Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 51: È finita, Don Pasquale

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 14th Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

Big Lou nodded towards the entrance. “Your friend, I think.”

David pushed open the door. Nicola turned round, raising a hand in salute. He smiled, slightly bashfully, she thought. Perhaps it was as awkward for him to go on a date as it was for her. She wanted to reassure him, to let him know that she, too, was on tenterhooks.

He joined her at the bar. “I’m probably late,” he said. “Have you been waiting for ages?’

It was Big Lou who replied. “Two minutes. We’ve been talking.”

David looked at his watch. “We probably shouldn’t linger. There’s no hurry, but we may have to wait some time for a bus. You never know.”

Nicola was surprised. It had not occurred to her that they would go on a date by bus. There was no reason why one should not, of course, but it struck her as slightly incongruous.

David picked up her hesitation. “Or we can get a taxi,” he said hurriedly. “I could phone for one.”

Nicola shook her head. “No, a bus will be fine.”

“The 23 …” David began.

“Get off at the McEwan Hall,” said Big Lou. “Then it’s a five-minute walk to the Festival Theatre.” She paused. “Don Pasquale?”

David nodded. “You know it?”

Big Lou sighed. “Com’è gentil la notte a mezzo April! I love Donizetti. Anything Italian does it for me.”

David agreed, and then glanced again at his watch. “We should perhaps …”

Nichola rose from her stool. “Of course.”

They walked to the bus stop. Further down the road, a bus trundled up Dundas Street. It was a 23. They boarded it, and took a seat at the back. To begin with they were alone, but at a stop further up the hill, a woman got on the bus and took a seat opposite them. She was somewhere in her early forties, Nicola thought. She was wearing a faded cotton dress and a tailored beige linen jacket. Her features were fine. An intelligent face, thought Nicola.

Nicola looked at her, and their eyes met. Then the woman transferred her gaze to David, before looking back at Nicola. Embarrassed by the scrutiny, Nicola looked away. Through the window of the bus, she saw the sky bisected by the white line of a vapour trail. She wondered whether the jet on high was heading east or west. It took a few moments for her to get her bearings before she realised that it was east. It was from Canada, perhaps from Montreal, and was flying over Scotland towards Copenhagen or Berlin. She thought: we are just a patch of green down below, with blue all about us. They don’t know anything about us.

The woman noticed. She said, “Think of those people up there. Think of them.”

Nicola nodded. “A tiny metal tube. So high.”

“Yes.”

David followed their gaze. “Bernoulli’s Principle. That’s what keeps them up there.” He paused. “You know that?”

“Not really,” said Nicola.

“No,” said the woman.

David pointed up at the vapour trail. “Bernoulli proved that air that moves fast is at less pressure than air moving slowly. So if the wing increases the pressure of the air below it while the air above is at lower pressure, you get lift. The wing’s lifted up, you see. That’s what’s keeping that plane up there.”

“Oh,” said the woman.

Nicola was not sure what to say.

Then David said, “We’re going to the opera.”

The woman looked interested. “Which one?”

“Don Pasquale,” answered David. “The Festival Theatre.”

The woman said, “I’ve always wanted to see that. I’ve missed it. I didn’t even know it was on.” She paused. “Do you think there’ll be tickets?”

“There are always returns,” said David. “People go down with colds. They change their minds. They have to babysit. You can always get a ticket.”

“Do you think so?” said the woman.

David nodded. “I do.” And then he said, “Come with us, if you like.”

Nicola caught her breath. This was their date, and he had just invited a complete stranger to join them.

The woman hesitated. “I think I will. Do you mean it?”

“Of course.”

He could have consulted me, thought Nicola. He could have just given me a glance to see if I objected – that was all. But he did not.

The woman laughed. “I feel highly irresponsible. I’m meant to be going to a lecture at the National Library. But I’m going to go to Don Pasquale instead.”

Now David turned to Nicola. “You don’t mind, do you?” he said.

Nicola struggled to control herself. She wanted to say: I mind very much. But she did not. Instead, she said, “Why should I mind?”

It occurred to her now that this had never been a date. This was simply a trip to the opera by two people who independently wanted to go to Don Pasquale. That was all it was. And if that was the case, then she could quite reasonably have a sudden change of mind. She could say that she had forgotten that she had to do something else, and that she would need to get back to Scotland Street. She could so easily do that.

“It’s a wonderful production,” said David. Then he added, “I’m David, by the way. And this is Nicola.”

The woman introduced herself as Janet.

“And let me guess your star sign,” said Janet.

“Whose star sign?” Nicola blurted out. What was this? “Mine or his?”

“Both, said Janet. “His first.” She gave him a penetrating glance. “Leo – right?”

David burst out laughing. “Spot on,” he exclaimed.

“Could be coincidence,” muttered Nicola.

“Oh no,” retorted Janet. “You can always tell.” She paused. “And you’re Aries? Am I right?”

She was, but Nicola remained tight-lipped.

“I see,” said Janet. “I suspect I was right.”

“It’s amazing,” said David.

“You don’t believe in all that nonsense, do you?” said Nicola.

David shrugged. “Who knows? There could be something in it.”

Nicola stared out of the window. She could never go to the opera with a man who saw the slightest element of truth in astrology. She just couldn’t. She made up her mind. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’ve just realised something. I’m meant to be picking up Ulysses from nursery. I always do that on a Friday.”

“But today’s Saturday,” said David.

Nicola ignored this. She turned to Janet. “You can have my ticket, if you like.”

Janet frowned. “But …”

“No, I mean it,” said Nicola.

“You’re really kind,” said Janet.

The bus had reached the McEwan Hall. “I’m not going to get off,” said Nicola. “I’ll stay on. I can change at Tollcross.”

David stood up. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. He looked embarrassed, and it crossed her mind that he simply had not thought it through. But it was too late to unpick the disaster. “Of course I don’t.”

She gave her ticket to Janet, whose offer to pay she brushed aside. “I don’t need any money,” she said.

She looked out of the window, marked with as it was with the grime of the city, like a layer of regret. They rose to disembark, and she uttered the goodbyes that politeness required, but said nothing more. As the bus moved off, she wanted to cry. This was as bad as being sixteen again, waiting for James Fairbrother in the café near Burt’s Hotel. He had never turned up. Something about rugby practice. Something like that. It was a long time ago, and it’s hard to remember all the details of yesterday’s disappointments.

È finita, Don Pasquale, she thought.