Espresso Tales

“It depends,” said Pat. “I like Fellini.”

“This might be by Fellini,” said Matthew. “But it might not.”

“Or Pasolini,” added Pat.

Matthew nodded vaguely. “I think I’ve seen some of his films too,” he said. “But I forget the names of directors.”

They made arrangements to meet at the Film Theatre itself and then, after helping Matthew to close the gallery, Pat made her way back to Scotland Street to get ready for the evening.

She let herself in at the bottom of the stairs and began the climb up to the top floor. As she turned the corner on the first landing, she heard a voice drifting down from above her.

“So it’s you.”

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Domenica, who must have entered the building just a few moments before her, had reached the top landing and was looking down on her. Pat looked up and saw her neighbour staring down. She waved, and continued her journey to their landing. Domenica was standing in her doorway, the full bag of groceries that she had been carrying laid down on the floor beside her.

“I hate doing this sort of shopping,” Domenica said, with feeling. “I find the whole process of buying apples and things like that so disheartening. But one has to do it, I suppose. Apples don’t grow on trees.”

Pat smiled. She was not sure whether she wanted to engage in a conversation with Domenica, as she had relatively little time to prepare herself for the Film Theatre.

“You left me some flowers,” said Domenica. “And I haven’t thanked you yet. You’re a sweet girl. You really are.”

“I felt rather bad about being so . . . so cross with you,” said Pat. “Especially when you were only trying to help me.”

“You had every right to be cross with me,” said Domenica.

“But I take it that you would like me to carry on with the planned invitation of that young man to dinner.”

Pat shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Which means you want me to do so,” said Domenica. “And I shall. Of course, if you don’t want to come along, you needn’t.

You could leave that nice young man to me.”

Pat stared at her in astonishment. Did Domenica really mean that?

Domenica, seeing Pat’s reaction, smiled coyly. “Why not, may I ask? Isn’t it fashionable these days for a . . . how shall we put it? – a more mature woman to have a somewhat younger man friend? Stranger things have happened.”

Pat wanted to laugh. It was absurd to think of Domenica as having a younger man; it was inconceivable. And what made Domenica imagine that Peter would even look at her for one moment? It was quite ridiculous.

“He’s a bit young for you, isn’t he?” she said. “You could have a younger boyfriend, I suppose, but not that young.”

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Lonely Tonight

“What you mean,” said Domenica, “is that in your opinion I’m too old. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

Pat wanted to say yes, it was, but refrained. The whole discussion was becoming embarrassing. She looked at her watch. She had forty minutes to get ready if she was to arrive at the Film Theatre in time. “I have to hurry,” she said. “I’m going to see a film.”

Domenica picked up her bag and reached for her hallway light switch. “I might just surprise you one of these days,” she said. “I could get a man if I wanted one, you know.”

“Of course you could,” said Pat hurriedly. “You’re an attractive woman. Men like you. Look at Angus Lordie.”

Domenica let out a shriek. “Oh, not Angus! For heaven’s sake!

He would be desperation stakes – complete desperation stakes.

No, I’m thinking of somebody a bit more romantic than that.”

Pat giggled, and gestured towards her own doorway. “Bruce?”

Domenica laughed. “There are limits,” she said. “But wait and see. I think I’m going to surprise you.”

Back inside the flat, Pat took out a fresh blouse and ran a bath for herself. She reflected on her conversation with Domenica, realising that she had made so many assumptions in it. She had assumed that somebody of sixty could not fall in love; that was ridiculous – it was ageist of her, she decided; very ageist. People said that you could fall in love at any stage in life – at eight, at eighteen, at eighty. And why not? The capacity to experience the other emotions did not wither; you could still feel anger, jealousy, distress and all the rest, however old you were. Love was in the same spectrum as these. And you could love anything, and anyone, whether or not the passion were returned. When she was very young, she had loved a knitted doll, a sailor in a blue suit. She had called him Pedro, for some inexplicable reason, and had carried him with her wherever she went. She had loved Pedro with all her heart, and she had been sure that he had loved her from the depths of his woolly being. The object of affection did not matter; the feeling did.

What did she have to love now? Pedro was no more, or, at At the Film Theatre

93

the most, he was a few scraps of wool in the bottom of a drawer. He would have to be replaced; and Pedro . . . was Peter.

She reached out and turned off the taps. She was tired of being by herself. She did not want to have to go to the Film Theatre with the crowd; she wanted to go with somebody who would give all his attention to her, and her alone; who would take her out for dinner afterwards, or for a drink at the bar, and who would exchange confidences with her. And that, presumably, was the sort of thing that poor Domenica wanted for herself too. They were two lonely women wanting the same thing. And there was Bruce wanting it too, but going about the getting of it in quite the wrong way. Companionship. Tender friendship.

Love. None of them had it at present, and time was leaking away, especially for Domenica.

29. At the Film Theatre

Matthew’s crowd, it transpired, consisted of five people, including Matthew himself. With Pat present, there were six of them, all sitting in a row in the half-empty film theatre.

This Italian film was an obscure one, made by an obscure director and starring obscure actors, and although the programme notes referred to it as a key example of the Milanese Emptiness School, this distinction was not sufficient to draw the Edinburgh crowds. And to add to the general air of participation in an obscure event, the print was dark and scratchy, as if not enough light could penetrate it, or as if it had been made at dusk, on a cloudy day. The action took place in a small village between Milan and Parma, in the early 1950s. The village was closing, it seemed, through lack of support. The local priest, played by a man with a pronounced limp, had despaired of saving his congregation, which was now reduced to a few aged widows and a young girl who appeared to be developing stigmata. The stigmata which, if genuine, would have revived 94

At the Film Theatre

the village’s fortunes, turned out to be no more than a rash.

All the village men were in Bologna, where they were on strike. The strike had no cause and had no apparent ending.

There was nobody to negotiate with, as the bosses had gone to Rome and declined to return. There was a profound crisis.

At the end of the film, the crowd had arisen from its seats and made its way through to the bar. Some people remained seated in the theatre, as if waiting for further explanation. Pat walked through with Matthew, and asked him what he thought of the film.

“Well,” he began, and then tailed off. He looked at her; she would have views perhaps; for his part, he had no idea what to say.

“Exactly,” whispered Pat. “And what did the crowd think?”

“The crowd’s not fussy,” said Matthew.

As they entered the bar, Pat looked at the individual members of the crowd. Matthew had introduced them to her before they had gone into the theatre, and now she recalled their names.

Ed was the tall one in the black tee-shirt; Jim was the one with the earring; Philly was a blonde with rat’s-tail hair; and Rose had a curious pair of sixties-style glasses. Pat found herself staring at Rose, who caught her eye and smiled at her, hesitantly, Pat thought.

When they reached a table and sat down, Pat sat next to Rose, Ed on her other side. Matthew, who was several places away, looked inquiringly at Pat. He wanted her to move, thought Pat, but she would not: she was with the crowd, not with Matthew.

“You work for Matthew, don’t you?” asked Rose. Her voice was strange; rather high-pitched; not a confident voice.

“Yes,” said Pat. “I’m his assistant.”

Rose looked at her and said: “Lucky.”

“To work for Matthew? Lucky?”

“Yes,” said Rose. “I would love that.” She paused. It seemed to Pat as if she was preparing to ask something awkward, and indeed she was.

At the Film Theatre

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“Do you go out with him a lot?” Rose asked. “Or are you just . . . well, I suppose one should say, are you just . . . ?”

“An employee,” Pat supplied. “I work for him, you see.”

This information seemed to please Rose, who glanced over at Matthew and then looked back at Pat. “I’ve known him a long time,” she said. “We used to go to a tennis club together.

Not that my tennis is any good – it’s hopeless. Did you know that Matthew played tennis?”

Pat shook her head. She had always thought of Matthew as being slightly lazy; surely tennis would be too strenuous for him.

“And then,” Rose continued, “we went – the whole crowd, that is, minus Ed, who was having his appendix out – we went off to Portugal last year. For two weeks. That was such good fun.” She closed her eyes, as if to remember.

Pat looked at her. It was perfectly apparent that Rose had her eye on Matthew, but would her interest be reciprocated? She feared it would not. Rose was reasonably attractive, and appeared likeable enough, but that was not the point in these matters.

What counted was chemistry, and when Matthew had introduced her to Rose he had done so in a way which did not suggest that there was anything special between them. Rose, no doubt, was trying too hard. Men did not like to be pursued – as a general rule – and Matthew would have picked up her interest

– and retreated. There was no chance for Rose, Pat thought, unless she changed tactics – and people did not generally change tactics.

Ed now addressed a remark to Rose. Pat looked around her.

The film in one of the other cinemas had come to an end and had discharged its patrons into the bar. They looked animated, and amused; no Milanese emptiness. She watched a couple of young men walk up to the bar. One of them was tall and was wearing a dark-green shirt. He stopped short of the bar to say something to his companion, who leaned forward to catch the remark. As he spoke, the tall young man looked out across the bar, directly at Pat. He paused, and the person with him looked back too.

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At the Film Theatre

He tried to place her. He had met her somewhere – at the café? Yes. At the café. With that woman who went on about that book. He nodded, and waved.

Pat thought: I want him to come over to me. That’s what I want.

And he did, muttering something to his friend, who went on to order a drink.

“You,” he said, smiling.

“Yes,” she said. “Me.”

He bent down to speak to her. Rose looked up, glanced at him, and then at Pat. She thought: this is what happens to girls like that. They only have to walk into a room and they get men like that flocking round them. Bees to honey. And I can’t even get Matthew to notice me. Not even that.

“Were you in that Italian film?” Pat asked. “The Crisis? ”

Peter shook his head. “No. We went to an Australian comedy.

About an airline pilot and a nurse who get stuck in the Outback with a couple of Shakespearean actors.”

“I think I’ve heard about that one,” said Pat. “It’s a great idea for a film.”

She waited for Peter to say something, but for a few moments there was a silence. Then he said: “Do you want to At Big Lou’s

97

come round some time? To Cumberland Street?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “That would be great.”

“Tomorrow evening?”

Pat nodded. She sensed that Rose had been listening.

30. At Big Lou’s

Big Lou stood in front of her new coffee-making machine, polishing its gleaming stainless-steel spouts, and admiring the fine Italian lines of the reservoir and high-pressure steam chamber. Only the Italians could produce a machine of this beauty; only the Italians would care enough to do so.

But she had more to think about than aesthetics; over the late summer, several major developments had taken place at Big Lou’s coffee bar. The purchase of this expensive new machine was one of the most important, and satisfying, and had attracted a great deal of attention from her regular customers, especially from Matthew, who had fallen in love with it the moment he had seen it. To gaze at the machine was pleasure enough; to turn the levers and control the outflow of steam – as Matthew was occasionally permitted to do – was a positive joy.

Another of these developments was the removal of the expensive newspaper rack. In its place she had installed a small table, which she had acquired from a saleroom on Leith Walk. On this table she stacked copies of the day’s papers and any magazines which were left behind by customers, provided, of course, Big Lou approved of them. The Scots Magazine was always there, and was popular, curiously enough, with some of the most intellectual customers, who read it with what seemed suspiciously close to a condescending smile. Why they should affect this expression was not clear to her. The Scots Magazine was popular in Arbroath, Big Lou’s home town, and she saw no reason why it should not be equally popular in Edinburgh. Or did Edinburgh, for some unfathomable reason, feel itself superior to Arbroath?

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At Big Lou’s

A further development was an important change in the mid-morning coffee regulars. Matthew still came every morning, of course, and stayed longer than anybody else, but the two furniture restorers had disappeared entirely. It was almost as if they had been written out of a story, thought Lou; simply no longer on the page. They had disappeared, and had taken their world with them. But just as they had gone, others had arrived. Mrs Constance, for instance, with her curious unkempt hair, had appeared one morning and had announced herself as “the woman from upstairs” – her flat being more or less immediately above the coffee bar. She was silent, for the most part, but occasionally joined in the conversation with observations that were remarkably acute.

Then there was Angus Lordie, the portrait painter from Drummond Place, and occasional poet. He had ventured into the coffee bar one morning and had found Matthew, whom he knew, engaged in conversation with Big Lou. Big Lou had been unsure about Angus Lordie to begin with, but had accepted his presence after she had taken to Cyril, his dog.

“There’s something strange about that creature,” she had remarked to Matthew. “He keeps looking at me and I could swear that he winks from time to time.”

“Yes, he does wink,” said Matthew. “Pat says that he winks at her all the time – as if they were sharing a secret. And he has a gold tooth, you know. It’s most peculiar. But then Angus is peculiar too. They suit one another.”

“Aye, well, he gives Cyril coffee,” Big Lou went on. “He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. He slips a saucer under the table and Cyril drinks it. The other day he ordered two cups of cappuc-cino. He assumed I would think they were both for him, but one was for Cyril. I saw him drink it – from the cup. He had the foam from the milk all around his jaws afterwards.”

Matthew nodded. “Cyril drinks beer too,” he said. “He’s a regular at the Cumberland Bar. Quite an intelligent dog, I think.

And a good friend to Angus.”

She had thought about that over the following days. Big Lou was a sympathetic person and aware of loneliness. She had been At Big Lou’s

99

by herself since she had come down to live in Edinburgh. Her solution had been to immerse herself in the books which she had inherited from the bookshop which had previously occupied the coffee-bar premises. These books were on a wide range of subjects – philosophy, topography, literature, and even dogs

– and Big Lou was patiently making her way through all of these, one by one, completing an education which had been cut short at the age of sixteen.

That morning, nobody had come in before Matthew, and for a few minutes he and Big Lou were alone together.

“Are your parents alive, Lou?” Matthew suddenly asked.

“You’ve never mentioned them, you know.”

Big Lou shook her head. “My father left us when I was eleven,” she said. “He died a bit later. Drink, I was told. My mother died when I was nineteen.”

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew.

Big Lou said nothing. She looked down at the counter. What was there to be said about the loss of parents? She could barely remember her father now, and her mother’s memory was fading.

All she could recall was kindness, and love, like a surrounding mist.

“And you?” she asked. “You’ve just got your father, haven’t you?”

Matthew nodded. “He’s found himself a girlfriend, by the way,” he said quietly. “Some woman called Janis.”

Big Lou smiled. “That’s nice. That’s nice for him.”

Matthew took a sip of coffee. “I suppose so.”

Big Lou watched him. She was about to say something to him, but the door opened and Angus Lordie arrived, closely followed by Cyril. He nodded to Lou and made his way over to take his seat next to Matthew. Cyril sat down beneath the table and stared at Matthew’s ankles. He would have loved to bite them, but would not. He understood the rules.

“I’ve been reading the paper for the last hour,” Angus remarked breezily. “And the state of the world – my goodness!

Everywhere one looks – ghastly. And of course we, you may recall, Matthew, are actively engaged in hostilities, together with 100 Act and Omission

our friends, the Americans. Not exactly on our doorstep, but hostilities nonetheless. Were you aware of that? Does it feel like wartime to you? What about you, Lou? Do you feel as if you’re at war?”

“No,” said Lou. “I don’t. Nobody consulted me about it.”

“Ah,” said Angus Lordie. “But nobody is ever consulted about a war, are they? It’s still our war, though.”

Matthew interrupted. The war was not Big Lou’s fault, as far as he was concerned – nor his, for that matter.

“There’s nothing that Big Lou can do about it,” he said. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with her.”

Big Lou had been busying herself with the cup of foamed coffee she was preparing for Angus. She had been listening too, of course, and now she turned round. She had something to say on this subject.

31. Act and Omission

Big Lou leaned over the counter. “Yes,” she said. “That’s very interesting, what you say, Matthew. You say that there’s often nothing we can do, but I’m not sure that that’s quite right. I’m not just talking about this war, now. I’m talking about things in general. Can you really say that there’s nothing that we can do about things that we disapprove of, when they’re done by the government? Are you sure about that?”

“You can vote,” said Angus. “Get people out.” He thought for a moment before adding: “Mind you, have you ever tried getting the Labour Party out in Scotland? Ever tried that?”

“That might be because people want them in,” said Big Lou.

“I do, at least. Anyway, you can vote. But how often do we get the chance to do that? And even then, we might not have much of a choice.”

“But at least you’ve done what you can,” joined in Matthew, who had never voted, never; from lethargy, and indecision.

“Once you’ve voted, that is.”

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Big Lou agreed with this, but there was more to the issue than simple voting. There were many other things one could do, she thought. One could write to politicians. One could give money to causes. One could protest in the street. There were options. She pointed this out to Matthew and Angus, but then she added: “But the real question, boys, is this: do we have a duty to do anything to stop things we may not like? Is it all right just to do nothing, provided that we don’t do anything that makes matters worse?”

Angus exchanged a glance with Matthew. He was not yet used to Big Lou’s philosophical reflections, and his attitude was slightly condescending. Matthew sensed this and wanted to say something to him about it, but had not yet had the chance. He would speak to him, though, later.

“I would have thought,” said Angus, “that we are more responsible for what we do rather than for what we don’t do. If I didn’t start something, then I’m not sure that it’s my duty to stop it.”

“Oh yes?” asked Big Lou. “Oh yes?”

Cyril looked at Big Lou and then at his master. Like all dogs, he was attempting to understand what was happening in the human world, but this was difficult to read, and he looked away.

His was a world of floors and low things, and smells; a whole room, a world of smells, waiting for dogs to locate them and file away for future use.

Angus met Big Lou’s challenge. “Yes,” he said. “I’m pretty sure about that. Don’t blame me for what I haven’t done. Simple.

I didn’t start the Cuban missile crisis. I was around at the time, I suppose. But I didn’t start it.”

Big Lou smiled. “That may be so, but let me tell you about something I’ve just read.” She paused, looking directly at Angus Lordie. “Do you want to hear about it?”

Angus nodded graciously. “You are constantly entertaining, most excellent Lou,” he said. “We are all ears, aren’t we, Matthew?”

“Well,” said Lou. “What I’ve been reading about is this. It’s a chapter in a book by a philosopher, and it’s called The Case of the Two Wicked Uncles. That’s what it’s called.”

102 Act and Omission

She leant forward on the bar as she continued. “There’s Uncle A and Uncle B, you see. Both of these uncles have a nephew, who’s just a wee boy, about eight maybe. If this bairn dies before they do, then each stands to come into a lot of money.

“Uncle A goes to see his nephew one day. He arrives at the house and finds that the parents have gone out for some reason, leaving the boy alone in the house.”

“Somewhat unlikely,” said Angus, smiling at Matthew.

“Parents don’t leave eight-year-olds in the house. Not these days.”

Lou sighed. “It’s a story, remember. Philosophers like to tell stories. They don’t have to be true. Anyway, Uncle A goes upstairs and finds that the nephew has decided to take a bath.

The door to the bathroom is open and he goes in, sees the boy in the water, and decides, on the spur of the moment, to drown the poor bairn. Which he does, knowing that he will come into all that money.”

“Good God!” said Angus Lordie.

