The World According to Bertie (35 page)

93. The World of Bertie–in His Own Words

Giving the tip of his pencil a lick for good luck, Bertie began to write:

The world according to Bertie.

My name is Bertie Pollock, and I'm a boy. I live in Scotland Street, which is a place in Edinburgh. Our house is at No. 44, which is easy to remember. It is hard to get lost in Scotland Street, because it just goes up and down and you can see each end if you stand in the middle. I have a brother called Ulysses, who is very small and can't talk or think yet. My Daddy's name is Stuart, and he works for the Scottish Executive, where he makes up numbers. I think that he is very good at that because he has been promoted and given more money.

My Mummy's name is Irene. She is quite tall and she talks more than Daddy, who sometimes tries to say something but is told not to say it by Mummy. Mummy has a friend called Dr Fairbairn, who is mad. He wears a blue jacket which Mummy says is made of stuff called linen. Dr Fairbairn lives in Queen Street. Most people have a living room, but he has a waiting room. He keeps copies of a magazine called
Scottish Field
in his waiting room so that people can read it before they go in to talk to him. I like reading
Scottish Field
because it has pictures of dogs and castles in it, and also pictures of people having fun. Often I see a picture of Mr Roddy Martine in it and also Mr Charlie Maclean. They go to parties and have lots of fun. I am not sure what they do apart from having fun, but I still think that they are quite busy.

Dr Fairbairn does not have much fun. I think that this is because he knows that they are going to send him to Carstairs one day. That is where they send all the really dangerous mad people. I think that they have booked a place for him there, but he is not ready to go just yet. Mummy will probably visit him there because she likes talking to him and she will miss him when he gets sent to Carstairs.

When she is not talking to Dr Fairbairn, Mummy likes going to the floatarium in Stockbridge. That is where she floats, in a special tank that makes you feel as if you are lying down on top of something. Mummy took Dr Fairbairn to the floatarium one day to show him how to float. I think that the tank is big enough for two people. Dr Fairbairn liked it because he seemed much more cheerful afterwards and did not just talk about ink-blots and dreams. Mummy said I should not tell Daddy about how we took Dr Fairbairn to the floatarium, as that would make Daddy want to go too and he would not like floating as much as Dr Fairbairn liked it. Mummy said that Daddy is happier with sums and numbers and that is the best thing for him to do.

My brother Ulysses looks just like Dr Fairbairn, but I do not think that he is mad like him. My friend Tofu tells me that there are lots of mad babies in Carstairs and that they have special padded playpens for them. I am not sure if this is true, because Tofu tells a lot of fibs and you never know when he is fibbing. One day his pants will go on fire and that will serve him right for all those fibs he has told.

We do not have any pets. I would like to have a dog, and a cat too. I would also like a rabbit and a hedgehog. Mummy says that all of these things are smelly and are best left in the wild. She says that dogs are really wolves and would be happier in the forest. She said that cats hate people and are spiteful too. She says that rabbits are an evolutionary mistake and that hedgehogs have lots of fleas. So I am not allowed to have any of these animals.

There is a dog who lives in Drummond Place. He belongs to a man called Mr Lordie, who paints pictures and who smells of turpentine. The dog is really nice. He is called Cyril and he has a gold tooth. When he opens his mouth to stick out his tongue you can see the gold tooth inside. He is a very smiley dog and everybody in Scotland Street, where I live, likes him, except for Mummy, because Cyril bit her when she called him bad and smelly. He was arrested for biting other people, but it was not him, and they got him out of the pound before they shot him. Now he is back and can go to the Cumberland Bar again. That is where people go to drink beer in the evenings. You cannot go there unless you are eighteen. There is a different rule for dogs. Dogs can go there even if they are only one.

When I am eighteen I am going to go to live in Glasgow or Australia, or maybe Paris, where I have already been. Once I went to Glasgow and I met a very fat man there called Mr O'Connor. Mr O'Connor eats deep-fried Mars bars and is very proud of Glasgow. Mummy did not like him when he came to see us, but my Daddy likes him, a bit.

