Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 50: Naughtiness and envy

“Good. So we’ll do dunch after Don Pasquale.”

Nicola was surprised at how much she anticipated this date with David – and it was a date that she was going on, she told herself – a real date. This was not a trip to the Festival Theatre with just any friend – this was an outing with a man whom she had met on the street – in the middle of Dundas Street to be precise. How often did you go to matinée performances of an opera with a man you had met in the middle – quite literally – of Dundas Street, amidst a scattering of potatoes?

She tried to remember when she had last gone on a real date. It must have been with Abril, before they married, which was how many years ago? She stopped trying to remember because any thought of the passage of years tended to depress her. We have only a brief time on this earth and the years ran so quickly … How did Domenica put it? She was always quoting Auden, and there had been a line from one of his poems that she had mentioned that Nicola thought particularly memorable. The years shall run like rabbits … That was how he put it – and he was right. They did. Our time was so short – a tiny instant in the cosmic scale, barely registerable in the context of the fire and fury of the galaxies in which we, such minuscule, insignificant creatures, found ourselves. Carpe diem, as Horace advised.

She had gone to a collection of Auden’s poems on Stuart’s bookshelf – left behind by Irene, probably; she did not imagine that Stuart read much poetry ­ – to find the reference to these fleet-footed years, and had located it. But as she leafed through the book she had come across a poem that had reminded her of her impending assignation. The title had caught her eye – Heavy Date – and she had read it there and then, caught in the poet’s skein of observations about love, as he looks out over the city in anticipation of his date.

Love requires an object, Auden said – and went on to suggest that almost anything would do – as a boy he had loved a pumping engine, and had thought it “every bit as beautiful as you”. Nicola wondered whether that was true, and decided that it probably was – or was true to an extent. Perhaps Auden was right in saying that what really mattered was that we should love something or somebody – that we should allow ourselves to experience love in essence rather than in particularity, and not yearn after perfection. That was probably unattainable, anyway – and the sooner we learned that lesson, the easier would be our romantic experience. Crying for the moon, Auden went on to say, was “naughtiness and envy”, which, once again, was probably true. Love that which comes your way, rather than what you would like to find.

She arrived at Big Lou’s fifteen minutes early – an indication, she admitted to herself, of nervousness. It was like being back at school, being sixteen, and waiting to meet – what was his name? James Fairbrother – waiting to meet him at the café near Burt’s Hotel in Melrose, looking anxiously at her watch, hoping that nobody saw her and realised that she was waiting for James, who had his many admirers, as he was one of the most popular boys in the school. Here she was, in her fifties, feeling sixteen again, which was ridiculous. And yet, she said to herself, we never really change much inside. It’s as easy to feel awkward at fifty as it is at sixteen, because we’re still us inside, throughout our lives, with all the weaknesses and anxieties to which the young self was prone, even if we might manage these better as the years went by.

Big Lou was surprised to see her. “I didn’t expect you,” she said, adding, quickly, “Not that I’m not pleased to see you. It’s just that you seem to have your hands so full these days with the bairns.”

“That’s true enough,” said Nicola. “But Stuart is very considerate. He makes sure that I get time to myself.”

“He’s a good man,” said Big Lou. “It’s such a pity …” She stopped herself. She was about to say that it was such a pity that he had married Irene, but she realised that this could be tactless. Nicola was, after all, mother-in-law to Irene. Family issues were best left to those involved, even if friends and acquaintances had strong views.

Nicola smiled. “I have no time at all for Irene, Lou,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you that. I’ve never been able to stand her. You needn’t worry. In my view she’s … well, you may imagine what I think.”

Big Lou was relieved. “I don’t like to comment on people,” she said. “But I’ve always been prepared to make an exception in Irene’s case.” She paused. “And that pair wee boy, wee Bertie. What a start in life. And yet he’s somehow weathered the storm. He’s a braw wee man, right enough.”

“Bertie is a treasure,” said Nicola. “We all love him to bits.”

Big Lou noticed that Nicola glanced at her watch. “You off somewhere?” she asked.

Nicola hesitated. But she decided that she did not want to keep anything from Lou – who would not wish to trust this stout-hearted woman with their confidences?

“I’m meeting a man,” she said. “Then we’re going to Don Pasquale at the Festival Theatre.”

“Ah,” said Lou. “Don Pasquale. The poor Don. He shouldn’t have married at his age.”

She stopped herself, and blushed. “I’m not saying that people who are getting on a bit shouldn’t go out with people.”

Nicola laughed. “Don’t worry, Lou. I’m not sensitive. I know it looks ridiculous – going out on a date at my stage in life – but …”

“Exactly,” said Big Lou. “But …”

There were so many buts in this life; each a potential justification, an entirely necessary anodyne.

© Alexander McCall Smith, 2025. Bertie’s Theory of Ice Cream will be published by Polygon in August, price £17.99. The author welcomes comment from readers and can be contacted at [email protected]