The Peppermint Tea Chronicles, page 6
“But the whole point about a birthday is not to get presents,” said Olive. “It’s to share with your friends. Birthdays are about sharing, you know.”
While this brought murmurs of agreement from the girls, Bertie and Ranald remained impassive.
“I want you all to enjoy yourselves,” said Olive. “We’ve got a really good game to play, but before we do that you should have something to eat.”
“There are plenty of cakes,” said Pansy. “Although Bertie and Ranald have already had one and so they’re going to have to wait until everybody else has had theirs.”
“Yes,” said Olive. “Don’t think Pansy and I won’t see you if you have more than your fair share. We will, won’t we, Pansy?”
“Yes,” said Pansy emphatically.
While her guests helped themselves to macaroons, Olive sought out Bertie and Ranald.
“There’s something I meant to ask you, Bertie,” she said. “You know how you and I are engaged? How you’re going to marry me when we’re twenty? You haven’t forgotten that, I hope—because I haven’t, you know.”
Bertie opened his mouth to answer, but was cut short by Olive.
“I know what you’re going to say, Bertie Pollock,” she said. “But it’s no use denying it. I’ve got it in writing.”
“You made that up,” protested Bertie. “I saw you copying my signature, Olive.”
Olive pursed her lips. “How dare you accuse me of forgery, Bertie! And you know what? I’m not going to argue with you. There’s no point in arguing with somebody who hasn’t got a leg to stand on. All I wanted to do was to ask you whether you’d chosen your best man yet. That’s all.”
Bertie gasped. “We’re not going to get married, Olive…”
Olive ignored this. “Because I think you should, Bertie. It may be a long time from now…”
“Thirteen years,” said Pansy helpfully. “Twenty take away seven is thirteen.”
Olive gave Pansy a dismissive glance before continuing, “You have to think of people’s schedules, Bertie. People have a lot to do these days. You need to give them lots of notice. Even somebody like Ranald will have some commitments. It doesn’t matter that he’s got no friends, he’ll still be busy doing something.”
“I’m not going to—”
Olive cut him short. “So, I think you should ask Ranald right now to be your best man, Bertie.”
Ranald looked up brightly. “Oh yes, Bertie. That’s fine. I’ll do it. I’ll be your best man. Thank you very much.”
“There,” said Olive. “That’s settled that.” She fixed Bertie with a challenging stare, as if to dare him to contradict her. “And there’s one other thing, Bertie. I am not having Tofu at our wedding. Definitely not. So, don’t you go and invite him because there’ll be real trouble if you do.”
“Best not to,” agreed Ranald.
“Yes,” said Olive. “Ranald’s right, Bertie. And, by the way, Bertie, how’s your mother these days? Or should I say ex-mother, now that she’s run away to Aberdeen.”
Bertie looked down at the floor. Olive was unbearable, but he felt powerless to resist her. “She hasn’t run away, Olive,” he muttered.
It was as if Olive did not hear him. “My mummy says that your mother—I mean, your ex-mother—is having an affair, Bertie. I heard her talking to her friend about it. I know how to listen in on their phone, Bertie. You wouldn’t know that sort of thing, but I do.
“I listened to my mummy speaking to one of her friends, and she said that your mother had gone off to Aberdeen to be with her lover. With her lover, Bertie. But then she said that your ex-mummy’s boyfriend has chucked her out of the house, Bertie, because he can’t stand her. He’s had enough, Bertie. That’s what she said. And now she’s found somebody else. A man who works on an oil rig.”
Bertie started to protest. “That isn’t true, Olive…”
“Oh, you can deny it all you like, Bertie,” Olive interjected. “But you know something? Denying things doesn’t make them not true.”
And with that, Olive flounced away, leaving Bertie staring at Ranald Braveheart Macpherson in dismay.
“I’m really sorry about your ex-mummy,” said Ranald. “It’s really bad luck having a mother like that.”
Bertie felt a wave of sorrow welling up within him. He wanted his mother back; no, he didn’t want his mother back. He wanted…he was not sure what he wanted. He had always wanted a true friend, and he had thought that Ranald would be that friend, and yet here he was siding with Olive in the matter of his wedding—encouraging her, really, rather than standing by him in his program of Gandhian civil disobedience to Olive’s tyranny.
“You shouldn’t have agreed to be my best man, Ranald,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t have said yes to Olive.”
Ranald’s eyes widened with dismay. “But I was only trying to help you, Bertie. Don’t you want me to be your best man?” He searched Bertie’s expression for some sign of understanding. This was awful for Ranald: he loved Bertie dearly; Bertie was definitely his best friend. He wanted to be his blood brother, if at all possible. They could prick each other’s fingers with a pin and mingle the blood to make them blood brothers. He had heard that this is what you did with your best friends if you wanted to keep them for life. He would willingly do that with Bertie, but here was his friend, his dear, dear friend, accusing him of treason—and with Olive, of all people—Olive, the ultimate enemy.
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson started to cry.
“Oh, Ranald,” said Bertie. “Don’t cry, Ranald.”
And then Bertie started to cry too.
Olive and Pansy were quick to notice this. Olive came skipping across the room and peered into the faces of the two boys.