That is everything about me. I am happy with my life except for some things. I do not want to have anymore psychotherapy and I do not want to go to yoga anymore. I would like to go out with my Dad more and I would like Olive not to come and play at my house. I would like to have some nice friends, nicer than Tofu, and I would like to make a fort in the gardens with these friends. I would also like to go fishing with my friends, on a boat, but I cannot do that now because I do not have a boat and I do not have those friends yet.

I think the world is nice. I think that it is very sad that there are people who are unkind to one another. I also think that it is sad that there are people who want to kill other people just because they do not like them. I think that we should share things, and not be selfish, like Tofu.

Miss Harmony was a very kind teacher. We all loved her and she was very kind to us. I hope that wherever she is she is happy. I want her to come back, though. I want things to be the same again and for everybody to be happy. That is what I want.

Bertie Pollock (6).

94. Some Battles Are Destined to Be Lost

Domenica had arranged to meet her old friend Dilly Emslie for coffee in the Patisserie Florentin in North West Circus Place. They had last met shortly after Domenica's return from the Malacca Straits, and Domenica had given Dilly an account of her anthropological research project among contemporary pirates–a project that had ultimately led to the discovery that the pirates stole intellectual property rather than anything else. Dilly had greeted this news with some relief; it was she who had encouraged Domenica to take on a new piece of research in the first place, although she had not envisaged that she would choose to work among pirates. Had Domenica come to an unfortunate end, she would have felt a certain responsibility, and so now, if Domenica again showed signs of itchy feet, she would certainly not give her any encouragement.

The two old friends had much to discuss.

“I take it that everybody behaved themselves while I was off in the Malacca Straits,” said Domenica, as she contemplated a small Italian biscuit that had been placed on the side of her plate.

“I'm afraid so,” said Dilly. “Or if they didn't, then word hasn't reached me yet.”

Domenica sighed. “So disappointing. That's Edinburgh's one, tiny little fault: most people behave rather well.”

“On the surface,” said Dilly, smiling. “But there are some people who are still capable of surprising one.”

“Next door, for example,” said Domenica. “My erstwhile friend, Antonia–she of the work-in-progress on the lives of the Scottish saints, and, incidentally, the person who removed a blue Spode teacup from my flat, but that's another story–she has just finished an affair with a Polish builder, would you believe it? A man who had only one word of English, and that was ‘brick.'”

“The strong and almost silent type,” said Dilly.

Domenica laughed. “Yes, but it's over now, and she's decided to look for a better sort of man. Where she'll find somebody like that, I have no idea, but hope springs eternal. Meanwhile, she continues to write about her saints.

“A very popular field at the moment,” she went on. “Do you know that Roger Collins is writing a great work on the lives of the popes? He's got quite far with it. I had tea with Judith McClure and she showed me the new study they've built. There are two desks in it–one for Judith and one for Roger, with a rather comfortable-looking chair that Roger can swing round in while he's writing about popes.”

“This city, taking a broad view of its boundaries, is becoming very productive,” said Dilly. “Roger Collins and his book on popes. And Allan Massie, with those marvellous historical novels of his. Even if the Borders claim him he's almost Edinburgh. And…”

“Ian Rankin writing all about criminal goings-on,” interjected Domenica. “Such an active imagination, and a very fine writer too. And then there's Irvine Welsh, with his vivid dialogue!”

“Quite an impressive range,” said Dilly.

Domenica nodded. “And that's only mentioning the books that make it into print. Imagine all the others. On which subject, do take a look at Stuart Kelly's
Book of Lost Books
–it's all about books that people have talked about but which were never really written or have been lost. Great missing masterpieces. Books that never were, but which may still contribute to their authors' reputations!”

They moved on. Had Domenica seen the latest article by Lynne Truss?

