Alexander Smith - Unbearable Lightness of Scones

“In another Raeburn?”

Angus stroked his chin. “I don’t know. Maybe. But take a look at it. It’s ceramic, probably Chinese, or possibly Western chinoiserie. Lowestoft, for example, did some very Chinese-looking things. It could be from one of the English potteries.”

Matthew leaned forward to examine the painting more closely, and as he did so, Cyril gave a growl. Somebody was at the door of the gallery, peering in. A man of bulk; of stature. A Glaswegian. Cyril could tell, and he growled.

“So youses have been looking efter ra picture?” Lard O’Connor said as he entered the gallery. Cyril growled again, and then lifted his head up and gave a bark.

“That’s your dug, isn’t it?” Lard said, looking at Cyril. “I seen you wi’ him last time, Angus? Remember? Up at that fancy chippie. That place doon the road.”

“Glass and Thompson,” said Angus. “Indeed you have. Cyril was with me when you brought the painting over.”

“Cyril?” asked Lard. “What sort of a name is that for a dug? Cyril! My weans have dugs, but I wouldnae let any o’ them call a dug Cyril! Cyril’s a name for…”

Lard hesitated, and glanced at Matthew. You never know in Edinburgh, he thought, and these days you had to be careful what you said.

“Well, be that as it may,” said Angus breezily, “as you can see, Mr. O’Connor, Matthew is back from Australia. From his honeymoon.”

Lard smiled. “Honeymoon?” he asked. “Did you get any sleep?”

Matthew smiled – nervously. “We were in Perth, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Perth’s in Scotland,” said Lard. “I was in…I knew some boys in the prison there. They’ve got a big prison up there.”

“Yes, I believe that’s true,” said Matthew. “But you were in Barlinnie, I assume…I mean, you must have known some boys in Barlinnie. Wrongly convicted, of course.”

Lard laughed. “They werenae wrangly convicted,” he said. “Naebody who’s in ra Bar-L is wrangly convicted! Their problem was that they couldnae get Mr. Beltrami to speak for them. If you get Mr. Beltrami, then you get your story across, know what I mean?”

“Very interesting,” said Matthew. “But, anyway, there’s a Perth in Australia. That’s where we were.”

Lard raised an eyebrow. “I ken fine that Perth’s in Australia,” he said, a note of irritation surfacing in his voice. “You think that just because…”

“Not at all,” said Angus quickly. “Now, listen, Mr. O’Connor, I think I can tell you something very interesting about this painting of yours.”

Lard gave Matthew a final warning look and transferred his gaze to Angus. “Oh yes? What’s it worth? Couple of hundred?”

Angus smiled. “Considerably more than that. Very considerably. If it’s what we think it is, then you’re looking at a very large sum of money, Mr. O’Connor. Many thousands.”

Lard was interested now. “Do you mind if I have a wee sit-doon?” he said. “Then you can tell me all about my… auntie’s picture.”

He lowered himself onto the chair that Matthew had drawn up for him. The chair was of solid construction, but under Lard’s weight, the strainers creaked.

“Your auntie?” asked Angus. “So that’s where the painting is from?”

“Aye,” said Lard. “My auntie doon in Greenock. My mamie’s sister so she was. Deid now. But she left me and my brothers all her wee knick-knacks, you know. She had some gallus stuff. China. A statue of the Virgin Mary this high from over in Knock. That went to the wumman who used to take her to church every Sunday. We would have offered it to Archbishop Conti, you know, if she hadn’t taken it.” He was now warming to his theme and continued, “And there was some Lladró. You know that stuff? A Lladró statue of a couple having a snog. I think that’s what it was called. Really good stuff. My auntie had an eye, you see.”

“Like Mr. Burrell,” interjected Matthew.

“Aye,” said Lard. “Exactly. Like Mr. Burrell hissel.”

Angus rubbed his hands together. “Well, that’s all very interesting,” he said. “We can come back to that issue a bit later on. The important thing is to decide what you want us to do with this painting. I take it that you want to sell it? Or is it of emotional value, having been your auntie’s?”

Lard looked up at the ceiling. “I think… I think I might just sell it,” he said. “I think that’s what my auntie would have wanted me to do. She knew that I liked to sell things.”

Matthew watched him as he spoke. It was difficult, he thought, not to smile while the lies were told.

Lard turned to Matthew. “You can sell it, son? We could go haufers. Or do you want to buy it yoursel? If you give me a good enough price, we can dae business together, nice and discreet, know what I mean?”

Angus glanced at Matthew. “But why should you worry about discretion, Mr. O’Connor? If it’s your auntie’s picture, as you tell us, than surely it doesn’t matter how it’s sold.”

“It’s my auntie’s memory,” said Lard angrily. “I wouldnae want everybody to know that I was selling my auntie’s picture. You know what like folk are.”

“Of course,” said Matthew. He looked at his watch. It was time for coffee and he wanted Lard O’Connor out of the gallery. If they went over to Big Lou’s then they could leave him there when the time came. “I suggest that the three of us leave the painting here – it will be perfectly safe- and go over to Big Lou’s for coffee. You’ll remember her, I think. Big Lou.”

Lard’s face brightened. “I remember her. That nice wumman. Aye, that’s a good idea, Matthew. We can tak a dander over there and talk aboot it a’.”

They left the gallery, the Raeburn having been safely stored in Matthew’s strongroom. Then with Angus and Cyril leading the way, followed by Lard, and then Matthew, they crossed Dundas Street towards the steps that led down to Big Lou’s coffee house. And that is where Lard fell. There, on the very steps on which the late Hugh MacDiarmid had once stumbled, Lard fell forward; fell past Angus, who was immediately ahead of him, hit the stone with his head, and tumbled like a great, broken rag-doll, down to the bottom of the basement.

Matthew looked down. The sun was slanting across the street and fell in soft gold on the inert body below. In that curious moment of clarity that follows disaster, that moment of silence when the din of an accident is replaced by the quiet that preceded it, he saw that the angle of Lard’s head in relation to his body was an unnatural one. Matthew saw, too, that the great sides of the fallen man, barely contained in the stretched fabric of his shirt, were not moving, as one would expect, if there was breath in the body. But there was none; just stillness.

Later, Matthew was to have only a blurred recollection of the events that came in the immediate aftermath of the collapse of Lard O’Connor. He remembered standing at the top of the steps that led down to Big Lou’s coffee bar; he remembered the sound of Lard’s head hitting the stone, a sort of sharp crack, like a piece of wood being broken; and he remembered finding himself down at Lard’s side, reaching for the great, heavy arm that was poking through the railings, and moving it to a more comfortable position. But Lard, by then, was beyond comfort.

For his part, Angus had a clearer memory of everything that happened, down to the smallest detail. He remembered the sound of Lard’s breathing as the Glaswegian visitor followed him down the steps. Angus remembered stopping and half-turning to explain to Lard that the steps were hazardous and that it was in this precise spot that Scotland’s most distinguished poet of the twentieth century had almost brought his literary career to a premature end. But he did not say any of this because, as he turned, he heard a strange sound emanating from Lard’s mouth – a choking sound; the sound of one struggling for breath.