“Why are you two crying?” she demanded. “You really shouldn’t cry on somebody’s birthday, you know. It’s jolly selfish of you.”
“Typically selfish boys,” echoed Pansy, who had now joined Olive. “Just thinking of themselves. Crying all over the place like that.”
“Really!” exclaimed Olive. “How can one even begin to understand boys?”
“I have no idea,” said Pansy.
14
A Stendhal Syndrome Survivor
Antonia Collie had now settled into her new flat in Drummond Place, just around the corner from Scotland Street. Finding it had been a stroke of luck—the flat had belonged to an old friend who had happened to mention to Antonia that she was moving to Melrose. She would prefer, she said, to sell the flat without having to put it on the market, as that would entail her getting it into a fit state for sale and also putting up with all the inconvenience of showing it to prospective purchasers. Sensing an opportunity, Antonia offered her friend the valuation price, and this offer was rapidly accepted. It was at the upper limit of what Antonia could afford, but she thought it was well worth what she had to pay. The flat was on the first floor, and had the high ceilings and elegance of a Georgian drawing room flat. Not only that, but it had a view of the gardens in the center of the square and, most importantly, the owner had the right to use those gardens. It was summer, and a good one too, and Antonia looked forward to sitting in the gardens, reading, and thinking about her great project on the Scottish saints.
Antonia had lived in the area before. She had originally been Domenica’s neighbor in Scotland Street, but that was before that fateful trip to Italy. It was in Florence that she had been struck down in the Uffizi Gallery with a serious case of Stendhal Syndrome, a rare psychiatric condition afflicting those who become overwhelmed by beauty, whether of art or architecture or both. The syndrome involves an acute state of anxiety, and most cases end up in a psychiatric hospital. A closely connected condition is Jerusalem Syndrome, which affects those who become overwhelmed by the fact that they are in Jerusalem, with all that that signifies spiritually and aesthetically. Again, this may lead to a spell in hospital, although the patient usually recovers quite quickly.
In Antonia’s case, while her initial treatment was in a psychiatric hospital, she was taken in for recuperation by an order of nuns. In the care of these nuns she was gradually able to recover, spending her days in the grounds of their well-appointed convent in the Sienese hills. The life suited her, and she ended up staying far longer than was required by her original misfortune. She liked the nuns, and they liked her, referring to her as “our Scottish sister.” Rather unwisely, she sold the flat in Scotland Street, and it was acquired by Domenica, who had long needed a bit more space. Through the removal of a wall, that goal was achieved, and Domenica and Angus now enjoyed the use of several extra rooms.
Antonia eventually returned to Scotland in the company of one of the nuns, Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, an aphorist whose observations on a wide range of subjects had both dazzled and impressed much of Edinburgh. Sister Maria-Fiore also proved to be something of a social success, and was soon seen at parties, surrounded by a growing band of acolytes. It was convenient for both Antonia and Sister Maria-Fiore to share a flat, and their short time in Dundonald Street had thrown up no disagreeable surprises, so the nun had now moved into the new flat in Drummond Place, occupying the spare bedroom at the back that Antonia described as her cell.
“Not in the prison sense,” Antonia joked. “I was thinking more of convents.”
“I require little,” Sister Maria-Fiore assured her. “Those who require little can make do with even less than they have.”
This was typical of the nun’s aphorisms, and, like many of them, prompted analysis at several different levels. Even a simple observation on the weather could, when delivered by Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, assume extraordinary significance. “If there is rain today,” she might say, “then rain will surely follow.” That could mean that any rain is likely to be prolonged, with shower following shower, or it could be a comment on the inevitability of the weather. Or it could mean something altogether different. Whatever the real meaning might be, the remark would be greeted with nods of agreement and comments of “Yes, I suppose that’s right” or “How very true!”
The two women lived together in satisfying amity. Sister Maria-Fiore both paid her way and undertook her share of the domestic chores. Antonia would have been willing to accommodate her for nothing, but the nun insisted on paying the going rent for a room in a New Town flat. She had, she explained, a flow of ready income from a shop that had been given to her by her uncle, who ran extensive protection rackets in Naples, Cosenza and Messina. “My uncle is a sinner,” Sister Maria-Fiore told Antonia. “But we must love sinners, mustn’t we? The love we give to sinners is the same as the love they give to us.”
Antonia was unsure what to make of this. So she nodded, which she had found was the best response to much of what Sister Maria-Fiore said.
“Yes, he is a sinner,” Sister Maria-Fiore continued. “But he is nonetheless a man of great piety. He attends Mass every day without fail—without fail.”
Antonia raised an eyebrow. That sounded like hypocrisy to her, but she was not sure whether she could say it.
“Some might call that hypocrisy,” said Sister Maria-Fiore.
“Yes, I can see…”
Sister Maria-Fiore cut her short. “But I would not call it that. Piety can exist in the deepest chambers of the heart. And who can fathom those chambers, Antonia? Not I. Nor you, I suspect.”
Antonia nodded.
“My dear uncle will have to give an account of himself in the next world,” Sister Maria-Fiore continued. “And I am sure that he will be treated with mercy—because of his piety. I expect to meet him on the other side.”
