The World According to Bertie (15 page)

39. The Builders Who Began with a Bow

Antonia Collie sat in her flat in Scotland Street, a set of architect's drawings on the table before her; to her side, in a Spode blue and white cup, possibly stolen from Domenica Macdonald's family–or removed by mistake–the Earl Grey tea she so appreciated. Antonia was engrossed in the drawings and in their complexity; what seemed to her to be a simple business of extracting old kitchen units and inserting new ones, of removing an old and uncomfortable bath and installing a modern and inviting one, and of doing one or other minor improvements to the flat, had been translated into page after page of detailed drawings by her friend Alex Philip, the architect. These were all executed in black ink with careful instructions to the builders as to the thickness of materials, the positioning of screws and wiring, about plaster and skirting-boards and tiles. A copy of the plans had been given to Antonia by Alex, and it was these that she was now trying to understand.

Antonia understood about the inconvenience which building work brought in its wake. In Perthshire, they had attempted an enlargement of their farm kitchen, a small project that had taken almost eighteen months to complete owing to the builder's disappearance halfway through the work.

“They all disappear,” a friend had comforted her. “But they come back. The important thing to do is not to abandon belief in your builders. It's rather like believing in fairies in
Peter Pan
; if you don't believe in builders, their light goes out.”

There were more stories of this nature. Another friend narrated the tale of a builder he had engaged for a house in France; this builder had been arrested for murder some time into the contract, and had been replaced by his son, who had then been shot by the relatives of his father's victim; passions ran deep in the French countryside, it seemed. But her position was different–she had the best builder in the business on her side.

Now, at her table, Antonia heard the bell ring and realised that the two men sent to begin work had arrived. Their rubbish skip, a giant, elongated bucket, had preceded them by a day or two and stood on the roadside, ready to receive the detritus from Antonia's flat. In time-honoured Edinburgh fashion, though, the neighbours had sneaked out at night and deposited unwanted property in the skip: several large pieces of wood, a pile of flattened cardboard boxes, an old tricycle missing its chain and a wheel–the abandoned property, Antonia decided, of that strange little boy downstairs…Bertie, or whatever he was called. And there was also a pile of old editions of
Mankind Quarterly
, which could only have been put there by Domenica. Really! thought Antonia. I'm paying for that skip, every single cubic foot of it, and yet people think that they have the right…

Antonia went to the front door and opened it to the men standing outside. It was obvious enough from their outfits that they were the builders, but she asked them nonetheless who they were.

“I take it that you're from Hutton and Read?” she said. “Clifford's men?”

The taller of the two men, a man in his early thirties with a rather good-looking face, nodded enthusiastically. “Clifford!” he said, and then added for emphasis “Clifford!”

Antonia gestured for the two men to enter. They turned round and each picked up a small chest of tools that they had put down on the landing behind them.

“I don't know where you want to start,” said Antonia. “I suggest that you just begin wherever you want to. Don't mind me.”

She looked at the two men, who returned her stare. The tall man smiled and nodded. “Brick,” he said.

Antonia frowned. “Brick?”

“Brick,” said the man.

“I don't know about that,” said Antonia. “I assume that you use brick in your internal walls. But I really don't know. I take it that you've seen the architect's plans, have you?”

“Brick,” said the builder. He had now put down the tool chest in the hall and was struggling with the catch that secured its lid.

“I really don't see the point of saying brick,” said Antonia, somewhat tetchily. “What I really want to know is where you want to start.”

“Poland,” said the tall man.

Antonia looked at him. It had taken a few minutes, but at least now it was clear. “Poland?” she asked.

The tall man smiled. “Poland,” he replied, pointing out of the window vaguely in the direction of Cumberland Street.

Antonia shook her head. “No,” she said. “That's west. Poland is over there. There.” She pointed in the direction of London Street and the Mansfield Traquair Church.

The builder looked concerned and glanced at his colleague, as if for reassurance.

“Poland,” said the second man, staring intensely at Antonia.

