Unbearable Lightness of Scones

20. Be Prepared for a Little White Lie

“I can’t, Tofu,” said Bertie. “I can’t join the cubs.”

Tofu was dismissive of Bertie’s protestation. “You can’t? Why? Is it because you think you’ll fail the medical examination? There isn’t one. That’s the army you’re thinking of. The cubs will take anyone – even somebody like you.”

“It’s not that,” Bertie said miserably. “It’s just that…”

“Well,” Tofu pressed, “what is it? Are you scared or something? You can be a real wimp, you know, Bertie.”

Bertie glowered at Tofu. It was typical of the other boy that he should jump to conclusions – and, as was always the case with Tofu, he was wrong. “No, it’s my mother,” he said. “She found me reading a book about Mr. Baden-Powell and she said that I could never join the cubs or scouts. She doesn’t like them.”

Tofu frowned. “What a cow your mother is, Bertie,” he said sympathetically. “But I suppose it’s not your fault.”

Bertie said nothing. He did not like Tofu referring to his mother in those terms, but it was difficult to contradict him. The barricades in this life, his father had once observed, are often in the wrong place. Bertie had not been sure what this meant, but he felt that it might have some bearing on his dilemma in the face of anti-Irene comments from people such as Tofu.

Tofu thought for a moment. “Of course, it’s a bit awkward that your mother thinks like that, but it shouldn’t stop you.”

Bertie was puzzled. “But how could I go to cubs if she won’t let me?” he asked. “How could I? Don’t they wear a uniform?”

He was not sure whether cubs still wore a uniform or not, but he very much hoped that they did. Bertie had always liked the thought of wearing a uniform, particularly since his mother had such strong views on them.

“Yes, there is a uniform,” said Tofu. “But I could get hold of one for you. Your mother wouldn’t have to buy it.”

“But she’d see it,” said Bertie. “I’d have to change into it and then she’d see it. She’d say: ‘What’s that you’re wearing…?’”

Tofu was shaking his head in disagreement. “She needn’t see it,” he said patiently, as if explaining a rudimentary matter to somebody who was rather slow. “There’s a place nearby, a place where they sell coffee. It’s called Starbucks. We can go in there and change into our uniforms in the toilet. See?”

Bertie was still not convinced. He was a truthful boy, and he would not lie to his mother; he would not mislead her as to where he was going, and it was inconceivable that he could just slip out of the house, as Tofu appeared able to do. He looked at Tofu with admiration and a certain amount of envy – what it must be like to have such freedom.

“I’m sorry, Tofu,” he said. “I don’t like telling fibs.”

“But I do,” said Tofu. “I’ll tell her that we’re going to a special club. I’ll get her to say yes.”

Bertie felt quite torn. One part of him wanted no part of Tofu’s machinations; another was desperate to join the cubs, indeed was desperate to have any sort of life of his own. “But what will you say?” He asked. “What sort of club?”

Tofu shrugged his shoulders. He saw no particular challenge in this deception; the name of the club was a minor detail. “I’ll tell her that it’s…” He paused. Bertie was listening carefully. “I’ll tell your mummy that it’s the Young Liberal Democrats Club.”

Bertie’s eyes opened wide. The Young Liberal Democrats sounded almost as good as the Junior Melanie Klein Society, if such a thing existed. “She’ll like that,” he said. “It’s the sort of thing…”

“Of course it is,” said Tofu nonchalantly. “Now all you have to do is to invite me to play at your house some afternoon and then I’ll talk to her. How about tomorrow?”

Bertie swallowed. There was a very good reason why tomorrow would not be suitable, but all his other afternoons were taken up with Italian lessons and saxophone practice, and it was difficult to see how he could otherwise fit Tofu in. “There might be somebody else there tomorrow,” said Bertie. “But you can come too.”

“That’s settled then,” said Tofu. And then, quite casually, he asked, “Who is this other person, by the way?”

Bertie looked away. “It’s Olive,” he said shakily. “My mother invites her to play at my house. It’s not me, Tofu. I don’t invite her. I really don’t.”

Tofu wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Olive! You actually let her into your house?”

“I can’t stop her,” wailed Bertie. “It’s my mother, you see. She likes Olive.”

“You have big problems, Bertie,” said Tofu, shaking his head. “But I suppose I’ll have to come anyway. Olive!”

The conversation ended at that point and Bertie went away to think about what Tofu had said. His feelings were mixed. While he was excited at the prospect of joining the cubs – a uniform! – he felt anxious about the web of deceit that Tofu was so nonchalantly proposing to weave. The deception might work, but what if it did not, and his mother discovered that he had secretly enrolled in the cubs? There would be a most terrible row if that happened, and Bertie could just hear what his mother would say: When you tell a fib, Bertie, you’re telling a fib to yourself. Did you know that? And why, Bertie, why ever do you feel the need to wear a uniform? Is there something missing in your life?

Bertie shuddered. The dressing-down would be bad enough, but what would be worse would be the practical consequences. More psychotherapy. More Melanie Klein. More everything. More mother.

But then suddenly his defeatism lifted. He remembered a few days ago he had bumped into Angus Lordie, who was walking Cyril – and some boisterous puppies – in the Drummond Place Gardens. It was shortly after Bertie had read the Baden-Powell book and he asked Angus Lordie if he had ever been a scout.

“I was both a cub and a scout,” answered Angus. “And a great time I had too. I was kicked out of the scouts, of course, but I enjoyed it when I was in. Yes, you should join up, Bertie. Absolutely.”

He remembered now. It had been such a humiliation being kicked out of the scouts. It was like being excommunicated from the Catholic Church, where a candle was ceremoniously snuffed out to signify the exclusion. In Angus Lordie’s case, the scout master had taken his woggle from him. Such humiliation. Dewoggled.