The World According to Bertie (3 page)

5. An Unexpected Conflict and News of Cyril

Domenica Macdonald, freelance anthropologist, native of Scotland Street, friend of Angus Lordie and Antonia Collie, owner of a custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz, citizen of Edinburgh; all of these were facets of the identity of the woman now striding up Scotland Street, a battered canvas shopping bag hanging loosely from her left arm. But there was more: in addition to all of that, Domenica was now the author of a learned paper that had recently been accepted for publication in the prestigious journal
Mankind Quarterly
. This paper, “Past Definite; Future Uncertain: Time and Social Dynamics of a Mangrove Community in Southern Malaysia,” was the fruit of her recent field trip to the Malacca Straits. There, she had joined what she imagined was a community of contemporary pirates, with a view to conducting anthropological research into their domestic economy. The pirates, it was later revealed, were not real pirates after all–or not pirates in the sense in which the term is understood by the International Maritime Safety authorities in Kuala Lumpur. Although they disappeared each morning in high-powered boats, Domenica had discovered that their destination was not the high seas at all, but a town down the coast, where they worked in a pirate CD factory, infringing the intellectual property rights of various crooners and inexplicably popular rock bands. That had been a setback for Domenica, but it had not prevented her from completing a useful piece of research on the way in which the community's sense of time affected social relationships.

The paper had been well-received. One of the referees for the journal had written: “The author demonstrates convincingly that a sense of being on the wrong side of history changes everything. The social devices by which people protect themselves from confronting the truth that there is a terminus to their existence as a community are laid bare by the author. A triumph.” And now here it was, that triumph, in off-print form, with an attractive cover of chalk blue, the physical result of all that heat and discomfort.

When the box containing the sixty off-prints had been delivered by the postman, Domenica had immediately left the house and walked round to Angus Lordie's flat in Drummond Place, clutching one of the copies.

“My paper,” she said, as Angus invited her in. “You will see that I have inscribed it to you. Look. There.”

Angus opened the cover and saw, on the inside, the sentence which Domenica had inscribed in black ink.
To Angus Lordie
, the inscription read,
who stayed behind. From your friend, Domenica Macdonald
. He reread the sentence and then looked up. “Why have you written who stayed behind?” he asked. His tone was peevish.

Domenica shrugged. “Well, you did, didn't you? I went to the Malacca Straits, and you stayed behind in Edinburgh. I'm simply stating what happened.”

Angus frowned. “But anybody reading this would think that I was some…some sort of coward. It's almost as if you're giving me a white feather.”

Domenica drew in her breath. She had not intended that, and it was quite ridiculous of Angus to suggest it. “I meant no such thing,” she said. “There are absolutely no aspersions being cast on…”

“Yes, there are,” said Angus petulantly. “And you never asked me whether I'd like to go. Saying that somebody stayed behind suggests that they were at least given the chance to go along. But I wasn't. You never gave me the chance to go.”

“Well, really!” said Domenica. “You made it very clear that you didn't like the idea of my going to the Malacca Straits in the first place. You said that in the little speech you gave at my dinner party before I left. You did. I heard you, Angus. Remember I was there!”

“It would be a very strange dinner party where the hostess was not there,” said Angus quickly. “If one wrote a note to such a hostess one would have to say: ‘To one who stayed away.' Yes! That's what one would have to write.”

Domenica bit her lip. She knew that Angus had his moody moments, but this was quite ridiculous. She was now sorry that she had come to see him at all, and was certainly regretting having brought him the off-print. “You're behaving in a very childish way, Angus,” she said. “In fact, I've got a good mind to take my paper away from you. There are plenty of people who would appreciate it, you know.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Angus. “I can't see why anybody would want to read it. I certainly won't.”

Domenica bristled with anger. “In that case,” she said. “I'm taking it back. The gift is cancelled.”

She reached across to snatch the off-print from Angus. She felt the cover in her fingers and she tugged; but he resisted, and with a ripping sound “Past Definite; Future Uncertain” was torn into two roughly equal parts. Domenica let go of her part, and it fluttered slowly to the ground.

