The World According to Bertie (23 page)

60. Does Scotland Need All This Nonsense?

Robbie stayed with Big Lou for half an hour or so after the rest of the Jacobites had left. She had hoped that he would stay for longer, that he would keep her company while she continued with her cleaning, but he had seemed nervous, as if he was uneasy about something, and had kept looking at his watch.

“You're awful fiddly,” she said at one point. “Looking at your watch like that. Is there something…?”

Robbie cut her short. “Nothing,” he said. “It's nothing.”

Big Lou shook her head. “Well, it's nothing that's worrying you then,” she said. “And what is this nothing?”

“I said…”

Big Lou sighed. “Robbie. I'm no wet aboot the ears. It's those folks, isn't it? Your friends.”

Robbie was defensive. “What about them? Have you got a problem with them, Lou?”

Big Lou hesitated. The truthful answer was that she did have a problem with them–with all of them, but most of all with Heather McDowall and Michael's acolyte, Jimmy. But Lou was tactful, and melancholy experience had taught her that men sometimes did not respond well to direct criticism, particularly the sort of men with whom she found herself ending up.

“Don't get me wrong, Robbie,” she began. “I'm not the sort of person who likes to find fault. I'm sure that there are lots of things about your friends that are very good, very positive.” She tried to think of these qualities, but they seemed to elude her for the moment.

“But?” asked Robbie. “There's a but, isn't there?”

“Well,” said Big Lou, “there is a small but. Just a small one. This Jacobite business. This character who's coming over. Isn't that a bit…?”

“A bit what?”

She took a breath. What she wanted to say was that it was bizarre–ridiculous, even, that people should want to open such obviously finished business. But then she realised that there were many people who were interested in precisely that–old business. People lived in the past, fought old quarrels, clung to the horrors of decades…centuries ago. But the futility of this had always struck Big Lou forcibly. There were plenty of old quarrels that she could keep alive if she wished, nursing her wrath to keep it warm–like Tam O'Shanter's wife–but she found she had no desire to do this, nor the energy.

“Well,” she began, “I think it's a good idea to let go. Scotland used to have Stuarts–now it doesn't. And the Hanoverians used to be Germans, now they aren't. They're British. So what's the point of looking for some ridiculous Pretender? Haven't your friends got anything better to do?”

Robbie shook his head in dismay. “You're talking about people who are prepared to do anything for Scotland,” he said. “To die, even.”

Big Lou dropped her dusting cloth. “To die? Are you serious, Robbie?”

Robbie looked straight back at her. “Aye, Lou. Dead serious.”

She laughed. “That wee boy, Jimmy. He's drinking all this in from Michael, with his posh voice and his fancy clothes. Die for the cause? Does Scotland need all this nonsense, or does it need something done about its real problems? About teenage binge drinking? About all those folk who get by on next to nothing? About that sort of thing?”

Robbie reached out to touch Big Lou on the arm, but she withdrew. “Answer my question, Robbie Cromach,” she snapped.

Lou's man looked at his hands. The hands of a plasterer, they were cracked from exposure to lime and grit. “All right,” he said. “I'll answer you, Lou.” He looked up at her, and she saw the features that had attracted her so much, the high cheekbones, the boyish vulnerability.

“I know that there's a lot wrong with this country of ours,” he said. “I know fine that there are folk who can't earn a decent wage, no matter how hard they work. I know that there's a very rich company in this city, for instance, that pays its cleaners a pittance while it rakes in the profits big-time. Shame on them. Shame on them. I know that there are places where the kids are all fuelled up on Buckie and pills and where the fathers are not there or are drunk or otherwise out of it. I know that we've got a wee parliament that makes lots and lots of grand-sounding bodies and is full of high heid-yins and tsars. I know all that, Lou. But all of this goes back, you see. It goes back to things not being right with ourselves. And until we get that right–until we take back what was taken away from us right back there when they took our kings away from us, then the rest is going to be wrong. That's what I believe, Lou. God's truth–that's what I believe.”