“Yes,” said Big Lou. “Not a nice uncle. Now here’s what Uncle B does. He goes off the same day to see his particular nephew and finds exactly the same situation there. When Uncle B goes upstairs in that other house, he sees the bathroom door open and goes in to see what’s happening. There’s his nephew, in the bath, but with his head under the water. He realises that the poor boy has slipped, knocked himself unconscious, and is submerged. He realises that if he doesn’t drag him out of the water – which will be a very simple thing to do – the boy will soon drown. He also realises that if this happens, then he will come into all the money. He does nothing.”

“He stands there?” asked Matthew.

“Aye,” said Big Lou. “He stands there. That’s Uncle B for you. Standing there, doing nothing.”

For a few moments there was silence. The story had touched both Matthew and Angus Lordie in a curious way. It was almost as if it had been true; that they had been hearing something shocking that was reported in the newspaper. Cyril, disturbed The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions 103

by the silence, looked up from the floor and stared at his master.

Then he looked at Matthew’s ankles again, scratched at an ear, and closed his eyes.

“So,” said Big Lou, breaking the silence. “What you have to decide is this. Is Uncle A, who does something, worse than Uncle B, who does nothing? You just said to me, Angus, that we are only responsible for the things we do and not for the things we don’t do. Yes, you did. Don’t deny it. So are you going to say that Uncle B did nothing wrong? Is that what you’re going to say?” She paused. “But also, you tell me this: is Uncle A worse than Uncle B, or is there no difference between them? Well?

Come on. You tell me.”

Angus looked down at the table.

“Let me think,” he said.

32. The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions While Angus Lordie thought, Big Lou, lips pursed in an almost undetectable smile, made him another cup of coffee. She knew what Angus Lordie thought of her – that she was just a woman who made coffee for people. Big Lou was used to this. Back home in Arbroath, they had thought that she was just a girl –

she had heard one of her male relatives say just that – and that somebody who was just a girl had nothing really important to say about anything. And in Aberdeen, where she had worked for years in the Granite Nursing Home, she had been just one of the assistants, somebody who helped, who cleaned up, who made the beds. And nobody had ever suggested to her that she might be something other than this.

Matthew, in silence, stared up at the ceiling, thinking of uncles.

He might so easily have been drowned by one of his uncles when he was eight, he thought. But which of his two uncles would have been most likely to drown him? His Uncle Willy in Dunblane, the one who farmed and who used to take him up the hillside on his all-terrain tractor to look at the sheep? Or 104 The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions his Uncle Malcolm in the West, who ran a marina and was a keen sailor? Uncle Willy might have drowned him in sheep dip, up at the high fank, and nobody would have been there to see it. It would have been a lonely death, under those wide Perthshire skies, and he would have closed his eyes to the sight of the heather and the mottled grey of the stones that made the fank.

But Uncle Willy was an elder of the Kirk and would never have drowned anybody, let alone his nephew. No. It would not have been Uncle Willy.

Would Uncle Malcolm have pushed him overboard from his yacht, he wondered? Hardly. And yet, now that he came to think of it, Uncle Malcolm had a temper and might, just might, have drowned him in a rage. Matthew remembered crewing for him off Colonsay when he was much younger and clearing away the breakfast things from the galley. He had tossed the dregs from a couple of tea cups into the sea and had done the same with the contents of a mug beside the sink.

Unfortunately, that had contained his uncle’s false teeth in their sterilising solution, and the teeth had been lost at sea.

His uncle had shouted at him then – strange, gummy shouts which had frightened him. Yes, Uncle Malcolm was the suspect in his case.

Suddenly, Angus Lordie clapped his hands together, causing Cyril to start and leap to his feet. “Uncle A,” he said. “Uncle B

is off the hook. He did nothing, yes? And even if he hadn’t been there the boy would have drowned. So he didn’t cause the drowning. Whereas Uncle A caused it to happen.”

Big Lou listened intently. “Oh,” she said. “So it’s all down to causing things? Is that it?”

“Absolutely, most cogitative Lou,” said Angus. “That’s your answer for you.”

“Maybe if Uncle B were to . . .” Matthew began, but was interrupted by Big Lou.

“So it’s cause then,” she said. “But the problem is this. I could say to you, surely, that Uncle B’s omission to act was a cause of the drowning just as much as Uncle A’s positive act was. Ken what I mean?”

The Two Wicked Uncles: Possible Solutions 105

Angus Lordie looked momentarily confused. Serves him right, thought Matthew. It was a bad mistake to condescend to Big Lou, as Angus was about to find out.

Big Lou reached for her cloth and gave the counter a wipe.

“You see, there’s no reason why we should not see omissions to act as being as causally potent as positive actions. It’s simply wrong to think that failures to act can’t cause things – they do.

It’s just that our ordinary idea of how things are caused is too tied to ideas of physical causation, of pushing and shoving. But it’s more subtle than that.”

“So there’s no difference between Uncle A and Uncle B then?”

asked Matthew.

“Not really,” said Big Lou. “The book I’m reading says that ordinary people – the man in the street – would always say that Uncle A was worse, while the philosopher would say that there was no real difference.” She finished her sentence, and then looked at Angus Lordie.

Angus Lordie picked up his coffee cup and drained the last few drops. “Well, Lou,” he said. “That’s pretty impressive. I’ll have to think about what you said. You could be right.”

“I am right,” said Big Lou.

“Could be,” said Angus, looking for support from Matthew, but getting none. He looked at Cyril, who returned his gaze directly, but gave no further sign.

Matthew now spoke. “There could be a difference, though.

There could be a difference between things we do on the spur of the moment and things we do after a bit of thought.”

Big Lou looked at him with interest. “Maybe,” she said.

“So in this case,” Matthew went on, “Uncle A had a bit of time – maybe only a minute or so to think about it. Then he acted. Whereas Uncle B acted – or failed to act – spontaneously.”

Angus Lordie snorted dismissively. “Doesn’t work,” he said.

“They have had exactly the same amount of time to think about it. Uncle A thinks about it while he’s holding the boy’s head under the water. Uncle B thinks about it while he stands there and watches the poor boy drown. No difference, in my view.”

106 Bertie Makes a Move

Big Lou wanted to side with Matthew, but could not. “Yes,”

she conceded, a note of reluctance in her voice. “Angus is probably right – in this case. But you’re right, too, Matthew, when it comes to most of the things we do. There must be a difference between the things you do on a sudden urge and the things you do after you’ve thought about them for a long time.”

“So what do you think, Lou?” asked Angus. “Is there a difference between Uncle A and Uncle B as far as you’re concerned?

What did that book of yours say?”

“It hinted at an answer,” said Big Lou. “But mostly it just raised the question. Books don’t always give the answers, you know. Sometimes they just raise the questions.”

Angus smiled. “So nothing’s certain, then?”

“That’s right,” said Big Lou.

“Except death and taxes,” interjected Matthew. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“They don’t pay taxes in Italy,” observed Angus. “I knew a painter in Naples who never paid taxes – ever. Very good painter too.”

“What happened to him?” asked Matthew.

“He died,” said Angus.

33. Bertie Makes a Move

In the days that followed his visit to George Street with his mother, Bertie had been preoccupied with his plan. The purchase of the Watson’s blazer from Aitken and Niven was feasible only with the co-operation of the boy from round the corner.

Unfortunately, there was a difficulty with this as he was not sure exactly where this new friend lived. He had met him only on the one occasion and although the other boy had given him his name – he was called Paddy – he had not been specific as to where he lived. He had pointed in the direction of the far end of Fettes Row, which was just round the corner, when Bertie Makes a Move

107

Bertie had asked him, but he had given no number.

Nor had he given Bertie his surname, which would have allowed the telephone directory to be consulted. So all that Bertie could do if he wanted to contact him was to wait in the street in the hope that he might appear.

And there was a difficulty with doing even that. Bertie was now allowed out alone in Scotland Street and Drummond Place, provided that he did not cross any busy roads and provided that he told Irene exactly where he was going. This allowed him to sit on the steps outside No 44 and watch people going in and out of their houses. It also allowed him to stand at the end of Scotland Street Lane in the hope of seeing one of the motorcycles that occasionally roared out of the vintage-motorcycle garage (out of bounds).

Bertie liked the motorcyclists, who sometimes waved or nodded to him. He would like to have a motorcycle like that, which he could ride to rugby matches, and he would do so, he thought, when he was bigger.

His mother would not like it, of course – she said that motorcycles were noisy things – worse than cars – and that if she were the Lord Provost of Edinburgh she would ban them from the streets. But even if he got hold of a motorcycle, she would still try to spoil it for him, thought Bertie. Motorcyclists wore leather outfits, sometimes with badges on them; she would force him to wear leather dungarees, he thought, and all the other motorcyclists would laugh at him.

If Paddy lived on Fettes Row, then he would have to go and seek him there. But again there were obstacles. Although one section of Fettes Row was accessible, the other section, where Paddy lived, lay beyond Dundas Street, and the crossing of Dundas Street was definitely forbidden.

Bertie wrestled with this. He could not tell his mother that he was going to the other side of Fettes Row because she would forbid him outright. And if he lied, which he did not want to do – for he was a truthful boy (apart from his habit of occasionally giving a false name) – then he would surely give himself away with his blushes. So he would have to 108 Bertie Makes a Move

develop a form of words which allowed for the crossing of Dundas Street.

“Can I go down to Royal Crescent?” he asked one afternoon.

Irene glanced up from the book she was reading, a new biography of Melanie Klein. For a moment she wondered how Melanie Klein would have answered had anybody asked her permission to go to Royal Crescent. It would have been too simple just to say yes. Perhaps she would have said: Why do you want to go to Royal Crescent?

“Why?” she said.

Bertie shrugged. “I want to play.”

Irene looked back at the book. The biographer had reached a point where Kleinian theories of play were on the point of being discussed at an important meeting in London. Melanie was anxious about the implications of a possible attack from Freudian loyalists who believed she had strayed too far from the fold. The pace of the account, with all its intrigue, was building up.

“That’s fine, Bertie. You play. And then maybe we can talk about how you played. Would that be all right? You could tell Mummy about your little games?”

Bertie pursed his lips. It was none of her business how he played. He wanted to play Chase the Dentist, but she said that it was too violent, and he could never find anybody to play it with him. But he did not want to argue about that now; bland acceptance was a better policy.

“And then I’ll go round to the end of the street and then come back,” he said.

Every word of the sentence had been rehearsed, and he delivered his line faultlessly. It was true, after all, and there was no need to feel ashamed or to blush over what he had said. Royal Crescent and Fettes Row were, strictly speaking, separate streets, but in a broad sense they were the same street, as Fettes Row was a continuation of Royal Crescent. And the section of Fettes Row which lay on the far side of Dundas Street could, of course, be described as the same street as the bit that lay on the near side. So he felt that it was quite reasonable for him to say that Bertie Makes a Move

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he was going to the end of the street, even if he knew that Irene might misinterpret what he said. A boy was not responsible for the misinterpretations of his mother, he thought. That was carrying things far too far.

Irene nodded. “Be careful,” she said. “And don’t be too long.”

She paused, and looked up again from her book. “And have you done your Italian today, Bertie?”

Bertie had taken the precaution of doing his Italian exercises to prevent their being used as a way of thwarting his plan.

“Si, si,” he said. “Ciao, Mama!”

“Ciao, ciao, bambino!” Irene muttered, and returned to her Melanie Klein. It was typical, she thought, that institutional forces should have sought to discredit truly innovative developments in the international psychoanalytical movement. It was absolutely typical.

For a moment she allowed her mind to wander. Dr Fairbairn had been something of a pioneer himself – a recent pioneer –

with his theory of the juvenile tantrum. But he must have encountered opposition to his theories when he first published his study of Wee Fraser.

Presumably there were those who were envious of his success, who wanted to bring him down because they hated the fact that he had done something. There were always people like that, she thought. They are unsettled by the good fortune, or the happiness, of others. They allowed envy, that most corrosive of human emotions, to prompt them to make sneering remarks.

And all they achieved in this way was an increase in the sum total of the world’s unhappiness and a contraction, a deforma-tion, of their own hearts.

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34. Bertie Prepares to Cross Dundas Street Bertie left the front door of 44 Scotland Street in that state of heightened excitement of mind and senses that goes with the performance of the dangerous, or the plainly forbidden. He had not lied to his mother – he was certain of that – but at the same time what he was proposing to do was clearly outside the understanding that existed between them.

He thought for a moment: I am going to cross Dundas Street, alone, and the enormity of his adventure came home to him. In such a state of anticipation might Adam have reached up to pick the fruit, thought Bertie, although as all boys, and men, knew, that was really Eve’s fault. If he was breaking the rules, then, it was obviously his mother’s fault for making them in the first place.

This thought encouraged him, and he smiled as he began to walk along Royal Crescent and then to Fettes Row, with its fateful conjunction with Dundas Street. He knew that this mission might prove futile, that there might be no trace of Paddy, and that he would return with nothing accomplished.

But it was at least a first step in the execution of his plan, and he was confident that sooner or later he would meet up with Paddy and put his proposal to him. And Paddy would accept, of course; he was that sort of boy. He went fishing in the Pentland Hills and caught trout. For a boy who did that, the task which Bertie had planned for him would be simplicity itself.

Bertie had decided that he would walk up and down Fettes Row for half an hour or so in the hope that Paddy might emerge.

It was a warm afternoon, part of an Indian summer in which Edinburgh was basking, and Paddy might well come out on to the street to play. But even if he did not, then Bertie had brought with him a small piece of blackboard chalk, and with this he would leave a message for Paddy on some of the stairs that led up to the front doors on Fettes Row. PADDY, he would write, MEET ME IN SCOTLAND STREET SOON. URGENT.

SECRET. BERTIE.

Bertie Prepares to Cross Dundas Street 111

That would draw him out, thought Bertie. No boy could resist a message like that. And then Bertie thought: will Paddy know how to read? If he did not – and that was perfectly likely

– then there would be no point in writing the message. This conclusion slightly dampened his spirits; it was not easy, he realised, being more advanced than others. And again this was not his fault, he thought with irritation; it all came back to his mother. She’s the one who has ruined my life. She’s the one.

Royal Crescent, a terrace of high, classical buildings, was quiet as Bertie made his way along it. A cat watched him from the top of a car, its eyes narrowing as it assessed the threat which he presented to its peace of mind and safety. But Bertie was no threat and the cat closed its eyes again. And then a woman came out of a front door and stood for a moment at the top of her steps as Bertie walked past. Bertie looked up, and she smiled.

“Going somewhere?” she asked in a friendly tone.

Bertie stopped in his tracks. “Yes,” he said.

The woman continued to smile. “Don’t get up to any mischief,” she said.

112 Bertie Prepares to Cross Dundas Street Bertie stood quite still. How could she tell? Did something give it away, just as Pinocchio’s face gave away his lies? Could adults just tell?

“I won’t,” he muttered.

“Good,” she said, and turned away, fumbling with her key.

Bertie continued on his way, more slowly, more circumspectly.

Now the end of the first section of Fettes Row was in sight and there was Dundas Street, with its traffic. A bus went past on its way up to town, its engine straining against the hill. Behind it, a blue van waited its chance to overtake. The traffic seemed heavy.

As he came to the corner, the shadows of the buildings gave way to a burst of sunlight. Bertie stopped at the edge of the pavement and looked across the busy thoroughfare of Dundas Street. For a moment, out of ancient habit, he looked up beside him, expecting to find the familiar adult, his mother or his father, at his side. That is how one crossed the street – beside an adult

– with one’s hand in the adult hand, safe and guided. But there was no adult now; no mother, no teacher, no psychotherapist.

Bertie was alone. He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes for a moment. Nobody had taught him the principles of crossing a busy street. Should he wait until there were no cars in sight and then walk slowly across? The problem with that was that he would stand there forever: there were always cars in sight on this busy road.

He looked up the hill. The traffic came down more quickly than it went up. This meant that if he could find a break in the traffic coming down, it would not matter so much if there was something coming up the hill – such traffic would always take longer to reach him. But how long would he need? It was difficult to judge the precise speed of the traffic, and although the buses seemed to be moving very slowly, some of the cars were doing anything but that. Indeed, as he stood there, a small red car shot past him so quickly that he would have missed it, he felt, had he blinked. That car would most certainly have run him over if he had been crossing the street when it had roared round the corner of Henderson Row.

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For a few moments, Bertie considered abandoning his mission. It would be simple to turn round and retrace his steps

– as yet innocent steps – back to Scotland Street and home. If he did that he would have done nothing wrong at all and could face his mother and tell her exactly what he had done. He had gone to the end of the safe part of Fettes Row – that was all.

But to do this was a complete capitulation. If he did not even have the courage to cross Dundas Street, then would he have the courage to do anything at all? And what of Gavin Hastings?

he thought. Would he have been afraid to cross Dundas Street at the age of six? He would not. He imagined that Gavin Hastings had run across Dundas Street on many occasions as a boy; run and jumped and kicked his heels so that anyone watching would have nodded their heads wisely and said: Look at that boy! That’s a boy who’s bound to play rugby for Scotland!

Bertie took a deep breath. He decided to run.

35. Halfway Across

Peter Backhouse, musician and aficionado of old railways, happened to be walking down Dundas Street that afternoon.

He had spent a very satisfactory hour practising on the St Giles’ organ and was pleased with the Olivier Messiaen and Herbert Howells which he planned to perform at a “St Giles’

at Six” concert the following Sunday. There was such quiet in the music, such calm; it was the perfect antidote to the frenzied pace of modern life. Now, returning to the Academy for afternoon chamber-choir practice, he thought of what lay ahead of him. No Messiaen or Howells for the choir – at least not today – but a quick run through of Stand by Me and So it Goes, which the chamber choir had sung before and would respond to well; tear-jerkers, both of those pieces, if one were in a sentimental mood – which parents often were at school concerts.

He had reached the point at which Cumberland Street meets 114 Halfway Across

Dundas Street when he realised that something was happening.

He had glanced at his watch – a quick check to see that he was still in good time for choir practice – and for some reason, perhaps through an unconscious prompting of things seen but unseen, he looked over to his right and saw a small boy, wearing strawberry-coloured dungarees, suddenly run out into the street. For a moment, Peter Backhouse thought that the boy had kicked a ball into the road and was rushing out to retrieve it – it was that sort of purposeful, darting movement – but then the boy hesitated, took a few more steps, and stopped again.

Oliver Sacks has pointed out that those who are involved in moments of extreme peril often report a slowing-down of time.

They see the danger, they may even see impending annihila-tion, but they often feel that they have plenty of time to react.

The quick seconds of peril are slowed, become minutes in the minds of those involved. This is how it seemed that afternoon.

For Peter Backhouse, the boy seemed to be standing still for an inordinately long time, quite enough time to step from the path of the bus that was approaching him as he stood, momentarily frozen, in the middle of the road. The bus lumbered past, some faces at least peering out from the window at the sight of the small boy, statue-like, in the middle of the traffic. Then there were cars, one of which slowed down and swerved, avoiding a small movement that the boy had made.

Peter Backhouse shouted out to the boy, “Don’t move!” He looked up the road at the approaching traffic; a red light on the corner of Great King Street had changed and a stream of vehicles seemed to be hurtling down towards the boy while at the same time more cars came from the other direction. He looked behind him and decided that he should step out into the traffic and hold it up, hoping that it would heed him and allow the boy to complete his journey. But a car had already reached the point where he was standing and had shot past the stationary boy. Perhaps they could not see him; perhaps they thought that he was waiting to cross and knew exactly what he was doing.

