The World According to Bertie (9 page)

22. A Little Argument Develops Over…Guess What?

Matthew did not like it when people said “guess what?” to him, which is the very expression with which Pat greeted him when he returned to the gallery. Being asked to guess what had happened struck him as pointless–one could never guess accurately in such circumstances, which was precisely why one was asked to do so.

“I don't see why I should try to guess,” he said peevishly. “If I did, I would be completely wrong and you would just revel in your advantage over me. So I'm not going to guess.”

Pat looked at him with surprise. He had been in a good mood when he left for his appointment; something must have gone wrong with that meeting to produce this irritable response. “I was only asking,” she said.

Matthew tossed the file that he was carrying down on the desk. “You weren't asking,” he said. “Asking me to guess isn't really asking anything. You just want to show me that I don't know what's happened. That's all.”

Pat was not sure how to react to this. It seemed to her a completely unimportant matter–an argument over nothing. She had said “guess what?” but she was not really expecting him to try to guess. In fact, she had intended merely to point to the red sticker which now adorned Angus Lordie's painting. It was good news, after all, not bad. Aggrieved, she decided that she would defend herself. “I don't know why you're so ratty,” she said. “Lots of people say ‘guess what?' when they have some news to give somebody else. It's just a thing they say. They don't really expect you to guess.”

“Well, I'm not guessing,” said Matthew.

Pat looked away. “Then I'm not going to tell you,” she said. She would not tell him; she would not.

For a moment there was silence. Then Matthew spoke. “You have to,” he said. “You can't say something like that and then not tell me.”

“Not if you're going to be so rude,” said Pat.

Matthew raised his voice. “You're the one who was being rude. Not me. You're the one who wanted to expose my ignorance of whatever it is you know and I don't. That's hardly very friendly, is it?”

Pat was still seated at the desk and now she looked up at Matthew. “You're the one who's not being friendly,” she said. “All I was trying to do was to give you some good news and you bit my head off. Just like that.”

Matthew's expression remained impassive. “You sold a painting.”

Pat had not expected this. “Maybe,” she muttered.

“There!” crowed Matthew. “I guessed! Now, don't say anything. No, let me guess.”

“You said you didn't want to guess,” snapped Pat. “Now you're saying you do. You should make up your mind, you know.”

“I'm guessing because I've decided I want to guess,” said Matthew. “That's very different from being made to guess when you don't want to. You should have said: ‘Would you like me to tell you something or would you prefer to guess?' That would have been much more polite.” He paused. “Now, let me think. You've sold a painting. Right. So which painting would it be? One of the MacTaggarts? No, I don't think so. It's not the sort of day on which one sells a MacTaggart. No. So, let's see.”

Pat decided to put an end to this. If Matthew had been unprepared to guess when she had very politely offered him the chance, then she did not see why he should now have the privilege of guessing. “I'm going to tell you. It's…”

“No!” interjected Matthew. “Don't spoil it. You can't get somebody guessing and then stop them. Come on, Pat–I'm going to guess. Let's think. All right–you sold Angus Lordie's painting. Yes! You sold the totally white one.”

“You saw the sticker,” said Pat. “That wasn't a proper guess.”

Matthew was injured innocence itself. “I did not see the sticker! I did not!”

“You must have. You saw it when you came in and then you pretended not to. Well, I think that's just pathetic, I really do.”

“I did not see the sticker,” shouted Matthew. “Who knows better what I saw or didn't see? You or me? No, don't look like that, just tell me? Who knows what I saw? You or me?”

Pat recalled what her father had said about the mind and its tricks of perception. It was likely that Matthew had in fact seen the sticker when he came in, even if he did not know that he had seen it.

“You don't always know what you've seen,” she said. “The mind registers things at a subconscious level. You may not know that you've seen something, but you have. The mind knows it subconsciously.”

Matthew stared at her. “Look,” he said, “let's not fight. I'm sorry if I went on about guessing. I suppose I'm just a bit…Well, I don't know, I'm just a bit.”

She held out her hand and touched him briefly. “All right. Sorry too.”

“I can hardly believe that you sold that painting,” he said, adding, “If you can call it a painting. How did they pay?”

Pat reached for the card she had been given. “Well, he hasn't paid yet. But he did ask for a red sticker to be put up.”

She handed him the card. He examined it and frowned. “The Duke of where?”

“Johannesburg,” said Pat. “He was a man with a mustache. About your height. He was wearing a red bandanna.”

Matthew stared at the card. “I've never heard of him,” he said. “Are you sure he exists? Are you sure this isn't some sort of joke?”

Pat felt defensive. She had begun to doubt herself now, and she wondered whether she should simply have taken the man's card and put up a sticker. It did seem a bit trusting, but if one couldn't trust dukes, then whom could one trust?

