Love Over Scotland (34 page)

98. Poor Lou

“You look very pleased with yourself,” said Big Lou to Matthew as he entered the coffee bar that morning. “Have you sold a painting?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” said Matthew, smiling broadly at Lou. “This very morning. A man came in and took a shine to those McCosh bird paintings I had. He said: ‘This man is the new Thorburn’, and bought all three of them.”

Big Lou wiped her cloth over the surface of the bar. “He saw a bargain,” she said. “Maybe you should have hung onto them. There must be people who think that about their Hockneys and their Bacons.”

“But I don’t want to hold onto them,” said Matthew. “I want people to know about him. There he is, the finest wildfowl painter to come along for a long, long time. Right on our doorstep. Right outside Edinburgh. All those beautiful paintings. I want people to have them. I don’t want to sit on them.”

“Well,” said Lou. “They’ve gone now.”

Matthew smiled pleasantly. He was pleased about the sale of the paintings, but that was not the real reason for his positive state of mind. He looked at Big Lou, busying herself now with the mysteries of her coffee-making craft. Should he tell her?

“Actually, Lou,” he said. “I’m feeling rather happy.”

“Aye,” said Big Lou, without turning round. “Well, that’s good to hear, Matthew.”

“Aren’t you interested in hearing why, Lou?”

Lou laughed. “I’m going to hear anyway.”

“Pat,” said Matthew, simply.

“What about her?” asked Lou. “Is she coming over for coffee?”

“No, she has a lecture. She’s up at the university.”

Big Lou turned round with the cup of coffee. “Well, she is a student, after all,” she said. “I suppose that she has to show up there from time to time.”

Matthew did not take his cup of coffee to his table, but stayed where he was, at the bar. “Pat and I…” he began. “Well, Pat and I are going out together.” He paused, adding rather lamely: “I thought you would be interested to hear that.”

Big Lou reached for her cloth and began to polish the bar with vigorous circular sweeps.

“Are you sure about this?” she said.

Matthew seemed taken aback, almost crestfallen. “Sure? Well, yes, of course I’m sure. I’ve liked Pat a lot right from the beginning. When she first came to work for me…”

“That’s the point,” said Big Lou. “She came to work for you.”

“I don’t see…”

Big Lou put her cloth to one side and leaned over to take hold of Matthew’s forearm. “Matthew: that girl is younger that you. She’s a nice girl, sure enough, but there she is at the beginning of her time at university. She’s just starting. She’ll be looking for something very different from what you’re looking for. She will be wanting a bit of fun. Parties and so on. What do you think you’re looking for? You’re almost twenty-nine. You’re thinking of settling down. That’s when men start to think of settling down. You need somebody your own age.”

“There’s only eight years between us,” said Matthew. “That’s nothing.”

Big Lou shook her head. “Eight years can be a big difference at certain stages in our lives. It all depends on where you are. There’s a big difference between being two and being ten, and between being ten and being eighteen. You see? Big differences.”

“I’m not Eddie…” Matthew began, and immediately regretted what he had said.

Big Lou looked at him. “I didn’t say you were Eddie,” she said quietly. “I didn’t say that.”

She looked at him, and Matthew saw that her eyes were filling with tears. She lifted her cloth and wiped at her eyes and cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Lou,” he said, reaching out to take her hand. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I wasn’t thinking…”

“I ken fine what he’s like,” sobbed Big Lou, her shoulders shaking. “I ken he’s no a guid man. But I loved him, Matthew. I thought I could change him. You know how it is. You have somebody you think has some good points and you think that those will be enough.”

Matthew waited, but Big Lou said nothing more.

“Have you seen him?” he asked gently. “Have you ended it with him?”

Big Lou rubbed at her eyes. “I have. I saw him and told him that I didn’t think that it would work. Not after this last business with those girls down at that club of his. He said that I was being unreasonable but that he didn’t want to carry on with a woman who would lock him away. That’s what he said. Lock him away.”

“You’re well rid of him, Lou. You really are. And there’ll be other men. There are lots of nice men in this town. There are plenty of nice men who would appreciate somebody like you, Lou.”