“A real heroine,” Domenica said.

“Yes,” said Dilly. “But I can't help but feel that she's fighting a losing battle. The other day I saw an article about grammatical mistakes that had two grammatical mistakes in it. And these weren't the examples–they were in the text itself.”

“Of course, language changes,” said Domenica. “And how do we decide what's correct? What did Professor Pinker say about the songs of the whales?”

“Oh, I think I remember that,” said Dilly. “Didn't he say that it would be nonsensical to point out that the whales made mistakes in their songs? That whale songs were what whales sang?”

“Something like that,” said Domenica. “He implied that grammatical rules should merely reflect the language that people used, because that's where they came from in the first place.”

Dilly smiled. “So they weren't handed down on tablets of stone? No Académie Française?”

“No. So if you were to ask me how I was, I suppose I could now reply either ‘Fine,' which is what I'd actually say, as would you, or ‘Good,' which is what lots of other people now say. They say: ‘I'm good.'” Domenica paused before continuing. “And I always think: how immodest! Because good is a moral quality when used without a noun.”

“There are some battles which are destined to be lost,” said Dilly.

Domenica lifted up her biscuit, examined it, and popped it into her mouth. “You're right. And I suppose that if we don't have an Académie Française to authorise words we must rely on what happens in the street, so to speak. Mind you, not all new words come into existence like that. Some new words are really very clever. Somebody must have made them up.”

Dilly thought for a moment. “Like
Robinsonade
. Do you know what that is? No? It's a word for a book which deals with people being taken out of their normal surroundings and dumped somewhere where they have to struggle to survive. It comes from Robinson Crusoe. So
Lord of the Flies
is a Robinsonade.”

They sipped at their coffee. “Well, words aren't the only things that change,” Domenica went on. “Look at Edinburgh. What used to be a prim, maiden aunt of a city is now something quite different. Should we embrace these changes?”

“If they're for the better,” said Dilly. “And lots of them are, surely?”

Domenica looked wistful. “Yes, some are. But I'm not sure if all of them are. I'm not sure if I think that crudity of language and attitude are things that we should embrace with enthusiasm. You know, I went to a Burns Supper a couple of years ago and I had to sit through a tirade against men from one of the speakers–a very aggressive performance. The speaker thought it appropriate to speak like that at a celebration of Burns' birthday. But I found myself wondering: why is it considered smart to be crude and combative?”

“There are quite a lot of people like that,” said Dilly.

They were both silent for a while. The sun came in through a high window, slanting. There was the smell of olive oil, of freshly baked bread; there was the murmur of conversation at a nearby table. For a brief moment, Domenica closed her eyes and imagined a parallel Scotland, one of kindness and courtesy, where the vulgarity of our age had no place, other than a shameful one. Was it wrong to dream of such a thing? Or was it just “uncool”?

95. Faster and Yet Faster–with a Surge of Panic

Matthew knew that he was moving too quickly, but he was like a man driving a car down a very steep hill; there were brakes, of course, but the car itself wanted to go faster and faster. He knew that what he should do with Elspeth Harmony was to get to know her better and then, if he was still sure that she was the right person, he could suggest whatever it was that he wanted to suggest. And what he wanted to suggest was marriage–just that. Matthew was now over twenty-eight. In fact, he was twenty-nine and would be thirty on his next birthday. Thirty!

People, or some people, would begin to look at him with something approaching pity. He would begin to get better insurance rates and he could start going on those overthirty holidays that he had seen advertised. The advertisements, of course, did not say anything about a top age limit–all they said was that the holidays were for those over thirty, and that meant, he realised, that he might find himself on holiday with people of forty or even fifty!

