The World According to Bertie (34 page)

90. A Theme for the Definitive Masterpiece

For Angus Lordie, the return of Cyril from durance vile had been a transforming event. The sense of emptiness, the listlessness, that had afflicted him during the period of Cyril's absence faded immediately, like a blanketing haar that suddenly lifts to reveal a morning of clarity and splendour. This, he thought, is what it must be like to be given a reprieve, to be told that one was well when one had imagined the worst. Now he had energy.

His first task was to pick up the brush that he had so dispiritedly laid aside. The group portrait over which he had been labouring was finished with alacrity, and the sitters, who had appeared sombre and depressed, were invigorated by a few bold strokes: a smile there, a jaunty dash of colour there–they were easy to rescue. Once that was done, though, there was the question of the next project, and Angus had been giving some thought to that.

The previous night, while taking a bath, it had occurred to him that there was no particular painting to which he could point and say: “That is my masterpiece.” Certainly, he had executed some fine paintings–although he was modest, Angus had enough self-knowledge to recognise that–but the best of these was no more than
primus inter pares
. Two of them were in the collection of the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, and one of them had gone abroad, to vanish into the private collection of a Singaporean banker–or was it a Singaporean baker? The dealer in Cork Street who had written to tell him of the sale had handwriting which was difficult to interpret, but Angus had hoped that it was a baker rather than a banker. He could imagine his Singaporean baker, a rotund man with that agreeable, genial air that seems to surround those who have made their money in food. He liked to think of him sitting there in his Singaporean fastness, appreciating his painting, nibbling, perhaps, on a plate of pastries.

Of course, Singapore was close to Malacca, where Domenica had conducted her recent researches into the domestic economy of contemporary pirates, and Angus had asked her on her return if she had ventured south.

“I went there for a few days after I left Malacca,” she had said. “You'll recall the dénouement of my researches? I felt that after that I should treat myself to a bit of comfort, and so I went to Singapore and stayed in the Raffles Hotel. Such luxury, Angus! The Indian doorman at Raffles has the most wonderful mustache–apparently the most photographed thing in Singapore!”

“There can't be much to see if a mustache is the main attraction,” observed Angus.

“Well, it's a small place,” said Domenica. “And a big mustache in a small place…Mind you, it's getting bigger.”

“The mustache?”

Domenica smiled, but only weakly. There was occasionally something of the schoolboy about Angus, at least in his humour. “No, Singapore itself is getting bigger. They have land reclamation projects and they're inching out all the time. Their neighbours don't like it.”

Angus was puzzled. “I don't see what that's got to do with them. Presumably they're reclaiming from the sea.”

“Yes, they are. But the Indonesians have stopped selling them sand to do the reclamation work. And Malaysia gets jumpy too. They don't like to see Singapore getting any bigger, even if it's just a matter of a few acres.”

“Neighbours can be difficult,” said Angus.

Domenica thought for a moment of Antonia and the blue Spode cup. There were parallels there, perhaps, with relations between Malaysia and Singapore. “Dear Singapore,” she said. “They're frightfully rich, and as a result nobody in Southeast Asia likes them very much. But I do. They make very rude remarks about them; it's very unfair. And Singapore gets a little bit worried and feels that she has to expand her air force. But that leads to problems…”

Angus looked at Domenica quizzically.

“They can't really fly very easily,” she explained. “Singapore is terribly tiny in territory terms. When the air force takes off, it has to take a sharp right turn or it ends up flying over Malaysian airspace, which they're not allowed to do. So it somewhat hampers their style.”

Angus smiled. “I see.”

“So they keep the air force elsewhere,” went on Domenica.

Angus raised an eyebrow. “One would hope that they don't forget where they put it,” he said. “It would be a terrible shame if one put one's air force somewhere and then forgot where it was. I'm always doing that with my keys…Easily done.”

Domenica laughed again. “I think they have a book in which they write it all down,” she said. “Actually, they keep their air force in Australia.”

“Well, at least Australia's got the room,” said Angus.

Domenica agreed. “Yes, but it's a bit strange, isn't it? Rather like the Bolivians and their navy.”

“No sea?”