Lou shook her head. “I’ll be going back to Arbroath,” she said. “There’s an old cousin of my father’s who needs looking after. I’ve done that sort of thing before. I can do that.”

“But Lou!” said Matthew. “You can’t leave us! You can’t leave all this…” He gestured helplessly about the room. At the tables. At the newspaper rack with its out-of-date newspapers. At the rickety stairs outside.

“I don’t want to,” said Lou. “But I don’t see what else I can do. You see, when Eddie and I got engaged, I made over a half share in the business to him. Now he wants the money for that, and I can’t pay him. So he’s going to insist on selling the coffee bar. And he can, according to the agreement that his lawyer drew up.”

Matthew stood quite still. He had heard about the money that Eddie had persuaded Lou to give him; this, though, was new, and more serious. But then he thought: I have four million pounds. And if one has four million pounds there are occasions when one should use that financial power to make a difference to the lives of others. This, he thought, was just such an occasion.

“I’ll buy him out, Lou,” he said. “I’ll buy him out and we can get rid of him that way.”

Big Lou shook her head. “I could never accept that, Matthew,” she said. “You’re a good boy. I’ve known that all along. But I can’t accept that from you. I just can’t.”

99. And Here’s the Train to Glasgow, Again

For the rest of that day, after his conversation in the coffee bar, Matthew was preoccupied with thoughts of how he could contact Stuart. He knew that Stuart lived in Scotland Street, and he thought it was somewhere near Pat’s former flat. But he wasn’t sure of Stuart’s surname, nor of exactly where he worked, and Pat, who might be expected to know, for some reason was not answering her mobile phone.

He had to see Stuart as soon as possible. Stuart had said that he knew somebody in Glasgow who could help Lou. Had he contacted him? Had he come up with anything? Matthew realised that unless they were able to do something quickly, then Big Lou would sell the coffee bar and go back to Arbroath. He could not allow that to happen–he would not allow it. Big Lou was a feature of his life and, he suspected, the lives of so many others in that part of town. If she went, a little bit of the character of the place would die. One of the new coffee bars would move in, with its standard international décor and its bland sameness. The coffee might be good enough, but these places spelled death to the particular, to the sense of place that a real local coffee bar embodied. They were simply without character, although they might never understand how people could think that. But people did. It was the difference between French cheese, unpasteurised and odiferous (but divine), and the processed rubbery paste that the big food interests passed off as cheese. International business, once allowed to stalk uncontrolled, killed the local, the small, the quirky. International business, thought Matthew, had ruined cheese, will ruin wine, and then will move on to ruin everything. No, he thought, Big Lou’s little coffee bar was now the front line.

Eventually, Matthew decided that the only thing he could do was to go to the Cumberland Bar shortly after five that evening and wait to see if Stuart came in. And if he did not, he could ask the barman or one of the regulars; somebody was bound to know where he lived.

As it happened, Matthew did not have long to wait. Shortly before five-thirty, Stuart came in and walked over to the bar.

Matthew left his seat to intercept him. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you urgently. I’ve already bought you a drink. It’s at the table.” He took Stuart by the elbow and led him away from the bar.

Stuart was slightly irritated by Matthew’s insistence, but he was in a good humour, as he had been left on his own for a couple of hours. Bertie had been returned safely from Paris that afternoon and had been dragged off for a specially-arranged session with Dr Fairbairn. The psychotherapist had been asked to determine whether there was any psychological trauma that might result from the experience of being left in Paris; Irene was of the view that early identification of trauma helped to reduce its long-term impact. And anything could have happened in Paris; anything. In fact, Bertie had enjoyed himself immensely, and had felt his heart sink when he returned to the hotel after the Sorbonne lecture to discover his mother, and several French policemen, waiting for him. The sight of the policemen had not worried him, but the realisation that his mother had come to take him home had filled him with such despair that he had burst into tears. This had been interpreted by Irene as a sign of trauma.

