The World According to Bertie (13 page)

34. Miss Harmony Has a Word in Bertie's Ear

On the day that Olive was due to come to visit Scotland Street, Bertie went to school with a heavy heart. He had pleaded with his mother to cancel the invitation, but his imprecations had been rejected, as they always seemed to be.

“But Bertie,
carissimo
,” said Irene. “One cannot cancel an invitation!
Pacta sunt servanda
! You can't uninvite people once you've invited them! That's not the way adults behave.”

“I'm not an adult, Mummy,” said Bertie. “I think that boys are allowed to uninvite people. I promise you, Mummy; they are. Tofu invited me to his house once and cancelled the invitation ten minutes later. He does that all the time.”

“What Tofu does or does not do is of no concern to us, Bertie,” said Irene. “As you well know, I have reservations about Tofu.”

Bertie thought he might try another tack. “But I've read about invitations being cancelled by grown-ups,” he said. “The Turks invited the Pope to see them and then some of them said that he shouldn't come, didn't they?”

Irene sighed. “I'm sure that the Turks didn't mean to be rude,” she said. “And I'm sure that the Pope would have understood that. I'm also one hundred per cent sure that if the Pope invites you to the Vatican, the invitation is never cancelled. So we cannot possibly uninvite Olive. And we don't want to, anyway! It's going to be tremendous fun.”

Bertie had abandoned his attempt to persuade his mother. But in a last, desperate throw of the dice, on the morning of the visit, using a red ballpoint pen, he applied several spots to his right forearm and presented this with concern to his mother.

“I don't think that Olive will be able to come to play, Mummy,” he said, trying to appear regretful. “It looks like I've got measles, again.”

Irene had inspected the spots and then laughed. “Dear Bertie,” she said. “Have no fear. Red ballpoint ink is not infectious. Messy, perhaps, but not infectious.”

At school that morning, it was not long before Olive had an opportunity to make her plans known.

“I'm going to Bertie's house this afternoon,” she volunteered, adding, “by invitation.”

“How nice!” said Miss Harmony. “It is very encouraging, children, when we see you all getting on together so well. We are one big, happy family here, and it is good to see the girls playing nicely with the boys, and vice versa.”

Bertie said nothing.

“I don't think Bertie wants her to go,” said Tofu. “Look at his face, Miss Harmony.”

Miss Harmony glanced at Bertie. “I'm sure that you're mistaken, Tofu. Bertie is a very polite boy, unlike some boys.” She tried not to look at Tofu when she said this, but her eyes just seemed to slide inexorably in his direction.

“No, I'm not mistaken,” said Tofu. “Bertie hates Olive. Everybody knows that. It's because she's so bossy.”

Olive spun round and glared at Tofu. “Bertie doesn't hate me,” she said. “Otherwise, why would he invite me to his house? Answer me that, Tofu!”

Bertie opened his mouth to say something, but Miss Harmony, sensing complications, immediately changed the subject, and the class resumed its reading exercise. But later, when everybody was involved in private work, she bent down and whispered in Bertie's ear. “Is it true, Bertie? Did you invite Olive to play?”

“No,” whispered Bertie. “I didn't, Miss Harmony. It's my mother. She invited her. I don't want to play with Olive, I really don't. I want to play with other boys. I want to have fun.”

Miss Harmony slipped her arm over his shoulder. “I'm sure that you must have some fun, Bertie. I'm sure you do.”

“Not really, Miss Harmony,” said Bertie. “You see my mother thinks…” He broke off. He was not sure what his mother thought. It was all too complicated.

The teacher crouched beside him. Bertie could smell the scent that she used, the scent that he had always liked. It was lavender, he thought, or something like that. In his mind it was the smell of kindness.

“Bertie,” whispered Miss Harmony. “Sometimes mummies make it hard for their boys. They don't mean to do it, but they do. And the boy feels that the world is all wrong, that nothing works the way he wants it to work. And he looks around and sees other people having fun and he wonders whether he'll ever have any fun himself. Well, Bertie, the truth of the matter is that things tend to work out all right. Boys in that position eventually get a little bit of freedom and are able to do the things they really want to do. That happens, you know. But the important thing is that you should try to remember that Mummy is doing what she thinks is her best for you. So if you can just grin and bear it for a while, that's probably best.”