Robbie stopped. He looked at Big Lou almost imploringly, as if he was willing her to see the situation as he saw it.

“I understand all that, Robbie,” she said quietly. “It's just that I think that sounding off about something as old as that is not very helpful. It was all very romantic–I give you that–when Charlie landed and when it looked like he was going to get his kingdom back. But for what? What sort of rulers had those people been? And anyway, it makes no difference, surely. It's old, old business, Robbie. Surely you can see that?”

Big Lou waited for Robbie's response. It was slow, but at last he said something: “No. I don't see that, Lou. Sorry, I don't.”

Big Lou sighed. Why was it her lot in life, she wondered, to find men who had something odd about them? Every time, every single time, she had been involved with a man, there had been something strange about him. There had been that man in Aberdeen who had been obsessed with billiards and who had spent all his spare time watching replays of classic games; that had been very trying. Then there had been Eddie, with his thing about teenage girls; that had been intolerable. And now here was Robbie, who was, of all things, a Jacobite! She had to smile, she really had to. Teenage girls or obscure Jacobite shenanigans? Which was worse?

There was no doubt in Big Lou's mind. “Oh well, Robbie,” she said at last. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Robbie leaned forward and kissed Big Lou on the cheek. “You're a trouper, Lou,” he said. “One of the best. Just like Flora MacDonald.”

61. “Middle-Class” Used as a Term of Abuse

It was rare for the Pollock family to go on an outing together. This was not through any lack of inclination to do so, but it was rather because of the crowded timetable which Irene prepared for Bertie. Not only was there a saxophone lesson each week–complemented by a daily practice session of at least half an hour (scales, arpeggios, and set pieces)–but there was also Bertie's yoga in Stockbridge, which took at least two hours, and Italian structured
conversazione
at the Italian Cultural Institute in Nicolson Street. On top of that, of course, there was psychotherapy, which, although it might take only an hour, seemed to occupy much more time, what with Bertie's writing up of dreams in the dream notebook and the walk up to Queen Street for the actual session.

It was an extremely full life for a little boy, and there was more to come: Irene had planned a book group for Bertie, in which five or six children from the New Town would meet regularly in each other's flats and discuss a book that they had read.

The model for this was, in Irene's mind, her own Kleinian book group, which had flourished for several months before it had been sabotaged by one of the members. This still rankled with Irene, who had resisted this other member's attempts to introduce works of fiction into the group's programme. This had effectively split the group and left such a sour taste in the mouths of Irene and her allies that the group's meetings had fizzled out and never restarted.

“The whole point about our group,” Irene had complained to a friend, “is that we are not one of those awful groups of middle-class ladies who meet and talk about the latest vapid imaginings of some novelist. That we are not.”

The friend had nodded her agreement. “Thank heavens for that,” she said. “Those people are so earnest. So self-consciously serious. All trying to outdo one another in the depth of their comments. It's quite funny when you come to think of it.”

This conversation had taken place in the Pollocks' flat in Scotland Street and had been overheard by Stuart. He wondered what was wrong with book groups, which he thought were a rather good idea. Indeed, Stuart would have liked to have been in a book group himself and had almost joined one organised by a colleague in the office–a book group for men–but Irene had poured cold water on the idea.

“Join it if you wish,” she had said disparagingly. “But it's sad, don't you think? Rather sad to think of these middle-class men all sitting around talking about some novel they've tried to finish in time for the meeting.”

Stuart had said nothing. He had never understood Irene's prejudice against people whom she called middle-class; indeed, he had never comprehended why the term middle-class should be considered a term of abuse. To begin with, he thought that they themselves were middle-class; not that he dared say that to his wife, but surely it was true. In income terms, they were about the middle, and they lived in a street where just about everybody else was in roughly the same position. And Edinburgh, of course, was itself mostly middle-class, whatever some people liked to think. As a statistician, Stuart knew the figures: 60 per cent of the population of the city was in highly skilled jobs and was therefore middle-class. So why should Irene speak so scornfully about the middle-class when the middle-class was all about her; and if you took the middle-class away, the city would die…just as it would if you took away the people who did the hard, thankless jobs, the manual work that was just as important in keeping things going. That, thought Stuart, was why class talk was so utterly pointless: everybody counted.

