Unbearable Lightness of Scones

70. Life, Death and the Road to the Isles

Matthew and Angus gave lengthy statements to the police. Photographs were taken, measurements made, chalk marks scratched on the steps to trace the overweight Glaswegian’s fatal plunge. And then the police, having been satisfied that they had all the necessary details, went on their way, leaving Matthew, Angus and Big Lou to comfort one another in the coffee bar.

At the end of an hour of going over what had happened, Big Lou announced that she did not wish to keep the coffee bar open that day. She wanted to go home, to recover from the shock. Matthew, looking at his watch, realised that he would have to go back to the gallery. The “Back Soon” notice was mildly misleading even on a normal day; now it was extremely so.

“Come and have lunch with me,” said Big Lou to Angus. “Come down to the flat. We can carry on talking there.”

This invitation was just what Angus wanted. He could not face going back to his own flat, to his empty studio; the witnessing of a tragedy, even a small one, makes us want the company of others, makes us want not to be alone.

“I’ll come,” he said to Big Lou.

They said goodbye to Matthew and began to make their way down Dundas Street towards Canonmills. Everything seemed so normal, so everyday, thought Angus, and yet only a few hours before they had seen a man snatched from this life without warning. In the midst of life we are in death. Angus remembered the words from the Book of Common Prayer – those grave, resonant words. “Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower…” Lard had been cut down like a flower, before his very eyes. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. That was as true of Lard as it was of anyone. Such powerful words – such true words; language – and life – stripped to its bare essentials.

He looked at Big Lou, walking beside him; at that solid, reliable woman who had suffered so much.

“I feel very raw inside,” he said to her. “I hardly knew him, but it’s been such a shock.”

She reached over and touched him lightly on the arm. She had never done that before, but she did it now.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “I couldn’t carry on working today after I saw what happened to that poor man.”

They walked on in silence. Now they were at the bottom of Brandon Street and not far from Big Lou’s flat. Angus had never been there before, but had imagined it. It was full of books, he believed – the stock that had been in the bookshop when she had bought it and turned it into a coffee bar.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your books, Lou,” he said, as they started to climb the stairs to her flat, which was on the top floor.

Lou nodded. “There are a lot of them,” she said. She paused. “I suppose, though, that the Pretender will be in. He hardly ever gets up until half way through the afternoon.”

With all the morning’s excitement, Angus had forgotten about the Pretender, whom Big Lou was sheltering on behalf of her Jacobite boyfriend.

“How long is he staying with you, Lou?” he asked. “Surely they don’t expect you to put him up for much longer?”

Big Lou sighed. She explained that she was not sure. Robbie had talked of a short time, but the Pretender seemed to have settled in and showed no signs of going off to rally his supporters, which is what she thought had been the original plan.

“He’s awfully difficult, Angus,” said Lou, as she fished for her keys. “He doesn’t really speak any English, and so Robbie communicates with him in French. I have a bit of French too, but he seems to ignore me whenever I say anything to him. It’s as if he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.”

Big Lou opened her front door and ushered Angus into the flat. A light was on in the hall, and from the kitchen there came the sound of voices. She looked surprised.

“Robbie,” she whispered. “Robbie and the Pretender.”

They crossed the hall and entered the kitchen. Angus saw Robbie first, sitting with his back to him, at the kitchen table. On the other side, a slighter figure, wearing a purple dressing gown, was gesticulating angrily. When Big Lou and Angus entered the kitchen, Robbie turned round and the Pretender stopped gesticulating.

“I’ve brought Angus back for lunch,” Big Lou explained. “We saw a terrible thing outside the coffee bar. A man died.”

Robbie looked sympathetic. “Oh. What happened?”

“Hah!” said the Pretender. “Un homme est mort. Bof! Alors? Et moi? Ça ne me regarde pas.” (Hah! A man died. Bof! And then? And me? That has nothing to do with me.)

Big Lou glanced at him and whispered to Angus. “He’s very self-centred.”

Robbie rose to his feet. “There is a bit of a crisis here, Lou,” he said. “The Pretender went out this morning.”

“That makes a change,” said Big Lou. “Normally he spends the morning in bed.”

“Well, not this morning,” said Robbie. “He went up to the High Street. And he got involved in an incident in one of those tourist shops that sell tartans. Some row about Royal Stuart tartan. They called the police, and the Pretender ran away.”

Angus had difficulty not smiling. History, it seemed, had a way of repeating itself. “So now he’s on the run from the authorities,” he said.

“Yes,” said Robbie. “And he wants to go up to the Outer Islands. He wants to get away and rally his supporters.”

“Well, that must be why he came in the first place,” said Angus. “And it would have been rather disappointing if he had not become a wanted man. Hiding in the heather is all very well, but it must seem a bit pointless if one is not actually being pursued by anybody.”

Robbie glowered at Angus. “It’s not a joke,” he said reproachfully. “This is dead serious. The Hanoverians will stop at nothing.”

Angus tried to look serious. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make light of these things.”

The Pretender now rose to his feet. He glared suspiciously at Angus and then addressed Robbie.

“Aux îles,” he said. “Nous n’avons qu’une seule destination. Les îles.” (To the Isles! We have a single destination. The Isles.)

To the islands, thought Angus. Well, at least there were reliable ferries these days, which is more than could be said for the Scotland of Charles Edward Stuart.