Unbearable Lightness of Scones

36. Watson the Watsonian

Watson Cooke occupied a first-floor flat in Clarence Street. His front door, recently painted with a thick black gloss paint, had a small brass plate on it on which “Watson Cooke” had been engraved. To the right of the door, a folded piece of paper had been stuck, which, when unfolded and read by Bruce, bore the message: “Watson, Please don’t forget to put Nancy’s rubbish out on Wednesday, bearing in mind that she won’t be back from Brussels until Friday. You’re a trouper. Thanks, Kirsty.”

Bruce refolded and replaced the scrap of paper. So Watson Cooke was a trouper. And where exactly does he troupe? He reached for the old-fashioned bell and gave it a firm tug; too firm in fact, as he heard the bell chime loudly at the same time as he felt the wire within give way. This released the brass bell-pull lever, which flopped uselessly out of its housing. Quickly he pushed the end of the wire back in and tried to stuff the lever back; to no avail. Then the door opened.

A tall well-built young man, somewhere in his late twenties, stood in the doorway in front of Bruce.

“Watson?” asked Bruce, stretching out a hand. “I’m Bruce Anderson.”

Watson looked at Bruce and frowned. He seemed puzzled. “Oh, Bruce… Yes.” He glanced at the protruding bell-pull. “No, don’t touch that again. I’ll get it fixed.”

Bruce realised that further explanation was necessary. “I’m Julia’s…”

Watson’s frown deepened. “Did Julia…?” He turned to face the hall, where several people were standing, drinks in hand.

“You are expecting me, aren’t you?” Bruce asked. “Julia said that there was a party.”

Watson now smiled. “Yes, there is. Of course. Come in… Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Bruce.”

“Oh. Right. Well, come in. No, just leave the bell, I can get it fixed. The party’s just started. Julia’s through in the kitchen, I think.” He gestured towards the back of the hall and then, as Bruce entered, closed the door behind him.

“Nice place…” Bruce began, but Watson had walked away and begun to talk to a group near the door to what looked like a sitting room. Nice welcome, thought Bruce, mentally rehearsing what he would say to Julia. Your friend, Watson, made me feel seriously bienvenu, n’est ce pas… He moved in the direction indicated by his host and looked through the kitchen door. Julia was there, alone, arranging savoury crackers on a plate. She looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are, Brucie.” She flicked a strand of hair from her forehead. “Great party, isn’t it?”

Bruce moved over to stand beside her. He looked down at the crackers. Was this the best that Watson Cooke could do when it came to snacks? “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve just arrived.”

“Well it is,” said Julia, returning to her task. “It’s really great. Watson has some very interesting friends.”

Bruce’s lips twisted down at the edges. “Yes, sure. And the dinner?”

“A really nice restaurant. Watson knew the chap who owned it.”

“Oh, did he?” Bruce sneered.

“Yes. He did.”

“And who was there?” Bruce asked.

Julia hesitated, only for the briefest moment, but Bruce noticed. “A friend of Watson’s. And me. That’s all.”

Bruce knew immediately that she was lying. He reached for a can of beer that was on the table and opened it. He looked out of the window behind her. It was still light, and he could see the roofs of the street behind; a man standing at a window, the sky above, the last of the evening sun on the clouds. She was lying to him, and he knew at that moment that there was something between her and Watson Cooke. It had never occurred to him that she would even contemplate looking at another man when she had him, but she had. And she had looked at Watson Cooke.

He turned away. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Then he left the kitchen and went back into the hall. He did not see how Julia reacted; he did not want to look at her.

Watson Cooke was not in the hall, and so Bruce went through to the sitting room. There were about twenty people in the room, some sitting, some standing. The room was a large one and so there was no sense of its being overcrowded. One or two people looked at Bruce as he entered and one young woman, standing near the door, smiled at him. Bruce ignored her.

“Watson?”

Watson Cooke looked round. “Oh. Yes. Hi.” He turned to the man he had been talking to and introduced Bruce. “Sorry, what was your name again?”

Bruce grinned. “Bruce. I told you.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, sorry about that.” He gestured to his head. “One game of rugby too many. Memory gets a bit mixed up in the rucks.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Rugby? Do you play these days?”

The man to whom Watson Cooke had been talking now smiled. “Watson has a Scottish cap.”

Bruce swallowed. “Oh…”

“Only the Scottish schoolboy squad,” said Watson modestly. “I played against Ireland at Lansdowne Park. We won, actually.”

“But you almost got into the Scottish squad a couple of years later,” said the other man. “Come on, Wattie. No false modesty.” He turned to Bruce. “He captained Watson’s when he was at school. Then he played for Watsonians.”

Bruce took a sip from his can of beer. “You were a Watsonian, Watson?”

Watson had not been listening. “What?”

“You played for Watsonians?”

“Yes. Watson’s. Then Watsonians.”

There followed a silence. Then Watson asked, “Do you play, Bruce?”

Bruce felt the moist cold of the beer can against his hand. “Used to,” he said. “But these days, you know how it is.”

“Injured?” asked Watson.

“Engaged,” said Bruce.

Nobody said anything. Bruce had been avoiding Watson’s eyes; now he looked up and saw that his host was staring at him. “Is she here?” Watson asked.

Bruce felt his heart beating wildly within him. Watson Cooke was taller than he was. “In the kitchen, actually. Julia. You know her, don’t you? You had dinner with her tonight.” He held Watson Cooke’s gaze. I’m in the right here, thought Bruce. He’s the one who should be feeling it.

The other man present, sensing the undercurrent of feeling, shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I must get myself another drink,” he said, and turned away.

Watson continued to stare at Bruce. “What position did you play?” he asked.

“I said that I was engaged. Engaged to Julia.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, sure. I heard you. But you said that you played rugby. Who did you play for?”

“Morrison’s,” muttered Bruce.

“We beat them,” said Watson Cooke. “Watson’s beat Morrison’s. Always.”