Espresso Tales by Alexander McCall Smith
Betty took a sip of her coffee. “And I remember it very well too, my darling. You were twenty-five because I remember–very clearly indeed in my case–going to your twenty-sixth birthday party, and I couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t already met you. You don’t normally go to the birthday parties of people you have yet to meet, do you?”
Ramsey laid down the sheaf of papers. “That party–and I was going to say something about it in the memoirs–was not my twenty-sixth. It was my twenty-fifth. I did not celebrate my twenty-sixth because–if you cast your mind back–I had tonsillitis and was having my tonsils removed in the Royal Infirmary! I remember getting a card from the office wishing me a speedy recovery, and a happy birthday too. It was signed by the senior partner, and I kept it. I was very pleased to have received it.”
Betty pursed her lips. For a moment it seemed as if she was about to speak, but then she did not.
“I suggest that we stop arguing,” said Ramsey. “If you’re going to find fault with my memoirs on matters of detail, then I’m not sure if it will be at all productive to read them to you.”
Betty sprang to her own defence. “I was not finding fault, as you put it. I was merely wanting to keep the historical record straight. These things are important. Imagine what the world would be like if memoirs were misleading. You have to be accurate.”
“And I am being accurate,” retorted Ramsey. “I’m checking every single fact that I commit to paper. I’ve been consulting my diaries, and they are very full, I’ll have you know. I’ve gone down to George IV Bridge to make sure that everything I say about contemporary events is true. I am being very historical in all this.” He paused, and then added peevishly: “I don’t want to mislead posterity, Betty.”
Betty thought for a moment. She was certain that she was right about the birthday being the twenty-sixth rather than the twenty-fifth, but she felt that she should let it be, even if it was a serious mistake on her husband’s part. “Of course you don’t want to mislead, Ramsey,” she said placatingly. “Let’s not discuss it any further. Twenty-five, twenty-six–it’s very much the same thing. You carry on, dear. I’m listening.”
Ramsey Dunbarton picked up the sheaf of papers again and cleared his throat. “I was now twenty…somewhere in my mid-twenties. I had recently finished my years as an apprentice lawyer and had been admitted to the Society of Writers to Her Majesty’s Signet. This was a great honour for me, as this entitled me to put the letters WS after my name. I lost no time, I must admit, in having new notepaper printed and cards too. I was proud of the new letters, and I must admit that I became very impatient with people who affected not to know what WS stood for. (One of these people even had the gall to ask whether I was a water surveyor!) ‘If you live in Edinburgh,’ I would point out, ‘you should know these things. Wouldn’t you expect a Roman to know what the Swiss Guard is?’
“This question often silenced people, and I hope that they were sufficiently chastened to go home and look the abbreviation up. I did not want to embarrass anybody, of course, and one should be slow to point out to others their ignorance. But there are limits, and I think that ignorance of the meaning of WS is one of them.
“One very important feature of the WS Society is that it’s always mainly been for lawyers working in Edinburgh firms, and not every Edinburgh firm at that. There may be some members who have their practices elsewhere–even in places like Pitlochry–but in such cases it is perfectly obvious that they are really Edinburgh types. This is as it should be, as the Society has its premises here in Edinburgh and was founded by Edinburgh lawyers for themselves and nobody else. Lawyers from Glasgow have their own societies and are welcome to join those, if they wish–and I’m sure that some of these societies are perfectly respectable and worthwhile organisations, although I do not know for certain. So I have usually had very little time for those who question our important institutions, such as the WS Society or the Royal Company of Archers, for that matter. These people are usually jealous and would soon change their tune if they were to be admitted to membership of one of these bodies.
“I was now working as an assistant in the firm of Ptarmigan Monboddo, which was a very highly-regarded Edinburgh legal firm. There were eight partners and three assistants, of whom I was one. I was told by my principal, the late Mr Fergus Monboddo, that if I played my cards right I could expect to be assumed into the partnership within five years. It was possible, he said, to become a partner rather earlier than that, but if I wanted to achieve that I would have to marry one of the senior partner’s daughters, and that, he said, was asking too much. I think that this was meant to be a joke, but I thought that it was in very bad taste, and I was surprised that a partner in an Edinburgh firm would speak in this way. I later discovered that Mr Monboddo only said things like that when he had had a small glass of sherry, and so I learned to distinguish between those things that were said in all seriousness and those that were not. I have always taken the view that one should never hold against a man anything that he says after twelve o’clock at night or after a glass or two of something.
“I had no desire to marry the senior partner’s daughter, as it happened, because I had just met the woman whose hand I was determined to obtain. This was my dear wife, Betty, to whom I have been married for many happy years. Although it is a long time ago now, I remember very vividly the day we met, which was in the Brown Derby tea room on Princes Street. That was the most important day of my life, I think, and I hardly dare contemplate what might have happened had I not gone there on a whim and met the person who was to transform my life.”
Betty smiled at this. It was so kind of him, so gallant. And yet he was wrong again, she feared. It had not been the Brown Derby, it had been Crawford’s. But she did not have the heart to correct him again, and so she nodded brightly and urged him to continue. Their courtship had been a passionate one, and she wondered whether he was going to say anything about that!
38. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 2–Courting Days
“Those were very special days,” read Ramsey Dunbarton. “I knew almost immediately that this was the girl I wished to marry, but in those days one had to go through a good deal of courting before one felt it right to pop the question. Of course I knew some people who got engaged very quickly, but they were usually rather fast types, and although I considered myself adventurous, I would not have described myself as fast.
“We used to go to the cinema, to the Dominion in Church Hill, and sometimes to the Playhouse, where there was a splendid cinema organ. This rose out from under the floor with the organist sitting at the keyboard, playing for all he was worth. It was a splendid sight, and I think that it contributed in no little way to the romance of those occasions. They had newsreels then, of course, and we would come away from the cinema not only entertained but also informed about current affairs. It would be no bad thing if they reintroduced newsreels in the cinemas, but I suspect that people would just laugh or pay no attention. Nobody is serious about these things any more.
“Another favourite outing of ours was to Cramond, where we went for walks when the weather was fine. It was very romantic down at Cramond in those days and there were many courting couples who went there in search of a place to be alone and to talk about the future. Betty and I used to like walking along the shore, watching the oyster catchers and other sea-birds. We would also watch ships in the Forth, heading out from Rosyth or from Leith. In those days there was a passenger ship that came down from Kirkwall and Aberdeen, the St Rognvald. It was owned by the North of Scotland Orkney and Shetland Shipping Company and I once had the privilege of making a trip on that vessel. It had a beautiful panelled dining room. We also counted ourselves lucky if we saw the Pharos, which was the ship that the Northern Lighthouse Commissioners used to inspect their lighthouses. That was a beautiful ship. I myself would have loved to have been a Commissioner of the Northern Lighthouses, but I was never invited. That’s the problem with Edinburgh: to be a member of anything really
“There was also the Gardyloo, of course. That was the vessel that took the sewage sludge out from Edinburgh and dumped it in the Firth. It went out every day and came back a few hours later, somewhat lighter. Once, many years later–in the late nineteen-seventies, I think it was, we were back down walking at Cramond and we saw this ship. Betty pointed it out to me and asked me one day what I thought that strange boat was carrying. I replied that I thought that it brought in gravel from a quarry down near North Berwick. I knew that this was not true, but I could not tell her what was really going on. That is the only occasion on which I lied to Betty, and I later admitted it to her. She said that I had done the right thing, as it would undoubtedly have spoiled the romance of our walk if she had known what the real business of the Gardyloo was.
“Our romance blossomed, as I knew it would, and eventually Betty invited me to accompany her to Broughty Ferry, where her parents lived. We agreed to motor up there on a Sunday, have lunch with them and then travel back in time for dinner.
“I shall never forget that first meeting with Betty’s parents. It was daunting for any young man, of course, to have to meet the parents of his intended, and I felt pretty nervous as we went up to the front door of their house. Betty must have sensed my nervousness, because she patted me on the forearm and assured me that I was bound to like them. ‘Everybody likes them,’ she said. ‘They are very kind people.’
“And she was absolutely right. They made me feel immediately at home and seemed to know all about me and my career. Her father said that he liked lawyers and that he would have become a lawyer himself if he had not been required to take over the family business. This was a marmalade factory in Dundee–a business which his own father had set up on his return from Calcutta, where he had been an agent for a cousin’s jute firm.
“After lunch, the ladies withdrew and left Betty’s father and me in the dining room. We had talked about all sorts of things over the meal, but now the conversation seemed to dry up. I looked out of the window, hoping to see something on which I could pass comment, but there was nothing unusual to be seen. It was a large garden, full of rhododendra, but I could not think of anything to say about rhododendra. So I remained silent.
“Eventually, Betty’s father spoke. He looked at me for a moment, as if assessing me, and then he said: ‘What are your views on marmalade?’
“At first I was not sure how to reply. I liked marmalade, but I was not sure whether that was the nature of the question I had been asked.
“He must have sensed my confusion, as he fairly quickly explained his question. ‘What I mean,’ he said, ‘is this. Do you think that you could work in the marmalade business? That is, if anybody were to offer you a post in such a business.’
“I had not been prepared for this question. It seemed to me that he was sounding me out about my willingness to commit myself to their family business; this seemed a little bit premature, as I had not yet announced my intention of proposing to Betty. But I supposed that it was a wise move on his part. If he wanted to marry Betty off, then perhaps he thought that an early offer of a partnership in the business would prompt me to make a proposal. The more I thought of it, in fact, the more convinced I became that this is what he had in mind.
“Of course I had to be honest. I had nothing against the marmalade business, but I did not think I would wish to make my life in it. It is undoubtedly the sort of business that suits many people very well, but I liked the law and had worked hard to become a solicitor. I did not want to throw that all away just for the sake of marmalade.
“I explained to him that I thought that I would continue to practise law. He nodded, rather sadly, I thought, and told me that this was the answer he had expected. ‘We’re not the most exciting business in the world,’ he said. ‘But, you know something? I love it. I love every moment of it. Marmalade has been my life. It really has.’”
39. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 3–Further Highlights
“Betty and I were married in St Giles’, where my father was an elder. We then moved into our first matrimonial home, which was a terraced house at the end of Craiglea Drive, in Morningside. It was not a large house, but it suited us very well, as we were on the sunny side of the street and got the morning sunlight through our drawing-room windows. That meant, of course, that the garden, which was on the other side, did not get quite as much sun as I would have wished, and I think that is the real reason why we were to move six years later. I know that some people have suggested that it was because we thought that that end of Craiglea Drive was not quite ‘grand’ enough for us, but that really was not the case and I’m happy to have this opportunity to scotch those rumours.
“One of the main attractions of that house was the many pleasant walks which one could have in the vicinity. If one went to the end of the road and then turned right, and then left after that, one came quite quickly to the gates of Craig House. This was a splendid building which had been built as a hospital but which was more like a large country house. It had a splendid hall in which the patients could take formal meals on occasion, and very extensive grounds. Like many of the neighbours, I enjoyed the privilege of walking in those grounds, admiring the fine views. Betty and I spent many happy hours walking in those grounds when we lived in Craiglea Drive and when I drive past it today and reflect on those days I cannot help but feel a little bit sad. I think of those poor people who stayed there, and of all their unhappiness, and of how we used to look after people with rather greater dignity than we do today. In those days, if you were ill you were welcomed in the hospitals. You were made to feel comfortable and you were addressed by your full name. Today, the first thing they think of is how quickly they can get you out of there and then they put you in a ward with men and women all mixed up together, as if privacy did not matter. I sometimes reflect on what we have lost in our society and how it all happened. But then if I speak about this, people simply sneer and call me old-fashioned and conservative. Well, they are welcome to do that, but at least I can console myself with the knowledge that I always, always called people Mr so-and-so or Miss so-and-so and never presumed a familiarity with them to which they had not admitted me.
“When we left Craiglea Drive we came to the Braids, to the house in which we were to remain for many years, and where we still live. I am not a rolling stone; I like to gather moss. It suited us very well to live up here, with its good air and its fine views, and over the years we have established a remarkable garden. In fact, we once considered volunteering our garden for public admission under Scotland’s Gardens Scheme, but I hesitated to do something which some people around here might consider pushy, or pretentious. Most of the gardens opened to the public are fairly large ones, attached to substantial country houses, but there is still a place for the small, intimate garden which can be a real jewel if planned and tended with care and good taste.
“Betty was keen enough to open the garden to the public, but I eventually decided that it would not be wise. ‘One has to keep one’s head below the parapet,’ I said to her. ‘Put it above the parapet and people will take a pot shot at you.’
“She seemed surprised at this, and suggested that I was rather exaggerating the situation. Her nature is so sweet, I suppose, that she couldn’t imagine people behaving in a nasty way. But I had seen a lot of human nature and knew very well that there were people in the street who would be only too happy to have some excuse to pass hostile comments on me. I had already encountered it when I had proposed myself for membership of the local amenity association and had suggested that my legal expertise might be useful in dealing with any controversial plannin
“But some people are not interested in the public good; they are consumed by envy of anybody who might be just a little bit more enterprising than they are. I don’t wish to point any fingers politically, but I think that there might be one or two Scottish politicians who are perhaps a tiny bit guilty of harbouring such sentiments in their otherwise generous bosoms. But political sniping is not to my taste, and I shall say no more about that!
“Time passed remarkably quickly. Betty and I had no family, which was a disappointment to us, I know, and I would wish that it could have been otherwise. But we have been blessed in so many other ways that I do not wish to dwell on what we might have missed. We have had a fortunate life, Betty and I, and it has been packed with more than its fair share of excitement. I should like to share some of that with you, and tell you, in particular, of some of my exciting legal cases, of how I played the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre, of my racy friend Johnny Auchtermuchty, and of the occasion that I played bridge with no less a person than Angus, late Duke of Atholl.”
40. Bertie’s Plan Is Launched
As he made his way back to Scotland Street after his unfortunate experience in Dundas Street–unfortunate in the sense of having been stranded so ignominiously and terrifyingly in the middle of the traffic, yet fortunate in the sense of having been rescued by a well-known politician who happened to be walking up the hill at the time–Bertie felt utterly despondent. He had not hatched many plans in his brief life–his mother did his planning for him–and this scheme, with which he had been so pleased, had not even got off the ground. As he walked home, fingering the piece of chalk which he had in his pocket and which he had planned to use to leave a message for his proposed collaborator, Paddy, he decided that perhaps it was useless to rebel. It seemed to him that his mother would always outsmart him, whatever he tried to do, and she also had that powerful ally in the person of Dr Fairbairn. It was hopeless, thought Bertie, to attempt to take control of his life in the face of two such calculating opponents. Like a prisoner-of-war, he should perhaps just keep his head down and wait for the moment of liberation to come. That would be when he was eighteen, when Bertie understood that one became an adult and could leave home and behave as one wished. Once one was eighteen, then one could abandon crushed strawberry–coloured dungarees if one wished and wear whatever one liked. Bertie could hardly wait, and there were only twelve years to go.