“Well, I do get the point,” said Antonia. “And I don't think we need worry too much about the exact location of Poland. I think that you make your point clearly enough. You're Polish. And you're here to work on my flat. But I take it that you understand nothing of what I have just said.”

“Poland,” said the tall man and held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of resignation.

Antonia nodded, and pointed to the kitchen. “Go and look,” she said. “Kitchen.”

The senior Pole bowed to her and moved towards the kitchen with his friend. Scottish builders did not bow, thought Antonia, but then they did not carry on their shoulders quite such a history of defeat and invasion and dashed hopes. She watched the Poles as they entered the kitchen and set down their cases of tools. What was it like, she wondered, to be so far from home, in a country where one could not speak the language, without one's family? These men knew the answer to that, she assumed, but they could not tell her.

She went through to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made tea. The Poles, in between the unpacking of their tool chests, watched her. And when she poured them each a mug of tea, they took it gravely, as if it were a precious gift, and cradled the mug in their hands, tenderly. She saw that these hands were rough and whitened, as if they had been handling plaster.

The tall man watched her and smiled. His eyes, she thought, had that strange blueness which one sometimes sees in those who come from northern places, as if they could see long distances, faraway things that others could not see.

Antonia raised her mug to them, as if in toast. The tall man returned the gesture. As he did so, he mouthed something, and smiled. Antonia, who had hardly looked at a man over the previous year, looked at him.

40. A Significant Revelation on the Stair

While Antonia was busy communicating, albeit to a very small degree, with her new Polish builders, Angus Lordie was making his way up the stair of No. 44. He was coming to visit Domenica, not Antonia; indeed, it was the cause of some anxiety on his part that Antonia could, theoretically, be met on the way up to Domenica's house. Angus was in some awe of Antonia.

There was to be a meeting on the stair that morning, but not between Angus and Antonia. Halfway up, as he turned a corner, Angus came across a small boy sitting disconsolately on one of the stone steps. It was Bertie.

“Ah!” said Angus, peering down and inspecting Bertie. “The young man who plays the saxophone, I believe. The very same young man who exchanged warm words with my dog…”

The mention of Cyril had slipped out, and it revived the pain that seemed to be always there, just below the surface, as the mention of the names of those we have lost can do.

“He's a very nice dog,” said Bertie. “I wish I had a dog.”

“Oh, do you?” said Angus. “Well, every boy should have a dog, in my view. Having a dog goes with being a boy.”

“I'm not allowed to have one,” said Bertie. “My mother…”

“Ah, yes,” said Angus. “Your mother.” He knew exactly who Irene was, and Bertie had his unreserved sympathy. “Well,” he went on, “don't worry. I'm sure that you'll get a dog one of these days.”

There was a brief moment of silence. There's something wrong, thought Angus. This little boy is feeling miserable. Is it something to do with that mother of his? I would certainly feel miserable if I were her son, poor little boy.

“Are you unhappy?” Angus asked.

Bertie, still seated on the stone stair, hugging his knees in front of him, lowered his head. “Yes,” he said. His voice was small, defeated, and Angus felt a surge of feeling for him. He, too, had endured periods of unhappiness as a boy–when he had been bullied–and he remembered what it was like. Unhappiness in childhood was worse than the unhappiness one encountered in later life; it was so complete, so seemingly without end.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Angus said. “It's rotten being unhappy, isn't it?” He paused. “I'm a bit unhappy myself at the moment. But you tell me why you're unhappy and then I'll tell you why I'm feeling the same way. Maybe we could help one another.”

“It's because of Olive,” said Bertie. “She's a girl at school. She came to play today and she pretended to be a nurse. She took some of my blood.”

Angus's eyes widened. “Took some of your blood?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “She had a syringe which she found in her bathroom cupboard. It had a proper needle and everything.”