And then, quite suddenly, a car careered round the corner Halfway Across

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behind him and launched itself down the road, going far too fast, the driver, distracted perhaps, unaware of the boy in the middle of the road – the boy who now seemed on the verge of overcoming his panicky indecision and launching himself into the rest of his interrupted crossing of the road. Peter Backhouse shouted, and began to leap forward, but he had been anticipated by another, a man on the other side of the road. This man, who had been walking up Dundas Street, had also seen what was happening and had acted. With a quick glance behind him, he darted forward, narrowly avoiding a passing van, and ran into the middle of the road. There, he seized the frightened boy and lifted him up bodily, right out of the path of the oncoming car.

Then, still holding him in his arms, he strode back to the edge of the road and to safety. A car squealed to a halt and a motorist shouted something out – a compliment, an expression of relief, an offer to help – but the rescuer indicated that all was well and the car drove off. On the other side of the road, Peter Backhouse shook his head, but breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he strode off to choir practice. Stand by Me indeed! How very appropriate.

Bertie, quivering with fright and on the point of tears, stood abjectly on the pavement, his rescuer beside him.

“That was rather too close for comfort,” the man said. “You should stick to the crossings, you know. That’s what the green man’s for.”

His tone was not unkind, and Bertie looked up at him for a moment. His face looked familiar, but Bertie was not quite sure.

The man smiled. “Where do you stay?” he asked.

Bertie pointed in the direction of Scotland Street.

“Well, I think you should get back home,” said the man. “Will you be all right, do you think?”

Bertie nodded. He had always been taught to thank people, and now he remembered. “Thank you very much,” he said.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“That’s all right,” said the man, smiling. “I’m sure that you would have done the same for me if that had been me stuck out there!”

116 Ramsey Dunbarton

“I don’t know,” said Bertie.

“I’m sure you would.”

Bertie returned the smile. Then he began to walk back along Cumberland Street, turning once to wave to the man, who was watching him set off safely on his way. It had been a dreadful, humiliating experience – and a terrifying one, too. And had he not been saved by that kind man, whoever he was, he would be crushed by now; perhaps in a wailing ambulance, being carried off to hospital. Or would they take him to Dr Fairbairn’s office first, where he would be asked at great length why he wanted to cross Dundas Street in the first place? That was possible, thought Bertie. Nothing was ever simple.

In Dundas Street, things had quickly returned to normal, as they do in cities when something untoward occurs. Few people had seen what had happened; Peter Backhouse had, but he had missed one detail. That detail had been spotted by an elderly woman who happened to be looking out of her window more or less immediately above the point where the incident had taken place. She had seen it all, and she now telephoned her friend in Trinity.

“Effie,” she said breathlessly, “Effie, you simply won’t believe what I’ve just seen, right outside my window. A wee boy panicked in the middle of Dundas Street and froze. Then he was rescued, snatched from the jaws of death by . . . Now, you won’t believe who it was, Betty, you really won’t. Jack McConnell, First Minister of Scotland. Yes! Yes! What a to-do! But he slipped away, and so I don’t think he’ll want this to get into the papers.

So not a word, Effie. We don’t want it to get into the Scotsman, do we?”

36. Ramsey Dunbarton

High above the city, on the bracing slopes of the Braids, Ramsey Dunbarton stood before the window of his study, looking out over the rooftops and to the hills of Fife beyond. It was a view Ramsey Dunbarton

117

that he had lived with for almost forty years and he knew it in every mood. In winter, when the light was thin, the distant hills became shapes of pale grey, hardly distinguishable from the scud-ding clouds above them. In summer and in autumn, the hills would stand out, sharply delineated mounds of green and purple, folds of earth that seemed, so misleadingly, to be just a short distance away. And always there was that wide, unpredictable northern sky, with its constantly changing clouds that shifted and parted with the wind.

Ramsey was a northerner by temperament. He felt ill at ease whenever he travelled south, to England or to France, feeling inside him that things were just too bright, and dusty – almost as if the sun had taken something out of the countryside and blanched it. And the air was stale in such latitudes, he thought; stale and stagnant. Ramsey liked Scottish light, pure and clean, and sharp. He liked long, cool evenings in summer and the comfortable darkness of winter days. He liked Scotland exactly as it was: unfussy, cold, and sometimes only half-visible. “I am not a Mediterranean type,” he had once remarked to his wife, Betty. And she had looked at him, and sighed. He was not. And nor, she reflected, was she.

Standing before his window, Ramsey thought of the day that lay ahead. It was ten-thirty in the morning and he had already dealt with the newspaper and the morning mail. Since there had been little news of any consequence, he had not taken long to finish the newspaper, and the mail had not been much better.

There had been a rose catalogue from Aberdeen – it was his policy always to order roses from Aberdeen, as northern roses would always be the hardiest and would do well in Edinburgh.

Buy north, plant south, Ramsey had often said, and the success of his roses spoke to the wisdom of this policy. It could equally apply to people, he had sometimes thought: Aberdonians did well wherever they went in the south.

Then there had been a newsletter from the secretary of the local Conservative Association in which plans for several social events had been revealed to members. The ball a few months earlier, of course, had been most enjoyable, although the 118 Ramsey Dunbarton

attendance, it was pointed out – six people – had been a little disappointing. The secretary, who had been unable to attend herself, exhorted the members to make next year’s ball an even greater success, and noted that an attempt would be made to secure the services of a different band. “We had some very critical comments about the performance of the band,” she wrote,

“and these have been forwarded to the ball committee (convened by Sasha and Raeburn Todd). One member has raised with me the question of whether it is proper for bands to allow their socialist convictions to interfere with the performance of their duties at paid functions. This is a very pertinent point and I believe that we should take action. If anybody knows of a Conservative ceilidh band, please contact us as soon as possible so that we can book them for next year. So far, no suggestions of possible bands have been received.”

Ramsey Dunbarton read this with interest. He was the member who had raised the question of the band’s performance and he was pleased to see that his complaint had been taken up.

There had been a lot wrong with the organisation of the ball, in his view. To begin with, somebody had tried to put him and Betty at a separate table from the other four guests. This was a ridiculous idea, and he had soon dealt with it by the simple expedient of moving the tables together. Then there was the question of the raffle, about which he still felt moderately vexed.

There had been some very generous prizes donated by the members, and it was imperative that any raffle for these should have been carried out fairly. He was not convinced that this had happened; in fact, he was sure that Sasha Todd, who had arranged the whole thing, had actually fixed the lottery so that she and her family should get the most desirable prizes. In particular, Ramsey had noted that she had made sure that she would win the lunch with Malcolm Rifkind and Lord James, which was the prize that he would most have liked to win. It can hardly have been much fun for the two politicians to have to sit through a lunch and listen to her going on about the sort of things that she tended to talk about. She was a very superficial woman, in his view, and she would have had no conversation of any interest.

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He, by contrast, could have talked to them about things they understood and appreciated.

Ramsey’s thoughts on the newsletter were interrupted by the arrival of Betty in his study.

“Coffee, dear,” she said, handing him his cup with its small piece of shortbread perched on the edge of the saucer.

“Bless you, Betty,” Ramsey said, taking the cup from his wife.

“Deep in thought?” Betty asked. “As always.”

Ramsey smiled. “Politics,” he said. “I was reading the newsletter. That made me think about politics.”

Betty nodded. “You would have made a wonderful politician, Ramsey,” she said. “I often wonder what would have happened had you entered Parliament. I’m sure that you would have reached the top, or close enough to the top.”

“I don’t know, Betty,” said Ramsey. “Politics are dirty. I’m not sure whether I would have had the stomach for it. They are very rude to one another, you know. And the moment they get the chance, they stab you in the back.”

Betty nodded. “Of course, if you had gone into politics, you’d now be sitting down writing your memoirs. That’s what they all seem to do these days.”

120 The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days Ramsey spun round and looked at his wife. “Memoirs?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Betty. “Your political memoirs.”

Ramsey put down his cup. “Betty,” he said. “There’s something that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. The question of memoirs.”

Betty looked at him inquiringly. “Yes?”

Ramsey lowered his gaze, as if in modesty. “It’s funny you should have mentioned memoirs,” he said quietly. “I’ve actually been writing them. I’ve got quite a bit down on paper already.”

For a moment, Betty said nothing. Then she clapped her hands together. “That’s wonderful, my dear. Wonderful!”

Ramsey smiled. “And I thought that you might like to hear a few excerpts. I was plucking up courage to offer to read them to you.”

“I can’t wait,” said Betty. “Let’s hear something right now.

I’ll fetch more coffee and then we can sit down.”

“It’s not going to set the heather on fire,” said Ramsey modestly. “But I think that my story is every bit as interesting as the next man’s.”

“Even more so,” said Betty. “Even more so.”

37. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days Ramsey Dunbarton, having shuffled through a sheaf of papers, looked at his wife over the top of his reading glasses. “I shan’t bore you with the early stuff,” he said. “School and all that. I had a pretty uneventful time at school, and nothing much happened; it’s hardly worth recording. So I’ll start off when I was a young man. Twenty-five. Can you imagine me at twenty-five, Betty?”

Betty smiled coyly. “How could I forget? The year we met.”

Ramsey frowned. “No, sorry, my dear. Not the year we met.

We met when I was twenty-six, not twenty-five. I remember it very well. I had just finished my apprenticeship with Shepherd The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days 121

and Wedderburn and had been engaged by another office. I remember it very well.”

Betty took a sip of her coffee. “And I remember it very well too, my darling. You were twenty-five because I remember –

very clearly indeed in my case – going to your twenty-sixth birthday party, and I couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t already met you. You don’t normally go to the birthday parties of people you have yet to meet, do you?”

Ramsey laid down the sheaf of papers. “That party – and I was going to say something about it in the memoirs – was not my twenty-sixth. It was my twenty-fifth. I did not celebrate my twenty-sixth because – if you cast your mind back

– I had tonsillitis and was having my tonsils removed in the Royal Infirmary! I remember getting a card from the office wishing me a speedy recovery, and a happy birthday too. It was signed by the senior partner, and I kept it. I was very pleased to have received it.”

Betty pursed her lips. For a moment it seemed as if she was about to speak, but then she did not.

“I suggest that we stop arguing,” said Ramsey. “If you’re going to find fault with my memoirs on matters of detail, then I’m not sure if it will be at all productive to read them to you.”

Betty sprang to her own defence. “I was not finding fault, as you put it. I was merely wanting to keep the historical record straight. These things are important. Imagine what the world would be like if memoirs were misleading. You have to be accurate.”

“And I am being accurate,” retorted Ramsey. “I’m checking every single fact that I commit to paper. I’ve been consulting my diaries, and they are very full, I’ll have you know. I’ve gone down to George IV Bridge to make sure that everything I say about contemporary events is true. I am being very historical in all this.” He paused, and then added peevishly: “I don’t want to mislead posterity, Betty.”

Betty thought for a moment. She was certain that she was right about the birthday being the twenty-sixth rather than the twenty-fifth, but she felt that she should let it be, even if it was 122 The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days a serious mistake on her husband’s part. “Of course you don’t want to mislead, Ramsey,” she said placatingly. “Let’s not discuss it any further. Twenty-five, twenty-six – it’s very much the same thing. You carry on, dear. I’m listening.”

Ramsey Dunbarton picked up the sheaf of papers again and cleared his throat. “I was now twenty . . . somewhere in my mid-twenties. I had recently finished my years as an apprentice lawyer and had been admitted to the Society of Writers to Her Majesty’s Signet. This was a great honour for me, as this entitled me to put the letters WS after my name. I lost no time, I must admit, in having new notepaper printed and cards too. I was proud of the new letters, and I must admit that I became very impatient with people who affected not to know what WS

stood for. (One of these people even had the gall to ask whether I was a water surveyor!) ‘If you live in Edinburgh,’ I would point out, ‘you should know these things. Wouldn’t you expect a Roman to know what the Swiss Guard is?’

“This question often silenced people, and I hope that they were sufficiently chastened to go home and look the abbrevia-tion up. I did not want to embarrass anybody, of course, and one should be slow to point out to others their ignorance. But there are limits, and I think that ignorance of the meaning of WS is one of them.

“One very important feature of the WS Society is that it’s always mainly been for lawyers working in Edinburgh firms, and not every Edinburgh firm at that. There may be some members who have their practices elsewhere – even in places like Pitlochry

– but in such cases it is perfectly obvious that they are really Edinburgh types. This is as it should be, as the Society has its premises here in Edinburgh and was founded by Edinburgh lawyers for themselves and nobody else. Lawyers from Glasgow have their own societies and are welcome to join those, if they wish – and I’m sure that some of these societies are perfectly respectable and worthwhile organisations, although I do not know for certain. So I have usually had very little time for those who question our important institutions, such as the WS Society or the Royal Company of Archers, for that matter. These people The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days 123

are usually jealous and would soon change their tune if they were to be admitted to membership of one of these bodies.

“I was now working as an assistant in the firm of Ptarmigan Monboddo, which was a very highly-regarded Edinburgh legal firm. There were eight partners and three assistants, of whom I was one. I was told by my principal, the late Mr Fergus Monboddo, that if I played my cards right I could expect to be assumed into the partnership within five years. It was possible, he said, to become a partner rather earlier than that, but if I wanted to achieve that I would have to marry one of the senior partner’s daughters, and that, he said, was asking too much. I think that this was meant to be a joke, but I thought that it was in very bad taste, and I was surprised that a partner in an Edinburgh firm would speak in this way. I later discovered that Mr Monboddo only said things like that when he had had a small glass of sherry, and so I learned to distinguish between those things that were said in all seriousness and those that were not. I have always taken the view that one should never hold against a man anything that he says after twelve o’clock at night or after a glass or two of something.

“I had no desire to marry the senior partner’s daughter, as it happened, because I had just met the woman whose hand I was determined to obtain. This was my dear wife, Betty, to whom I have been married for many happy years. Although it is a long time ago now, I remember very vividly the day we met, which was in the Brown Derby tea room on Princes Street.

That was the most important day of my life, I think, and I hardly dare contemplate what might have happened had I not gone there on a whim and met the person who was to transform my life.”

Betty smiled at this. It was so kind of him, so gallant. And yet he was wrong again, she feared. It had not been the Brown Derby, it had been Crawford’s. But she did not have the heart to correct him again, and so she nodded brightly and urged him to continue. Their courtship had been a passionate one, and she wondered whether he was going to say anything about that!

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38. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story:

Part 2 – Courting Days

“Those were very special days,” read Ramsey Dunbarton. “I knew almost immediately that this was the girl I wished to marry, but in those days one had to go through a good deal of courting before one felt it right to pop the question. Of course I knew some people who got engaged very quickly, but they were usually rather fast types, and although I considered myself adventurous, I would not have described myself as fast.

“We used to go to the cinema, to the Dominion in Church Hill, and sometimes to the Playhouse, where there was a splendid cinema organ. This rose out from under the floor with the organist sitting at the keyboard, playing for all he was worth.

It was a splendid sight, and I think that it contributed in no little way to the romance of those occasions. They had newsreels then, of course, and we would come away from the cinema not only entertained but also informed about current affairs. It would be no bad thing if they reintroduced newsreels in the cinemas, but I suspect that people would just laugh or pay no attention. Nobody is serious about these things any more.

“Another favourite outing of ours was to Cramond, where we went for walks when the weather was fine. It was very romantic down at Cramond in those days and there were many courting couples who went there in search of a place to be alone and to talk about the future. Betty and I used to like walking along the shore, watching the oyster catchers and other sea-birds. We would also watch ships in the Forth, heading out from Rosyth or from Leith. In those days there was a passenger ship that came down from Kirkwall and Aberdeen, the St Rognvald. It was owned by the North of Scotland Orkney and Shetland Shipping Company and I once had the privilege of making a trip on that vessel. It had a beautiful panelled dining room. We also counted ourselves lucky if we saw the Pharos, which was the ship that the Northern Lighthouse Commissioners used to inspect their lighthouses. That was a beautiful ship. I myself would have loved to have been a Commissioner of the Northern The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 2 – Courting Days 125

Lighthouses, but I was never invited. That’s the problem with Edinburgh: to be a member of anything really worthwhile and important – such as the Royal Company of Archers or the Northern Lighthouse Board (not to mention the Knights of the Thistle!) – one has to be invited. Why can one not apply? I ask.

Of course they would get all sorts of applications from un-desirables, but these could be weeded out by the civil servants who, in my experience, have a pretty good idea of who’s desirable and who isn’t!

“There was also the Gardyloo, of course. That was the vessel that took the sewage sludge out from Edinburgh and dumped it in the Firth. It went out every day and came back a few hours later, somewhat lighter. Once, many years later – in the late nineteen-seventies, I think it was, we were back down walking at Cramond and we saw this ship. Betty pointed it out to me and asked me one day what I thought that strange boat was carrying. I replied that I thought that it brought in gravel from a quarry down near North Berwick. I knew that this was not true, but I could not tell her what was really going on. That is the only occasion on which I lied to Betty, and I later admitted it to her. She said that I had done the right thing, as it would undoubtedly have spoiled the romance of our walk if she had known what the real business of the Gardyloo was.

“Our romance blossomed, as I knew it would, and eventually Betty invited me to accompany her to Broughty Ferry, where her parents lived. We agreed to motor up there on a Sunday, have lunch with them and then travel back in time for dinner.

“I shall never forget that first meeting with Betty’s parents.

It was daunting for any young man, of course, to have to meet the parents of his intended, and I felt pretty nervous as we went up to the front door of their house. Betty must have sensed my nervousness, because she patted me on the forearm and assured me that I was bound to like them. ‘Everybody likes them,’ she said. ‘They are very kind people.’

“And she was absolutely right. They made me feel immediately at home and seemed to know all about me and my career.

126 The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 2 – Courting Days Her father said that he liked lawyers and that he would have become a lawyer himself if he had not been required to take over the family business. This was a marmalade factory in Dundee – a business which his own father had set up on his return from Calcutta, where he had been an agent for a cousin’s jute firm.

“After lunch, the ladies withdrew and left Betty’s father and me in the dining room. We had talked about all sorts of things over the meal, but now the conversation seemed to dry up. I looked out of the window, hoping to see something on which I could pass comment, but there was nothing unusual to be seen. It was a large garden, full of rhododendra, but I could not think of anything to say about rhododendra. So I remained silent.

“Eventually, Betty’s father spoke. He looked at me for a moment, as if assessing me, and then he said: ‘What are your views on marmalade?’

“At first I was not sure how to reply. I liked marmalade, but I was not sure whether that was the nature of the question I had been asked.

“He must have sensed my confusion, as he fairly quickly explained his question. ‘What I mean,’ he said, ‘is this. Do you think that you could work in the marmalade business? That is, if anybody were to offer you a post in such a business.’