“He seemed…” She trailed off.

Matthew looked doubtful. “It seems a bit unlikely,” he said. “Why would Johannesburg have a duke? And what's all this about these clubs? Where's the Gitchigumi Club for heaven's sake?”

“Duluth,” said Pat. “That's what it says there. Duluth.”

“And where exactly is that?” asked Matthew.

“Duluth?”

“Yes. Where's Duluth?”

Pat thought for a moment. “Guess,” she said. She had no idea, and could only guess herself. Minnesota?

23. An Embarrassing Trip on the Bus for Bertie

When classes were over for the day and the children spilled out, Irene met Bertie at the school gate. This was not an ideal situation from Bertie's point of view as it gave his mother the opportunity to make the sort of arrangement which had caused him such concern–of which the proposed visit, or series of visits, by Olive was a prime example. He had suggested that they meet further up the road, at the junction of Spylaw Road and Ettrick Road, well away from the eyes of his classmates, but this proposal had been greeted by Irene with an understanding smile.

“Now, Bertie,” she said, “Mummy knows that you're ashamed of her! And you mustn't feel ashamed of feeling ashamed. All children are embarrassed by their parents–it's a perfectly normal stage through which you go. Melanie Klein…” She paused. She could not recall precisely what Melanie Klein had written on the subject, but she was sure that there was something. It had to do with idealisation of the female parental figure, or mother, to use the vernacular. Or it was related to the need of the child to establish a socially visible persona which was defined in isolation from the mother's personality. By distancing himself from her, Bertie thought that he might grow in stature in relation to those boys who were still under maternal skirts. Well, that was understandable enough, but the development of the young ego could still be assisted by saying it does not matter. In that way, the child would transcend the awkward stage of parental/infant uncoupling and develop a more integrated, self-sufficient ego.

“It doesn't matter, Bertie,” Irene said. “It really doesn't.”

Bertie looked at his mother. It was difficult sometimes to make out what she was trying to say, and this was one of those occasions. “What doesn't matter?” he asked.

Irene reached out and took his hand. They were travelling home on the 23 bus, with Bertie's baby brother, Ulysses, fitted snugly round Irene's front in a sling. Bertie liked to travel on the upper deck, but they were not there now as the concentration of germs there was greater, Irene said, than below, and Ulysses's immune system was not yet as strong as it might be. Bertie tried to slip his hand out of his mother's, but her grip was tight. He looked around him furtively to see if anybody from school might see him holding hands with his mother on the bus; fortunately, there was nobody.

“It doesn't matter that you feel embarrassed about being seen with me at the school gate,” she said. “Those feelings are natural. But it also doesn't matter what other people think of you, Bertie. It really doesn't.”

Bertie's face flushed. He looked down at the floor. “I'm not embarrassed, Mummy,” he said.

“Oh yes, you are!” said Irene, her voice rising playfully. “Mummy can tell!
Roberto è un poco imbarazzato
!”

“
Non è vero
,” mumbled Bertie. He glanced out of the window; they were barely at Tollcross, which meant it was at least another ten minutes before they reached Dundas Street, ten minutes of agony. Ulysses, at least, was asleep, which meant that he was doing little to draw anybody's attention, but then he suddenly made a loud, embarrassing noise. On the other side of the bus, a boy only a few years older than Bertie, a boy travelling by himself, glanced at Bertie and smirked. Bertie looked away.

“You see, Bertie,” Irene went on, “Mummy understands. And all I want is that you should be able to rise above the terrors of being your age. I know what it's like. You think I don't, because all children think that grown-ups know nothing. Well we know a lot–we really do. I know what it's like to be small and to be worried about what other children are thinking. All I want is for you to be free of that, to be able to be yourself. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Bertie thought quickly. He found that one of the best strategies with his mother was to distract her in some way, to change the subject, and this is what he now did.

“Olive said that she was going to come to my house,” he said.

“Our house,” corrected Irene. “Bertie lives there with Mummy and Daddy and, of course, dear little Ulysses. And yes,
è vero
, I have invited Olive. I spoke to her mummy at the school gate and suggested that Olive should come down to Scotland Street one afternoon a week. This will suit her mummy, who is doing a degree course at the university, you see. And it will be nice to have somebody for you to play with. You'll have a lot of fun.”

Bertie stared at his mother. “I don't want to play with Olive, Mummy. She's very bossy.”

Irene laughed. “Bossy? Olive? Come now, Bertie, she's a charming little girl. You two will get on like a house on fire.”

“I want to play with other boys,” said Bertie.

Irene patted him on the shoulder. “There'll be time for that later on, Bertie. You'll find that Olive is plenty of fun to play with–more fun, in fact, than boys. And, anyway, we have agreed and we can hardly uninvite Olive, can we?”