Bertie listened attentively. This was a teacher speaking; this was the voice of ultimate authority. And what was that voice saying to him? It was hard to decide.

“So just try to be nice to Olive,” went on Miss Harmony. “Try to look at things from her point of view.”

“She wants to play house,” whispered Bertie. “I don't want to do that.”

Miss Harmony smiled. “Girls love playing house.” And she thought: genetics–the bane of nonsexist theories of childrearing. Stubborn, inescapable genetics.

Bertie was silent. Miss Harmony stayed with him for a moment longer, but she was now beginning to attract curious stares from Tofu and Olive, and so she gave him a final pat on the shoulder and straightened up.

“Do try to pay attention to your own work, Tofu,” she said. “It's always best that way. And you, Olive, should do so too.”

Bertie kept his eyes down on his desk. He had been encouraged by what Miss Harmony had said to him–a bit–and he would make the effort to be civil to Olive. And he was cheered, too, by the prospect of liberation that the teacher had held out to him. She must have met people like his mother before, and boys like him too, and if she had seen things go well for them, then perhaps there was a chance for him. But the way ahead seemed so long, so cluttered with yoga and psychotherapy and Italian
conversazioni
, that it was as much as he could do to believe in any future at all, any prospect of happiness.

“You'll enjoy playing house,” said Olive to Bertie as they travelled back on the bus with Irene. “I'll be the mummy and you, Bertie…” She paused for a moment. “And you will be the mummy's boyfriend.”

35. Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House

“Now, where would you two like to play?” asked Irene as she unlocked the door to the Pollock flat in 44 Scotland Street.

“In the bedroom, please,” said Olive confidently. “We're going to play house, Mrs Pollock, and that's the best place.”

Bertie caught his breath. He had been hoping to keep Olive out of his bedroom, because if she saw it she could hardly fail to notice that it was painted pink. And that, he feared, would give her a potent bit of information which she would undoubtedly use as a bargaining chip. All she would have to do would be to threaten to reveal to Tofu and the other boys at school that his room was pink unless he complied with whatever schemes she had in mind. It would be a hopeless situation, thought Bertie; he would be completely in her power and unable to stand up for himself, which, he suspected, was exactly what Olive had in mind.

“If you don't mind,” said Bertie, “we could play in the sitting room. There are some very comfortable chairs there, and it will be just right for playing house in. Don't you agree, Mummy?”

He looked imploringly at his mother, willing her to agree with him.

“I don't think so,” said Irene. “House is best played in bedrooms. And I'm planning to write some letters in the sitting room. You won't want me interfering with your game of house, will you, Olive?”

“No, thank you,” said Olive. “Although you could always be the granny.”

Irene glanced at Olive. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see.”

“You could pretend to be the granny who has to stay in bed, and we could feed you soup from a cup,” Olive went on. “And you could pretend to forget everything we said to you.”

“I don't think so, Olive,” said Irene coldly. “But thank you anyway. You two just go off and play in Bertie's room. At half past four, I'll make you some juice and scones. I'll be putting Ulysses down for a sleep shortly and he will be ready to wake up then.”

“He's a very nice baby, Mrs Pollock,” said Olive. “My mummy says that you're lucky to have him.”

Irene smiled. “Well, thank you, Olive,” she said. “We're all very lucky to have Ulysses come into our lives.”

“Yes,” Olive continued. “Mummy said that she thought you were too old to have another baby. She said that wonders will never cease.”

Irene was silent for a few moments. “I think that you should go and play now,” she said, tight-lipped. “Off you go!”

“Where's your room, Bertie?” asked Olive. “Can you show me the way, please?”

Bertie cast his eyes about in desperation. There seemed to be no escape, or was there?

“It's at the end of this corridor,” he said, pointing in the direction of the dining room. “That's the door over there.”

