Part Three: SATURDAY........AND THE SUN IS SHINING

Buster stood at the bus stop waiting for the No 27 which would take him up the hill and into the centre of Edinburgh. His nose twitched as if he were a cat sniffing out the day's possibilities.

Faintly, on the breeze, he could pick up the sound of the bustle of traffic coming from the City Centre and he struggled manfully to contain his excitement. To-day, he had decided, would be a day of adventure and exploration.

In all his travels there was one thing that he had learned above all others and that was that there was nothing, nothing in all the world, as exciting as the first morning in a new city. This was especially true on a morning like this when the sun had brushed down the tired old roofs of the town and softened the brick and the stone and made them new again.

He had already decided on his first port of call - the big Castle that towered above the Gardens where he had fed the squirrels only yesterday. He was just dreaming of the excitements that Edinburgh Castle might hold and whether or not there would be a tea room on the premises , and whether or not they sold "Maccarroons", when one of the city's maroon and white double decker buses pulled up at the stop across the road.

As soon as he saw the vehicle all thoughts of the Castle, and whether or not he'd be able to fortify himself with a cup of tea and a bun, slipped from his mind for, splashed right across the side of the vehicle was a huge colour reproduction of a painting advertising an exhibition of the French Impressionists in the big Gallery just off Princes Street. He did not know much about Art but like many another he "KNEW WHAT HE LIKED" and he liked what he saw.

The painting was a picnic scene, the one set on the Bois de Boulogne that most of you will be familiar with. Buster, the simple soul, was not familiar with it at all but he was completely beguiled by the spirit of uncomplicated happiness that poured out of the picture and suddenly he had a new mission.

As the bus sailed off down the hill he resolved to find this painting and stand before it and soak up the happiness captured within its frame. He needed to see the lady in the cornflower blue dress again and the jolly fat man with the beard who stood at her side. He wanted to see the sunlight dappling the picnic table and the warmth and the joy of a moment that would never end.



The Gallery, itself, was not hard to find as there was another large reproduction of the picnic scene on a hoarding a few yards away but it was spattered with mud, and some other unsavoury materials of uncertain origins, and it was torn at one corner and the sight did not satisfy Buster in the slightest. He did not feel that it did this glimpse of Paradise justice at all. Daunting though the prospect was, he felt compelled, as a magnet to metal, to pass through the "intimidating" doors of the Gallery and "claim his prize".

At the entrance to the first of the Gallery's rooms he asked the attendant where he could find his painting, but the man, who had difficulties understanding what Buster was saying, and no interest in finding out, waved him away in the direction of a collection of Dutch Still Lifes.

In that room Buster searched diligently along a line of paintings but, much to his mounting frustration, all he could see were studies of flowers in glass bowls or tables strewn with dead rabbits and game birds whose lifeless eyes stared up at ancient ceilings. He was incensed. This was no fun at all. It was profoundly depressing. He'd wanted to have his spirits raised not have them sink into his boots.

When he had calmed down a bit he began to suspect that there was some trickery afoot and that the unhelpful attendant might, just might, have sent him on a wild goose chase for the purposes of his own amusement. This was not entirely paranoia on his part, for he had plenty of experience of involuntarily providing amusement for people whose hearts were, shall we just say, less than pure.

Normally, Buster would take the line of least resistance when he suspected that he had been slighted in some way. He knew that the world was the way it was and that the finer feelings of a humble creature such as he did not really signify, but on this occassion he was not going to be trifled with. He was going to bask in the reflection of "his painting". He was not going to be denied an innocent and necessary pleasure.

A second attendant regarded Buster with barely concealed contempt for a long moment before something clicked into place in his municipally trained mind. The man had read in his daily paper, only that very morning, about an unexplained spate of vandalism to the nation's great paintings and the more he saw of the specimen in front of him the more he grew certain that he had a potential Art slasher on his hands, a threat to the country's artistic heritage.........possibly even an anarchist! Surely those bulging eyes indicated an imbalance of some sort or another.

It was all the evidence that a conscientious guardian of the nation's culture needed. Or, to be more exact, it was all the evidence that HE needed. Without any further warning, the man placed the palm of a large hand on Buster's back and propelled him towards the stairs leading down to the Gift Shop and the main door just beyond it.

His tea break was overdue so he did not bother escorting his anarchist to the bottom of the stairs, but contented himself with watching the miscreants scowling retreat.

Buster did not even bother turning round to throw his tormentor a dirty look. What would have been the point? It would not have brought him any closer to the picture and if he made too much of a fuss they might put him in charge. He might be told to get out of town, like in the cowboy pictures, or worse, he could go to prison. He had a morbid fear of being locked up and told to do things. Much better he thought,in full poetic mode,to be like the Spring breeze, held down by no man.

However, just before he was about to leave the Gallery he had an idea. The Gift Shop sold postcards of the great paintings did they not? Surely, they would have the one he wanted and then he would be able to gaze at the happy scene whenever he wanted to.

As he turned the postcard carousel this way and that it squeaked and groaned. It sounded to Buster like the sound that old Josef made when he was excited and the amusement that this gave him made him momentarily forget his task.

Not content with toying with one carousel, he waddled over to the other and repeated the exercise. After all, maybe IT made a different sound.

The Gift Shop's customers and staff were aware of his mischief by now. The noise grated on every ear. People tutted. People gave him dirty looks. People whispered unkind comments to one another. He didn't care. He was having fun and at least, by his standards,harming no-one.

The stern, official looking lady in charge of the sales counter did not agree. She told him to "stop that" immediately or she would send for reinforcements.

That put the proverbial tin lid on it! Buster had had just about all he could take from the forces of officialdom for one day. Pointedly, he brought this second carousel to a grinding, teeth jarring halt. Suddenly, the silence in the Gift Shop was absolute and every eye was fixed on the shabby little hooligan as everyone wondered what he would do next.

Now that he was the centre of attention he decided to make the most of the situation. He stepped forward a pace or two, raised two fingers to the lady behind the counter, bowed low to the visitors, who after all had not been the ones who had thwarted him, and scuttled out of this humourless establishment before retribution had a chance to catch up with him.