“I had not been prepared for this question. It seemed to me that he was sounding me out about my willingness to commit myself to their family business; this seemed a little bit prema-ture, as I had not yet announced my intention of proposing to Betty. But I supposed that it was a wise move on his part. If he wanted to marry Betty off, then perhaps he thought that an early offer of a partnership in the business would prompt me to make a proposal. The more I thought of it, in fact, the more convinced I became that this is what he had in mind.

“Of course I had to be honest. I had nothing against the marmalade business, but I did not think I would wish to make my life in it. It is undoubtedly the sort of business that suits many people very well, but I liked the law and had worked hard

The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 3 – Further Highlights 127

to become a solicitor. I did not want to throw that all away just for the sake of marmalade.

“I explained to him that I thought that I would continue to practise law. He nodded, rather sadly, I thought, and told me that this was the answer he had expected. ‘We’re not the most exciting business in the world,’ he said. ‘But, you know something? I love it. I love every moment of it. Marmalade has been my life. It really has.’ ”

39. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story:

Part 3 – Further Highlights

“Betty and I were married in St Giles’, where my father was an elder. We then moved into our first matrimonial home, which was a terraced house at the end of Craiglea Drive, in Morningside. It was not a large house, but it suited us very well, as we were on the sunny side of the street and got the morning sunlight through our drawing-room windows. That meant, of course, that the garden, which was on the other side, did not 128 The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 3 – Further Highlights get quite as much sun as I would have wished, and I think that is the real reason why we were to move six years later. I know that some people have suggested that it was because we thought that that end of Craiglea Drive was not quite ‘grand’ enough for us, but that really was not the case and I’m happy to have this opportunity to scotch those rumours.

“One of the main attractions of that house was the many pleasant walks which one could have in the vicinity. If one went to the end of the road and then turned right, and then left after that, one came quite quickly to the gates of Craig House.

This was a splendid building which had been built as a hospital but which was more like a large country house. It had a splendid hall in which the patients could take formal meals on occasion, and very extensive grounds. Like many of the neighbours, I enjoyed the privilege of walking in those grounds, admiring the fine views. Betty and I spent many happy hours walking in those grounds when we lived in Craiglea Drive and when I drive past it today and reflect on those days I cannot help but feel a little bit sad. I think of those poor people who stayed there, and of all their unhappiness, and of how we used to look after people with rather greater dignity than we do today. In those days, if you were ill you were welcomed in the hospitals. You were made to feel comfortable and you were addressed by your full name. Today, the first thing they think of is how quickly they can get you out of there and then they put you in a ward with men and women all mixed up together, as if privacy did not matter. I sometimes reflect on what we have lost in our society and how it all happened. But then if I speak about this, people simply sneer and call me old-fashioned and conservative. Well, they are welcome to do that, but at least I can console myself with the knowledge that I always, always called people Mr so-and-so or Miss so-and-so and never presumed a familiarity with them to which they had not admitted me.

“When we left Craiglea Drive we came to the Braids, to the house in which we were to remain for many years, and where we still live. I am not a rolling stone; I like to gather moss. It The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 3 – Further Highlights 129

suited us very well to live up here, with its good air and its fine views, and over the years we have established a remarkable garden. In fact, we once considered volunteering our garden for public admission under Scotland’s Gardens Scheme, but I hesitated to do something which some people around here might consider pushy, or pretentious. Most of the gardens opened to the public are fairly large ones, attached to substantial country houses, but there is still a place for the small, intimate garden which can be a real jewel if planned and tended with care and good taste.

“Betty was keen enough to open the garden to the public, but I eventually decided that it would not be wise. ‘One has to keep one’s head below the parapet,’ I said to her. ‘Put it above the parapet and people will take a pot shot at you.’

“She seemed surprised at this, and suggested that I was rather exaggerating the situation. Her nature is so sweet, I suppose, that she couldn’t imagine people behaving in a nasty way. But I had seen a lot of human nature and knew very well that there were people in the street who would be only too happy to have some excuse to pass hostile comments on me. I had already encountered it when I had proposed myself for membership of the local amenity association and had suggested that my legal expertise might be useful in dealing with any controversial planning applications that came up. It came back to me that one or two neighbours were saying that this offer on my part meant that I thought I knew more about bureaucratic procedures than they did. This was very unfair. I would never have implied that, and I had only put myself forward in order to be of use to the community.

“But some people are not interested in the public good; they are consumed by envy of anybody who might be just a little bit more enterprising than they are. I don’t wish to point any fingers politically, but I think that there might be one or two Scottish politicians who are perhaps a tiny bit guilty of harbouring such sentiments in their otherwise generous bosoms. But political sniping is not to my taste, and I shall say no more about that!

130 Bertie’s Plan Is Launched

“Time passed remarkably quickly. Betty and I had no family, which was a disappointment to us, I know, and I would wish that it could have been otherwise. But we have been blessed in so many other ways that I do not wish to dwell on what we might have missed. We have had a fortunate life, Betty and I, and it has been packed with more than its fair share of excitement. I should like to share some of that with you, and tell you, in particular, of some of my exciting legal cases, of how I played the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre, of my racy friend Johnny Auchtermuchty, and of the occasion that I played bridge with no less a person than Angus, late Duke of Atholl.”

40. Bertie’s Plan Is Launched

As he made his way back to Scotland Street after his unfortunate experience in Dundas Street – unfortunate in the sense of having been stranded so ignominiously and terrifyingly in the middle of the traffic, yet fortunate in the sense of having been rescued by a well-known politician who happened to be walking up the hill at the time – Bertie felt utterly despondent. He had not hatched many plans in his brief life – his mother did his planning for him – and this scheme, with which he had been so pleased, had not even got off the ground. As he walked home, fingering the piece of chalk which he had in his pocket and which he had planned to use to leave a message for his proposed collaborator, Paddy, he decided that perhaps it was useless to rebel. It seemed to him that his mother would always outsmart him, whatever he tried to do, and she also had that powerful ally in the person of Dr Fairbairn. It was hopeless, thought Bertie, to attempt to take control of his life in the face of two such calculating opponents. Like a prisoner-of-war, he should perhaps just keep his head down and wait for the moment of liberation to come. That would be when he was eighteen, when Bertie understood that one became an adult and could leave Bertie’s Plan Is Launched

131

home and behave as one wished. Once one was eighteen, then one could abandon crushed strawberry–coloured dungarees if one wished and wear whatever one liked. Bertie could hardly wait, and there were only twelve years to go.

Bertie was thinking along these lines when he turned the corner into Drummond Place. As he did so, he heard a sound coming from his right, from the gardens in the middle of the square. It was a strange sound, something between a whistle and a hoot, and he wondered for a moment if it was some unusual bird that had lost its way and had settled in one of the trees.

Bertie stopped, and stared into the bushes. Again the sound came, and this time it was followed by a parting of the undergrowth. Revealed within, half crouching, half standing, was Paddy, the boy whom Bertie had hoped to see in Fettes Row.

“Bertie!” Paddy called. “Quick! Over here!”

Barely waiting to see if any cars were coming, but nonetheless being careful not to tread on any lines, Bertie ran across the pavement and over the road. In a moment he was through the half-open gate to the gardens. Paddy called out again, and held back the branches of the large bush under which he was hiding.

“Hello,” said Paddy, as Bertie joined him under the bush.

“This is my special observation post. You can come here any time you like. You can see everything that’s going on. And nobody can see you!”

“Great,” said Bertie. “Magnifico . . .” And then, correcting himself very quickly, he said: “Magnificent!”

“Yes,” said Paddy. “But don’t tell anybody. I don’t want anyone else coming in here.”

“Of course not,” said Bertie. “Just you and me. Like one of those Masonic lodges.”

Paddy looked puzzled. “Masonic lodges?”

“Yes,” explained Bertie. “That’s where men go – grown-up men. They get dressed up and go to these secret club houses.”

“How strange,” said Paddy. “What do they do there?”

“I’m not sure,” said Bertie. “They don’t let anybody else have a look. And there are no girls allowed.”

132 Bertie’s Plan Is Launched

“Good,” said Paddy. “Girls spoil things.”

Bertie thought about this for a moment. He did not know many girls – in fact the only girl he knew was that girl called Olive at school. She was rather nice, he thought, and he was not at all sure that she spoiled things. It was Olive who had helped him up after Tofu had pushed him over, and it was she who had comforted him with the thought that Tofu would eventually fade away through enforced veganism.

“There are some nice girls,” said Bertie. “There’s a girl called Olive . . .”

“Never heard of her,” said Paddy. “Anyway, let’s not talk about girls. Let’s talk about something else.”

Bertie saw his opportunity. “I’ve had a very good idea,” he said quickly. “I need your help for a plan that I’ve made. Are you allowed to go wherever you like?”

“Yes,” said Paddy. “I’m allowed to go anywhere, as long as I’m back by six. I’m completely free.”

“And what about your . . . your mother? Doesn’t she . . . ?”

It was so difficult for Bertie to say this, but it seemed so extraordinary to him, so impossible, that a boy could be free of his mother, that he needed to seek confirmation.

“My mother’s cool,” said Paddy, with a shrug. “She says that boys need to have fun. She likes to have fun herself. Everybody says that she’s full of fun.”

Bertie’s eyes widened. “And your dad? What about him?”

“He’s cool too,” said Paddy. “He takes me fishing in the Pentlands. I told you that, didn’t I? And he likes to drink too.

He has lots of fun.”

Bertie looked at Paddy with admiration, and envy. This is what it must be like to be eighteen, he thought. But there was no point wallowing in regret for what was not; there was a plan to be explained to Paddy, and over the next few minutes he told him exactly what he wanted him to do. Paddy listened intently and then nodded enthusiastically. “Piece of cake,” he said. “I’ll get the money for you and I’ll buy the blazer – and the tie. Then I’ll bring it down here and leave it under the bushes – in our place. You can pick it up any time. Easy.”

Irene’s Plan for Bertie

133

“I’ll give you a present for doing all this,” said Bertie. “You can keep ten pounds.”

“How about twenty?” said Paddy.

Bertie thought for a moment. Twenty pounds was a great deal of money, but he was sure that Paddy would do everything he said he would, and this was an important plan after all. “All right,” Bertie said. “You can keep twenty pounds.”

“Good,” said Paddy. “Give me the card then, and tell me your number.”

Bertie reached into his pocket and took out his bank card.

“You’ll be able to remember the number easily,” Bertie said. “It’s the date of Mozart’s birth.”

Paddy stared at Bertie. “Who?”

“Mozart.”

Paddy continued to stare. “Who did he play for?” he asked.

Bertie laughed. That was very funny. Then he stopped.

Perhaps Paddy did not get the joke.

41. Irene’s Plan for Bertie

Paddy was as good as his word. The day after the fortuitous encounter of the two boys in their newly-established meeting place in Drummond Place Gardens, Bertie found a neatly-wrapped parcel in Aitken and Niven livery waiting for him under the appointed bush. He had obtained leave from Irene to go out and play in the gardens for fifteen minutes or so prior to his yoga class in Stockbridge, and had used the time to locate the parcel. Fumbling with the string which Paddy had tied about the package, he tore it open and gazed in wonder at the contents.

There before him was a pristine, plum-coloured Watson’s blazer, complete with tie and, tucked neatly into the top pocket of the blazer, his now somewhat depleted junior saver bank card.

Since it was going to be very important to ensure that Irene did not see the blazer, Bertie had to be careful in smuggling it 134 Irene’s Plan for Bertie

back into the flat. This proved to be easier than he had expected; Irene was on the telephone when he let himself in and he was able to slip along the corridor, into his room, and bundle the blazer under the bed. It was easy, but it was dangerous nonetheless, and he felt his heart beating loud within him as he stood at his door and listened for a few moments to his mother’s conversation. No, she had not heard; she suspected nothing.

Irene’s voice drifted down from the other end of the flat. “Of course there’s no question but that he can manage,” she said.

“He’s very advanced, you know.”

Bertie winced. She was talking about him – again. And what was this that he was advanced enough to do? Certainly not rugby.

There was a silence as the voice on the other end of the telephone said something. Then Irene spoke again. “His age? What’s his age got to do with it?”

Again a silence. Then Irene’s response: “Well, that’s a completely absurd rule. Bertie happens to be not quite six yet, but he has the intellectual ability of a boy way, way beyond that.

There are many eighteen-year-olds who are quite a bit behind him, you know. Bertie could go to university if he wanted to.”

Bertie felt a cold knot of fear grow within him, an emptiness in his stomach. She was going to send him off to university now before he even had the chance to go to primary school! It was so unfair. He would have to leave home and live in a hall of residence and make his own meals. And there would be no boys of his own age at university; everybody would be eighteen, or even older. And the other students would laugh at his dungarees – he knew they would. He would be the only person at university made to wear dungarees.

“Yes,” said Irene. “I really mean that. He could easily manage a degree. His Italian, for example, is already fluent. No, I am not hot-housing him, as you put it – and that’s a ridiculous term anyway. There is such a thing as natural intellectual curiosity, you know.”

The voice at the other end must have spoken at some length, as Irene was silent for several minutes. Then, somewhat abruptly, she said goodbye and rang off.

Irene’s Plan for Bertie

135

Bertie withdrew into his room and closed the door. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was the one white surface in his otherwise pink room, as his mother had been unwilling to stand on a ladder to paint it when she had painted the rest of the room. He stared at his walls. He was sure that Paddy did not have a pink room, nor Jock, the friend he had almost made and who would have been his blood brother had his mother not intervened. They lived in normal rooms, with model cars and footballs and objects of that sort. They did not have mothers like his, who called his room his space.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Irene stood in the doorway.

Bertie wished that she would knock before she came into his room, and had once asked her to do this, but she had just laughed. “Now, now Bertie! Do you seriously want me to knock before I come into your space? Why would you want that?”

“Because it’s polite,” said Bertie. “That’s what you should do before you go into another person’s space. You should knock.”

“But remember: I’m Mummy,” said Irene. “And you’re Bertissimo. You have no secrets from Mummy, do you, Bertie?”

Bertie had looked down at the floor and thought about his secrets. Yes, he did have secrets, and he would like to have more.

His mother did not know about his secret thoughts, his thoughts of freedom. She did not know about his plan, which was now getting so close to fruition. And it was good that she did not know any of this. She thought that she knew everything about him, but she did not know as much as she imagined. That gave him great satisfaction. Ignorant Mummy, he thought, with relish.

Mummy in the Dark!

Now, standing in the doorway, Irene looked down at Bertie and smiled. “It’s time for yoga,” she said brightly. “If we hurry, we might be able to have a latte on the way down there.”

Bertie took a deep breath. He did not want to go to yoga.

He did not like to lie with his stomach on the ground and his back arched and pretend to greet the morning sun. Nor did he want to take a deep breath and hold it while the yoga 136 Bertie Escapes!

teacher counted up to twenty-five. He did not see the point of that at all.

“I don’t really like yoga,” he said quietly. “Couldn’t I give it up and stay at home?”

Irene looked at him sharply. “Of course you like yoga, Bertie.

Of course you like it.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I hate it.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You can’t hate yoga. One doesn’t hate yoga. And you had better hurry up. At this rate we’re never going to get there.”

Bertie sighed, and pulled himself up off his bed.

“Are you sending me somewhere, Mummy?” he asked.

Irene raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask, Bertie?”

“Because I want to know,” said Bertie. “I want to know what’s going to happen to me.”

“Well, I do have a little plan for you, Bertie,” said Irene. “But this is not the time to discuss it.”

Bertie looked at her. And I have my own little plan, he said to himself. You don’t know about it, you horrible old . . .

He stopped. He did not want to think that way about his mother. He wanted to love her; he really wanted to. But it was proving difficult.

42. Bertie Escapes!

Bertie carried the Watson’s blazer to school folded up and stuffed into the bottom of his rucksack. He was ready with an explanation for his mother, if she asked him why his bag looked so bulky, but Irene seemed preoccupied with something else that morning and paid little attention to Bertie as they boarded the bus together.

“Is something making you feel sad, Mummy?” he asked, as the bus toiled up the Mound.

Irene, who had been looking out of the window, turned to Bertie and smiled. “No, Bertie, Mummy’s not sad. Mummy’s thinking.”

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137

“Thinking of what?” asked Bertie. “Of Dr Fairbairn?”

Irene caught her breath. “Why on earth should I be thinking of Dr Fairbairn?” she snapped. She had been thinking of him, of course, of his blue linen jacket to be exact, but she had not expected Bertie to guess this. Perhaps this was that extraordinary familial telepathy that she had read about somewhere. Could Bertie be psychic? she wondered. Not that such matters were anything more than a lot of weak-minded mumbo-jumbo. He had just guessed – that was all. He had been thinking of Dr Fairbairn himself – by sheer coincidence – and that had led him to attribute the thought to her – it was a common phenomenon, she reminded herself, the transfer of our states of mind to others.

Bertie said nothing. He wanted his mother to be happy, but it seemed to him that she herself was the obstacle to that. If only she would stop worrying about him; if only she would stop thinking about why people do things; if only she would accept people and things as they were. But he knew that it was hopeless to expect her to do this. If Irene stopped forcing him to do things, then what life would she have? She had very few friends, as far as Bertie could work out. There were some other women at the floatarium whom she liked to talk to, but she never saw them anywhere else and they never came to their flat in Scotland Street. In fact, nobody came to the flat in Scotland Street, apart from one of his father’s friends from the office, who came to play chess once a month. It was possible that his father had other friends at the office, but Bertie was not sure. He had asked him once, and had received a rather strange reply. “Friends, Bertie?

Friends? Mummy and I are friends, aren’t we? Do I need more friends than that?”

Bertie thought he did, but did not say so. One thing he was certain of was that he was not going to grow up to be like his parents. Once he was eighteen he would not go to a psychotherapist; he would not go floating; his room would have white walls, or even black perhaps, but certainly not pink; and he would never talk Italian. There were a great deal of changes in store, he thought.

138 Bertie Escapes!

Irene walked Bertie from Bruntsfield to the school gate. Then she kissed him goodbye and Bertie watched for a few moments while she walked back up the street. Now it was time for action.

Glancing about to see that he was not being watched, Bertie darted down the first part of the school drive and then suddenly turned and ran into the school garden, making straight for a small shed which was propped up against the high stone wall that enclosed the school grounds. This was a shed which the gardener used for the storage of rakes and forks and other bits and pieces of equipment. Bertie had done his reconnaissance well, and knew that it was not kept locked. Now he opened it and slipped inside.

It took no more than a few minutes for Bertie to be transformed. In place of the crushed-strawberry dungarees and check shirt he was now regaled in a neat white shirt and tie, shorts that were just about the right colour, and the splendid new Watson’s blazer. His old clothes were bundled into his bag and tucked away underneath a rusty bucket which was sitting, inverted, on the ground. Then, glancing out of the cobweb-covered window to check that it was safe to go out, Bertie opened the door of the shed and ran the short distance to the school gate.

Bertie Escapes!

139

It was now time to bring the first stage of the plan to comple-tion. From the pocket of his new blazer, Bertie extracted a neatly written note which he had forged the previous evening. Looking around for a familiar face, he found Merlin, one of the boys in his class.

“Please give this note to Miss Harmony,” Bertie said, thrusting the envelope into Merlin’s hands. “Don’t say it was me who gave it to you. Just leave it on her desk.”