Olive walked over to the door and opened it. She looked inside, at the table and chairs, and the small bureau where Stuart sometimes did the work that he brought home with him. “Is this it?” she asked. “Is this your room, Bertie?”

Bertie nodded.

“Where's your bed?” asked Olive. “Don't tell me you sleep on the table.”

Bertie gave a forced laugh. “Oh no,” he said. “I don't sleep on the table. I sleep over there, in that corner. We have some cushions and a sleeping bag. We put them over there each night before I go to bed. It's healthier, you see.”

“So you don't even have a proper bed?” asked Olive.

“No,” said Bertie. “But that's quite common these days. Didn't you know that?”

Olive did not wish to appear uninformed, and so she nodded in a superior way. “You don't have to tell me that,” she said. “I know about these things.” She paused, looking around at the sparsely furnished room. “But where do you keep your clothes?”

Bertie glanced at the sideboard. “In those drawers over there,” he said.

Olive turned her head and looked in the direction of the sideboard. Then, without giving any warning, she took a few steps across the room and opened the top drawer.

“You mustn't,” protested Bertie. “That's private. You can't go and look in other people's drawers. What if they keep their pants in them?”

“There are no pants here,” said Olive scornfully. “All there is, are these mats. What are these table mats doing in your drawer, Bertie?”

“I collect them,” said Bertie. “It's my hobby.”

“A pretty stupid hobby,” said Olive. She slammed the drawer shut and then immediately bent down and opened the drawer beneath it.

“And there aren't even any clothes in this one either,” she said. “Look. Just candles and some knives and forks. Why do you keep knives and forks in your bedroom, Bertie? What's wrong with you?”

Bertie sat down on the floor. “I'm very ill,” he said. “You're going to have to go home, Olive. I'm too ill to play house. I'm sorry.”

Olive looked at him for a moment. “You don't look ill,” she said. “But anyway, you can still play house when you're ill. I'll just put you to bed and nurse you. Then you can get up when you're better. Come, Bertie, let's find a better room for that.”

Bertie tried to resist, but Olive had seized his hand and had dragged him to his feet. She was surprisingly strong for a girl, he thought.

Half-pulled, half-pushed, Bertie was propelled down the corridor by Olive. His bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she now pushed this open and saw the bed within. And she saw Bertie's construction set, which was on the floor, and his spare pair of shoes at the bottom of the bed.

“So this is your real room!” she exclaimed, with the satisfaction of one who has discovered an important secret. “And it's pink.”

“No, it isn't,” said Bertie weakly. “You mustn't say it's pink. It's crushed strawberry.”

“Crushed strawberries are a pink colour,” Olive retorted, pushing Bertie towards the bed. “This is a very nice room, Bertie! But quick, you must get into bed since you're so ill. I'm the nurse now. Come along, darling, into bed you go. That's better. Now, you're very lucky that I brought my nurse kit with me.”

Bertie watched in mute horror as Olive took a small plastic box from her school bag. It had a red cross on the lid, and when she opened it he saw a tiny plastic hammer, some wooden spatulas, and a few small bottles. But Olive was interested in none of these. She had taken out a disposable syringe, complete with a long, entirely real needle.

“You're going to have to give a blood sample, Bertie,” Olive said. “It'll only hurt a little, but you'll feel much better afterwards, I promise you. Now where do you want me to take it from?”

36. What Exactly Is the Problem with Caroline?

It had been a very satisfactory day for Bruce. His flat-hunting, which had taken less than three hours, had resulted in his finding a very comfortable room in Julia Donald's flat in Howe Street. There had been no mention of rent–not once in the conversation–and Bruce saw no reason why the subject should ever come up. From his point of view, he was going to be staying with her as a friend, a close friend probably, and it was inappropriate for friends to pay one another rent, especially when the friend who owned the flat had no mortgage to pay. So that was a major advantage to the arrangement, he thought. And even if Julia should become a little bit trying–and she was a bit inclined to gush, Bruce thought–he was still confident that he could handle her firmly, but tactfully. Bruce knew how to deal with women; he knew that he had only to look at them with the look–and they were putty in his hands. It was extraordinary: the slightest smoulder from Bruce, just the slightest, seemed to make them go weak at the knees, and in the head too. Bruce smiled. It's so very easy, he thought–so very easy.

