Alexander Smith: Unbearable Lightness of Scones

Bertie looked down at the floor. He wanted only to play Kim’s Game; he did not want to discuss his mother. And it was then that Tofu, who had been sucking his cheeks in and out in a suspicious manner, suddenly spat at Olive, the spittle hitting her on the bridge of the nose, directly between the eyes. Had it been a bullet, it would have been a fatal shot.

Olive screamed and leapt to her feet, desperately wiping her face. Then she started to cry. Akela heard the commotion from the other end of the room and came running across to see what had happened. “Olive,” she cried, putting an arm around the sobbing girl. “Are you all right? What on earth happened?”

Between her sobs, Olive explained that Tofu had spat at her.

“Tofu!” said Akela. “What is this? Cubs do not spit. Nor do they fight.”

“She started it,” said Tofu. “She scratched me really badly. I had to defend myself, Akela.”

Nobody had seen the quick work Tofu had done with a safety pin that had been among the things on the tray. Now he held up his arm and showed Akela the thin, red line of blood that he had discreetly gouged with the point of the pin. Akela gasped. “Olive! Did you do that?”

Olive looked outraged. “I didn’t, Akela! I didn’t.”

Akela turned to Ranald Braveheart McPherson, who was watching the proceedings in astonishment. “Ranald? You tell me. Who started this?”

Ranald looked about in desperation. He glanced at Olive, who was glowering at him, and then at Tofu, who made a quick cutting motion across the front of his throat. Ranald made his choice. “Olive,” he said. “Olive started it, Akela.”

“There,” crowed Tofu. “I told you.”

Akela looked at Olive. “Now, Olive,” she said. “I’ve noticed that ever since you became the sixer, you’ve thrown your weight around. I’ve heard you criticising the boys. And now this. That is not the way I expect a sixer to act. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to demote you and appoint a new sixer.”

Olive stared in crumpled disbelief as Akela turned to the boys. “Now, one of you boys will have to be sixer.”

“Me,” said Tofu.

Akela shook her head. “Thank you for offering, Tofu, but I’m not sure that you’re quite ready for that. So I think I shall appoint you, Ranald. You be the sixer.”

Ranald Braveheart McPherson looked startled. He did not want high office, particularly with this group of unpredictable people; the only person he was not afraid of was Bertie. But there was to be no further discussion; Akela had returned to the other side of the room.

Those were the events that Bertie wanted to relate to his father, but it all seemed to him to be too recent, and so he kept silent as they walked along Forrest Road and then past the statue of Greyfriars Bobby.

“That’s a wonderful statue,” said Stuart. “You do know the story of that dog, don’t you, Bertie?”

Bertie nodded. Greyfriars Bobby had been a great dog; a loyal, true friend to his master. Loyalty, truth and friendship: those were the things that Bertie admired, and that he wanted to find in the world. But it seemed to him that they were qualities that were in short supply: desiderata that one could only hope would one day come into their own, find their place. Until then he had Tofu and Olive and his mother, and the rest of the imperfect world.

Matthew and Angus walked smiling into Big Lou’s café. They were slightly earlier than normal, and they found Big Lou, her sleeves rolled up, washing the floor with mop and pail. Cyril, who had entered the café discreetly, always being worried about being made by Big Lou to sit outside, slunk off to find his favourite spot under his master’s favourite chair. Big Lou, to his relief, ignored him.

“You’re looking very pleased with yourselves,” Lou said to the two men.

Matthew and Angus exchanged mutually congratulatory glances. “Well,” said Matthew, “there are occasions when one may feel a certain… how shall I put it? A certain satisfaction with the way things have worked out.”

Big Lou squeezed her mop into the pail. “You mean you’ve just sold a painting. For twice what it’s worth, no doubt.”

“Nothing as simple as that, Lou,” said Matthew.

“We have pulled off a major coup… for the nation,” said Angus. “Not that we wish to trumpet that from the rooftops. It’s just that you asked, Lou. And we’re telling you.”

Big Lou snorted. “I cannae imagine either of you doing anything for the nation,” she said.

Angus smiled. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Lou. Sorry to be the one to point it out, but you’re wrong.”

Big Lou picked up the pail and put it behind the counter before washing her hands at the sink. “You tell me all about it then, boys,” she said. “And I’ll let you know what I think of it.”

Angus and Matthew sat down at their table. “We’ll have scones with our coffee this morning, Lou,” Angus said. “A couple of those rather sturdy scones of yours, please.”

“Sturdy?” snapped Big Lou. “And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that they’re not perhaps the lightest of scones,” said Angus. “Not that I’m criticising you, Lou. It’s just that… well, those scones might go down well in Arbroath, but here in Edinburgh… people prefer, perhaps, a slightly lighter scone.”

“Nonsense,” said Lou. “Light scones are all air and nothingness. You can get your teeth into my scones.”

“A scone can never be too light,” said Angus. “Read the cookery books, Lou. They all say that.”

“Not where I come from,” retorted Lou. “But anyway, what’s this thing you’re so pleased about?”

Angus looked at Matthew, who indicated with a nod of his head that he should go on to tell the tale. “It’s all about Burns,” he said, “and a Raeburn portrait.”

He told Lou what had happened. Frankie O’Connor, younger brother of the late Lard O’Connor, had arrived from Glasgow, as he had threatened to do. Not only had he come, though, but so had two of his friends.

“You should have seen them, Lou,” said Matthew. “They were straight from Central Casting. Glasgow hoods. Frankie’s pals.”

Matthew went on to narrate how Frankie had shown no interest in seeing his brother’s painting, but had said he was perfectly willing to sell it for GBP 200. Matthew had readily agreed, but asked, as he paid, about the painting’s provenance.

“He claimed Lard had been given it in return for cutting a hedge,” he said. “Such a wonderful explanation that it may even have been true. There was no mention of the aunt in Greenock or Gourock or wherever it was.”

“Otherwise obtained,” said Angus. “As we thought.”

“So now?” asked Lou.

“Now we hand it over,” said Angus. “And the powers that be let us know if it’s on their list of stolen paintings. Nobody has come forward, so it probably isn’t. So it goes to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.”

As this conversation proceeded, Cyril dozed beneath the table. As a dog, human speech was a mystery to him – a babble of sounds that was so hard to interpret, no matter how hard he strained. Tone of voice, though, provided a key: when the sounds were low and constant, all was well; when the pitch was raised, something was happening, and that might have consequences for dogs. Then there were the few words he really did understand – words laden with meaning, from the canine point of view. “Walks,” that rich and promising word, was of immense importance in the canine vocabulary; a word that activated every pleasure centre in a dog’s brain. “Good dog,” a more complicated phrase, standing, in its complexity, at the very outer limits of canine understanding, as obscure as the rules of quantum physics. That two words should combine to produce a single meaning – that was the conceptual challenge for a dog. So the canine brain ignored the word “dog” as a superfluous complication, and focused, instead, on “good.”