“My wee boy’s just come back from Paris,” Stuart remarked conversationally, as they went over to Matthew’s table. “He went over there with an orchestra. Then they somehow managed to…”

“Oh yes,” said Matthew, without any real interest. “Good.”

They sat down and Matthew got straight to the point. “You said you knew somebody in Glasgow who might get Eddie to pay Lou back,” he said. “Any progress?”

Stuart smiled. “Steady on,” he said. “It was just an idea.”

“But you do know somebody?” Matthew pressed.

“Yes,” said Stuart. “I do.”

“Well can we go and see him right now?” said Matthew, looking at his watch. “We could get the six o’clock from Waverley if we rush.”

“But hold on,” said Stuart. “I’m not sure if I want to go to Glasgow tonight.”

Matthew looked at him pleadingly. “Please,” he said. “A lot depends on this.”

Stuart sighed. “I’ve just got back from work. I don’t want to sit in a train…”

“We’ll take a taxi,” said Matthew. “I’ll pay for the whole thing. Taxi there. Taxi back. Same taxi–I’ll pay the waiting time. Let’s just do it.”

Stuart studied Matthew’s expression for a few moments and realised that he was desperate. He remembered, too, how he had felt when he had heard the story of Big Lou having her money effectively stolen. If he really disapproved, then he should have the courage of his convictions and do something, rather than just talk. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get up to Waverley. It’ll be quicker by train.”

They caught a taxi at the end of Cumberland Street and just made the six o’clock train. As the train drew out of town, Matthew looked out into the gathering darkness of the late autumn evening. There were clusters of light here and there, and beyond them the dark shape of the hills. That was what the world is like, he thought: a dark place, with small clusters of light here and there, where there is justice and concord between men.

A man came through with a trolley and at Stuart’s request poured them each a cup of tea. Matthew paid, and they sat back in their seats with the scalding tea before them. The man at the trolley was good-natured. “There you are, boys,” he said, handing them little cartons of milk to go with their tea. “That’ll keep you going over there in Glasgow. You’ll no get ony tea over there!” He smiled at them, and they smiled back. On these small kindnesses, thought Matthew, is everything built. And Scotland was good at that, for all its faults. People were, on the whole, kind, and they were particularly kind in Glasgow, he remembered. Of course one would get tea over there!

“Stuart, tell me about this man we’re going to see,” Matthew said. “What’s he like?”

Stuart smiled. “You’ll be able to tell that he doesn’t come from Edinburgh,” he said.

100. Grey over Riddrie

Grey over Riddrie, thought Stuart as the train wound its way through Glasgow, just short of Queen Street Station. Grey over Riddrie…and then? Something about the clouds. The clouds piled up…Yes, that was it. That was the first line of Edwin Morgan’s poem about King Billy, a Glasgow gang leader who had one of those showy funerals which brought out all the hard men, the troops, the foot-soldiers of ancient gang battles. He thought about the haunting poem each time he saw Riddrie, and remembered, too, how he had learned of it in his final year at school. It had been read out in class by the English teacher and there had been a complete silence when he came to the end, so powerful was its effect. And now, all these years later, here he was going to see just such a man, although Lard O’Connor was not quite King Billy. They were distinguished by a small matter of religious affiliations, apart from anything else.

Matthew and Stuart had only to wait a few minutes for a taxi and then set off for the Dumbarton Road. Stuart could not remember Lard O’Connor’s precise address, but he had no difficulty in describing the small cul-de-sac where he and Bertie had first made Lard’s acquaintance.

The taxi driver knew immediately. “That’ll be Lard O’Connor’s place, then?” he asked.

Stuart was somewhat taken aback by this, and resorted to his civil service language in reply. “That would appear to be the case,” he said. “Assuming that this Lard O’Connor to whom you refer is…”

“Listen, Jim,” said the taxi driver. “There’s only one Lard O’Connor, see? And that’s this Lard O’Connor. He’s your man. You owe him money, then?”

“Of course not,” said Stuart tetchily.

“There’s lots of folks do,” said the driver. “Lard’s very easy on the loans. But not so easy if you don’t pay him back like.”

