Alexander Smith - Unbearable Lightness of Scones

“Emma.”

“Emma who?” asked Nick.

“Emma Watsonian.”

There was a brief silence. Then the camera was lowered and Nick beamed back at Bruce. “Emma Watsonian? That’s really funny, Bruce. Oh, I can hear it. I’m a Watsonian. Emma Watsonian. Oh, that’s really great, Bruce.” He paused. “The old jokes are always the best, aren’t they?”

Bruce frowned.

“Hold it!” shouted Nick. “Hold that expression. Great. Just great. That’s the face of Scotland being serious. Thinking about the environment, maybe. Or wave power. Stick the chin out a bit more – great – that’s the face of Scotland thinking about those new power generating thingies you stick at the bottom of the sea so that the currents move the doodahs and the power comes surging out to charge all our Scottish iPods. That’s it. Great.”

The shutter clicked a few more times and then Nick straightened up and lowered the camera. “Have a break now, Bruce,” he said. “This is going really well.”

“You’re pleased?”

“Ecstatic,” said Nick. “I’ll show them these tomorrow, just to whet their appetites, and they’ll go wow, totally wow! Give us more of that face! Give us more! More!”

“So where have you been?” asked Big Lou. “Everyone seems to have been away. Matthew. You. The place has been deserted.”

“Matthew is on his honeymoon,” said Angus, directing Cyril to his accustomed place under the table. “And I have been painting. However, here I am now and ready to bring you up-to-date. So, fire away.”

“How are your dug’s puppies?”

Angus waved airily, for the second time that morning. “They’ve found a home. I’m sure that they are in very good spirits.” He did not want to prolong this conversation and so changed the subject. “You may recall that Domenica lost a tea-cup, a blue Spode teacup…?”

But Big Lou was not to be diverted. “A home? Where? All together?”

“I believe so,” said Angus. “Now this blue Spode teacup…”

“Who in their right mind would take six puppies?” asked Big Lou. Then she laughed. “You didn’t sell them to a restaurant, did you, Angus?”

Angus looked down at the floor. Then he looked at Cyril, who was looking into the space immediately before his nose. That was the place where, on normal days, Matthew’s ankles were to be found, and Cyril was wondering where they were. There was something missing.

“What are you reading, Big Lou?” he asked, gesturing to a book lying open on the coffee bar.

Big Lou tipped coffee beans into the grinder. “Excuse the noise, Angus. There we go. That book? It’s about how to behave. How to write a letter to the Moderator or the Lord Provost. That sort of thing.”

Angus laughed. “Do you really need to know that sort of thing, Lou? Why would you need to write to the Moderator?”

“You never know,” said Lou.

“I suppose not.” Angus reached across for the book and began to page through it. His attention was caught, and when Lou turned round he was studying a double-page spread with considerable interest.

“See,” said Lou. “You’re finding it interesting too.”

Angus tapped the open page with a forefinger. “This is the table of precedence in Scotland. Have you looked at it yet?”

Big Lou shook her hand. “I’m working my way through from the beginning. And I’m only as far as how to write letters.”

“Well, this is wonderful stuff,” said Angus. “It goes all the way down to 122. From number 1 – the monarch, of course – down to 122. Gentlemen. That’s me, I suppose. I’m at the bottom, Lou, and so are you, in the ladies’ table – you have a separate one, Lou, like a separate changing room. Mind you, Cyril’s probably even lower. 123 should be for dogs.”

“They could have a table of precedence just for dogs,” suggested Lou. “Useful dogs at the top and then dogs like Cyril at the bottom.”

Angus ignored the taunt. “This is fascinating stuff,” he said. “Did you realise that a Sheriff Principal ranks just below the Lord Lieutenant of a county, but only when he’s in his sheriffdom? When he’s not in his sheriffdom he ranks much lower. And the First Minister – do you know where he ranks? Number twenty. Which is just above the Lord High Constable of Scotland, who ranks twenty-third. That’s the Earl of Erroll. Still going strong, I see, at number twenty-three. Erroll was at Flodden, but I suppose that would have been another one, his father, perhaps. And look, Lou, the Lord Justice General is only thirty-sixth! And they put him below – below, Lou! – below the younger sons of dukes. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous! And what about this, Lou. The Lord Lyon, King of Arms, is seventy-first, which is not much better than the position of Commanders of the Order of the British Empire, who are eighty-first. Now they should be much, much higher, Lou. There’s no doubt about that. And the same goes for the Lord Lyon. He should be right up there near the top. Surprising that he isn’t, of course, given that he probably draws this list up. But there you have the difference, Lou. The Lord Lyon is not like your pushy younger sons of dukes, who look after themselves. He stands back and says, ‘I think I’ll be seventy-first.’ How’s that for gentlemanliness, Lou?”

Angus suddenly gave a whoop of delight. “But look at this, Lou! I bet you never knew this. Guess who’s at number 120? Queen’s Counsel. That’s not so good, Lou, is it? That’s just one above so-called esquires (lairds, I suppose) and only three above dogs! Not such good news for all those chaps up at Parliament House with their strippit breeks. By the time they get to the sandwiches at the Garden Party all the best ones will be gone, Lou. Only a few bits of soggy cucumber for them! Lord Erroll will get pretty good sandwiches at number 23, of course, and the Duke of Argyll will be all right at number 24. He’ll be able to help himself to as many sandwiches as he likes. Which is reassuring. Except for people called Macdonald; you know how they refuse to forget the past.”

Big Lou finished with her coffee beans. “Did you say something, Angus?”

Angus looked up. “No, not really, Lou. Just talking to myself.”

“Well, you know what they say about that,” said Lou, sliding Angus’s cup of coffee over the bar towards him.

“Oh, I know,” said Angus wearily. “But who do I have to talk to otherwise, Lou? I talk to Cyril, of course, but he’s heard it all before. I suppose there’s Domenica, but she sits there while I’m talking and looks at me as if I’m of purely anthropological interest. And you, Lou; you’re a good listener. You let me talk.”

“Haud yer wheesht,” said Lou.

“No, you do, Lou. You’re very good.”

“Wheesht,” repeated Lou. “Drink your coffee, or it’ll get cold.”

Angus sipped at his coffee, and smiled at Big Lou. “How’s that man of yours, Lou. Robbie? Is he still doing away?”

Big Lou was wiping the surface of the bar with a cloth. At the mention of Robbie’s name, she began to wipe more vigorously. Angus noticed this.

“Is everything all right, Lou?” he asked. “You would tell me if anything…”

“Oh, Robbie’s fine,” said Big Lou. But then, almost immediately, “No, he’s not. I’m worried, Angus. I’m worried sick.”

“You tell me,” said Angus. “You’ve always been there for all of us, Lou. Now we must be there for you. Sorry to use a cliché, but there are times when clichés are just right, and this, I suspect, is one of them.”