Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 40: Edinburgh isn’t bourgeois

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 28th Mar 2025, 07:00 GMT

Domenica enjoyed these breakfasts, even if she confessed to a certain guilt over the smoked salmon. “I’ve never got over regarding it as a luxury,” she said. “When I was a girl, nobody I knew ate smoked salmon. Nobody. It was the sort of thing people ordered at the North British Hotel when they went there to celebrate an important occasion. Now people have it for their office lunch – along with cream cheese.”

The mention of the North British made Angus smile. “The NB,” he said. “I always think of that Robert Garioch poem about the NB. Do you remember it? There’s a man at the end of Princes Street who sees a group of prominent local citizens coming out of the NB Grill. They’re laughing fit to burst, he says. And then they all get into what he calls a ‘muckle great municipal Rolls-Royce’ and disappear off towards Calton Hill. And he says that although you and I can’t join in that sort of thing, it gives our town some tone … It’s spot-on.”

“Garioch was so witty,” Domenica said, adding, inconsequentially, “He lived just round the corner, didn’t he? Nelson Street?’

“Yes,” said Angus. He wanted to return to the issue of smoked salmon. “People’s tastes have become rather fancy these days. Bottled water imported for France or Italy. What’s wrong with the local H2O? Smoked salmon. Caviar.”

“Not caviar,” said Domenica. “Lumpfish roe. It’s different. Petit-bourgeois caviar.”

Angus winced. “Bourgeois is such an insult, isn’t it? Remember how we use to be worried that people would accuse us of being bourgeois. It was a deadly insult in my art college days. And now –”

“Now, here we are,” said Domenica.

“We aren’t bourgeois,” Angus protested. “Edinburgh isn’t bourgeois – or at least this part of it isn’t. We’re –”

Domenica suppressed a smile. “Slightly bohemian?” She paused. “Mind you, let’s remind ourselves of one thing: every society needs its bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie keep things on an even keel. They save up their money. They teach their kids to count before they send them to primary school. They also teach them manners. They pay their taxes and cut the grass. Never destabilise your bourgeoisie – or farmers, for that matter. Look at what happened when the Russians destroyed their farming class. Famine.”

Now she looked at the plate Angus placed before her. “I shall supress any guilt I feel and enjoy this,” she said. “I won’t think of the cages and the pollution. Nor the sea lice that infest farmed salmon.”

“Best not to,” said Angus.

“Although I’m not saying one should go through life not worrying about all these things,” Domenica continued. “Too active a moral imagination can lead to paralysis. You can end up doing nothing – because everything you do has an impact on the world about you. Eat beef and help to destroy Amazonian forests. Fly down to London and expand your carbon footprint. It’s painful just to think about it.”

Angus sighed. “Everything has a cost. I suppose we have to do our best to minimise it. Human life takes a toll of nature – it just does. There are too many of us.”

Domenica took a mouthful of scrambled egg and smoked salmon. “I’m glad you said us. Sometimes people say them when they complain about the size of human population – or when they feel threatened. There are just too many of them. I’ve heard people say that. They never think that they themselves are part of the problem.”

Angus smiled. “I knew somebody called McGregor,” he said. “He had seven children. We sometimes chided him for that. We accused him of irresponsibility in having so many children in an overpopulated world. You know what he said in his defence?”

Domenica waited.

“He said that the number of McGregors was actually declining. He said the Clan Gregor Society had proof of this from their shrinking mailing list. As a result, he felt no compunction in having all these children.”

Domenica smiled. “There’s something wrong with that reasoning,” he said.

“The problem,” said Angus, “is that he believed that it was a good thing in itself to keep up the number of McGregors. That’s the problem. But that’s a view that might only be held by McGregors, who naturally feel that they are a good thing.”

Domenica considered this. “But they have to think that,” she said. “If you stop thinking you’re a good thing, you lose your sense of self-worth.” She paused. “I’m not sure that it’s helpful to make people ashamed of who they are. Is it healthy to be ashamed of who you are – of your history?”

“We should acknowledge our flaws,” said Angus. “We need to face up to unpalatable truths – such as the fact that this country became rich through plunder.”

Domenica looked down at what remained of her scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. “I hadn’t imagined that we would start the day with a discussion of history and identity,” she said, and added, quickly, “Not that. I want to avoid such subjects.”

Angus smiled. “I suppose these are things that most couples don’t discuss. In most marriages, the conversation is more –”

“Prosaic?” suggested Domenica. “With questions like: what are you going to do today? That sort of thing?”

“Yes,” said Angus.

“And what are you going to do?” asked Domenica.

Angus looked at his watch. “I’m going to meet Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna in fifteen minutes,” he said. “In the Gardens.”

He had told her about this, but it had slipped her mind. Now she remembered. “Oh, my goodness,” she said. “I’d forgotten. And you said I could come with you.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind,” said Angus.

“Did she really –”

Angus cut her short. “She did. She told me quite explicitly. She has a section of the Stone of Scone hidden in the Gardens. And she’s promised to show it to me.”

Domenica shook her head. “I always thought there was something ridiculous about that woman.”

“Oh, deeply,” said Angus.

“I think she’s a bit touched,” Domenica went on. “A bit, you know …”

Angus said that she could be right. Sister Maria-Fiore was, by any standards, a bit … He searched for the right adjective. Fey? Peculiar? Or, quite possibly, unlikely?

He stopped and frowned. An idea had occurred to him. What if Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna was not what she claimed to be, but a cunning imposter? Somebody had once made the suggestion – which Angus had abruptly dismissed at that point – that Sister Maria-Fiore was no social-climbing Italian nun, but was actually from Glasgow.