“Not anymore. And the tragedy is that they really want a navy, the Bolivians, poor dears. They've got a lake, of course, and they keep a few patrol boats on that and on the rivers, but what they want is a pukka navy…like the one we used to have before…Anyway, Navy Day in Bolivia is the big day, and everybody gives money for the cause. And they have numerous admirals, just like we have now. No ships, alas, but bags of admirals. And then there was the Mongolian navy, of course. They only had one boat and seven sailors, only one of whom could swim!”

“Interesting,” Angus began. “But…”

“But the point is this: the Uruguayans, to their credit, let the Bolivians keep a real ship in Montevideo. It's rather like the Australians allowing Singapore to keep its air force in Darwin or wherever it is. So kind.”

“There's not enough kindness in the world,” said Angus.

With that the subject changed, and now Angus remembered it as he went over in his mind possible themes for what he hoped would be his masterpiece. Kindness, he thought–there's a subject with which a great painting might properly engage! But how might one portray kindness? There were those Peaceable Kingdom paintings, of course, in which all animal creation stood quietly together–the wolf with the lamb, the lion with the zebra, and so on. But that was not kindness, that was harmony, which was a different thing. Angus wanted to paint something which spoke to that distinct human quality of kindness that, when experienced, was so moving, so reassuring, like balm on a wound, like a gentle hand, helping, tender. That was what he wanted to paint, because he knew that that was what we all wanted to see.

91. Angus Opens His Front Door to…Trouble

Angus Lordie was still thinking of kindness, and of the great painting he would execute in order to portray that theme, when the doorbell sounded. Cyril, half-asleep on a rug on the other side of the room, lifted his head and looked at his master. He knew he should bark, but what was the point? Whoever it was on the other side of the door would not be deterred by his barking, and if he continued, and barked more loudly, God (as Cyril thought of Angus) would simply get annoyed with him. So he glanced towards the door, growled briefly, and then lowered his head again.

Angus looked at his watch. It was just before ten in the morning, and he was still seated at the kitchen table, the detritus of his breakfast on the plate before him: a few crumbs of toast, a small piece of bacon rind, a pot of marmalade. He was dressed, of course, but had not yet shaved, and he felt unprepared for company.

He rose to his feet, crossed the hall and opened the front door.

“Mr Lordie?”

There was something familiar about the face of the woman who stood on his doorstep, but he could not place her. There were new neighbours several doors down; was she one of them? No. The Cumberland Bar? No, she was the wrong type. Perhaps she was collecting for the Lifeboats; they had plenty of women like that who raised money for the Lifeboats–so much, in fact, that the Lifeboats were in danger of positively sinking under all their money.

He nodded. “Yes.”

The woman's lips were pursed in disapproval. Surely I can go unshaven in my own house, thought Angus. Surely…

“You may not recall our meeting some time ago,” she said. “It was in the gardens. At night.”

Angus smiled. “Of course. Of course.” He had no recollection of meeting her, but she was one of the neighbours, he assumed. There would be some issue with the shared gardens; keys or benches or children breaking branches of the rhododendrons.

“Good,” said the woman. “So you'll remember that your dog…your dog paid attention to my own dog. You'll remember that, then.”

It came back. Of course! This was the owner of the bitch whom Cyril had met in the gardens. It had been most embarrassing, but it was hardly his fault–nor Cyril's, for that matter. One could not expect dogs to observe the niceties in these matters when a female dog was in an intriguing condition. Surely this woman…

“And now,” said the woman, staring at Angus, “and now my own dog is experiencing the consequences of your dog's…your dog's assault.”

Angus stared back at her. Cyril had not assaulted the other dog. They had got on famously, in fact, and this woman must know that.

“But I don't think that my dog…” Angus began, to be cut short by the woman, who sighed impatiently.

“My dog is now pregnant,” said the woman. “And your dog is responsible for it. There are six, the vet says.”

“Six?”

“Six puppies, Mr Lordie. Yes, the vet has performed an ultrasound examination of Pearly, my dog, and has found six puppies.”