Merlin looked at the envelope and then at Bertie. “Why are you wearing that funny outfit?” he asked.

“I just am,” said Bertie.

Merlin shrugged, brushing a speck of dust off the shoulder of his rainbow-coloured jacket. “I suppose you’ve got the right to be weird,” he said.

Bertie thanked him and then quickly went out of the gate and began to make his way round the corner to George Watson’s College. As he walked, he thought of the contents of the letter which he had just entrusted to Merlin. He was good at imitating his mother’s writing, and he thought that he had made a good job of it. “Dear Miss Harmony,” he had written. “Unfortunately my son, Bertie, has contracted an infectious disease and will have to be away from school for some time. I would have come to speak to you about this personally, but I was concerned about passing the disease on to you, in case I have it myself. Please do not worry about Bertie, as he is perfectly happy and will surely be returned to good health in due course. He is being treated with steroids, as are my husband and I, as a precaution.

Yours sincerely, Irene Pollock.”

Bertie had been very pleased with this wording and thought that it might work, particularly in view of the medical detail at the end. The mention of an infectious disease, he reasoned, would surely keep the school from contacting his mother, as schools have to be very careful about infections. So if all went according to plan he could simply keep his Watson’s uniform in the shed and change every morning. There were so many children milling about that nobody would notice anything, and Watson’s, he understood, was a very large school. In a large school like that none of the 140 Rugby!

teachers would notice one extra boy, he felt, and there was no reason why he could not get his entire education there.

He arrived at the Watson’s gate. Now, he thought, I must just act as if I belong. I must not act suspiciously. I must be confident.

Bertie swaggered up the drive to the school.

43. Rugby!

Once he had entered the portals of George Watson’s College, it was simple matter to find a suitable class. Prominently displayed on the walls were signs indicating which class was which, and Bertie merely followed one that pointed in the direction of Primary One. Once there, he slipped into the classroom with a couple of other boys.

“Is there a spare desk?” he whispered to one of them. “I’m new here.”

The other boy pointed towards the back of the classroom.

“That’s one’s empty,” he said. “Somebody was sitting there, but he went away after only one day. I think he got lost in the corridor.”

Bertie glanced at the desk. It was ideal for his purposes, as he did not want to draw undue attention to himself. Thanking his new classmate, he made his way to the back of the room and sat himself down at the desk. After a short while the teacher arrived and the class settled down to the task of copying out letters along a straight line. While the pupils were engaged in this, the teacher moved between the rows of desks, stopping to comment on the work of each child. Bertie sat quite still, staring down at the piece of paper on his desk and hoping that the teacher would stop before she reached him. But she did not, and he looked up to see her staring down at him, a surprised expression on her face.

“Are you in the right room, dear?” she asked kindly. “Have you got a little bit mixed up?”

Bertie looked up at her and swallowed. “I’ve been transferred,”

he said. “I was over there, and now I’m here.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the corridor.

Rugby!

141

“Surely not,” said the teacher. “Tell me: what’s your name?”

“Bertie,” he whispered. “Bertie Pollock.”

“Well, I think that there must be a bit of a mix-up,” said the teacher. “I’ll check with the office later on. Perhaps they’ve just forgotten to tell me.”

“Yes,” said Bertie quickly. “That’s probably what’s happened.

This is such a big school. It must be difficult to keep track.”

The teacher looked at Bertie with curiosity. “Well, yes, I suppose it is a big school. But people usually end up in the right place. I’m sure that we’ll sort it all out. Don’t you worry about it!”

When playtime came, Bertie made his way out of the room as quickly as he could. He was not sure whether he would go back into that particular class, as the teacher would presumably discover quite soon that he was not meant to be there. It might be better, he thought, to try another class, perhaps one with a less nosy teacher, if there was one.

He went out and stood at the side, watching the games that were developing around him. Children were dashing about, shouting at one another, enjoying themselves, but nobody asked Bertie to join in. Bertie looked down at the ground; there did not seem to be much difference between Watson’s and Steiner’s so far; perhaps the whole plan was not such a good idea after all. But then he saw him, and his heart gave a leap. Yes, there was Jock; brave Jock, the boy whom he had met before, the boy who would be his friend.

“Jock!” shouted Bertie. “Jock! Here I am!”

Jock, who was running towards the gate, a bag of some sort in his hand, stopped in his tracks and looked at Bertie. He looked puzzled.

“Yes,” he said. “There you are.”

Bertie took a few steps towards his friend. “It’s me,” he said.

“Bertie. Remember?”

Jock still looked puzzled. “Not really,” he said.

Bertie felt a stab of disappointment, but did not show it. He gestured to the bag that Jock was carrying. “What are you doing with that?”

142 Rugby!

“Rugby,” said Jock. “Over there.” He pointed to a playing field, where a group of boys was beginning to form round a teacher wearing a red tracksuit. “Are you coming too?”

Bertie lost no time in replying. “Of course,” he said. Then he paused, and added: “I’ve got no kit. I can’t play in my blazer.”

“Changing rooms,” said Jock casually. “There’s always stuff lying around. Just wear that.”

Bertie followed Jock to the changing rooms, where he soon found a pair of discarded rugby shorts, a torn and muddy jersey, and a pair of boots that, although several sizes too large, at least did not pinch his toes. Then, trotting along beside Jock, he made his way onto the field, to join the knot of other small players in the middle. His anxieties over the possibility of detection had now faded, and he felt immensely happy. Here he was at last, on the rugby field, in rugby kit, about to play a game with his rediscovered friend, Jock. Mr Gavin Hastings must have started like this, he thought, although he probably wore boots that fitted his feet and wore a jersey that did not have a tear across the right shoulder. But these were small things; the important matter was that he was about to play rugby, on real grass, with real boys, and with a real ball.

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The teacher divided the boys into two teams. Bertie had hoped that Jock would be on his side, but he was not. He waved to Jock, though, but Jock did not return the greeting. Perhaps he did not see me, thought Bertie. Perhaps his mind is on the game already.

The whistle blew and the ball was in play. Bertie was not quite sure what to do, but he ran enthusiastically in the direction of play. The ball was passed, and Bertie’s side had posses-sion. Bertie cried out: “Over here!” and, rather to his surprise, the boy who had the ball passed it over to him. Now, the ball in his arms, Bertie started to run towards the posts in the distance. He knew that one had to score a try if at all possible, and that all one had to do was to run fast and touch the ball down on the other side of the line.

He ran as fast he could. There were boys coming towards him, but he ran on. Then one of the boys – and it was Jock –

stepped in front of him and neatly inserted a foot and ankle between Bertie’s feet.

Bertie fell to the ground, the ball beneath him. Jock, standing above him, now kicked Bertie in the ribs and, as the effect of this kick made him writhe in agony, Bertie felt the ball being snatched from beneath him. There was no whistle blown; there was no shout of objection; the game simply passed Bertie by.

Bertie picked himself up and looked at the game, now at the other end of the field. He tried to control himself, but he could not, and the tears ran down his cheeks; bitter tears, that were for everything, really – for the failure of his plan, for the end of his friendship with Jock, for the sheer humiliation of being who he was.

44. Going Back

Bertie ran out of the gate of George Watson’s College, hesitated at the edge of the street, and then launched himself across Colinton Road. The traffic was light and he felt none of the 144 Going Back

panic that had paralysed him during his recent foiled attempt to cross Dundas Street. Now, the ill-fitting rugby boots chafing against his lower ankles, he made his way blindly back towards Spylaw Road and the sanctuary of the Steiner School. It had been a terrible mistake, his break for freedom; he did not belong at Watson’s and he never would. And rugby, which he had so looked forward to playing, was a violent nightmare; a game in which even one’s friends would think nothing of tripping one up and kicking one in the ribs. There was none of that at Steiner’s, where aggressive ball games were not encouraged.

By the time he reached the Steiner’s gate he was exhausted.

Running all the way from Watson’s had given him a stitch, and the nagging pain from Jock’s kick was still present. He had hurt his wrist, too, in his fall, perhaps from clutching the ball as he went down. That was a sharp pain, that seemed to come and go, but which made him catch his breath and wince each time it made itself felt.

He slipped through the gate and walked slowly to the shed at the edge of the garden. He did not bother about being seen now; there was no secret any more – or no secret worth keeping. Entering the shed, he kicked over the bucket under which his clothes were stuffed. There were his familiar dungarees and his checked shirt. But there were no shoes, of course, as he had left those in the changing room at Watson’s. Those were gone forever, then, as was his new plum-coloured blazer and his tie. Those at least he had no use for; it was different with his shoes – the loss of these would have to be explained to his mother.

The rugby kit abandoned on the floor of the shed, Bertie made his way to his classroom. The door was closed, but through the glass panel he could make out the figures of his classmates, all seated in a circle. He took a deep breath and entered the room.

Miss Harmony looked up as Bertie came in. She smiled, and indicated to the empty place which awaited him.

“You’re a little late today, Bertie,” she said. “But no matter.

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We’re doing some drawing and I know you’re good at that!”

Bertie sat down and sank his head in his hands. He was aware of the interest of his fellow pupils – of Tofu’s stare, of Olive’s more discreet, and concerned, glance. They would have noticed his rugby boots, he thought, or heard them at least, as the studs had made a loud clicking noise on the floor. They would also be laughing at his dungarees, of course, once they had finished laughing at his boots.

After a few minutes, he became aware of Miss Harmony crouching beside his table. She had bent down and was whispering in his ear: “We were very worried, Bertie. That funny note you sent me – that was very odd, you know.”

Bertie looked up at her. She was smiling, and had placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered.

“I won’t show it to anybody. I’m on your side, you know.”

Bertie stared fixedly at the table surface. He had not expected this. He had thought there would be recriminations and a summons to the office. He had not expected sympathy.

“You see,” went on Miss Harmony, quietly so that even the neighbouring tables could not hear, “this school is based on love and respect. We love one another and look after one another.

So we all love you, Bertie, because you are one of us. And if there is anything wrong, then you can tell us about it, and we will try to help – because we love you.”

“My mother . . .” Bertie began. But he did not know what to say, and so he stopped. And as he stopped, he felt the pressure of Miss Harmony’s hand tighten upon his shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “Sometimes mothers make it difficult for their boys. They don’t mean to, you know. The trick is not to let it worry you.”

“She makes me wear dungarees,” said Bertie. “And I feel so silly.”

Miss Harmony nodded. “Would you like me to talk to her about that?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Bertie. “But she won’t listen.”

“Well, I can try,” said Miss Harmony. “There’s no harm in trying.” She paused, and looked down at Bertie’s boots. “We 146 Going Back

have some spare shoes in a cupboard downstairs,” she said.

“Should we go and have a look for a pair that fits you?”

They left the classroom together and went downstairs, Bertie hobbling now from the pain in his chafed ankles. “Poor Bertie,”

said Miss Harmony. “Here – take my arm. Lean on me.”

There was a pair of shiny brown shoes in the cupboard that fitted Bertie exactly, and once he was thus clad he began to feel somewhat more cheerful. He looked up at Miss Harmony and smiled.

“I’m sorry I wrote you that letter,” he said. “I haven’t got an infectious disease, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I didn’t think for one moment that you had. The important thing is that you should be happy. And you’ve said sorry to me, which is very important.” She paused.

“You will be happy here, you know, Bertie. It’s a very happy school.”

Bertie thought for a moment. She was right. He did feel happier here than in the din and rush of Watson’s, with all those hundreds of boys and girls with names he would never remember. Rugby was not for him, he decided, and it was a good thing that there was no rugby at Steiner’s. It was fine for Mr Gavin Hastings to play it, he thought, but he, Bertie, would find something else to do. Even learning Italian was better than rugby.

Later that day, as he waited for his mother at the school gate, Tofu came up to him and asked him where he had found those boots. “Great boots,” he said.

“Would you like them?” said Bertie nonchalantly. “You can have them if you like.”

Tofu accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “You’re a real pal.”

“And would you like me to bring a ham sandwich in tomorrow?” asked Bertie.

“Yes, yes,” said Tofu quickly. “Two, even. If you can spare them.”

“Fine,” said Bertie.

Tofu slapped him on the back in a friendly manner and went on his way.

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Bertie watched him walk away and thought about the events of the day. There had been several discoveries. One was that rugby was a rough game and another was that Jock was a false friend. But there were other things to reflect upon. Tofu was no longer a threat – and could even become a friend. And he suspected, too, that he might be happy at this nice school, which was a good place – even if it had been his mother’s choice. After all, there were some things which she might just get right.

45. Dinner with Father

If Bertie’s problem was with his mother, Irene – and that would seem to be the case – then Matthew’s problem was with his father, Gordon. Irene and Gordon would not have seen eye to eye on anything very much, but, in their own ways, they had each succeeded in bringing unhappiness into the lives of their offspring. So, while Bertie was trapped by a mother who was relentlessly ambitious for him, Matthew was aware that his father nursed no ambitions for him whatsoever. Gordon had decided that his son was a failure, and had come to accept this. The gallery in which he had set him up was not intended to be anything but a sinecure, a place to sit during the day while the rest of the world went to work. And if this was an expensive arrangement – for Gordon – then it was an expense which he could easily afford to bear.

Matthew had accepted his father’s offer simply because it was the only one on hand. He understood that he was not a good businessman, but one had to do something, and running the gallery had proved rather more interesting than he had anticipated. This interest had made up for the discomfort that he felt over his father’s writing him off. It is not easy to accept another’s low opinion of oneself, and there were times when Matthew longed to show his father that he was made of sterner and more successful stuff. The problem, though, was that if 148 Dinner with Father

he tried to do this, he thought it highly likely that he would fail.

Now Matthew was preparing for an evening with his father.

Gordon had called in at the gallery unannounced and invited his son to dinner to meet his new friend, Janis, who owned a flower shop. As he stood before the mirror and tied his tie, Matthew thought of what he might say to this woman, whose motives were, in his view, perfectly clear. It would be good to indicate to her that he understood exactly what was going on, and that no gold-digger could fool him. But how to do this?

One could not say anything direct, especially since the dinner was taking place at the New Club – where one could hardly speak directly about anything – and it would be necessary then to give a mere indication – to allow her to read between the lines. But would a woman like that – a “challenged blonde” as Matthew imagined her – be able to read between these lines?

Some such people had difficulty enough in reading the lines themselves, let alone what lay between them. “She’ll move her lips when she reads the menu,” Matthew thought, and smiled at himself in the mirror. Like this, he thought, and he mouthed the word money.

Matthew stared into the mirror at the tie he had chosen. It had linked red squares on a blue background. It was wrong. He reached for another one, a blue one with a slight jagged pattern in the background. These jagged lines looked vaguely like lightning, Matthew thought. That would be appropriate. If Janis looked at his tie she would receive a subliminal message: back off. Yes, he thought; that would be just the right note to strike.

He would be distant and cool, which would send to her exactly the message he wanted to convey: I know what you’re about; it doesn’t really matter to me, of course, but I know.

Satisfied with his appearance, he moved away from the mirror and fetched his coat from the hall. Matthew lived in India Street, in a flat bought for him by his father, and the walk up to Princes Street and the New Club would take no more than fifteen minutes. As he left the front door and made his way up the hill, he realised that it was not going to be easy to be distant and Dinner with Father

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cool. Indeed, he already felt hot and edgy. It was not going to be simple: this woman is taking my father away from me, he thought. It’s as simple as that. She’s taking him away from me

– and he’s mine.

He stopped at a corner and composed himself, telling himself that it did not mean that much to him. How often did he see his father? Less than once a month, and yet here he was persuading himself that he felt possessive. I shall be mature about this, he told himself. I shall see the whole thing in perspective.

Janis is a passing phase – an entertainment. She was no more than that. And as a passing phase she could be tolerated.

He arrived at the New Club, making his way up the sombre, cavernous staircase that led into the lobby. Everything was very quiet and measured – a world away from the bustle outside, and the chewing-gum-encrusted mess that had been made of Princes Street. As Matthew stood at the window of the drawing room, looking out across the dark of the gardens to the illuminated rock of the Castle, he thought for a moment of how his father would be feeling about this meeting. He would be feeling anxious, no doubt, because it was always awkward for a parent to introduce a lover to a child. It was all wrong. Parents did not have lovers as far as their children were concerned.

Matthew turned round. His father was approaching him from the doorway, walking round the imposing leather sofas that stood between his son and himself. They shook hands.

“Janis will be through in a moment,” said Gordon. He dabbed at his nose. “Powdering . . . you know.”

It was intended to be a moment of shared understanding between men, but it did not set Matthew at his ease. He did not smile.

Gordon looked at his son, and frowned. “This is important to me, Matthew,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’m . . . I’m very fond of Janis, you know. Very fond.”

Matthew closed his eyes, and swallowed.

“You’re going to be all right about this?” his father continued.

“Of course,” said Matthew, quietly. “Why should I not be all right about this?”

150 The Language of Flowers

Gordon tried to hold his son’s gaze, but Matthew looked away, down to the floor.

“You’re all tensed up,” said Gordon. “Look at yourself. All tensed up. She’s not going to bite you, you know.”

“I never said . . .”

Gordon raised a hand. “Here she is.”

46. The Language of Flowers

Matthew felt the satisfaction that comes with knowing that one has been right about somebody, at least in anticipating appearance. He had imagined Janis to be blonde, and she was certainly that. He had thought of her as petite, and again he was right.

It was true that he had not envisaged her mock endangered-species shoes, but that was simply because when picturing her he had not got as far as the feet. Had he done so, then he would perhaps have thought of faux snakeskin, or so he told himself as he watched her arranging herself demurely on the chair opposite him. He tried not to make his stare too obvious – he was, after all, striving for an effect of coolness and distance – but he took in the details nonetheless.

Gordon glanced at his son, but only briefly. He was smiling at Janis in a way which Matthew thought revealed just how smitten he was. This was not his guarded, cautious father; this was a man in thrall to another.

Janis commented on the view of the Castle. “That castle has so many moods,” she said. “But it’s always there, isn’t it?”

Matthew looked at her, resisting the sudden temptation to laugh. What an absurd thing to say. Of course the Castle was always there. What did she expect?

“Yes,” he said. “It would be odd to wake up one morning and discover that the Castle wasn’t there any more. I wonder how long it would take before people noticed.”

Gordon turned slightly and looked at his son, as if he had heard something slightly disagreeable. Then he turned back to The Language of Flowers

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face Janis. “Yes, it’s a marvellous view, isn’t it? Edinburgh at its best.”

No, thought Matthew. Edinburgh is far more than that. The Castle was the cliché; nothing more.

“I don’t really like the Castle,” he said airily. “I wouldn’t mind if they replaced it.”

Gordon made a sound which might have been a laugh.

“Replaced it with what?”

“Oh, one of these large stores,” said Matthew. “The sort that you get in Princes Street. A chain store of some sort. People could park on the Esplanade and then go shopping inside.”

Janis was watching Matthew as he spoke. “I’m not sure . . .”

“You’d approve of that, Dad,” Matthew interrupted. “You could invest in it.”

Gordon drummed his fingers on the low table in front of him. “Matthew runs a gallery,” he said to Janis. “You should drop in and see it sometime.”

