Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 48: You hear something, Henrik?

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 9th Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

Tony grinned. “You’re a pal, Bruce.” He paused, and gave Bruce a playful punch on the right shoulder. Bruce returned the punch, and they both laughed. Then Tony aimed a friendly kick at Bruce’s shin. Bruce dodged the kick, responding with a poke in Tony’s ribs.

“You’re putting on weight, Tone,” said Bruce. “My finger almost disappeared in the avoirdupois.”

“You’re one to talk,” responded Tony, putting an arm around Bruce’s shoulder and shaking him. “But it’s good to see you, man. Jeez, it’s been ages.”

“You still going out with … what’s her name, the one with the face. Remember?”

Tony laughed, and then winked again. “That’s the one, Bruce,” he said. “Know what I mean?”

Bruce smiled. “High maintenance?”

“You got it,” said Tony. “But I can’t complain.” He looked at his friend. “You fully recovered from the lightning?”

“Totally,” said Bruce.

Tony gave him an enquiring look. “No long-term effects? Know what I mean? Nothing like that?”

Bruce shook his head. “Nothing. Nada.”

“Jeez,” said Tony. “You’re walking along and suddenly – kapow! – and you get fifty thousand volts up your neb and you’re knocked into next Christmas. Not for me, old pal. I do not want to be struck by lightning. Okay for some – not me.”

“There’s a very small risk,” said Bruce.

“Yeah, sure, but when that risk comes up, boy … No thank you.” Tony looked around. “Let’s get serious. You bought this dump, Bruce? You paid actual money for it?”

Bruce laughed. “I’m going to make a killing, Tony. Serious wonga.”

Tony looked doubtful. “It’s very dark. People like to see where they’re going. This place, you’d get lost going to the bathroom, know what I mean? You’d have to send out search parties.”

“It’s a basement flat,” said Bruce, in a slightly irritated tone. “You have to look beyond these things.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Tony. “But you still need light. Let there be light, as the Big Guy said.” He looked around again. “I suppose you could put in some spots up there on the ceiling. Maybe something movement-sensitive so that they switch on when you come into the flat and prevent you from falling over yourself. Could work.”

Tony looked up at the ceiling. Then he crossed the room and peered into a built-in cupboard. He gave a non-committal grunt. Then, turning to Bruce, he said, “I’ve got new speakers. Fantastic.”

“Oh, yes? I’d forgotten – you’re into hi-fi, aren’t you?”

Tony nodded. “You know what they cost me? Twelve thousand. And that was second-hand.”

“A lot of bass?” asked Bruce.

Tony rolled his eyes. “You listen to them and it’s like an earthquake. These are speakers you feel, not listen to. If you put them on full you get a letter from the British Seismic Survey people – I’m telling you.”

“Great,” said Bruce. “Good stuff.”

Tony nodded. “I met this guy, see – he was Irish, and he showed me his speakers. They were taller than him – I’m not exaggerating. I thought: why does the guy want such big speakers? And you know what? I realised that he had big speakers because he was a really short guy. Sometimes the Irish aren’t all that tall. I’m not saying all of them, but some of them. You get these Irish jockeys, you see, and they don’t want to be tall. Jeez, they can ride.” He paused. “Have you seen the Dutch, Bruce? You been to Holland? You seen the people there?”

“Tall?”

“You said it. They’re all up there – all of them. Something to do with the dairy products they eat. They’ve been eating that stuff for yonks, Bruce. It’s given them big bones. Huge. The Dutch are huge, Bruce. I’m not exaggerating. They look down on us. They say, ‘You hear something, Henrik? You hear somebody talking down below?’ And it’s us, Bruce. I swear. That’s how it is over there. Big Time.” He paused. “There are no Dutch jockeys. Have you noticed that, Bruce? It’s a fact. No Dutch jockeys. True as God.”

Bruce was distracted. There was business to discuss, but he was about to ask Tony a favour, and he had to listen. And Tony was all right, he thought. A bit of a lad, but who isn’t? “I suppose not.”

“No. And the women? Bruce, I’m telling you – they are seriously tall. If you’re a small guy – say, an Irish jockey going to Amsterdam for a weekend – you have zero chance. You may as well stay in Bally-whatever it is. Dutch women won’t look at you if you’re under six feet. And they’re on the lookout for elevator shoes. If a guy wears elevator shoes and a Dutch broad finds out, he’s toast, that guy. That’s true, you know. There was this guy from Glasgow who thought his elevator shoes would help his chances in your actual Netherlands. Did they? I think you know the answer, Bruce. Poor guy. Ended up in a canal. He might as well have gone to Paisley for the weekend.”

Bruce decided to move the conversation on. “Let me show you what I have in mind,” he said, leading Tony into the room at the side of the flat. This was the room with the small window that looked onto the basement well outside. Up above could just be glimpsed the trees growing on the gardens side of Heriot Row.

Bruce explained what he had in mind. “If we take out that window and put in a door instead,” he said, “what do you end up with? A Heriot Row address – that’s what.”

Tony crossed the room to examine the window – a tiny opening. After a minute or two of tapping the wall, he turned to Bruce.

“Are you mad, Bruce – as in mad? This is a supporting wall. We can’t touch it. End of story.”

Bruce’s jaw dropped. “End of story?” he stuttered.

“Yes,” said Tony. “End of story. Game, set, match. Finito.” Then, seeing Bruce’s expression, he added, “Sorry, pal. Edinburgh’s a UNESCO heritage area or whatever. You interfere with that wall, the building falls down, and you get the UN onto you. I’m not making this up. No can do.”