Angus swallowed. “Well, well. That really is…”

“Most unfortunate,” snapped the woman. “That's what it is. There are six puppies for whom I cannot be responsible. I live in a small flat and I cannot keep seven dogs. Which means that you are going to have to shoulder your responsibilities.”

For a few moments, Angus said nothing. He did not doubt that the puppies were there, and that Cyril was the father, but was he really responsible for them? He knew all about the Dangerous Dogs Act (after Cyril's unfortunate brush with the law), but were the laws of paternity and aliment of puppies the same as those that applied to humans? Surely not.

The woman broke the silence. “And so what I'm proposing to do is to pass the puppies on to you the moment they are ready to leave their mother. That will be…” She consulted a small red diary which she had taken out of her handbag, and gave a date. “I take it that that will be convenient.”

Angus stared at her in astonishment. “No,” he said. “We can't have six puppies here. This is…this is my studio as well as my flat. I simply can't have six puppies.”

“You should have thought of that before you allowed your dog to…to approach my dog,” said the woman. “You should have thought of the consequences of your dog's actions.”

Angus felt a wave of annoyance come over him. He had been polite to this woman, but she had been hectoring and imperious. Had she spoken to him courteously and sought his assistance, he might have made some proposals about sharing the care of the puppies until they were found a new home, but she had not done that, and now he felt like digging in.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “From my point of view, you took the risk when you took a bitch in heat out into the gardens. You should have known better. You cannot blame my dog for behaving as he did. In fact, you should count yourself lucky that the puppies will have good blood. Cyril, I would have you know, is a pedigree dog, while yours, if I may say so, is undoubtedly a mongrel of some sort. Cyril lowered himself when he consorted with her…”

“How dare you!” hissed the woman. “You…you impossible man!” She paused, as if to summon up further insults, but there were none; instead: “The puppies will be brought on the appointed day. I shall leave them at the bottom of the stairs, in a box, if you are not in. And that is all there is to it.”

She turned round and began to walk down the stairs. Angus watched her for a moment. He wanted to call out, to shout out some final, resounding comment that would stop her in her tracks, but he did not. He was incapable of being rude, just as his father before him, and his grandfather, had been incapable of rudeness, particularly towards a woman. So he closed the door behind him and went back into the flat.

Cyril watched him. He knew, in some extraordinary, non-conceptual way, that the events at the door concerned him. But what had he done wrong? He could think of nothing. All he had ever done was to be a dog, which deserved no blame–and perhaps no praise either. But the ways of the gods were arbitrary, as in Greece of old, and the manner in which Angus was looking at him now made Cyril realise that this was serious–extremely so.

92. A New Version of the Fateful Olive Incident

When it was announced to the class that Miss Harmony was to be replaced, there was a sudden, shocked silence. For a few minutes, the children were left alone, waiting for the arrival of the new teacher, and it was in this period that recriminations were fervently aired.

“Somebody told on her,” said Tofu. “Somebody's mummy went and complained because she had heard about Miss Harmony's act of self-defence.”

People reacted in different ways to this. For his part, Bertie froze. He had an inkling of the fact that it was his mother who was responsible for the downfall of Miss Harmony, but he had no intention of revealing this.

“Not my mother,” he said, in a small voice.

Everybody looked at him, and he blushed. He was a truthful boy and he would not normally tell a lie, but, in this case, he felt he could say what he said because he had no actual proof that Irene had been the cause of Miss Harmony's departure. Moreover, on a strict construction, all he had said was “Not my mother,” which was a sentence capable of many interpretations. “Not my mother” could mean: May misfortune strike others, but not my mother (the first phrase being understood). Or it could be a general denial of maternity; there were many senses in which the statement could be read. So it was not really a lie.

“Nobody said it was her,” said Larch suspiciously. “Although…” He left the rest of the sentence unfinished, and Bertie quaked.

“Bertie only said that because he knows that everybody hates his mother,” said Tofu kindly. “Isn't that so, Bertie?”

Bertie swallowed. “Well…” He trailed off. They knew what his mother was like–there was no point in trying to hide it, but did they actually hate her?

Tofu's pronouncement evoked a very different reaction in Olive. “Self-defence?” she said, glowering at Tofu. “What do you mean by self-defence, Tofu?”