Janis looked at Matthew and smiled, as if waiting for the invitation.

“Of course,” said Matthew. “Sometime.”

“Thank you,” said Janis. “I like art.”

“Oh?” said Matthew. “Any particular painters? Jack Vettriano?”

Gordon turned to his son. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Why do you mention Vettriano?”

Matthew eye’s did not meet his father’s gaze. He continued to look at Janis. “Vettriano’s very popular. Lots of people like his work.”

“But you don’t?” asked his father. “I take it you don’t?”

Matthew looked up at the ceiling, but said nothing.

Gordon addressed Janis. “You see, there’s an awful lot of snob-bery in the art world. Look at the people who win that prize, what’s it called – the Turner. Pretentious rubbish. Empty rooms.

Piles of rocks. That sort of thing. And then along comes a man who can actually paint and, oh dear me, they don’t like that.

That’s what’s happened to Vettriano. I certainly like him.”

Janis nodded politely. “I’m sure he’s very good,” she said.

152 The Language of Flowers

“Anyway,” said Gordon, “it’s time for dinner.” He shot a glance at Matthew, who had risen to his feet with alacrity.

They made their way into the dining room and took their seats under a picture of a highly-plumaged Victorian worthy.

“Such beautiful portraits,” said Janis brightly, as she unfolded her table napkin.

“In their own grim way, perhaps,” said Matthew. “They don’t look terribly light-hearted, do they?”

“Maybe they weren’t,” said Gordon. “The Victorians were serious people.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Matthew. “But I wouldn’t care to sit underneath one of these scowling old horrors for too long.”

Gordon ignored this remark. “Busy today?” he asked Janis.

“Yes,” she said. “We ran out of roses by midday. A good sign.”

“Oh?” said Matthew. “Of what?”

Janis took a sip of water. “Oh, that romance is in the air.”

Matthew saw his father react to this. He saw him look down and finger the edge of his plate, as if slightly embarrassed, but pleased, by what Janis had said. And she had looked at him as she spoke, Matthew noted. How corny! How . . . well, there was a certain distastefulness to the whole performance – late-flowering love, so inappropriate for these two middle-aged people, although she was far younger than he was, hardly middle-aged. What was she? Late thirties? Who did she think she was? A coquettish twenty-year-old on a first date? And did his father not see how ridiculous it was for a man of his age to be interested in . . . the carnal? It wasn’t even sex. It was carnality.

“Of course there’s the whole language of flowers, isn’t there?”

asked Gordon. “Each flower has a meaning, you know, Matthew.

Janis knows them all.”

Excuse me, Matthew said to himself. I feel nauseated. The language of flowers! Is this really my father speaking? The pillar of the Watsonian Rugby Club? The Rotarian? He listened as Janis began to say something about the symbolism of variegated tulips. He had the opportunity to study her more closely while she talked, and he began to stare at her eyes and then at her Information

153

chin and neck. For a few moments he was unsure, and then he became convinced that it was true. Janis had undergone plastic surgery.

Matthew looked at the skin about the edge of the eyes. It was tighter than it should be, he thought, and the smooth, rather stretched appearance of the skin carried on down to the side of the nose itself. It was as if it had been pulled back somewhere, tightened, and then polished in some way. He saw, too, the make-up that she had applied there; heavier on one side than on the other, but insufficient to fool the close observer, which he now was. She suddenly stopped talking about lilies. She had noticed his stare. Well, what can she expect? thought Matthew.

If one gives in to vanity, then one can only expect others to notice. Mutton dressed up as lamb.

Janis looked at him. “Did your father tell you I had an accident?” she asked.

47. Information

Some evenings are just not a success, and Matthew’s dinner with his father and his father’s new friend, Janis, undoubtedly fell into that category. The conversation limped on until the arrival of the cheese, when it faltered altogether and the three of them sat energetically eating their Stilton, not wishing to put off any longer the moment when they could leave the table and go through to the morning room for coffee. The drinking of coffee, as it happened, did not take long.

“I have an early start tomorrow,” Gordon said, looking at his watch. “It’s been most enjoyable.”

“Yes,” said Janis. “I enjoyed that.”

They looked at Matthew, who nodded. “Me too,” he said.

“Very enjoyable.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Matthew rose to his feet. “I’m going to get my coat,” he said. “I’ll see you in the lobby.”

154 Information

He made his way to the cloakroom, noticing as he left the morning room that his father and Janis had immediately huddled in conversation; discussing me, he thought. Well, it had been a disaster, the whole thing, but what could his father expect? Did he expect him to welcome this woman, with her transparent motives? Is that what he expected? He went into the cloakroom and took his coat off the hook. A sleeve had become turned in upon itself and he busied himself for a few moments disen-tangling it. As he did so, he heard a voice from the basin area round the corner.

“Dramatic results, you know. Quite dramatic.”

A tap was turned on and something was said that he did not quite catch. Then the first voice spoke again.

“They’re desperately short of cash, so they’re having to go back to the market for a couple of million. But they’ll have to do this before the results of this research are confirmed. So they’ll still seem pretty shaky when they go for the cash.”

The other man spoke. “AIM? They’re still on the AIM

market, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“So the new shares will be pretty low until . . .”

“Until the research results get the stamp of approval and then

. . . well, it’s a major breakthrough. The shares will go through the roof. Of course, we’re advising them on the whole business and so keep this under your hat, of course. I only mentioned it because you know Tommy, of course, and you’ll be pleased for him.”

“Of course. He’s still chairman?”

“Yes. But they’re moving from that place of theirs out of town. They’ve taken one of those new buildings down near the West Approach Road.”

“Oh.” A tap was turned off. “You know, I must have a word with Charles about this soap . . .”

Matthew took his coat and left the cloakroom, silently. His father was waiting for him in the middle of the lobby, Janis at his side. She looked at him encouragingly and he tried to return her smile. But it was difficult.

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As they walked down the stairs together, Matthew turned to his father and stopped him. “I’ve just heard a very interesting conversation.”

Gordon smiled. “In the gents? Suitable for mixed company?”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “A commercial conversation.”

As Matthew had suspected, this attracted his father’s attention. “Oh? What was it?”

Matthew described what he had heard. For the first time that evening, he thought, my father is really listening to me.

“Very interesting indeed!” said Gordon after Matthew had finished. “I can very easily find out who they’re talking about.

It’s very simple to find out which Scottish companies have their shares traded on the AIM market. Very simple. In fact . . . you said the chairman was referred to as Tommy?”

“Yes.”

“I think I know exactly who they are then.” Gordon smiled at Matthew and patted him on the shoulder playfully. “I’ll get in touch with you about this, Matt.”

Matthew winced. He did not like being called Matt, and his father was the only one who did it. “Why?” asked Matthew.

Gordon smiled at him. “Information can be put to good use, Matt. The market’s all about information, and that sounds like a very useful bit of information. If it’s the company that I’m thinking about, then they’re a biotech company. The results must be a clinical trial or something of that sort. That can mean a great deal if it enables them to sell something on to one of the big pharmaceutical companies, for instance. Major profits all round.”

“But why couldn’t they – the people who were talking – buy the shares and make the profits themselves?”

Gordon shook a finger in admonition. “Tut, tut!” he said.

“Insider dealing. Those chaps were obviously lawyers. They can’t use their private knowledge to make a quick buck on the market.

Very bad! The powers that be take a dim view of that sort of thing.”

“But can we . . . ?”

Gordon made a dismissive gesture, and indicated that they 156 Information

should continue to make their way downstairs. “Oh, we’re all right. We just happen to have heard a little snippet, that’s all.

We can buy their shares. Nobody would associate us with insider information. Why should they? We’re perfectly safe.”

Matthew was not sure about this. “But wouldn’t we also be taking unfair advantage of the people we buy the shares from?

After all, we know something they don’t.”

Gordon looked at his son, who saw in his father’s gaze something akin to pity, and resented it. “Life is hardly fair, Matt,”

he said. “If I had scruples about this sort of thing, do you think for a moment that I would have got anywhere in business? Do you really think that?”

Matthew did not reply. They had almost reached the front door now, and he could hear the low hum of the traffic outside.

He glanced sideways at Janis, and for a moment their eyes met.

Then she looked away. Matthew reached out and took his father’s hand, and shook it.

“Thanks for dinner.”

Gordon nodded. “Thank you for coming. And I’ll let you know about those shares. I may have a little flutter on them.

Can’t do any harm.”

Matthew opened the door and they stepped outside onto Princes Street, disturbing a thin-faced man who was standing near the doorway. He looked at them in surprise, as he had evidently not expected anybody to emerge from the unmarked door. The man looked tired; as if worn out by life. He had a cold sore, or something that looked like a cold sore, above his lip.

Matthew felt ashamed. How did he look in the eyes of this man? And what would this man have thought had he known the nature of their conversation of a few moments ago? Matthew wanted to say: “Not me, not me.”

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48. Private Papers

Pat hesitated at the door of Peter’s flat in Cumberland Street.

It would be easy to turn back now, to return to Scotland Street and to call him from there. Something could have arisen to prevent her from seeing him as planned – there were so many excuses to stand somebody up: a friend in need, a headache, a deadline to meet. If she did that, of course, then she would not see him again, and she was not sure whether that was what she wanted. She was undecided. Men complicated one’s life; that was obvious. They made demands. They changed everything. In short, the question was whether they were worth it.

And what was it anyway? The pleasure of their company? –

women were far more companionable than men. The excitement of male presence? – how long did that last, and did she want that anyway? She thought not, and was about to turn away when she remembered his face, and the way he had stooped to talk to her at that first meeting, and how physically perfect he had seemed to her then and was still, in the imagining of him.

158 Private Papers

She tugged at the old-fashioned brass bell-pull. There was a lot of give in the wire, but eventually there was a tinkling sound inside. Then there was silence. She tugged at the bell again and as she did so the door opened and Peter stood there. For a moment he looked puzzled, and then he raised a hand to his brow in a gesture of self-mockery over some stupidity.

“I forgot,” he said. “I totally forgot.”

Pat had not expected this. He had issued the invitation, after all; she was not self-invited. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I’m sorry. We’d arranged . . .”

Peter shook his head. “Of course, of course. We’d arranged it. I’m so damn stupid. Come in.”

“If it’s inconvenient . . .”

He reached out and gripped her forearm, pulling her in.

“Don’t be silly. I was doing nothing anyway. Just come in.”

She entered a hall, a large square room of similar propor-tions to the hall of the flat in Scotland Street. This was in markedly worse order, though, with scuffed paintwork on the doors and skirting boards. The floor, which was sanded, was made of broad Canadian pine boards, covered in part by frayed oriental rugs; the planks were uneven, and caused the rugs to rise in small ridges, like tiny mountain ranges.

“This flat belongs to somebody who works in Hong Kong,”

said Peter, waving a hand behind him. “An accountant, or something like that. He’s mean. He never fixes anything, but the rent isn’t too bad and it suits us. I’ve been here over a year.”

“How many do you share with?” asked Pat.

“There are three of us,” said Peter, pointing to a half-open door off the hall. “That’s the biggest room. Joe and Fergus live in that. And that’s my room over here. We’ve got a sort of sitting room, but it’s a tip and we hardly ever use it.”

Pat looked at the half-open door. Joe and Fergus. Then she remembered. When she had seen Peter at the Film Theatre he had been with another young man, a boy who had stared at her while Peter had whispered something to him. I’m naive, she said to herself. I’ve missed the obvious.

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Peter gestured towards the door of his room. “Are you easily shocked?” he asked, smiling as he spoke.

Pat thought quickly. She was not sure what to expect, but who could admit to being shocked these days? “Of course not,”

she said.

“Good,” said Peter. “Because it’s a bit of a mess. If I’d remembered, I would have tidied it up before you came.”

Pat laughed. “I’m a bit untidy myself.”

“Well,” said Peter. “That may be, but . . .”

They went into the room, which was dimly lit by a single reading lamp on the desk near the window. The curtains, made of a heavy red brocaded material, were drawn closed, but did not quite meet in the middle. A thin line of orange light from the streetlights outside shone through the crack.

Pat glanced about her. There was a bed in the corner, covered with a white counterpane, made, at least, unlike Bruce’s bed, which was usually in a state of dishevelment. Then there were two easy chairs with brown corduroy slipcovers; the seat of one of these was covered with a pile of abandoned clothing – a shirt, a couple of pairs of socks, some unidentified underclothes and a pair of jeans. Peter reached down, bundled the clothing up and stuffed it in a drawer.

“This isn’t a mess,” said Pat. “Bruce – my flatmate – has a far messier room.”

Peter shrugged. “Every so often I have a blitz on it. But the vacuum cleaner’s bust and it’s difficult.”

“You could borrow ours,” said Pat. She spoke quickly, and immediately wondered whether this was the right thing to say.

It was as if she was offering to clean up for him, which was not what she intended.

“We’re all right,” said Peter, pointing to one of the chairs and inviting her to sit down. “We get by.”

Pat sat down and looked at the walls. There could be clues there, just to confirm. A picture of . . . who were the appropriate icons? She realised that she was not sure. There was a poster above the bed, a film poster of some sort; but it was for a Japanese film and she had no idea what that signified.

160 Private Papers

And above her head, behind the chair, was a framed print of American Gothic, the Midwest farmer, pitchfork in hand, and his wife, standing grimly in front of a barn. Again, that conveyed nothing, except some sense of irony perhaps.

Peter rubbed his hands together. “I’ll go and make coffee,”

he said. “How do you like it?”

Pat told him, and he went off to the kitchen, leaving her alone in his room. Once he had gone, she looked at his desk. There was a pile of books – a Jane Austen novel, a book of critical essays, the Notebooks of Robert Lowell, a dictionary. Behind the books was an open file into which what looked like lecture notes had been inserted. She rose to her feet and went over to the desk. Yes, they were his lecture notes. He had written the title of a lecture at the top: Social expectations and artistic freedom in Austen’s England: Tuesday. There was a pile of papers on the edge of the desk – a couple of opened letters and what looked like an electricity bill.

She moved the letters slightly; of course she would not read them, she was just looking; a foreign stamp: Germany. And underneath the letters, two or three photographs, turned face downwards. She hesitated. She should mind her own business; one did not go into another person’s room and look at his photographs. But at least she could examine the writing on the back of one of them, the photograph on top of the pile. It was not very distinct, as the ink had smudged, but she could just make it out. Skinny-dipping, Greece, with T.

Pat looked over her shoulder. She should not look at his private papers – they were nothing to do with her. But then, he had invited her into his room and the photographs were lying around and how could anybody resist the temptation to look at a photograph with that inscription written on the back?

If you left photographs lying about then you were more or less giving permission for people to look at them. It was the same as sending postcards: the postman was entitled to read them.

And Pat was human. So she turned the photograph over and looked.

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49. Australian Memories

Holding two cups of steaming coffee, Peter came back into his room. “I don’t have anything else to offer you,” he said. “Not even a biscuit. We often run out of food altogether. And I find that when I buy some, Joe and Fergus eat it. I’m not sure if they know what they’re doing. They just eat it.”

Pat was not hungry, and did not mind. Peter had made real coffee, she noticed, and it smelled good, like strong . . . strong what? Coffee was complicated now, with all those americanos and mochas and double skinny lattes with vanilla. This was a bitter coffee, which Pat liked, and made for herself in the flat, although Bruce always turned his nose up at it. Shortly after she had moved in, Bruce, uninvited, had taken a cup of coffee from her cafetière and had spat it out after the first mouthful.

But Bruce was Peter’s polar opposite – unsubtle, uninterested in literature (he had once asked if Jane Austen was an actress), and quite without that willowy charm that Peter had in such abundance. She reflected briefly on this, and ruefully too, because she was now sure that Peter had nothing more in mind than casual friendship. How naive she had been to imagine otherwise: he was far too handsome to be interested in girls. There was that quality of sensitivity, that look in his eyes that told her, and everybody else who cared to look for it, that he understood, but, at the same time, that he was elsewhere.

Peter sat on the bed; she sat on the chair from which the pile of clothes had been moved. He sat there, with his bare feet on the counterpane, his cup of coffee cradled in his hands; she sat with both feet on the ground, her cup of coffee sitting on the table beside her. For a few moments they looked at one another. Then Peter smiled, and she noticed his teeth, which were perfectly straight, either by nature, or through the efforts of orthodontists. There was something familiar about these teeth and she struggled to recall what it was; then she remembered – Pedro, the doll whom she had loved so much, had had teeth painted on the fabric of his face, and these teeth were 162 Australian Memories

just like Peter’s. Had Pedro, the doll, been interested in girl dolls, or did he prefer the company of other boy dolls? As a girl, she had thought that Pedro had loved only her, but that might have been a mistake. Pedro might have wished for something else altogether but had been obliged all his woolly life to be with her, like the captive he was. Such a ridiculous thought, and she smiled involuntarily at the thinking of it.

Peter smiled back.

They both began to speak at that same time.

“I . . .” said Pat.

And he said, “I . . .” and then, laughing, “You go ahead.”

“No, you go,” she said. “Go on.”

“What do you do? I suppose that’s what I was going to ask you.”

Pat explained that she was a student, or almost a student.

“I’ve had a couple of years off,” she said. “I went to . . .” She paused, and he watched her expectantly. “To Australia, actually.”

He nodded. “So did I. Where were you?”

She could not bring herself to speak about Western Australia, although she knew that she would have to do so sooner or later.

So she mentioned Queensland and New South Wales, and Peter replied that he had been in both of those places. “I picked fruit,”

he said. “And I worked in a bar in Sydney, down in that old part near the harbour bridge. I did all sorts of things. Then I went travelling with somebody I met there. We had a great time. Two months of travelling.”

“Where was he from?” asked Pat.

“She,” said Peter. “She was Canadian. She came from somewhere near Winnipeg.”

Of course she was probably just a friend, thought Pat. She had travelled in Thailand with a boy who was no more than a friend; it protected one from all sorts of dangers. And of course if she had been with somebody in Western Australia, then she would not have ended up in that plight in the first place.

“I had some pretty strange jobs in Australia,” Peter went on. “I spent a month on a sheep station, looking after the Australian Memories

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owner, who was ancient. He couldn’t walk very far and so they had made him a sort of trolley which he put a chair on. It had bike wheels, front and back, and I had to push him around the garden and down to the edge of the river. He was doing a correspondence course in history and I had to help him with that.”

Pat laughed. She had taken peculiar jobs too, and none more peculiar than that job in Western Australia; but she did not feel like talking about that.

Peter looked thoughtful. “I miss Australia, you know. I miss the place. Those wide plains. The eucalyptus forests and the noise of the screeching birds. Remember that? The galahs? And the people, too. That friendliness. I miss all that a lot.”

She felt his gaze upon her, a quizzical, slightly bemused look, and she wondered what it meant. It was as if he was sounding her out, determining whether she could respond to those images of Australia, that evocation of atmosphere. And she could, of course, and was about to say something herself about the Australian countryside and the effect it had wrought upon her when there was a knock at the door. He looked away, the spell broken, and answered.