“Oh,” said Angus, looking down. “I'm very sorry. I know you started it by writing that cruel thing about me, but I didn't mean to do that. I'm so sorry…”

What upset him was the destruction of another artist's work. An anthropologist was not really an artist, but this was creative work–even if a rather dull sort of creative work–and he had destroyed it. Angus felt very guilty. “I'm so sorry,” he said again. “I would never have torn up your work intentionally. You do know that, don't you? It's just that I feel very out of sorts today.” He hesitated, as if wondering whether to entrust Domenica with a confidence. Had he forgiven her? Yes, he thought, I have. He lowered his voice. “Something really awful has happened. It's made me very tetchy.”

Domenica's expression of irritation was replaced with one of concern. “Awful? One of your paintings…”

Angus shook his head. “No, it's nothing to do with my work. It's Cyril.”

Domenica looked past Angus into the flat. There had been no sign of the dog, who usually greeted any visitor with a courteous wagging of the tail and a pressing of the nose against whatever hand was extended to him. This had not happened. “He's ill?” she asked. As she spoke, she realised it could be worse: Cyril could be dead. Dogs were run over in cities. There were other dangers too.

“No,” said Angus. “Not ill. He's been removed.”

Domenica looked puzzled.

“Accused of biting,” said Angus morosely. “Removed by the police.”

Domenica gasped. “But whom did he bite?”

“He bit nobody,” said Angus firmly. “Cyril is innocent. Completely innocent.”

6. Angus Tells the Story of Cyril's Misfortune

“I think you should invite me in,” said Domenica, from the hallway of Angus Lordie's flat. “Let me make us a pot of coffee. Then you can tell me about it.”

Angus Lordie's earlier–and most uncharacteristic–churlishness evaporated. “Of course,” he said. “How rude of me. It's just that…well, it's just that this business over Cyril has left me feeling so raw.”

Domenica understood. She had not had a dog since childhood, but she remembered the sense of utter desolation she had experienced after the loss of the scruffy Cairn terrier, which her mother had taken in from a cousin. The terrier had disappeared down a rabbit hole in the Pentlands when they had been taking it for a walk, and had never reappeared. A farmer had helped with the search and had dug away the top part of the burrow, but all that this had revealed was a complex set of tunnels leading in every direction. They had called and called, but to no avail, and as dusk descended they had gone home, feeling every bit as bad as mountaineers leaving behind an injured fellow climber. They had returned the next day, but there had been no sign of the terrier, and it was presumed lost. The dog had not been replaced.

“I know how you must feel,” said Domenica, as she went into Angus Lordie's kitchen. “I lost a dog as a child. I felt bereft, quite bereft.”

Angus stared at her. “Cyril is still with us,” he said.

“Of course,” said Domenica quickly. “And I'm sure that it will all work out perfectly well in the end.”

Angus sighed. “I wish I thought the same,” he said. “The problem is that once a dog is deemed to be dangerous, then they have the power to order…” He did not complete his sentence, but left it hanging there. He had been told by the police that there was a possibility that Cyril would be destroyed if it were established that he was responsible for the rash of bitings that had been reported in the area.

“But it won't come to that,” said Domenica briskly. “They need evidence before they can order a dog to be put down. They can't do that unless they're certain that Cyril is dangerous. He's your property, for heaven's sake! They can't destroy your property on the basis of rumour, or wild allegations.” She paused, ladling spoons of coffee into the cafetière. “You'd better start at the beginning, Angus. How did this all start?”

Angus sat down at the scrubbed pine table which dominated his kitchen. “Maybe you hadn't heard about it,” he said, “but there have been a number of incidents in this part of town over the last few weeks. A child was bitten by a dog on the way to school about ten days ago–nothing serious, just a nip, but enough to break the skin. The child gave a rather vague account of what happened, apparently. You know how children are–they don't make very good witnesses. But he did say that the dog came bounding out of a lower basement in Dundonald Street, gave him a nip on the ankles, and then ran off into the Drummond Square Gardens.”

