Quintin Jardine - For The Death Of Me

‘Tell her not to, will you? I remember when you and Jan turned sixteen, I decided that my prime responsibility as a father was to make damn sure you knew about the importance of contributing to the profits of London Rubber, then put my trust in your good sense. Christ, what else was I to do? Throw buckets of water over the pair of you?’

I smiled, although he didn’t fully understand why. ‘That wouldn’t have done a hell of a lot of good,’ I confessed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already had that discussion with Jonny. Told him to buy in bulk, to cut down the chances of being spotted in Boots by some loose-tongued friend of Ellie’s or of his girl’s mum. I reckoned that Harvey was a bit new on the scene to be expected to handle that one.’

‘Harvey will never be able to handle that one. Nice guy when you get to know him, but I don’t think he was ever sixteen.’ He paused. ‘You know, you’re a bloody good uncle; make sure you’re as good a dad.’

‘Susie says I’m doing all right.’ I changed the subject. ‘Speaking of my brother-in-law, he’s invited me to lunch tomorrow, in the New Club.’

‘That’s a bit daring on his part. I didn’t think they let actors in there. What’s that about?’

‘I don’t think it’s about anything other than being friendly.’

‘Nah, son, Harvey being friendly is him taking you for a pint or, rather, you taking him but him insisting on buying. When he invited me to the New Club it was to ask me if it was okay to marry Ellie.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘A major-occasion venue, is it? What could that be? You don’t think my sister’s up the duff, do you?’

‘What was that?’ Ellie barked, from the doorway.

Happily she found the idea laughable. It was also inconceivable (a nice play on words, if I may say so): I had forgotten that after Colin’s birth her marriage had been in such a sad and sorry state that she had decided to have herself sterilised. She had suggested to Alan Sinclair, her first husband, that he might have a vasectomy but he had chickened out.

When she developed an infection after the procedure and became pretty seriously ill, I offered to vasectomise him myself, with the garden shears. I’d never liked Alan, but that incident pretty much put an end to our relationship. When Ellie decided to bin the tosser, I couldn’t have been happier.

Harvey January was a different sort altogether. My dad and I had raised four eyebrows between us when he first appeared on the scene. He’s a lawyer, and not just any old lawyer but a Queen’s Counsel, so we were concerned that she had picked on another work-obsessed, boring stuffed shirt just like Mr Sinclair. When we spent some time getting to know him, we found we were wrong. Harvey’s actually a shy bloke for a lawyer. (I know, I didn’t think it was possible, either.) But he’s in no way boring, and his shirt doesn’t have anything in it but himself; he wears tee-shirts on Sundays just like the rest of us. Learning to play golf, on my advice (or at last taking the game up: it will be a long learning curve for him) was the clincher. My dad takes the view that all golfers are inherently okay; I don’t agree with that, but it got Harvey’s feet well under Mac the Dentist’s table. It worked with his potential step-sons too: Jonny takes a certain unspoken pleasure from giving a QC a shot a hole. . including the par threes. . and still taking a golf ball a round off him, while Colin’s chuffed that he doesn’t get any shots when they play. (That won’t last long, though: Colin’s an improver and he’s passing him by.) To top it all off, he loves my sister and lavishes attention, and as much money as she will allow, upon her.

My dad was right about the New Club invitation, though: very strange that he should choose to take me, an actor, of all people, brother-in-law or not, to one of the most formal settings in Edinburgh. I’d been there once before, a guest at a reception organised by Clark Gow: no, that’s not a person, it’s an accountancy firm. They’re our tax advisers, Susie’s and mine, and one of their Scottish partners is a member. It’s located in a reasonably modern, if formidably ugly, building on Princes Street, but that has nothing to do with the name. That goes back, I suppose, to the days in the eighteenth century when it really was new. Most of contemporary Edinburgh doesn’t know that it’s there, but that doesn’t matter, because most of contemporary Edinburgh wouldn’t aspire to membership. (To be honest, my impression is that if they did, they wouldn’t have a cat’s chance in hell.)

At the appointed hour, twelve thirty, I pressed the buzzer at the anonymous, unimpressive door (it cost me a quid, dropped in the can of the beggar over whom I had to step to reach it), announced myself as a guest of Mr January, and was admitted. (Actually it had cost me more than that quid. When I had left Monaco I’d travelled light, so I’d had to visit Edinburgh’s other Harvey, Nichols, to pick up some appropriate clothing. It wouldn’t have done for me to embarrass my brother-in-law.)

He was waiting for me in the foyer when I reached the top of the stair, in the three-piece outfit that is the advocate’s uniform. He wore a striped shirt, his badge of professional rank. It’s true: in that historic but strange institution, the Faculty of Advocates, junior counsel traditionally have worn plain shirts while seniors have always worn stripes. It’s all changing, of course, as more and more women reach QC status. (Those who swore that such a thing would only happen over their dead bodies have all now passed on to that state. I wonder if they look up as the black high heels step over them: bet they do, the dirty old sods.)

He walked me through to the lounge for a pre-lunch drink, which in my case was a John Panton. . ginger beer and lime with a dash of angostura, named after the famous golfer who’s credited with inventing it. Harvey had a La Ina sherry, chilled.

We made small-talk for a while as we looked out of the picture window, across Princes Street to the castle, its skyline altered by the scaffolding stands that would seat the crowds at the following month’s military tattoo. Harvey was as relieved as the rest of us at my dad’s progress, and as pleased when I told him about Carol Salt’s installation as locum, and about Mac the Dentist’s agreement to become just plain Mac for the rest of his days.

I found myself asking him how he was settling into fatherhood or, at least, the step variety.

‘I’m astonished,’ he confessed, ‘how much I’m enjoying it. There was never any prospect of children in my first marriage. I was too busy, and my wife had other priorities in her life. I know I’ve missed a large chunk of it, the early years, but at any stage it’s great to watch children and become a part of their lives.’

‘Better not let Jonny hear you call him a child,’ I advised him. ‘He thinks of himself as an adult, these days.’

‘He’s starting to behave like it too. Between you and me, his mother’s becoming a bit concerned that he should be properly prepared for manhood, and the responsibility that it brings with it: duty of care and all that, you know what I mean. With his girl-friend being seventeen, Ellen thinks I should. .’

I had to laugh. ‘Harvey, all due respect, but I can’t think of anyone less qualified for that task. Tell Ellie not to worry, the job’s done.’

He looked at me gratefully. ‘Thanks, Oz. I should have known, for that lad worships the ground you walk on.’

It’s true that there’s a special bond between Jonny and me, but I try to discourage worship. After all, I’m a bit of a false god, as you know. ‘Don’t underrate your own influence on him, Harvey. He asked me what I think of the law as a profession.’