The door half-opened and a head appeared. It was a young woman, of about Pat’s age, or a year or two older. The young woman looked briefly at Peter and then at Pat. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “The thermostat on the hot water has stuck again. Can you fiddle with it like you did last time?”

Peter put down his coffee cup and rose from the bed. “Of course,” he said. Then, half-turning to Pat, he said: “By the way, this is Joe.”

Pat nodded a greeting, which Joe returned with a cheerful wave. Then, while Peter and Joe were out of the room, Pat looked up at the ceiling and smiled. Josephine and Fergus: rather a different picture from the one she had imagined. And this meant that Peter was quite possible now, although there was still the question of T. Who was T and did she (or he) take the photograph of the skinny-dipping in Greece? She could always ask Peter directly, but then that would reveal that she had 164 A Trip to Glasgow in the Offing sneaked a look at the photograph, which was none of her business. Unless, of course, she were to place her coffee cup on the table and inadvertently cause the books and photographs to fall onto the floor . . . just like this.

50. A Trip to Glasgow in the Offing Sitting at the breakfast table, her single piece of toast on her plate, Irene said to Stuart: “When you go through to Glasgow on Saturday, you may take Bertie with you, but . . .”

Stuart interrupted her. “Thank you. I’m sure that he’d like the train ride. You know how he feels about trains. Little boys . . .”

Irene nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes,” she said, buttering her toast. She knew how little boys – or some of them – felt about trains, but that was no reason to encourage them. Little boys felt that way about trains because they were socially encouraged to do so – and she was sure that it was Stuart who had brought trains into the picture; she certainly had not. There was nothing inherent in the make-up of boys that attracted them to trains.

Boys and girls were genetically indistinguishable, in her view (apart from the odd chromosome), and it was social conditioning that produced interests such as trains, in the case of boys, and, quite appallingly, dolls in the case of girls. Irene had never played with dolls, but had Stuart played with trains as a boy? They had never discussed the matter, but she had a good idea as to what the answer would be.

“Don’t spend more time in Glasgow than you have to,” she said. “Bertie’s going to miss his yoga class as it is, and I don’t want him to miss his saxophone lesson as well.”

“It would be nice to take him down to Gourock or somewhere like that,” Stuart ventured. “He would probably like to see the ferries. We could even pick up some fish and chips.”

Irene laughed ominously. “And a deep-fried Mars Bar while you’re about it?”

Stuart thought that Bertie would probably rather enjoy that, A Trip to Glasgow in the Offing

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but had the good sense not to say it. He was looking forward to the outing and he did not want to provoke Irene into offering to accompany them. It was good to be going off alone with his son – as a father should do from time to time. Bertie hardly spoke to him these days; he seemed to have withdrawn into a world from which he, Stuart, was excluded, and this was worrying. Yet Stuart found it difficult to know what to say to Bertie, or to anybody else for that matter. He was a naturally quiet man, and throughout his marriage to Irene, whom he admired for her strength of character and her intellectual vision, he had left it to her to do the talking. She had always been in charge of what she called the Bertie project, and he had left it to her to make the decisions about the little boy. But beneath this acceptance there was a vague unease on his part that he was not much of a father to Bertie, and Bertie’s distance from him had fuelled this unease. And when that dreadful incident had occurred and Bertie had set fire to his copy of the Guardian he had done nothing; a real father would have remonstrated with his son and punished him – for his own good. He had done nothing, and it had been left to Irene to arrange a psychotherapeutic response.

For his part, Bertie was fond enough of his father, but he wished that he would be somewhat less passive. It seemed to him that his father led a very dull life, with his daily journey to the Scottish Executive and all those statistics. Bertie was good at mathematics, and had absorbed the basic principles of calculus, but did not think that it would be very satisfying to do mathematics all day, as his father did. And what did the Scottish Executive need all those statistics for in the first place? Bertie wondered. Surely there was a limit to the number of statistics one needed.

When Bertie was told that he was going to Glasgow with his father, and on a train to boot, he let out a yelp of delight.

“That means we’ll go to Waverley Station?” he asked. He had seen pictures of Waverley Station but he had never been there, as far as he could remember.

“Yes,” said Stuart. “And we’ll get on the Glasgow train and 166 A Trip to Glasgow in the Offing go all the way to Queen Street Station. You’ll like Queen Street Station, Bertie.”

Bertie was sure that he would, and gave vent to his pleasure with a further yelp.

“Now remember to wear your duffel coat over your dungarees,” his mother said. “And wash your hands before you eat anything. Glasgow is not a very salubrious place, and I don’t want you catching anything there.”

Bertie listened but said nothing. He would not wash his hands in Glasgow, as his mother would not be there to make him.

Being in Glasgow, in fact, would be like being eighteen, the age which Bertie yearned for above anything else. After you were eighteen you never had to listen to your mother again, and that, thought Bertie, would be nirvana indeed.

“Glasgow’s not all that bad,” said Stuart mildly. “They’ve got the Burrell and then there’s . . .”

Irene cut him off. “And the mortality statistics?” she snapped.

“The smoking? The drinking? The heart disease?”

Bertie looked at his father. He would defend Glasgow, he hoped, in the face of this attack.

“They have their problems,” Stuart conceded. “But not everybody’s like that.”

“Close enough,” said Irene. “But let’s not think too much of Glasgow. It’s time for some Italian, Bertie, especially if tomorrow is going to be so disrupted by your little trip.”

Bertie complied, and busied himself with a page of his Italian grammar. His heart was not in it, though, and he could think only of what lay ahead of him. The Glasgow train! He would get a window seat, he hoped, and watch the countryside flashing past. He would see the signals and hear the squeal of the brakes as they neared a station. And then there would be Glasgow itself, which he thought sounded very exciting, with all its noise and germs. They would find their car and he would help his father to get it started. And perhaps on the way back, he might be able to do some fishing with his father, if they went anywhere near the Pentlands. There was always a chance of that.

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Bertie reflected on his lot. He felt much happier with his life now. He had settled in to Steiner’s, and he found that he liked it. He had made a tentative friendship with Tofu, and now he was being taken to Glasgow by his father. If this good fortune continued, then he would be able to put up with all the other things that made his life so trying: his psychotherapy with Dr Fairbairn, and, of course, his mother. He had only another twelve years of his mother, he thought, which might be just bearable.

Unless, of course, they went over to Glasgow, his father and he, and stayed there . . .

168 Chapter title

51. On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened Bertie sat with his face pressed to the window, his father in the seat beside him, on the ten-o’clock train from Waverley Station.

It had been a morning of excitement at a level quite unparalleled in his young life. It had begun with the walk up from Scotland Street with Stuart, during which they had seen two mounted policemen riding their horses down Dundas Street; one of the policemen had waved to Bertie, and he had waved back. And then they had arrived at Waverley Station itself, nestling in its hollow with the buildings of the Old Town towering above it, flags fluttering in the morning breeze; all of this was perfect background for a soaring of spirits. In the booking hall, they had stood together in the ticket queue and Bertie had heard his father utter those potent words: “One and a half tickets to Glasgow,” and had realised that he was the half that was going to Glasgow, and back; oh happy, happy prospect!

Bertie had thrilled at the sound of the conductor’s whistle, which had set the train off on its journey, and almost immediately they had entered the tunnel under the National Gallery of Scotland, and were out again so soon, with the Castle Rock soaring above the track, before another tunnel enveloped them in its darkness. After a couple of minutes, they emerged from this tunnel into a station.

“Is this Glasgow?” Bertie asked, rising from his seat.

Stuart laughed. “Haymarket, Bertie. We’re still in Edinburgh.

Glasgow’s forty-five minutes away.”

Bertie sank back into his seat, delighted at the prolongation of the journey. Forty-five minutes seemed like a wonderfully long time to him – more or less the length of time he spent in a session with Dr Fairbairn, and those sessions lasted forever, he thought. With nose pressed to the window glass he watched the great shape of a stadium draw near, and he tapped his father’s shoulder and pointed.

“Murrayfield,” said Stuart. “That’s the rugby stadium.”

Bertie stared in wonder. Although he had decided that rugby On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened 169

was perhaps not for him – a conclusion which he had reached after that unfortunate experience at Watson’s when Jock, his false friend, had kicked him in the ribs – he would still like to watch Scotland play rugby against the All Blacks, or even England. That would be a thrilling thing to do, and perhaps he would find himself sitting next to Mr Gavin Hastings and would be able to listen to his view of the game they were watching. That would be a fine thing to do, Bertie thought.

“Have you ever been there, Daddy?” he asked. “Did you ever go to Murrayfield?”

Stuart nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I used to go there when I was a student. I went with . . .” He paused, and then continued. “I went there with the boys, I suppose.”

Bertie looked puzzled. “Small boys? Boys like me?”

Stuart smiled. “No, not boys like you. Friends of mine. I used to call them the boys. We used to go to see rugby matches and we would also go to pubs.”

“To get drunk?” asked Bertie politely.

On the other side of the compartment a woman overheard this question and smiled. She had noticed this small boy in his dungarees and had been amused by his excitement over the trip.

Stuart caught the woman’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “Not really, Bertie. Well . . . well, maybe some of the boys had a little bit too much to drink. But usually they didn’t.”

Bertie digested this answer. He was intrigued by the thought that his father had had another life altogether different from the one which he led in Scotland Street. “What was it like before you met Mummy?” he asked suddenly. “Was it fun?”

Stuart looked at his son, and then out of the window. They were now leaving the outer suburbs of Edinburgh and the fields and hills were all about them. An expanse of earth, ploughed in readiness for the winter crop, rich earth, shot past on one side of the track. A crow flew up from a tree, and was left behind.

Stuart looked back at Bertie.

“It was fun,” he said quietly. “Yes. I had a lot of fun.” He paused. “And you’ll have fun too, Bertie. I’m sure you will.”

Bertie said nothing for a few moments. He was pulling at a 170 On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened loose thread on the seam of his dungarees. “You need to have friends to have fun,” he said at last. “I have no friends.”

Stuart frowned. “You must have some friends, Bertie. What about this boy you mentioned to me. Paddy? What about him?”

“I don’t really know him very well,” said Bertie. “I hardly ever see him. I have to go to psychotherapy and yoga all the time.”

Stuart reached out and took his son’s hand. It felt so small; dry and small. “Friends are very important, aren’t they?”

Bertie nodded. Stuart continued: “I had a best friend, you know. That’s very important, too. To have a best friend.”

“What was he called?” asked Bertie.

“He was called Mike,” said Stuart. “He was very kind to me.”

“That’s nice,” said Bertie. “Kind friends are the best sort, aren’t they?”

Stuart nodded his assent to this and they both looked out of the window, Bertie’s hand still resting in his. I shall not fail this little boy, he thought. My God, how close I’ve come to doing that. What is that corny line from that musical? I let my golden chances pass me by. Yes, that was it; sentimental, but absolutely true. We all let our golden chances pass us by – all the time.

The woman who had overheard this conversation had been staring at the page of her book – staring but not reading. She had heard every word and now she looked very discreetly in their direction and saw the two of them quite still, quite silent, sunk in their thoughts. She transferred her gaze back to the words on the page before her, but she could no longer concentrate. It had nothing to do with her, of course – the business of others. But now she willed with all her heart that this stranger into whose life she had unwittingly strayed should listen to every word that the little boy had said. And when she glanced again, and saw the expression on the man’s face, she knew that he would.

52. Arriving in Glasgow

As the Edinburgh train neared Glasgow, the light with which the passing countryside had been suffused became subtly attenuated. The clear skies of the east of Scotland yielded place to a lowered ceiling of grey and purple rain clouds. And above the train, rising on each side of the railway line, reared up the shapes of high flats, great dispiriting slabs of grey. Bertie watched the changing landscape, his mouth open in awe; so this was Glasgow, this was the place of which his mother had spoken so ominously. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was a dark and dangerous place after all. And to think that such a place existed less than an hour away from Edinburgh! That was the extraordinary thing. One could be in Edinburgh, with its floataria and coffeehouses, and then, in the space of a short train journey, one could be in this place, under these purple clouds, facing heaven knows what perils.

They left their railway carriage and stepped out onto the platform. Bertie looked down at his feet and thought: “I’m standing on Glasgow!” The stone of the platform, a special, highly-polished stone, chosen by the railway authorities as the surface most likely to become dangerously slippery if wet, was very similar to the slippery stone floors he had seen at Waverley Station. And the people waiting at the barrier were not all that different from the people he had seen at Waverley Station, he thought.

“This way, Bertie,” said Stuart, pointing in the direction of a large glass door. “We’ll get a taxi out there.”

Bertie hurried along behind his father, his duffel coat buttoned up to the top to disguise the fact that he was wearing crushed-strawberry dungarees. He had not noticed any crushed-strawberry trousers in Glasgow yet, and he was sure that they did not wear them here.

“Where are we going?” he asked his father, as they took their place in the short queue for taxis. “Do you remember where you left the car?”

“More or less,” said Stuart, waving a hand in the general 172 Arriving in Glasgow

direction of the Dumbarton Road. “I’ll recognise the place . . .

I think.”

Their turn came to get into a taxi. Stuart opened the door and Bertie climbed in. This was far better than the No 23 bus, he thought: comfortable seats, small glowing red lights, and a taxi driver who looked at them in his rear-view mirror and smiled cheerily.

“Whauryousesgaahn?” the driver asked.

“Dumbarton Road, please,” said Stuart.

The driver looked back up at the mirror. “Radumbartonroad?

B u t w h i t p a r t o r a d u m b a r t o n r o a d y o u s e s w a n t i n a n t h a t ?

Radumbartonroadizzaroadanahafwhaurabit?”

Stuart explained that he was not sure exactly which part of the Dumbarton Road they wanted, but that he would let the driver know when they neared it. The driver nodded; people who got off the Edinburgh train were often a bit vague, he had found, but they very rarely tried to jump out of the taxi without paying. Nor did they try to walk half the way in order to save money. You had to watch the Aberdeen train for that.

“Now, Bertie,” said Stuart. “Look over there. That’s . . . well, I’m not sure what that is, but look over there anyway.”

Bertie looked out at Glasgow. It seemed busier than Edinburgh, he thought, and the buses were a different colour.

But everybody seemed to know where they were going, and seemed happy enough to be going there. He was going to like Glasgow, he thought, and perhaps he would even come to live here when he was eighteen. If he did that, then he would even start to learn the language. It sounded quite like Italian in some respects, and was possibly even easier to learn.

They made their way to St George’s Cross and then down below Glasgow University. Stuart pointed in the direction of the university and drew Bertie’s attention to the fact that his own father, Bertie’s grandfather, had studied medicine there.

“It’s a very great medical school,” said Stuart. “Many famous doctors have trained there, Bertie. You could even go there yourself.”

“That would be nice,” said Bertie. The thought had occurred Arriving in Glasgow

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to him that perhaps Dr Fairbairn had trained there, but then that would have been a long time ago. Glasgow did not seem like a good place for psychotherapists, Bertie thought. It was difficult to say exactly why this should be so, but Bertie certainly felt it. Edinburgh was better territory for that sort of thing. And he had not seen a single floatarium during the taxi drive, not one; a large number of Indian restaurants, of course, but no floataria.

Once they reached the Dumbarton Road, Stuart began to sit forward in his seat and peer out at the roads going off to either side.

“It’s pretty near here,” he said to the driver.

“Ayeitspruttybutwhauryuzwantintogetaff ?” the driver replied genially.

Stuart stared at a road-end which was approaching them on their right. Yes, this was it. There had been a church at the end of the street because he had remembered its odd-shaped tower.

“Right here,” he said to the driver. “This is where we want to get aff.”

The driver nodded and drew into the side of the road. Stuart paid the bill, and then he and Bertie strode across the busy Dumbarton Road and began to walk slowly down the quiet resi-dential street to the right.

“It was along here,” said Stuart. “Further along on this side.”

Bertie skipped ahead of his father, looking for the familiar shape of their red Volvo station wagon. It was not a long street, and before he had gone very far he realised that he had cast his eyes down the line of cars parked along the street and there was no sign of a red Volvo. He turned to face his father.

“Are you sure, Daddy?” he asked. “Are you sure that this is the right road?”

Stuart looked down towards the end of the road. He was sure that this was it. He closed his eyes and imagined that afternoon. He had taken his files from the back of the car and had locked the door. And then he had begun to walk towards the Dumbarton Road and the place where the meeting was to be held. And there had been a dog crossing the road and a motorist 174 Lard O’Connor

had braked sharply. There was no doubt about it; this was the place.

“This is it, Bertie,” he said quietly. “This is where the car was. Right here.”

Stuart pointed to a place now occupied by a large green Mercedes-Benz. Bertie stepped forward and stared into the car, as if expecting to find some clue to the disappearance of their Volvo. And as he did so, they heard a door open in the house directly behind them and a voice call out:

“Yous! Whit chu doin lookin at Mr O’Connor’s motor?”

53. Lard O’Connor

Bertie sprang back guiltily from the green Mercedes-Benz. He had not so much as touched the glittering car, but the voice from behind him, more of a growl really, would have been enough to frighten anybody, let alone a six-year-old boy on his first trip to Glasgow.

Stuart was taken aback, too, by the accusatory tone of the voice. “My son hasn’t done anything,” he said. “We were just looking.”

The man who had appeared at the door of the house had strode down the path and was now facing Stuart, staring at him belligerently. “Looking for what?” he asked. “Yous never seen a Merc before, eh?”

“I’ve seen one,” said Bertie brightly. “Mrs Macdonald, who lives at the top of the stair, has got a custard-coloured one. She offered to take me for a ride in it.”

The man looked down at Bertie. “Whit you talking aboot, son?”

“He’s just saying . . .” began Stuart.

“Shut your gob, Jim,” said the man. “Whit’s this aboot custard?”

“Oh really!” said Stuart in exasperation. “This is quite ridiculous. Come, Bertie, let’s go.”

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The man suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Stuart by the arm. “Not so fast, pal. You’re coming in to have a word with Mr O’Connor. He disnae like people hanging aboot his street.

You can come in and explain yourself to the man hissel.”

The man’s grip on Stuart’s arm was too powerful to resist, and Stuart found himself being frog-marched up the garden path, followed by an anxious Bertie, his duffel coat flapping about his crushed-strawberry dungarees. Propelled by his captor, Stuart found himself in a sparsely-furnished hallway. “Through there,” said the man, nodding in the direction of a half-open door. “Mr O’Connor will see you now.”

Stuart glared at the man, but decided that the situation was too fragile for him to do anything but comply. He was concerned for the safety of Bertie, who was standing at his side, and he thought that the best thing to do would be to speak to this Mr O’Connor, whoever he was, and explain that they had had no intentions in relation to his car. Perhaps they had experienced vandalism in the past and had, quite unjustifiably, thought that he and Bertie were vandals.

They entered a large living room. The floor was covered with a tartan carpet and the walls were papered with red wall-paper. The room was dominated by a large television set, which was displaying a football game, but with the sound turned down.

On a chair in front of the television set was an extremely over-weight man, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal fleshy, tattooed forearms. As they entered the room, this man half turned round, glanced at them, and then flicked the remote controls of the television set. The football match died in a fading of light.

“So,” said the fat man. “So you’ve been looking at my motor.

You fancy it?”