“That will be nice,” said Antonia. “Will you introduce us?”
“Of course. I shall be happy to do that,” said Sister Maria-Fiore.
Rent was negotiated, and Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna paid it regularly, by a standing order on a Neapolitan branch of the Banco dello Spirito Sancto.
“The Holy Ghost’s bank,” quipped Antonia.
“We never joke about banks in Italy,” Sister Maria-Fiore admonished her. “It is considered bad luck.”
And with that she crossed herself and, simultaneously, made a sign against the evil eye.
15
Garden Governance Issues
Shortly after she had moved in, Antonia invited Domenica to visit her in her new flat. That visit took place one Friday morning, when Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna was at her Pilates course.
“Dear Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna loves her Pilates,” Antonia said.
“We are very unfit,” said Domenica. “Angus and I barely raise a finger from day to day.”
“But I see him walking about so purposefully,” said Antonia. “One would never know he had nothing to do.”
Domenica bristled. The remark was typical of Antonia, she thought. She has never forgiven me over that blue Spode teacup issue, she said to herself.
“Angus is actually rather busy,” she pointed out.
“Of course,” said Antonia, in such a tone as to imply that nothing could be further from the truth.
“He has several commissions at present,” said Domenica. “Including one from the Scottish Government.”
Antonia sniffed. “I’m not sure that I agree with spending government funds on art,” she said. “But I imagine there are those who take a different view.”
Domenica gritted her teeth. “It’s so nice to see you, Antonia,” she said. “Are you still writing that book of yours? What’s it about again? Irish saints?”
Antonia corrected her sharply. “Scottish saints, Domenica.”
“Of course. Though the distinction, surely, was slight in those early days. Would you consider Columba to be an Irish saint or a Scottish saint?”
“He was Scottish,” said Antonia firmly.
Antonia had taken Domenica into the drawing room, and Domenica was looking about critically. “It’ll be much nicer once you’ve decorated it,” she said.
“But I already have,” said Antonia.
“Ah. I see. Oh well, what I was thinking of was your stuff—your own furniture. I just can’t believe the bad taste of some people.”
“But this is my stuff,” said Antonia.
“Ah. I see,” said Domenica breezily. “Nice old stuff is always best. It doesn’t matter that it’s cheap. You can get used to anything, they say.”
They progressed to tea, which was served in blue Spode teacups. As she saw them being produced, Domenica caught her breath: obviously Antonia was more than happy to rake over old coals.
“Blue Spode,” said Antonia. “My favorite.”
“Very nice,” muttered Domenica. She would not be drawn on that one. The past was the past and it was hardly helpful to revisit things that had happened some years ago.
“I used to have more cups than I currently do,” said Antonia. “I’m down to two now. I used to have three.”
“I know how you feel,” said Domenica. “My Minton breakfast cups are both chipped—one so badly we can’t really use it. I have my name down for one with those china search people, but nothing has turned up.”
“I’m at a loss to explain how I could lose a teacup,” said Antonia. “But there we are.”
“Yes, indeed. There we are.”
“It’s almost as if somebody stole it,” Antonia continued. “But who would steal a teacup?”
“Who indeed?” said Domenica.
There was an awkward silence. I would, thought Domenica guiltily. She had taken the teacup from Antonia’s kitchen in the belief that it was hers, wrongly held by Antonia. But then she had discovered her original teacup—the one she thought had gone missing—which meant that she must have taken a teacup to which Antonia was actually entitled. She should have restored it to its owner, but she did not. She could not admit that she had removed a teacup in the first place, as it would be tantamount to admitting to burglary.
“But let’s not dwell on theft,” said Antonia. “There is so much to talk about.” She looked out of the window. “I do love the gardens,” she said. “I’m so looking forward to being on the committee.”
Domenica drew in her breath. The gardens committee wielded considerable power and it did not bode well that Antonia was insinuating herself onto it.
Antonia was aware that Domenica was now on her guard. She smiled as she delivered the next piece of news. “Yes,” she said, “both Sister Maria-Fiore and I decided to offer our services. We were co-opted at the last meeting of the committee.”
Domenica remained silent. This was dangerous news, because there had been talk of the committee flexing its muscles in a way that could be very much to the disadvantage of Angus and herself—indeed of any of those on Scotland Street who used the gardens. According to the original charter, the only people entitled to a key were those who lived on Drummond Place itself. In a historical concession, the privilege of key ownership had been given to a few residents of Scotland Street, but only to those who had windows overlooking the gardens. That brought Domenica into the category of those who were entitled to have a key, but it excluded others. And the window concession, as it was called, was vulnerable. It did not appear in the charter, and every so often there had been talk of withdrawing it. She and Angus, then, used the gardens on sufferance—and now that sufferance was controlled, in part at least, by Domenica’s old rival.
“Not very democratic,” sniffed Domenica. “Co-opting people, that is.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Antonia said. “It’s rather like the House of Lords, isn’t it? One can recruit a broad range of talents.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t compare the gardens committee to the House of Lords,” said Domenica. “And, frankly, with all due respect to Sister Maria-Fiore dei…”