No, he would have to do something about finding somebody, and that is exactly what he had done. He had not looked for Elspeth–she had just turned up, on his doorstep, or the doorstep of his gallery, and they had immediately taken to one another. And now all he wanted to do was to make sure that she would stay with him and that she would move in to India Street. They would become a couple–a couple!–and they would build up a bank of memories, of things they had done together, places they had been. They would travel. They would go to Barbados, to the Seychelles, to India. They would take photographs of one another riding camels and sitting on a houseboat in the backwaters of Kerala while the sun went down and birds flocked to the trees. They would lie on a beach in Thailand, on Ko Samui, and listen to the waves. All this lay ahead, and Matthew wanted it to start as soon as possible.

His visit to Elspeth Harmony's flat was going well enough. She was distraught over her suspension from the school, but he was succeeding in getting her to see the positive side of this.

“Look on it as a career change,” he said. “Lots of people have them. And everybody says that it's a good thing.”

She thought about this for a moment. “But I haven't got another career to go to,” she said. “And do you think anyone will give a job to somebody who's been fired? Do you think that?”

“Not fired,” said Matthew. “You can resign before they fire you. You can resign right now.”

“But everybody will know that I've only resigned because I was about to get fired,” she pointed out. “You know what this town's like. Everybody knows everybody else.”

Matthew decided that it was time to be more direct. “So what if they know?” he said. “I know, and I'm still going to offer you a job.”

She stared at him in surprise.

“Yes,” he said. “You can have a job in my gallery. Straightaway. You can start tomorrow, if you like.” He paused. “Not that you'd have to do any work. Not real work. All you'd have to do is look after the gallery sometimes–when I go to auctions or to meet a client. Things like that.”

“But I don't know anything about art,” she protested. “Nothing at all.”

Matthew was about to say: “And nor do I,” but did not. Instead, he said, “That doesn't matter. You can learn as you go along. You can read Duncan Macmillan's book on Scottish art. There's lots of information there. And you'll pick it up. But you really don't need to bother.”

Elspeth laughed. “This sounds like a most peculiar job,” she said. “I have no qualifications for it, and I won't have to do much work. Will it be paid? Or will it be one of these jobs where you have to pay yourself to do it?”

“It'll be paid,” said Matthew eagerly. “And the pay is really, really good.”

She hesitated. She did not want to ask what the salary was, but this was such a peculiar situation that she might as well. “How much?” she inquired.

Matthew shrugged; he had not thought about the salary. “Oh, about…” He waved a hand in the air. “About sixty thousand a year.”

Elspeth said nothing for a moment. Then, her voice quiet: “I really don't think we should talk about this anymore,” she said. “It's very kind of you, but…”

Matthew felt a surge of panic. I'm going to lose her, he thought. I've mishandled this. She thinks that I'm trying to…to buy her!

He knew that he had to act, or he would have a lifetime to regret not acting. “Elspeth,” he said earnestly. “I may as well tell you that the job…Well, you can have the job of course, if you want it, but what I'm really talking about is something quite different. I want to ask you something, and I want you to know that whatever I've said up until now doesn't count for anything. But what I'm about to say to you now, well, I really do mean it. I want to ask you if you will marry me. That's all. I know that we hardly know one another, I know that, but I feel that you and I are…well, I just think that it feels right. It feels so right that I want you to know everything that I'm thinking, and it would be dishonest to pretend that I'm not thinking this. I want you to marry me. Please. Please. I really mean it.”

She said nothing for a few moments, but she was thinking, quickly. Nobody had ever asked Elspeth Harmony to marry him before. And she wanted to get married. She wanted to have a husband and children of her own. She liked Matthew; she liked him a great deal. Liking can become love. In fact, it had just done precisely that. Right then. She loved him.

“I'll marry you,” she said. “Yes, I'll marry you.” But then she thought: I should check up on one thing first.

“Would you want a family?” she asked. “Children?”

“Hundreds,” said Matthew. “Or at least four or five.”

“But we probably wouldn't be able to afford that many,” she said, smiling at his enthusiasm.

Matthew watched her as she spoke. Perhaps he should tell her. He did not want to tell her before she had said yes, but now he felt that he could.