Before he went out that evening, Bruce took a shower in Neil and Caroline's flat in Comely Bank. There were minor irritations involved in this, as he did not like the multiple bottles of shampoo and conditioner which Caroline insisted on arranging on the small shelf in the shower. Bruce moved these every time he used the shower, shifting them to a place on top of the bathroom cupboard, but he noticed that they always migrated back to their position within the shower cubicle. He thought of saying something to Caroline about this, but refrained from doing so, as he was not absolutely sure if she appreciated him as much as most women did. He had tried giving her the look, but she had returned it with a blank stare, which thoroughly unsettled him. Normally, he would have put such a response down to a lack of interest based on lesbianism, but the fact that Caroline was happily married to Neil made that judgement unlikely. So what exactly is her problem? Bruce asked himself. Was it something to do with rent? He saw no reason why he should pay them anything when he was going to be there for such a short time, and they had, after all, invited him to stay, or almost. No, there was something more complicated at work here, he decided.

And then it occurred to him exactly what this was. Bruce decided that Caroline was jealous of him. That must be it! Neil, her husband, was such a weedy specimen in comparison with Bruce, that it must be hard for Caroline to have somebody in the house who was so clearly at the opposite end of the spectrum from him. So rather than resenting her husband for being puny, she was transferring her dissatisfaction onto Bruce himself.

This insight made Bruce feel almost sorry for Caroline, and as a result of this he had said something to her in an attempt to make things easier.

“Don't judge Neil too harshly,” he remarked one evening when he found himself alone in the kitchen with her.

She had looked at him in astonishment. “What on earth do you mean? Judge Neil harshly? Why would I do that?”

Bruce had smiled. “Well, you know. Some men are a bit more…how shall I put it? Impressive. Yes, that's it. Impressive.”

She stared at him. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

He winked. “Don't you…?”

She had continued to stare at him. “I really have no idea what you're going on about, Bruce,” she had said. “And, by the way, do you mind not moving my conditioner bottles from the shower? You know that little shelf in there? That's where I like them to be. That's where I put them.”

Bruce smiled. “Come and show me,” he said. “Show me when I'm in the shower.”

She did not appreciate that, he decided, which was typical of somebody like her. There was a sense-of-humour failure there, he thought. A serious one. And she did not take well either to his next remark, which took the form of a good-natured question.

“Are you interested in other women, Caroline?” he asked. “I just want to know.”

“What do you mean?”

Bruce sighed. “I'm really having to spell it out,” he said. “I mean: are you, you know, interested in other women? Don't look so cross. Lots of people are a little bit that way, you know, now and then. It's perfectly understandable, you know…”

“How dare you!” Caroline screamed. “I'm going to tell Neil when he comes back. I just can't believe it. I can't believe that I'm being talked to like this in my own kitchen.”

“Temper! Temper!” said Bruce. “Most people these days don't get all uptight about these things. We live in a very enlightened age, you know. I mean, hello!”

Now, standing in the shower, Bruce poured on a bit of Caroline's conditioner and rubbed it into his hair. His conversation with his hostess had not been an edifying one, and it was probably just as well that he was going out for dinner with Julia Donald that evening. He might even move out that very evening, which would give Caroline something to think about, but any decision could wait. For the moment, he had the sheer pleasure of the shower ahead of him; a shower first, then decisions, said Bruce to himself. That's a good one, he thought. Just like Bertolt Brecht with his
Grub
first, then ethics.

He turned his head slightly and caught sight of his reflection in the glass wall of the shower cubicle. His profile, he thought, was the real strength of his face, that straight nose, in perfect proportion to the rest of the features–spot-on. It was amazing, he thought, how nature gets it just right. And the cleft in his chin–how many women had put the tip of their little finger in there?–it was almost as if they could not resist it, a Venus fly-trap, perhaps.

He pouted. “Drop-dead gorgeous,” he whispered, through the sound of the shower.