“Not at all,” said Stuart. “We had no designs on it at all.”

The man smiled. “I should introduce myself,” he said, glancing at Bertie briefly and then returning his gaze to Stuart.

“I’m Aloysius O’Connor. But you may call me Lard O’Connor.

Everybody else does, don’t they, Gerry?”

Gerry, the man who had brought Stuart into the room, 176 Lard O’Connor

nodded. “Aye, they do, Lard. Nae respect these days. People have nae respect.”

Lard O’Connor raised an eyebrow. Turning to Bertie, he said:

“And you, young man. What’s your name?”

“I’m called Bertie,” said Bertie. “Bertie Pollock. I live in Edinburgh and I go to the Steiner School. And this is my daddy.

We live in Scotland Street. Do you know where that is, Mr O’Connor?”

“Could do,” said Lard. “Is that a nice street?”

“It’s very nice,” said Bertie. “It’s not far from where Mr Compton Mackenzie used to live. He wrote books, you know.”

Lard smiled. “You don’t say? Compton Mackenzie?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “He wrote a book called Whisky Galore about some people who find a lot of whisky on the beach.”

“That sounds like a good story,” said Lard. He turned to Gerry. “You hear that, Gerry? Some people find whisky on the beach. Fallen aff a ferry mebbe!”

Gerry laughed politely. Lard then turned to Bertie again. “I must say I like your style, young man. I like a wean who speaks clearly and shows some respect. I like that.” He paused, and looked inquisitively at Stuart. “So what are you doing in these parts? Why have you come all the way from, where is it, Scotland Street, all the way over here? You sightseeing?”

“I left my car here,” said Stuart quickly. “I left it some time ago and now it seems to be gone.”

“Oh,” said Lard. “Walked?”

“So it would seem,” said Stuart dryly.

“Well, well,” said Lard, stroking the side of his chair. “Can you tell me what this motor of yours looked like? Model and all the rest. And the registration number.”

Stuart told him, and Lard signalled to Gerry, who wrote it down laboriously in a small notebook which he had picked up from the top of a display cabinet.

“Gerry,” said Lard. “You go and make inquiries about this matter and see what you can come up with. Know what I mean?”

He turned towards Bertie. “And you, young man, how about a game of cards while we’re waiting for Gerry? You and your dad A Game of Cards and a Cultural Trip 177

might like a game of cards. I’m very partial to a game of cards myself, you know. But I don’t always have company of the right intellectual level, know what I mean?” He nodded in the direction of Gerry, who was now leaving the room. “Good man, Gerry,” Lard went on. “But not exactly one of your Edinburgh intellectuals.”

“I like playing cards,” said Bertie. “What game would you like to play, Mr O’Connor?”

They decided on rummy, and Lard rose slowly from his chair to fetch a pack of cards from a drawer.

“You’re very big, Mr O’Connor,” said Bertie brightly, not seeing a frantic sign from his father. “Do you eat deep-fried Mars bars like other people in Glasgow?”

Lard stopped in his tracks. Without turning, he said: “Deep-fried Mars bars?”

Stuart looked frantically about the room. It would be possible to make a run for it now, he thought. Lard would be unable to run after them, with that bulk of his, but he had heard sounds out in the hall and he had assumed that there were other men, apart from Gerry, in the house. These gangsters rarely had just one side-kick, he remembered.

Then Lard spoke again. “Oh jings!” he said. “What I wouldn’t do for one of those right now!”

54. A Game of Cards and a Cultural Trip It was an interesting game of cards. Lard had started off making every concession to Bertie’s age, offering friendly advice on tactics and making one or two deliberate mistakes in order to give Bertie an advantage. But it soon became apparent that such gestures were entirely misplaced as Bertie succeeded in playing even his more mediocre hands with consummate skill. Lard had suggested playing for money, a proposition to which Stuart had agreed only because he felt that it would be impolitic to antagonise their host. He had given Bertie five pounds to start him off and had 178 A Game of Cards and a Cultural Trip explained that that would be his limit. But after an hour’s play, Bertie had won sixty-two pounds from Lard O’Connor and was now sitting behind a high pile of one-pound and two-pound coins.

“I’ll give it back to you, Mr O’Connor,” Bertie said generously. “I don’t want to take all your money.”

Lard O’Connor shook his head. “Not a chance, Bertie,” he said. “You won that fair and square. Just as I earned that money fair and square in the first place.”

Stuart threw Lard a glance, and then looked away again quickly.

“What do you do for a living, Mr O’Connor?” Bertie asked politely as he dealt a fresh hand of cards.

“I’m a businessman,” said Lard. “I have a business. But it’s pretty difficult for us small businessmen under this government, you know. So I vote for the Liberal Democrats. That’s what I do. That Ming Campbell. He’s the man. And David Steel, too.”

“I’m sure they’re very glad of your support,” said Stuart dryly.

“Aye, I’m sure they are,” agreed Lard.

The game of cards continued for a further half hour, and then Gerry returned. He stood at the door, smiling broadly. “Mission accomplished, Lard,” he said.

Lard looked round and stared at his assistant. “You found the car?”

Gerry nodded. “I did. It had been removed withoot authority, as we say. Some boys had been using it for their own purposes.

So I spoke to them aboot it and explained this is not the way tae treat an Edinburgh car.”

Lard smiled. “And they agreed with you, Gerry?”

“They took a bit of persuading, boss,” said Gerry. “You know how ill-mannered some of these boys can be. Nae manners.”

Lard sighed. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right there, so you are.

But the important thing is that you’ve got your car back, Stewie.

How about that then?”

Stuart reached forward and shook Lard’s hand enthusiastically. “You’ve been very kind, Mr O’Connor,” he said. “I really am very indebted to you.”

A Game of Cards and a Cultural Trip 179

Lard shrugged off the thanks. “It was nothing,” he said. “I’m only sorry that youses were inconvenienced. It gives people the wrong impression of Glasgow when they come over here and their car is taken aff them. Very unfriendly.”

“Well,” said Stuart, looking at his watch. “No harm done.

Now that we have our car back we can get back to Edinburgh.

You’ve been very kind to us, Mr O’Connor.”

Lard made an expansive gesture with his right hand. “No bother. No bother at all.” He paused. “But it would be a pity if you were to rush off so quickly. Young Bertie here has hardly had the chance to see Glasgow, have you, Bertie? There’s plenty of time to get back to Edinburgh later on, especially as you now have your car back. A leisurely drive at your own convenience.”

Stuart began to explain that they really should get back as Bertie had a saxophone lesson, but was cut short by Lard.

“What do you think, Bertie?” asked Lard. “What would you like to see while you’re over here?”

Bertie was ready with an answer. He had decided that he liked Glasgow and that there was a great deal that he wished to see.

He would like to go to a fish and chip shop and get a . . . No, he could never do that. His mother would be sure to hear about it and there would be a terrible row. And so he said: “The Burrell Gallery, Mr O’Connor.” And then he added: “If that’s convenient to you.”

Lard frowned and looked at Gerry. “You know where that is, Gerry? The Burrell? You heard of it?”

Gerry shook his head. “I’ve got a map, boss. I can get you there.”

“In that case we should be on our way,” said Lard. “We can go in my motor, and then you can pick yours up when we finish and you can drive back to Edinburgh. How about that, Stewie?”

Stuart realised that he had little option but to agree. But a visit to the Burrell was a good idea, anyway, as it would enable him to say to Irene that they had spent their time in Glasgow well. He could clearly not tell her that he and Bertie had played cards, for money, with a Glasgow gangster, but he could tell her 180 A Game of Cards and a Cultural Trip that they had gone to the Burrell with two charming Glaswegians who had helped them locate the car.

They set off in Lard O’Connor’s green Mercedes-Benz. Gerry drove, with Stuart beside him in the front passenger seat, while Bertie sat in the back with Lard.

“It’s a very nice car, Mr O’Connor,” said Bertie, running his hands over the soft leather of the seats.

“It is that,” said Lard. “You work hard, Bertie, just like me, and one day you’ll be able to get yourself one of these.”

“But what does your business actually do, Mr O’Connor?”

asked Bertie.

“Distribution,” said Lard. “We circulate things We make sure that things don’t just stay in one place forever. We encourage changes of ownership.”

“What things?” asked Bertie.

“Bertie,” interrupted Stuart from the front seat. “Don’t keep asking Mr O’Connor questions. He’s very busy thinking. Leave him be.”

They travelled on in silence. Then Bertie said: “Mr O’Connor, have you heard of Rangers Football Club?”

Lard O’Connor smiled. “I’ve heard of them. Aye, I’ve heard of them.”

Bertie looked out of the window. There was much about Glasgow that he still had to find out. “Everybody says that they’re very good,” he said. “They say that they’re the best football team in the country.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Lard, catching Gerry’s eye in the rear mirror. “There’s a team called Celtic. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “But I’ve heard they’re not so good.”

Lard O’Connor said nothing. Then he began to smile. “You know, Bertie, you’re a clever wee boy. Very good sense of humour. Very good. You and I have got a brilliant future together

– I can tell.” Then he tapped Stuart on the shoulder. “What do you think, Stewie? What say you that we get together a bit more regularly. You. Me. Bertie. What do you think?”

Chapter title

181

55. At the Burrell

They drew into the grounds of Pollok House, and drove up the drive towards the building that housed the Burrell Collection.

Lard O’Connor, sitting in the back of his green Mercedes-Benz, with Bertie at his side, was impressed by the sylvan setting.

“Crivvens!” he exclaimed. “Who would have guessed that we had this in Glasgow! Right under our noses! You’d think we were in Edinburgh, wouldn’t you?”

“You have some fine museums over here,” said Stuart. “Very fine.”

Lard listened carefully. “Fine museums, you say, Stewie? Well, that’s good to hear.”

Gerry parked the car and they walked over to the entrance to the Burrell. Guidebooks were bought – Stuart insisted on paying, as a thank-you for the finding of his car – and Lard and Gerry graciously accepted. Then they made their way into the first of the exhibition halls. There, hung on a wall, was a giant Flemish tapestry depicting a hunting scene, complete with dogs.

“Jeez,” said Lard. “Look at those dugs on that carpet.”

“It’s a tapestry, actually,” said Stuart.

Lard looked at him. “That’s what I said,” he muttered. “You trying to show me up, Stewie?”

Stuart paled. “Certainly not. I was just . . .”

“Because some people think,” Lard continued, “that just because you haven’t had much formal education, then you don’t know anything. You wouldn’t be one of those, would you, Stewie?”

“Of course not,” said Stuart. “There are a lot of educated people who know very little about the world.”

“You hear that, Gerry?” asked Lard. “Stewie here says that there lots of folk in Edinburgh who don’t know anything about anything. That’s what he said.”

Stuart laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said.

“Well, I would,” said Lard.

They moved on to look at a small series of bronze figures in 182 At the Burrell

a glass display case. Lard signalled to Gerry and the two of them bent down to look at the display. As they did so, Lard ran his fingers over the lock which prevented the glass doors from being opened. He threw an inquiring glance at Gerry, who smiled.

“Easy,” he said. “Dead easy.”

Lard nodded and straightened up. “A very interesting little collection of . . . of . . .” he said. “Very nice taste this Wally Burrell had. Shipping man, you said he was, Stewie?”

Stuart nodded. “He was a great collector,” he said. “He kept very good records of what he bought. And he searched all over the world for objects for his collection.”

Bertie was studying his guidebook closely, checking each object they saw against its entry. They moved into the Hutton Castle Drawing Room, the room which Burrell had used as his principal place of display and which had been re-created in the gallery. They stopped in front of a French stained-glass Annunciation scene. Lard nodded to Gerry and the two men crossed themselves quickly.

“I’m glad to see that Wally Burrell was a Celtic supporter,”

said Lard.

Stuart smiled. “Sometimes the fact that one has a stained-glass representation of the Virgin does not necessarily mean . . .”

He tailed off, having intercepted a warning glance from Lard, who now moved over to a small window and appeared to be taking a close interest in the catch. “Bertie,” he called. “Come over here a wee minute.”

Bertie joined Lard at the window and looked outside. “This is a nice wee window, Bertie,” said Lard. “I wonder whether a boy your size, you even, would be able to squeeze through it?

Not now, of course. Just wondering.”

Bertie studied the window. “I think so, Mr O’Connor,” he said.

Lard smiled. “That’s good to know. Mebbe some time we could come in and have a look at this place in the evening when there are no crowds. It would be more fun that, don’t you think?

We could take a better look at Wally Burrell’s things. What do you think, Bertie?”

At the Burrell

183

“That would be very nice, Mr O’Connor,” said Bertie.

“Good,” said Lard. “But that’s just between you and me.

Understand?”

Bertie nodded, and the party then moved on. There was much more to see – great urns, Greek antiquities, paintings – all of it much appreciated by Lard and, although to a lesser extent, by Gerry.

“Do you think they have anything by your man Vettriano?”

Lard asked at one point.

Stuart thought not. “Sir William Burrell died in 1958,” he said. “Jack Vettriano is our own contemporary.”

Lard fixed Stuart with a glare. “You trying to tell me something, Stewie?” he said. “You think I don’t know all that?”

Stuart made a placatory remark and then looked at his watch. “I wonder if we shouldn’t be getting back to Edinburgh now,” he said. “Bertie’s mother will be wondering what’s keeping us.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we, Bertie?” said Lard.

Bertie was silent. It was exactly what he wanted, but he thought it best not to say it to Lard. So they left the gallery and returned to the car. A short time later they were back outside Lard’s house, where their own car, the shabby red Volvo, was ready to be driven back to Edinburgh. Farewells were said and telephone numbers exchanged. Then, waved to by Lard and Gerry, who stood at the gate to see them off, Bertie and Stuart drove back down the road, back in the direction of the motorway that would bring them home to Edinburgh.

“It feels great to be back in one’s own car again,” said Stuart as they left the outskirts of Glasgow behind them.

“Yes,” said Bertie. “I wonder how Gerry managed to find our car so quickly.”

Stuart smiled. He would not disabuse Bertie of his touching faith in humanity. He would not spell it out to him that strong-arm tactics had undoubtedly been used to wrest their car back from the people who had stolen it. He would let him believe in the goodness of Gerry and Lard. But what a bunch of rogues!

“Daddy,” said Bertie suddenly. “This isn’t our car.”

184 Domenica Meets Pat

Stuart looked down at Bertie, who had been examining something on the door panel.

“Nonsense, Bertie,” he said. “I looked at the number plate.”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “But look at the door handles. Ours had round bits at the end. These are straight. And look at the radio.

It’s a different make.”

Stuart glanced quickly, fearfully, in the direction indicated by Bertie. Then he swallowed. “Don’t tell Mummy, Bertie,” he said.

“Please don’t tell Mummy.”

56. Domenica Meets Pat

It was a time to take stock – not that any of those who lived under the same roof at 44 Scotland Street knew that it was such a time.

But had they been considering their position, then they might have realised that there were metaphorical crossroads ahead.

Irene and Stuart Pollock, parents of that gifted six-year-old, Bertie, might have realised, but did not, that their marriage was going nowhere – if marriages are meant to go anywhere, of course; there are many people who are very happy in marriages that show no sign of movement in any direction, neither forwards, backwards, nor indeed sideways. Such people are often contented, not realising, perhaps, that they are going in that direction in which we all go – downwards.

Irene and Stuart, though, were about to face a fundamental trial of strength, in which Irene, who thought that she made all the decisions in the marriage – and did – would have to deal with Stuart’s new determination to do something about the way in which Bertie was treated. Stuart had realised that he had not been a good father to Bertie, and had resolved, in the course of those luminous moments on the Glasgow train, those moments when he had held his son’s hand and discussed friendship, that he would play a much greater role in Bertie’s upbringing. And if this meant a clash with the iron-willed Irene, armed as she was with a great body of knowledge and doctrine on the subject Domenica Meets Pat

185

of child-raising, and supported to the rear by her ally, Dr Fairbairn, the renowned psychotherapist, author of the seminal volume on the analysis of Wee Fraser, the three-year-old tyrant, then so be it. Or rather, to reflect Stuart’s weakness, then so might it be. (Wee Fraser, incidentally, now almost fourteen, had been spotted recently crossing the road at the end of Princes Street, heading in the direction of South Bridge. He had been seen by Dr Fairbairn himself, who had stopped in his tracks, as Captain Ahab might have sighted Moby Dick and stood rooted to the deck of his whaler. In this case, though, there had been no pursuit.)

Even if his parents were not consciously taking stock of their position, Bertie still reviewed his plight from time to time, with a degree of insight which was quite remarkable for a six-year-old boy. He was quite pleased with the way things were going.

There had been setbacks, of course, his ill-fated attempt to enrol at George Watson’s College being one, but that was compensated for by his discovery that Steiner’s was where he wanted to be.

Friendship had been an area fraught with difficulties. Adults sometimes glimpse only in the dimmest way the intensity of the child’s need for friends; this need is profound, something that seems to the child to be more powerful and pressing than any other need. And Bertie felt this. Jock, brave Jock, with whom his first meeting had been so very promising, had proved to be callous and disloyal. That had been very hard for Bertie. But then he had almost made a friend, in the shape of Tofu, although it was sometimes difficult to get Tofu’s attention, engaged as that boy was in a constant attempt to secure the notice of all around him through displays of bravado and scatological comment. But the few scraps of attention that he did obtain were worth it for Bertie, and made it easier for him to bear his psychotherapy sessions with Dr Fairbairn, his yoga in Stockbridge, his advanced Italian, and his preparation for his grade seven saxophone examinations.

Pat’s life was one in which there were no such significant saliences. She was about to begin her course at university, and 186 Domenica Meets Pat

was looking forward to the student life. It would have been marginally better, she thought, if she were sharing a flat with other students, rather than with Bruce, but Scotland Street was convenient and she had become fond of it. And now, of course, she had met Peter, the part-time waiter from Glass and Thompson, who was also a student of English literature and given, she had surreptitiously learned, to skinny-dipping.

She was not sure what to make of Peter, and wanted to discuss him with Domenica, whom she had not seen for some time, but whom she now encountered while turning the corner from Drummond Place into Scotland Street. There was the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz being manoeuvred laboriously into a parking place which was almost, but not quite, too small for it.

Pat waited while her neighbour extracted herself from her impressive vehicle.

“Everything,” began Domenica, as she locked the door behind her, “is getting smaller and smaller. Have you tried to sit in an aeroplane seat recently? Legs, it would appear, are to be left behind, or carried, separately, in the hold. Houses are getting smaller, ceilings are being lowered. Offices too. Everything. Not just parking spaces.”

Pat smiled. Domenica had an endearing way of launching straight into controversy. There was never any warming up with remarks about the weather or inquiries after health. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Domenica. “Not that I wish to complain.

There is nothing worse, in my view, than people of my age –

which is not unduly advanced, I hasten to point out – nothing worse than such people complaining all the time. O tempora, O

mores! That sort of thing. That comes from seeing the world changing and not liking it simply because it’s different. We must embrace change, we’re told. And I suppose that’s a sensible thing to do if the change is worthwhile and for the better. But why should we embrace change for its own sake? I see absolutely no reason to do that. Do you?”