Unbearable Lightness of Scones

27. Pink for Danger

“So this is your place,” said Tofu, looking round him, wrinkling his nose slightly, as if there were a faintly unpleasant odour. Bertie, standing in the hallway, watching Tofu guardedly, wondered if his house smelled. People said that if your house smelled you might never know it because you became so used to it. And it was the same with people themselves, he believed; Hiawatha presumably did not know that his socks smelled but just accepted that this was what socks were like – naturally. Of course Olive had told him, quite bluntly in fact, but he had just laughed and pretended not to understand what she was talking about. That was the best tactic with Olive, thought Bertie. One should just laugh and pretend not to hear what she was saying; it was difficult, though, as sound advice so often was.

“So who lives here with you, Bertie?” asked Tofu, still looking round.

“My Mummy,” said Bertie. “And my Dad. And my little brother…”

“Is it true that your dad’s a wimp?” interrupted Tofu. “Not that I say that, of course. It’s just that everyone else does. Just like everyone else says your mummy’s a cow. Not me. Everyone else, though.” He looked at Bertie, waiting for the answer.

Bertie felt flustered. He admired his father and could not understand why anybody would consider him a wimp. He was not. “That’s not true,” he said hotly. “My dad’s – ”

Tofu cut him short. “Keep your hair on! I didn’t say it, remember?”

“Well you shouldn’t repeat fibs,” said Bertie. “Especially about people’s dads. What about your mummy then?”

Tofu became defensive. “My mummy? What about her?”

Bertie felt the advantage switch to him. “Olive says that your mummy’s in Saughton Prison. She said that she’s there for murder. I didn’t say it. Olive did.”

Tofu’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not,” he said. Then he looked down at the floor. “She… she was eaten by a lion in the Serengeti Game Reserve. I was very small. I don’t remember it. But my dad does, and that’s why he became a vegan.”

Bertie was a naturally sympathetic boy and his heart went out to Tofu. He had seen a picture of the Serengeti Game Reserve and it had been full of lions. Although Tofu was a notorious liar, this, at least, had the ring of truth. “I’m really sorry, Tofu,” said Bertie. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Tofu seemed relieved to be off the subject of mothers and now expressed an interest in seeing Bertie’s younger brother. “He’s probably sleeping,” said Bertie. “But we can take a look in his room if we don’t make a noise.”

They walked along the corridor and Bertie pushed open the door into Ulysses’ room. The baby, snuffling quietly, was lying in his cot.

“That’s him,” said Bertie. “He can’t say anything yet. And I don’t think he can think very much either. But he’s quite happy, most of the time. He’s called Ulysses.”

“Stupid name,” said Tofu. “But I suppose that’s not his fault.”

“Ulysses was a Greek,” said Bertie. “He was a Greek hero. In a legend.”

“Still stupid,” said Tofu, peering at Ulysses over the edge of the cot. “He looks really ugly, Bertie. Are you sure that he’s the right way up? Is that his face – or is it his bottom?”

“He’s not ugly,” said Bertie, defensively. “Babies can’t help looking like that. All babies look like that.”

“But some are uglier than others,” retorted Tofu. “And that’s a really ugly one you’ve got there, Bertie. Do you think that there’s a competition for ugly babies? Because he could win a prize, you know. You should ask.”

This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Irene, who had heard the boys going into the room and had come to find out what was going on. “I know you’ve come to admire little Ulysses,” she whispered. “But he needs his sleep, or he becomes a little bit crotchety. Why don’t you go and play in Bertie’s room?”

This is exactly what Bertie had hoped not to do. His room, which had been painted pink by his mother, was an embarrassment, and he had made a small sign for the door: Closed for Renovation. That, he hoped, would prevent Tofu from seeing the room at all.

“Good idea,” said Tofu. “Let’s go, Bertie.”

Bertie was trapped. Tofu would laugh at his room – he knew it, but it seemed to him that he now had no alternative.

“Closed for what?” asked Tofu as he peered at the sign. “What does this say, Bertie?”

“Nothing,” muttered Bertie, as he took the sign down.

They went in. Tofu took a step or two into the room and then stopped. He looked around at the walls, and at the ceiling; then he turned to look at Bertie. “Pink,” he said.

Bertie felt himself on the verge of tears, but checked himself. It was bad enough Tofu’s seeing his pink room; how much worse would it be if Tofu saw him crying.

“That’s an undercoat,” he said miserably. “The next coat of paint will be white.”

It was as if Tofu had not heard him. “Pink walls!” he gloated. “Boy, wait until the others hear this. Pink walls!”

Bertie said nothing.

Tofu, smirking, stared at his host. “Do you know what pink means, Bertie? Do you know?”

Bertie shook his head. He had no idea what pink meant, other than that it was a girl’s colour. That was all he knew.

“Pink is a colour for sissies,” said Tofu. “You know that? Sissies.”

Bertie was not sure what a sissy was, but he did not think that he was one. He was just an ordinary boy, like any other boy, and it was so unfair that he had this pink room and those pink dungarees. And what sort of friend was Tofu, that he should rub it all in? It was so unfair.

“I’m not a sissy, Tofu,” stuttered Bertie. “I’m not.”

“Then why do you have a pink room?” asked Tofu.

Bertie did not answer. He was wondering if he could somehow get rid of Tofu; if he could ask him to leave. He did not think so. Tofu had come to play and was to be there until five o’clock when his father came to collect him. There was no escape…

Then there were steps behind him and the door was opened. “Look who’s here,” said Irene brightly. “Olive.”

Tofu spun round and glared at the new arrival. “Hello, Bertie,” said Olive, ignoring Tofu. “Are we going to play in your pink room?”

“It’s not pink,” growled Tofu. “It’s… sort of red. Are you colour-blind, Olive?”

Bertie, defended in this way, the beneficiary of male solidarity, could have embraced Tofu with gratitude. But did not, of course, as that would have been sissy.