Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 59: Love and friendship

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 24th Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

“It seems so long since we last did this,” said Domenica.

“Well, everything has changed,” said Angus. “And that includes our social habits.”

Domenica thought about this as she sprinkled pepper on a large tray of moussaka. Angus was right – to an extent; life had indeed changed – the old certainties, the routines, the expectations, the feel of the world – all seemed to have shifted. They themselves were still there, as were most, even if not all, of their friends, but somehow the view had changed; somehow a sense of things being in flux had taken over. So much had happened in the world – and at such a disconcerting pace. Rapid change disturbed us – it always did. And now, were we just children lost in a dark wood, deprived of our authority figures and our gods, whose absence was so painful to us? How fortunate, she thought, were those who believed in something beyond the material?

She glanced out of the window. Edinburgh was still there, as was Scotland. And shortly, she and Angus would be joined by friends with whom they had shared these occasions, these gatherings in Scotland Street, over so many years. Perhaps the doubt was purely within her; perhaps it was completely subjective, and others did not feel what she felt: sometimes we made the mistake of attributing our own feelings to others – that was a form of wishful thinking, and was such a natural thing to do.

She looked at Angus; she did not think that he felt this way at all, even if he acknowledged that social habits had changed. She sighed. The condition of humankind was a parlous one. For a long time, we had enjoyed the illusion that there was to be no terminus to our existence, that human society would always be here, and that our little bit of it, our civilization, our local culture, would persist. But now those long-term assumptions seemed unduly optimistic.

And yet, what was the point of such thoughts? They might be useful in concentrating our minds on doing something about those threats we could do something about, but beyond that? The answer, it seemed to Domenica, was to live in the moment, but not hedonistically; not to abandon the ambition to lead a good life: to cherish what we had, and make such contribution as we could to the happiness of others. That shouldn’t be too hard, she felt.

Angus had been thinking too: not about these great issues, but about the simple, immediate subject of friendship. The real issue for most people, he thought, was loneliness. From the moment we came into this world we needed to be with another: with mother to begin with, and then, step by step, with others. We sought out friends to blunt the loneliness of existence, and then we deepened that search into a quest for love. We all wanted to be loved – we wanted that more than anything else. That was why love was the great theme of song, the most accessible and universal of all the arts. Our songs were almost always about love – overwhelmingly so – and love was what we thought about for so much of the time.

He thought of some of his friends. How had they fared in that human search for love? Stuart downstairs had been unlucky – it must have been trying beyond measure to be married to Irene, and since his liberation from her baneful influence, he had failed, it seemed, to find somebody who would love him. Perhaps he would do that soon, now that Irene appeared to have her fisherman lover up in Peterhead. Poor fisherman: what a fate to be linked with Irene, to have to listen to her every day! But perhaps that was what he had been looking for. There was no accounting for human taste: people found the most unlikely partners.

Then there was Nicola. He had heard of her recent disappointment – that date that turned out not to be a date at all. That man must have been highly insensitive, and she was better off without him. But it was disappointing for her; perhaps she would encounter somebody else, although perhaps not in similar circumstances. Of course, she had her pie factory in Glasgow – that was something. But material goods – even something as … as lovely as a pie factory – could never make up for a lack of love.

Matthew and Elspeth were coming. They were happy with one another, he thought, and of course they had their three boys. Children were a wonderful object for parental love. When you had a child, you embarked upon a love affair that in some cases simply never failed. There were no questions to ask, no doubts to be resolved: you just gave your love to your children and, if you were lucky, they gave it back to you. And that lasted for life.

Angus looked at Domenica, and she looked back at him. He was in no doubt about it: he loved her, and he believed she returned his love. There was no need to talk about it – no need to say, at the end of each phone call, Love you, as some people did. He could never be so … so external. Love was a big, powerful word – bandy it about, and you cheapened it, deprived it of its force.

He and Domenica were content with one another, even if there were no surprises in their relationship. He knew what she thought about things, and she knew what his views were. She had heard him express his opinions on every conceivable subject, and he had heard her do the same. There was nothing wrong with that. The entirely familiar was a great consolation in life: familiar places, familiar friends, familiar music – all the things one recognised.

May each day be the same, he thought. That was a comforting thing to say to another, although the recipient of such a wish may not understand the benediction bestowed.