

“It’s so difficult to sustain a
fatwa
,” said Domenica. “One has to be so
enthusiastic
. I’m not sure if I could find the moral energy myself.”

“Cyril howled when he heard the Gaelic psalms,” said Angus Lordie. “And they thought that he was joining in. He sounded so like them! Quite uncanny! Of course he does come from Lochboisdale and he’s probably heard Gaelic psalms before. Perhaps it made him feel homesick.”

“Oh well,” said Domenica. “These things all add to the gaiety of nations. That’s the nice thing about life in Scotland. It’s hardly dull. I’m immensely relieved that I don’t live in a dull country.”

“Such as?” asked Pat. Her gap year had taken her to Australia and then, briefly on to New Zealand. New Zealand was perhaps somewhat quiet while Australia had proved to be far from dull; at least for her.

“Oh, Belgium,” said Domenica. “Belgium is extremely dull.”

Angus Lordie nodded his head in agreement. “I’ve never quite seen the reason for Belgium,” he said. “But I certainly agree with you about its dullness. Remember that party game in which people are invited to name one famous Belgian (other than anybody called Leopold) – that’s pretty revealing, isn’t it?”

“I have a list of famous Belgians somewhere,” said Domenica rather absently. “But I think I’ve mislaid it.”

“It’ll turn up,” said Angus Lordie, taking a sip of his whisky. “These things do. Did I tell you, by the way, that I composed a hymn about Belgium? The Church of Scotland has been revising its hymnary and was asking for more modern contributions. I composed one of which I was really rather proud. I called it
God looks down on Belgium
.”

“And the words?” asked Domenica.

Angus Lordie cleared his throat. “The first verse goes as follows,” he began:

God’s never heard of Belgium,
But loves it just the same,
For God is kind

And doesn’t mind –
He’s not impressed with fame.

After he had finished, he folded his hands and looked at Domenica. Pat felt uncertain. Was this serious? She had enjoyed the Chinese poem which he had declaimed to her in Scotland Street, but this hymn seemed … well, he couldn’t possibly mean it.

Domenica looked at Angus Lordie and raised an eyebrow. “Did the Church of Scotland use it?” she asked.

“Inexplicably, no,” said Angus Lordie. “I had a very polite letter back, but I fear that they feel that it’s not suitable. I suppose it’s something to do with comity within Europe. We have to pretend to take Belgium seriously.”

“We live in such a humourless age,” Domenica remarked. “It used to be possible to laugh. It used to be possible to enjoy oneself with fantasies – such as your ridiculous hymn – sorry, Angus – but now? Well, now there are all sorts of censors and killjoys. Earnest, ignorant people who lecture us on what we can think and say. And do you know, we’ve lain down and submitted to the whole process. It’s been the most remarkable display of passivity. With the result that when we encounter anybody who thinks independently, or who doesn’t echo the received wisdoms of the day, we’re astonished.”

“In such a way is freedom of thought lost,” said Angus Lordie, who had been listening very attentively to Domenica. “By small cuts. By small acts of disapproval. By a thousand discouragements of spirit.”

They were all silent for a moment as they reflected on what had been said. Domenica and Angus Lordie appeared to be in agreement, but Pat was not so sure. What was the point about being rude about Belgium? Surely we had made moral progress in recognising the sensitivities of others and in discouraging disparaging comments? What if a Belgian were to hear the words of that hymn? Would a Belgian not be gratuitously offended?

And surely one should never criticise people for things that they cannot help – such as being Belgian?

Pat was thinking this when she became aware that the eyes of the other two were on her.

“You must understand something, my dear,” Domenica said to her. “Angus is not to be taken seriously.”

Angus Lordie nodded. “Absolutely right,” he said. “But listen, Domenica, I’m feeling bored and I want some excitement. I was wondering whether you would care to show Pat here and me the tunnel. I get a distinct feeling this is a night for exploration – of every sort.”

Domenica glanced at Pat. It was a glance that was rich in moral warning.

92. In Scotland Street Tunnel

Pat had heard that Scotland Street – the street itself – was built over a Victorian railway tunnel. Bruce had pointed out to her that the basements on either side of the street went appreciably lower than was normal for the New Town – that was because the street was supported by the roof of the tunnel.

“I know quite a lot about these things,” he said. “Just ask me if there’s anything you want to know.”

Now, accompanied by Domenica and Angus Lordie, she stood outside a low door in the space outside the lowest basement floor of their block. Above them, arched like broad flying buttresses, were the stone steps that led to their front door and to the door of the upper basement. Cyril, who had been retrieved by Angus Lordie from his station at the railings, was eagerly sniffing at the door.

“I thought this was a coal cellar,” said Pat.

“Indeed it is,” said Domenica, pushing the door open with her foot. “But it is something over and above that – something which only I and one or two other long-term residents know about.”