“You could say the same thing for the banks,” said Stuart.

“Aye,” said the taxi driver, “but they don’t have enforcers.”

“Yes they do,” chipped in Matthew. “They call them solicitors.”

“You trying to be funny, son?” asked the taxi driver. “Because I’m no laughing.”

They travelled in silence for a while. Then the taxi driver, appearing to relent slightly on his shortness with Matthew, asked: “So if you don’t owe Lard money, then do you mind my asking why you’re going to see him? It’s just that you don’t look like the typical boys that go to see Lard. No offence, but you’re not…Know what I mean?”

“We want Lard’s help,” said Stuart, “on a private matter.”

The driver glanced in his mirror. “I hope you two can look after yoursels. That’s all I’m going to say.”

The rest of the journey was completed in silence, and they soon drew up in front of Lard’s front door. Of course they had no idea as to whether he was going to be in, and the whole trip could well have been in vain, but they saw, with relief, that there were lights on.

“He’s in,” said Stuart. “Look, his lights are on.”

“That means nothing,” said the taxi driver. “If you’re Lard O’Connor you never pit your lights oot. There’s too many people want to pit them oot for you. So you never pit them oot. Know what I mean?”

Matthew paid the taxi driver and they walked up Lard’s short front path to knock on the door. At first there was no reply, and so they knocked again. A third knock brought sounds of activity within and the door, still restrained by a heavy security chain, was inched open.

“Well!” exclaimed a voice from the other side of the door. “If it isn’t my friend Stewie and…and who’re you?”

“This is a friend of mine,” said Stuart. “You haven’t met him, Lard, but he’s OK.” Stuart was not sure that this was the right thing to say, but he had heard people say it in several films, and so he decided that he should say it too.

It appeared to work. There was a metallic sound in the hall on the other side, and then the door was opened entirely. Lard stood there, a great Munro of a man, wearing a collarless shirt, a pair of shapeless black trousers and scuffed leather slippers. In spite of his efforts not to stare, Matthew could not help but gaze in wonderment at the substantial Glaswegian, his stomach hanging over the leather belt that struggled to hold up his trousers.

“Now then, Stewie,” said Lard, as he led them through to the sitting room at the back of the house. “How’s my friend, wee Bertie? He’s a great wee fellow that one, sure he is. Wasted over in Edinburgh. You should send him over here to get a good education. Hutchie’s, or somewhere like that. I could have a word with them and make sure they found a place for him.”

“That’s very kind of you, Lard,” said Stuart. “But he’s very happy where he is.”

“Pity,” said Lard. “The problem with Edinburgh is attitude, know what I mean? All those airs and graces like. You don’t want wee Bertie growing up to be like you fellows, Stewie, do you?”

“Hah!” said Stuart. “That’s very funny, Lard!”

Lard turned round. “It wisnae meant to be funny, Stewie.”

“Well, maybe not,” said Stuart. “But the whole point of our visit, Lard, is to ask your help. To ask for a favour.”

“Aye, that’s what everybody wants,” sighed Lard. “But you tell me what you have in mind.”

So Matthew explained about Big Lou and her predicament, and at the end of his explanation Stuart wondered whether Lard might perhaps be prepared to have a word with Eddie about returning the money and tearing up the business agreement.

Lard thought for a moment. “She sounds like a good wummin, this Big Lou. I don’t like to hear about ungentlemanly behaviour towards good wummin.”

“So you think you might be able to help?” asked Matthew eagerly.

“I’ll go over and have a word with this Eddie,” said Lard. “Me and my boys might just give him a wee warning. Just threaten to rain on his parade. It usually works, particularly with characters like this Eddie, who sounds a wee bit sketchy to me, know what I mean?”

“But you won’t do anything actually illegal, will you?” asked Stuart.

Lard smiled. “I never do anything didgy-dodgy, Stewie. You know me better than that.”

On the way back on the train, Matthew turned to Stuart and said: “What a charming man Mr O’Connor is.”

To which Stuart replied: “Helpful, too.”