And now, overhearing this attack on book groups, Stuart pondered this again. It might be true that middle-class ladies belonged to book groups, but what was wrong with that? It seemed to him to be an entirely reasonable and interesting thing to do. It was fun to discuss books with others–to share the pleasure of reading–and one might learn from the views of one's fellow members, even if they were middle-class.

Irene was an enigma to him. He admired her, and there was a bit of him that loved her–just–but he could not understand her contempt for others and her desire to be something that she was not. Stuart was a reasonable person, who saw the good and the bad in others without reference to where they stood politically. He would read any newspaper he found lying about in the office and find something of interest in it. And if he did not agree with what was written, he would nonetheless reflect on the arguments put forward and weigh them up. Irene did not do that. There was one newspaper she read, and one alone, and she would barely look at anything else. On occasion, Stuart came back from the office with another paper, and this would trigger a firm response from Irene.

“Stuart, I don't think it's wise to bring the
Daily Telegraph
into the house,” she said. “Just think for a moment. What if Bertie read it? You know how he picks things up and reads them.”

Stuart had shrugged. “He's got to learn what the world's like sooner or later,” he said. He wondered if he should add: “He's got to learn that there are Conservatives…” but a look from Irene discouraged him.

“That, if I may say so,” she said, “is utterly and completely irresponsible. Do you want his mind to be poisoned? It'll be the
Daily Mail
next. Or the
Sun
. For heaven's sake, Stuart! And what if somebody saw you carrying that paper? What would they think?”

That argument had not gone any further, for Stuart had capitulated, as he always seemed to do, and had agreed that inappropriate newspapers would not be brought into the house in the future. But, as they set off on their walk that Saturday morning, he thought about it and wondered why he had not defended freedom of thought.

“Where are we going?” asked Bertie, as Stuart and Irene jointly manipulated Ulysses's baby buggy down the common stair to the front door.

“Valvona & Crolla,” replied Irene. “It'll be a nice walk.” Bertie was pleased to hear this. He liked the delicatessen, with its high shelves of Italian produce. For the most part, they bought olive oil there and sun-dried tomatoes and packets of pasta. But there were other delights there too, such as Panforte di Siena, and Bertie, with all his soul, loved Panforte di Siena.

62. It Seemed the World Was Full of Killing

They walked around Drummond Place, the four of them–Irene, Stuart, Bertie, and Ulysses, who did not walk, of course, but was pushed in his new MobileBaby baby buggy, of which Bertie was inordinately proud. Their car might be old, but their baby buggy, at least, was brand-new. In fact, as they rounded the corner into London Street, Bertie saw their car, parked on the other side of the road.

“There's our car!” he exclaimed. “Look, Daddy. There it is.”

“So I see, Bertie,” said Stuart. “That's where Mummy must have parked it.”

Irene reacted sharply. “I beg your pardon. You parked it there, Stuart. I very rarely park in this street.”

Stuart looked down at the pavement. He was sure that he had not parked the car there, but he understood that there was no point in arguing about it. Irene seemed to win any argument that they had, particularly in relation to their car, often by the simple technique of staring at Stuart until he became silent. It was a powerful method of overcoming opposition, and Stuart had come across one or two politicians who used it to great effect. These were generally the same ones who refused to answer any questions, usually by giving a response which bore no relation to the actual question which was asked. In fact, when he came to think of it, Irene would make a good politician–but for which party? Would Jack McConnell have her in the Labour Party, he wondered, or would she simply stare at him until he became uncomfortable? Irene would not join the Conservatives, and they, quite understandably, would not want her. Which left the Liberal Democrats, the Scottish National Party, and the Greens. The Greens! There was an idea. Stuart knew Robin Harper, their leader, and liked him, but wondered if even Robin Harper, the leader of the Greens, could continue to smile if he found himself faced with Irene. No, Irene should perhaps remain out of politics after all.