“My goodness,” said Angus. “Did she actually…actually…?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “She stuck the needle into my arm–there, just about there–and then she squirted the blood into a little bottle. She said she was going to do some tests on it and would let me know the result.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear about that,” said Angus. “She shouldn't have been playing with needles.”

“She said that the needle was a clean one,” said Bertie. “It was all wrapped up in plastic and she had to take it out.”

“Well, that's a relief,” said Angus. “But why did you let her do this? I wouldn't.”

“I thought that she was just pretending,” said Bertie. “So I closed my eyes. Then the next thing I knew she had the needle in my arm and was telling me not to move or it would go all the way through to the other side.”

Angus extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “How very unpleasant for you, Bertie,” he said. “Did you tell your mother about this?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “I ran through and told her, but I don't think she heard me. She just started to talk to Olive, who was pretending that nothing had happened. She's very cunning that way.”

“I can imagine that,” said Angus. “Well, Bertie, I don't know what to say, other than to suggest that you give Olive a wide berth in the future. But I suppose that's difficult. And I certainly won't say to you that you should cheer yourself up by thinking of how many other people are worse off than you are yourself. The contemplation of the toothache of another does very little to help one's own toothache, you know.”

Bertie nodded. “Daddy sometimes says: worse things happen at sea. But when I ask him what these worse things are, he can't tell me. Do you know what they are, Mr Lordie?”

Angus thought for a moment. Terrible things undoubtedly happened at sea, but he did not think it appropriate to tell Bertie about them. “Oh, this and that, Bertie,” he said. “It's best not to talk about these things.”

Bertie appeared to accept this. He looked up at Angus and asked: “Mr Lordie, you said that you were unhappy too. Why are you unhappy?”

“My dog,” said Angus. “He's in the pound. He's been accused of biting people in Northumberland Street.”

Bertie thought for a moment. “That's another dog,” he said eventually. “It looks like your dog, but it's another one. I've seen it.”

Angus hardly dared speak. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Of course,” said Bertie. “There's a dog who lives in a basement flat in Northumberland Street. They let him wander about. And he's a very bad dog–he tried to bite me once in Drummond Place Gardens, but I ran away in time.”

Angus could barely contain his excitement. “Bertie!” he said. “Would you be able to help me find that dog? Would you?”

“Of course,” said Bertie. “I can show you where he lives. But you'll have to ask my mother if I'm allowed.”

“I most certainly shall,” said Angus. “Oh, Bertie, you excellent boy! You have no idea what this means to me.”

“That's all right, Mr Lordie,” said Bertie. “And I'm glad that you're happy again.”

“Happy?” exclaimed Angus. “I'm ecstatic!”

41. A Powerful Ally in the Campaign to Free Cyril

“I've just had the most extraordinary conversation,” said Angus, as he entered Domenica's flat. “I met that funny little boy from down below. He was sitting on one of the stairs, like Christopher Robin, his head bowed, looking utterly miserable.”

“It's his mother,” said Domenica. “She's a frightful woman.

That poor little boy has the most terrible time at her hands. She's always banging on about Melanie Klein and the like, while all that poor wee Bertie wants to do is to have a normal boyhood. He's mad keen on trains, I believe, but she, of course, thinks that his time is better spent in yoga lessons. Yoga lessons! I ask you, Angus. What six-year-old boy wants to do yoga?”

“There might be some,” mused Angus. “In these ashrams, or whatever. Some of the monks are tiny–young boys, really.”

“Those are Buddhists,” said Domenica. “You really should get your facts right, Angus. Buddhists meditate–there are some Buddhist schools of yoga, but generally the Buddhists don't turn themselves inside out.”

“Well, be that as it may,” said Angus. “I had a conversation with young Bertie, and he came up with an extraordinary story about some game of doctors and nurses that he had been involved in. But then…” he paused for effect; Domenica was watching him closely. “But then he revealed that he knew the dog who had done the biting with which Cyril is charged. And he says that he can show me where he lives!”

Domenica clapped her hands together. “What a relief! You've been like a bear with a sore head since Cyril was arrested, Angus. It will be a great relief to have you back with us again.”