Domenica switched on the kettle. She glanced at the kitchen surfaces around her and sniffed. Angus Lordie's kitchen was cleaner than many bachelor kitchens, but only just. It could do with a good scrub, she thought, but this was not the time.

“And then?” she said.

“Then,” Angus went on, “then there was another incident. A few days later, a man reported that he had been getting out of his car in Northumberland Street and he was given quite a nip on his ankle by a dog that then ran away in the direction of Nelson Street. The dog ripped the leg of his suit, apparently, and he reported the matter to the police so that he could claim insurance.”

“The culture of complaint,” muttered Domenica.

“I beg your pardon?”

She turned to Angus. “I said: the culture of complaint. We live in a culture of complaint because everyone is always looking for things to complain about. It's all tied in with the desire to blame others for misfortunes and to get some form of compensation into the bargain. I speak as an anthropologist, of course–just an observation.”

“But I would have thought that it's entirely reasonable to complain about being bitten,” said Angus. “As long as you complained about the right dog.”

“Oh, it's reasonable enough,” said Domenica. “It's just that these things have to be kept in proportion. One can complain about things without looking for compensation. That's the difference. In what we fondly call the old days, if one was nipped by a dog then one accepted that this was the sort of thing that happened from time to time. You might try to give the dog a walloping, to even things up a bit, and you might expect the owner to be contrite and apologise, but you didn't necessarily think of getting any money out of it.”

Angus thought about this, but only for a very short time. He was not interested in Domenica's observations on social trends, and he felt irritated that she should move so quickly from the point of the discussion. “That may be so,” he said. “All of that may be so, but the point is that Cyril is not that dog. Cyril would never do anything like that.”

Domenica was silent. This was simply not true. Cyril had bitten Bertie's mother in broad daylight in Dundas Street not all that long ago. Domenica had heard about the incident, and although she was pleased that on that occasion Cyril had been so discerning in his choice of victim, he could hardly claim to have an unblemished record. It was, she thought, entirely possible that Cyril was not innocent, but she did not think it politic to raise that possibility now.

“But how did they identify Cyril?” she asked.

“They had an identity parade,” said Angus. “They lined up a group of dogs in Gayfield Square police station and they asked the Northumberland Street man to identify the dog which had bitten him. He picked out Cyril.”

Domenica listened in astonishment. “But that's absurd,” she exclaimed. “Were the dogs in the line-up all the same breed? Because if they weren't, it would be quite ridiculous.”

For a few moments, Angus was silent. Then he said, “I never thought of that.”

7. Irene's Doubts Over Bertie's Friendships

While Domenica listened to Angus recount the traumatic experiences endured by his dog, Cyril, Bertie Pollock stared out of his bedroom window. Bertie's view was of Scotland Street itself, sloping sharply to the old marshalling yards down below, now a playground, which Bertie had been forbidden by his mother to enter.

“It's not so much the devices themselves,” Irene had said to her husband, Stuart. “It's not the so-called swings, it's the attitudes to which Bertie will be exposed down there.”

Stuart looked at her blankly. He had no idea why she should call the swings “so-called” surely swings were either swings or they were not. There was nothing complicated about swings, as far as he could make out; they went backwards and forwards–that was all they did. And what attitudes would Bertie be exposed to in the playground?

Irene saw Stuart's look of puzzlement and sighed. “It's the roughness, Stuart,” she said. “Surely you've seen it yourself. All that aggressive play that goes on. And there's another thing: have you noticed the rigid segregation which the children down there impose on themselves? Have you noticed how the boys play with the boys and the girls play with the girls? Have you seen it?”

Stuart thought for a moment. Now that Irene mentioned it, it certainly seemed to be true. There were always little knots of boys and girls all playing within the group; one did not see boys and girls playing together. Irene was right. But, he thought, surely this was natural.