She shone the beam of her flashlight into the dark space behind the door.

“It still smells of coal,” she said. “As you will notice. But that door at the back there gives access to the tunnel. And if you follow me, we can go inside and take a walk.”

Domenica stepped forward decisively. Angus Lordie indicated to Pat that she should follow her and that he and Cyril would bring up the rear. “Cyril is utterly without fear,” he said, “which unfortunately suggests that he has little imagination. The brave are usually somewhat unimaginative, don’t you find?”

There was no time to discuss this intriguing proposition, as Domenica was now inside the tunnel and the light from her torch was playing against the opposite wall. Crouching, as the cellar door was not high enough to walk through unbent, Pat made her way into the tunnel, feeling immediately the cooler air on her skin, smelling the slightly musty odour, not unlike the smell of a garden shed that has been left unopened for some time.

She looked up. Domenica was directing the torchlight towards the roof of the tunnel. There, growing from the blackened masonry, were clusters of small stalactites, white against the dark background, like colonies of fungi. The tunnel was high – over twenty feet, Pat thought – and it was broad too, to allow for a footpath on either side of the track.

Domenica shone the torch up the tunnel, in the direction of Drummond Place. “We should start walking,” she said. “And watch your feet as you go. This is fairly steep. The gradient is actually one in twenty-seven. And the distance in this tunnel, by the way, is measured in chains.”

“You are immensely well-informed, as ever,” said Angus Lordie. “Where did you pick up this arcane knowledge?”

“From the organist at St Giles,” replied Domenica. “My friend, Peter Backhouse. He knows everything there is to be known about railways, and he knows all about the old lines of Edinburgh. He can tell you all about Bach and Pachelbel and so on, but he also knows all about track gradients and signalling systems and the Edinburgh, Leith and Granton Railway Company. Remarkable, isn’t it? I’m always impressed by people who know a lot about trains.”

“I’ve always thought that the Church of Scotland was a bit unsound on railways,” said Angus Lordie. “Did you ever hear Professor Torrance talk about trains when he was moderator? You did not. And now that we have a female moderator, well, I’m afraid there’s likely to be little improvement. Women tend not to be interested in trains in quite the same way that men are. Or at least some men. I have no interest in trains myself, of course.”

“That’s because there is a large part of the female in your psyche,” said Domenica. “You’re in touch with your feminine side. You’re a new man, Angus.”

For a few moments they walked on in silence. It did not seem to Pat that Angus Lordie was a new man at all; in fact, it seemed to her that he was quite the opposite. And Cyril was certainly not a new dog – not with his liking for beer, his reputed chasing after lady dogs, and his tendency to wink. None of these was the attribute of a new dog.

“Where does this tunnel lead?” asked Pat suddenly. She did not usually feel claustrophobic, but now she began to feel a slight unease as she realised that they were getting some distance from the cellar door which had admitted them. They only had one torch with them – what would happen if that torch failed? Would they have to feel their way along the side of the tunnel until they found the opening? And what if there were places where the floor had collapsed, which they would not see in the darkness?

Domenica answered her question. “It goes all the way up to Waverley Station,” she said. “It ends opposite platforms 1 and

19. It’s bricked up there, I’m afraid, and so we shall have to come back by the same route.” Pat reflected on this and then asked where the trains went. “Down to Granton,” said Domenica. “Peter Backhouse showed me a map once which made it very clear. The trains set off from Canal Street Station in the centre of the city and went down the tunnel purely by the force of gravity. Coming up the other way, they were pulled by a rope system, which was powered by a stationary engine. When they came out at Scotland Street Station they made their way down to Granton. You could get a ferry there to take you over to Fife. There was no Forth Bridge in those days, you see.”

Cyril barked suddenly, and Domenica swung the beam of the torch round to illuminate him.

“He’s seen something,” said Angus Lordie. “Look at the way his nose is quivering. What have you picked up, boy – what have you sniffed?”

Cyril growled. “He’s never wrong, you know,” said Angus Lordie. “He’s found something. Shine the beam in the direction he’s looking in, Domenica.”

Domenica moved the beam of the torch to the side. They were all silent as the light moved and then there came a gasp from Domenica. She was the first to see it – the first to understand what they were looking at. And then the others realised too, and they looked at Domenica, on whose face a small part of the light of the torch was falling. And they waited for guidance – for an explanation.

93. A Further Tunnel – and a Brief Conversation About Aesthetics

Domenica broke the silence that followed Cyril’s extraordinary discovery. And it was Cyril’s discovery, as everybody later agreed – one for which he should be given all due credit. Had he not barked to alert them to the change in the smell of the air, then they would have walked right past the largely-concealed mouth of the side-tunnel. But Cyril, detecting a new whiff, gave them warning, and when Domenica turned her torch in the right direction, they had seen the much smaller tunnel sloping off to the west.