“And what about Cyril's feelings?” asked Angus peevishly. “Aren't you pleased for his sake?”

“Of course I am,” said Domenica soothingly. “Nobody wants the innocent to suffer.”

“So all we have to do is to explain to the police that it was this other dog–whoever he is–who did it, and they'll release Cyril.”

Domenica frowned. It would not necessarily be so simple, she thought. One could hardly get the fiscal to drop proceedings just because somebody–and an interested party at that–explains that he thinks that another dog is to blame. No, they would have to be more convincing than that.

“We'll need to think about this,” she said to Angus. “We can't just barge in and expect to get Cyril out. We must marshal our facts. We must prepare our case, and then, at the right moment, we produce the real culprit from a hat–metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Angus nodded his agreement to this. He was convinced now that Cyril would be exculpated, and he did not mind if the process required some planning and thought. In fact, he was quite willing to leave all this to Domenica; she was so forceful, he thought, she would be a very powerful ally for Cyril in the campaign to establish his innocence.

“Whatever you say, Domenica,” Angus said. “Cyril and I are quite content to leave our fate in your hands.”

They moved through to the kitchen, where Domenica prepared a cup of coffee for them both. Then she turned and addressed Angus with the air of one about to make an important statement. “Angus,” she began, “don't you find that there are times when everything seems to be happening at once? When, for some reason, life seems speeded up?”

“Most certainly,” said Angus. “And do you think we are in such a time right now?”

“It seems a little bit like that to me,” said Domenica. “Here I am, back from the Malacca Straits. No sooner have I returned than Antonia announces her intention of becoming my neighbour on a permanent basis. Not that she asked me, mind you. I've always thought that one should ask one's neighbours before one gets too firmly settled in.”

“Impossible,” said Angus. “Neighbours are given to us on the same basis as we are given our families. There is no element of choice involved–none at all.”

“Is there not?” asked Domenica. “Well what about Ann Street? I was under the impression that the people who live in Ann Street will buy up any house that comes on the market in order to make sure that it doesn't end up in the wrong hands.”

“Nonsense,” said Angus. “That really is an ancient canard, Domenica. People have been saying that about Ann Street for years. But it's complete nonsense. It's a very inclusive street. Anybody who's got a million pounds to spend on a house is in. They're terrifically accepting.”

“Then all these stories about Edinburgh being full of icy types are false?”

“Absolutely,” said Angus frostily.

Domenica was not convinced, but she did not want to get involved at that moment in a discussion about the mores of Edinburgh; she had other news to impart to Angus.

“Yes,” she said. “Developments seem to be occurring at a frightening rate. And here am I with somebody else coming to live with me. No sooner have I dispatched Antonia, than I hear from my aunt that she would like to come and spend a few months in Edinburgh with me.”

“How nice for you,” said Angus. “Company, and so on.”

“Yes,” said Domenica. “I don't begrudge her the visit. It's just that she belongs to a generation that was used to paying rather long visits. We think in terms of three days; they thought nothing of descending on people for three months.” She paused. “And she's virtually one hundred years old; ninety-six I think. But remarkably sprightly.”

“Then she will have a great deal to talk about,” said Angus. “A lot will have happened in those ninety-six years.”

“Indeed,” said Domenica. “We can expect to hear a great deal about it.”

“Do I detect a certain lack of enthusiasm?” asked Angus.

“Well…”

“Because I would love to have somebody like that stay with me,” said Angus. “You should be more appreciative, Domenica.”

Domenica thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “She can stay with you, Angus. Thank you for the offer.”

Angus looked flustered. “But I'm not sure that she would approve of my lifestyle,” he said. “You know…”

“My aunt is very tolerant,” said Domenica. “So thank you, Angus, it really is very kind of you.”

“No, Domenica. Sorry. She's your responsibility. Blood is thicker than whisky.”

“Whisky?”

“Why, thank you,” said Angus.