“I meant what I said,” retorted Tofu hotly. “Miss Harmony only pinched your ear because you were threatening her. I saw you. I saw you try to scratch her. And I'm going to tell everybody. I'm going to tell the other teachers.”

Olive's eyes opened wide in outrage. “Scratch her? I never did. You're a liar, Tofu! Everybody knows what lies you tell. Nobody will believe a liar like you.”

“I will,” said Larch. “I'll tell them that Tofu's telling the truth. I'll tell them that you had your hands round Miss Harmony's neck and that she had to pinch you to bring you to your senses.”

“Precisely,” said Tofu. “And Bertie will say the same thing. And Lakshmi. And everybody, in fact, because everybody knows how horrid you are, and they'll blame you when Miss Harmony commits suicide. In fact, she's probably done that already. That's what people do when they're falsely accused of things.”

“Yes,” said Larch. “She's probably climbing up the Scott Monument right now…” He leaned forward and pointed an accusing finger at Olive. “And it'll be your fault, Olive! Your fault!”

Olive opened her mouth to say something, but was prevented from doing so by Tofu. “So,” he said, “we have to find out who told on Miss Harmony and we have to get that person to say that it was all made up and that it was self-defence, as I've said.”

“And then we'll get Miss Harmony back,” said Pansy. “Because she was the nicest teacher we could ever hope to get. She was kind, and she liked all of us.”

“Except Olive,” said Tofu. “She knew what Olive was like. That's why she pinched her.”

“I thought you said it was self-defence,” crowed Olive. “Now you're saying it was because she hated me.”

“Both,” snapped Tofu. “She hated you and she had to defend herself. Both are true.”

The argument might have continued had it not been for the arrival of the new teacher, a man in his midtwenties, who walked into the classroom and stood smiling at the top of the class. He introduced himself as Mr Bing.

“I'm your new teacher,” he said, “now that Miss Harmony…”

“Is dead,” supplied Tofu.

“Oh no,” said Mr Bing. “Miss Harmony's not dead! Where on earth did you get that idea? She's just reassessing her career. People often do that, boys and girls–they have another look at what they're doing and decide whether they aren't better off doing something quite different. That's all.”

“But did she want to reassess her career?” asked Tofu. “Or was she forced to go because she had to defend herself against Olive?”

Mr Bing frowned. “I'm not sure that I understand you…what's your name, by the way?”

“Tofu.”

Mr Bing hesitated for a moment. “Well, Tofu,” he said, “it's possible that Miss Harmony might have become a little bit stressed. And it's possible that she might have done something a little bit impulsive.”

“It was self-defence,” said Tofu, looking around the class for support. “Olive tried to strangle her, and it was the only way in which she could calm her down. She gave her a little pinch to get her to loosen her grasp round her neck. That's true, isn't it, everybody?”

A chorus of support was raised.

“Yes,” said Larch, his face contorted into an expression of sincerity. “She's quite dangerous, Mr Bing. We all know that. But Miss Harmony still wants to protect her, and so she probably didn't say anything about Olive trying to strangle her. Miss Harmony is so kind, you see. If somebody tries to strangle her she never says anything about it.”

Mr Bing seemed flustered. “Well, we might talk about this later,” he said. “For the time being, I should like to get to know you all. So what we're going to do is to write a little piece about ourselves–just a page or so. And then we'll put our names on top of that, and in that way I'll know all about each of you! Now isn't that a good idea?”

“Some people can't write yet,” said Larch. “Olive can't.”

“No,” said Tofu. “She's illiterate, Mr Bing.”

Olive glared at Tofu, but was steadfastly ignored.

“Well,” said Mr Bing. “In that case, those who can write will write, and those who can't can draw pictures for me! How about that? They can draw pictures of themselves and of their favourite things to do.”

“How do you draw fibs?” asked Tofu. “Because Olive will have to draw them.”

“Now Tofu,” scolded Mr Bing. “We mustn't say such things. What you've just said about Olive creates negative karma. But I'm sure that you didn't mean it, and so we'll move on and start our little project. I'll give you each a bit of paper and you can get down to work. What fun we shall all have!”