Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 47: Being Bruce

Nor was Bruce the type to yield too quickly to an adverse turn of events. He had encountered difficulties of every sort, ranging from social embarrassment to direct lightning strikes, and had been emerged undefeated. The instances of social embarrassment were, of course, for the most part minor, but, when remembered at odd moments, could still bring a warm feeling to the back of the neck. That awkward evening, for instance, when he had gone to the annual dance of the Edinburgh South Conservatives in his kilt, but had forgotten to wear any underpants, still made him cringe, even if it was the sort of thing that was too easily done. The only way of saving face in such circumstances was brazenly to assert that the omission was deliberate. That applies to all wardrobe malfunctions: the déshabillé should simply say, “But that was intentional”, at which point any embarrassment will evaporate. It is no fun laughing at an intended effect.

44 Scotland Street

Bruce had always been self-confident. When, as a young boy dressed in his Anderson tartan kilt, he had been taken by his mother to the Crieff outfitters, T Palmer Valentine, he had drawn crowds of admiring women. A few years later, as a teenager, he had become accustomed to having an eager and extensive following of girls whenever he appeared at the school sports, or took to the field as the captain of Morrison’s Academy rugby team. These girls were referred to as the Brucies, and were known to exchange photographs of Bruce they had discreetly snapped as he strode onto the sports pitch.

He took all this in his stride. Bruce knew that he was good-looking, and it seemed only appropriate to him that women should admire him. He admired himself, after all, and so he understood why others should do so too. More than that, he felt sympathy for women who gazed at him with such dreamy longing: how hard it must be to live with unrequited yearning. He would do what he could to throw a few scraps of comfort in the direction of these admirers – a smile, perhaps, or even an occasional wink – but he knew that this might only stoke unrealisable hopes. But what more could he do? There was only one of him, and there were so many young women.

The confidence that Bruce felt in his appearance spilled over into his working life. Bruce had previously been employed as surveyor, but had decided that working for others was not how he saw himself. Some people, he said, are destined to spend their working lives as cogs in a piece of machinery: not him. “I’m a natural mover and shaker,” he had once remarked to a girlfriend. “I’m a guy who gets things done.”

“Oh Bruce,” she had cooed. “You are, big time!”

That would be a heady plaudit if laid at the feet of most young men; for Bruce, though, it was an incidental compliment like any other, only to be expected. Yet the reality was somewhat different: his business career, for one given to moving and shaking, had not been conspicuously successful. That did not deter him, though, from following up on such opportunities as presented themselves. And now, as he stood at the door of the small basement flat he had recently acquired in India Street, he reflected on the challenge that lay ahead. He had paid a substantial sum for a dark and pokey two-bedroom flat in need of considerable refurbishment. In a rare moment of candour, the selling agents had refrained from using the arch expression “in need of a bit of TLC”, and had warned that the purchaser would have “a great deal of work to do”. In a different location, that would have depressed the price, but not here, not in the heart of the Georgian New Town, within spitting distance of Heriot Row, and only round the corner from Moray Place. Anything, even in the most modest purlieus of such streets, could be expected to command a substantial price, no matter its condition. This had happened, and Bruce had been obliged to offer seventy-five thousand pounds over the already inflated asking price in order to acquire the flat.

He had not begrudged that premium. He knew that if his projected renovation went according to plan, he would easily double, if not treble, his money. Of course, there were some who might say that what he planned was frankly unacceptable, but there were always people who seemed determined to crush initiative. That was a real problem, he thought – people who thought of reasons why one could not do something, rather than think of ways of doing it. These people were everywhere, discouraging innovation, pouring cold water on enterprise. Look at the people who objected to the Christmas German Market on Princes Street. What a bunch of spoilsports, said Bruce. They had objected to cutting down trees in Princes Street Gardens; they objected to what they described as noise and vulgarity; they railed against the selling of half-glasses of sweetened gluhwein at absurd prices, or plaster models of Santa, imported all the way from China, but marked with the description. “Designed in Germany”. What was wrong with that? Bruce wondered.

And why had these same objectors been so up in arms over a perfectly reasonable plan to convert the Scott Monument into an immersive experience? What’s the issue there? Had immersive experiences existed in Walter Scott’s day, could any of these people say that he would not have been perfectly happy to licence it? Scott had been in debt, and surely would have welcomed any means of repaying his creditors that was easier than penning the Waverley novels.

But now he put aside such thoughts as he unlocked the door to which he had an hour or so ago been given the key. Once inside the flat, he moved from room to room, switching on the lights in each. Edinburgh basement flats can be dark, and this one was markedly so. Yet the important thing, as Bruce had often remarked to clients in his estate agency days, is to see beyond what you see. A dingy, neglected property could become something quite different with a lick of paint applied judiciously. Discouraging kitchens could be transformed by a few well-placed cupboards; uninviting bathrooms could become something quite different with the installation of the right lighting and a new basin. There was a lot that could be done relatively simply and without breaking the bank.

This flat, he thought, was different. Yes, it needed smartening up with the usual redecoration, but his plan went considerably further than that. By changing the address to the flat, he would change everything. A dingy basement flat in India Street would, after minimum structural intervention, become a highly-desirable lower-ground flat in Heriot Row. It was all so easy, so utterly obvious.

Bruce waited for the arrival of his builder friend, Tony. They were to meet in the flat that morning, and Bruce would show him exactly what he had in mind. And if Tony was willing, they could even make a start.

Bruce smiled to himself. He was where he wanted to be – working with buildings – making a difference to the lives of the people who bought them. It was, he thought, a form of social work, almost like working for charity.

© 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]