“Well, at least we know where our car is,” said Bertie. “That's something.”

They continued down London Street, with Bertie throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder at the car. Now they went up the hill, up Broughton Street and into Union Street, in the direction of Leith Walk. A dog walking along Union Street with its owner made Bertie think of Cyril and the plight in which the dog found himself.

“Tofu says that they'll cut Cyril's tail off as a punishment for biting,” he ventured. “Tofu said that's what happens to dogs that bite.”

“That's absolute nonsense,” said Irene. “Your friend Tofu is full of ridiculous notions. It would be much better, Bertie, if you had nothing to do with him.”

Bertie was relieved to hear that Tofu, as usual, was wrong. “So they won't do anything cruel like that?”

“Of course not,” said Irene.

“Then what will they do?” asked Bertie. “If they find him guilty?”

There was an awkward silence.

“Well?” said Stuart, looking at Irene. “Will you answer, or shall I?” He waited a moment and then turned to his son. “I'm afraid that they'll put Cyril down, Bertie. Sorry to have to tell you that.”

Bertie looked puzzled. “Put him down where?” he asked.

There was another silence. Then Irene took charge of the situation. She remembered Cyril as the dog who had bitten her–quite without provocation–in Dundas Street. He was a nasty, smelly creature in her view, and she still had a slight scar, a redness, on her ankle where his gold tooth had penetrated the skin.

“Put down is a euphemism, Bertie,” she said. “You'll remember that Mummy told you about euphemisms. They're words which sound nicer than…than other words.”

Bertie remembered their conversation about euphemisms, but he could not remember any examples that his mother had given. In fact, he had pressed his mother for examples and she had been strangely reluctant to give any. “Such as, Mummy?”

“Well…” said Irene. She trailed off.

“Putting down for…for killing,” said Stuart.

Bertie stopped in his tracks, causing them all to come to a halt. He looked up at his father, who immediately regretted what he had said.

“You mean that they're going to kill Cyril?” asked Bertie, his voice faltering.

“I'm afraid so,” said Stuart. “But they'll do it humanely, Bertie. They won't shoot him or anything like that.”

“Will they put him in an electric kennel?” asked Bertie. “Just like an electric chair?”

Stuart reached for Bertie's hand. “Of course not, Bertie!” he said. “What an idea!”

Holding his father's hand was a comfort for Bertie, but it was not enough. As he stood there on the pavement in Union Street, his eyes began to fill with tears. He could not believe that anybody would wish to kill Cyril, or any dog, really. Nor could he believe that anybody would want to kill anything, for that matter, and yet it seemed that the world was filled with killing. People killed seals and deer and birds. They killed elephants and rhinoceroses and buffalo. The Japanese even killed whales, when just about everybody else had recognised that as wrong; those great, intelligent, friendly creatures–they killed them. And then people killed other people with equal, if not more, gusto: Bertie had seen pictures in the newspaper of a war that somebody was fighting somewhere, and had seen a soldier firing a gun at somebody who was firing back at him. That seemed utterly absurd to him. People should play with one another, he thought, not fight. But then obviously there were people who disagreed with that, who wanted to fight; people such as Larch, for example, who loved to punch people and kick them too, if he had the chance. Larch had pinned a sign saying
KICK ME
on Tofu's back and had then kicked him hard in the seat of the pants. That had brought whoops of delight from Olive, who had witnessed the event and who had run over to try to kick Tofu while the offer still stood, only to have her hair pulled by an enraged Tofu. That sort of violence solved nothing, thought Bertie. But that, it seemed to him, was what the world was like. People kicked one another and pulled each other's hair and wept at the result. Why?

“There, there, Bertie,” said his father. “I'm sure that everything will turn out well in the end.”

Irene shook her head. “It'll do no good your telling Bertie that, Stuart,” she said. “It won't. You know it. I know it. It won't.”