“When I was a boy,” he began, “we used to have a gang. It was boys only. But the girls had their own gang. I think everybody was happy enough with the arrangement. My gang was called…”

Irene silenced him with her stare. “I think the less said about your boyhood, Stuart, the better. Things have moved on, you know.”

“But have boys moved on?” It was a bold question, and Stuart's voice faltered as he asked it.

“Yes,” said Irene firmly. “Boys have moved on. The problem is that certain men have failed to move on.” She fixed him with a piercing stare as she made this remark, and Stuart shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I don't think we should argue,” he said. “You know that I'm fundamentally in sympathy with the idea of bringing up boys to be more sensitive.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Irene.

“But there's no reason why Bertie shouldn't play with other boys from time to time,” Stuart said. “And I don't mean that he should play in an exclusive sense. I think that boys can be encouraged to play inclusively, but with other boys, if you see what I…” He trailed off. Irene was staring at him again.

Irene was thinking of Bertie's friends. She had met several of the boys in his class, and she had to confess that she was not impressed. Tofu, for instance, was a thoroughly unpleasant little boy, as far as she could make out. There had been that unfortunate incident when Bertie had exchanged his dungarees for Tofu's jeans, which was bad enough, but when one added to it the fact that this transaction had taken place at a bowling alley in Fountainbridge–of all places–Tofu's influence hardly appeared benign.

Then there was Hiawatha whom Irene had come across at several school functions. There was something off about that boy, Irene thought. She had asked Bertie about it, and he had replied that Hiawatha was known for never changing his socks and that this explained the smell.

“We get used to it, Mummy,” he said. “Sometimes Miss Harmony opens the window, which helps. But we don't really mind too much.”

And there were other boys in the class who seemed equally questionable as suitable companions for Bertie. Merlin was decidedly unusual, even by the standards of Stockbridge, where he lived. Irene had met his mother at a parents' evening and had found it very difficult to sustain a conversation with somebody who insisted on bringing the discussion back at every opportunity to crystals and their curative properties. If Bertie were to spend too much time with Merlin, then there would be a danger that he would start thinking in an irrational way, and that would be disastrous. No, Merlin was to be discouraged.

That left that very unpleasant boy whom she had seen hanging about the school gates waiting for his father to collect him. What was his name? Larch. That was it. Irene had heard from Bertie that Larch liked arm wrestling and that nobody dared win because he was known to hit anybody who beat him at anything.

“I'm surprised that Miss Harmony lets him behave like that,” said Irene. “It's a very well-run school, and I know they don't tolerate that sort of behaviour.”

“I don't think that Miss Harmony knows,” said Bertie. “You see, Mummy, there are two different worlds. There's the grown-up world, and then there's the world down below, where boys and girls live. I don't think grown-ups really know what's happening down in our world.”

“Nonsense, Bertie,” said Irene. “We know perfectly well what's going on. And I'm sure that Miss Harmony knows exactly what Larch gets up to.”

Bertie said nothing, but he was sure that Irene had no idea of anything that happened at school. And he was equally sure that Miss Harmony knew nothing of Larch's violent tendencies and all his lies too. That was the trouble with Miss Harmony, and with most grown-ups, Bertie thought. Grown-ups simply did not understand how children lied. Bertie did not lie–he told the truth–but all the others lied. Tofu lied all the time, about just about everything. Merlin made up stories about some of the things he had at home–a crystal that was capable of killing cats if you pointed it at their eyes; that was one of the lies he had told Bertie. Then, when it came to Hiawatha, he was probably lying too, if only they could make out what he was saying. There were just so many lies.

“I think you should spend more time with Olive,” said Irene. “She's a very nice girl, and I know that you like her.”

Bertie shook his head. “I don't like Olive, Mummy. I hate her.”

“Now, Bertie!” scolded Irene. “That's simply not true.”

Bertie sighed. When he told the truth, as he had just done, he was accused of lying. But if he lied, and said that he liked Olive, his mother would nod her approval. The world, he thought, was a very confusing place.