Bertie said nothing. Long experience of his mother–all six years of it–had taught him that there was no point in arguing. He looked at Ulysses, who had now woken up and had opened his eyes. The baby was staring at Bertie with that steady, intense stare that only babies can manage. Bertie looked back at his little brother. Poor little boy, he thought. Just you wait. Just you wait until she starts on you. Mozart. Yoga. Melanie Klein…

Ulysses's gaze drifted away from Bertie and up towards Irene. Immediately, he began to cry.

“He's hungry,” said Irene. And with that she loosened the sling and began to unbutton her blouse.

“Can't he wait, Mummy?” whispered Bertie. “Please let him wait.”

“Babies can't,” said Irene, now exposing her breast. “Here, darling. Mummy's ready.”

Bertie froze. He dared not look across the aisle to where that boy was sitting, but then he snatched a quick glance and saw the boy staring at the scene, his face full of disgust. Bertie looked away quickly. I want to die, he thought suddenly. I just don't want to be here.

Ulysses was making guzzling sounds, and then burped.

24. Angus Meets the Expert on Mistake-Making

Angus Lordie, of course, did not yet know of his apparent good fortune. Had he known, his mood might have lifted, but then again it might not: Cyril was still detained, and life without Cyril was proving hard.

Cyril had been a constant presence in his life for the last six years. When he was working in his studio, Cyril would be there, lying in the basket provided for him in a corner, watching Angus with half an eye, ready to respond to the slightest sign that it was time for a walk. And when he went down to the Cumberland Bar to sit at his usual table and pass the time in conversation, Cyril would accompany him, lying under the table, guarding the small dish of beer which was his ration for the night. Cyril did not disagree with anything that Angus said or did; Cyril would wait for hours for the slightest acknowledgement of his presence by his master, wagging his tail with undisguised enthusiasm whenever his name was uttered. Cyril never complained, never indicated that he wanted things to be otherwise than they were as disposed by Angus. And now that Cyril was gone, there was a great yawning void in Angus Lordie's life.

Ever since Cyril's arrest, on suspicion of biting, Angus had done his utmost for him. He had immediately contacted his lawyer, who had been extremely supportive.

“We'll get him out,” the lawyer had said. “They need proof that he's the one who did the biting. And I don't see what proof they have.”

“Find an advocate,” said Angus. “Get the best. I don't care what it costs.”

The lawyer nodded. “If that's what you want.”

It was, and now Angus was preparing for a consultation with the advocate who had been engaged to represent Cyril. They were to meet that morning, in the premises of the Faculty of Advocates, to discuss the case and the strategy that would be adopted. As Angus trudged up the Mound to attend this meeting, his mind was full of foreboding. He had seen an item in
The Scotsman
that morning about a sheepdog that had been ordered to be destroyed after it had herded a group of Japanese tourists into the waters of Loch Lomond. Would a similar order be made in respect of Cyril? Could dogs effectively be executed these days? Surely that was too cruel a punishment, even if a dog had bitten somebody. And that sheepdog was just doing what it thought was its duty.

He walked across Parliament Square, past the front of St Giles', the High Kirk, that scene of so many of Edinburgh's dramas. The streets here were steeped in history: here traitors, criminals, simple heretics had been dragged on their last journey; here the Edinburgh mob had howled its protests against its masters; here Charles Edward Stuart himself had ridden past in his vain attempt at the regaining of a kingdom; here Hume had walked with his friends. And now here was he in his private misery, going to the seat of justice to plead for the life of a dog whom he loved, who was his friend.

He walked into Parliament Hall and watched as lawyers strolled up and down the hall, deep in conversation with one another, going over their pleadings, strategies, possible settlements. He was early for the consultation–he had at least half an hour in hand–and he decided to sit down on a bench at the side. He looked up at the high hammer-beam roof with its great arches of Scandinavian oak and at the portraits which surrounded the hall; such dignity, such grandeur, and yet behind it all were the ordinary, stubborn facts of human existence–grinding labour, power, vanity. We dressed our affairs in splendour, but they remained at root grubby little mixtures of hope and tragedy and failure; while round about the foundations of this human world ran the dogs, enthusiasts all, pursuing their own doggy lives in the shadow of their masters, free, but only until they collided with human aims. And then the dogs were smacked or locked up, or, if they overstepped a mark they knew nothing about, given a sharp little injection that put an end to it all for them.

He was still looking up at the ceiling when he became aware of the fact that somebody had sat down on the bench beside him. Angus glanced at his neighbour–a man a bit younger than himself, wearing a suit and tie, and looking at that moment at his wristwatch.

Angus decided to strike up a conversation; anything was better than thinking about Cyril and durance vile. “You're giving evidence?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm a so-called expert.” The other man laughed. “Actually, I suppose I am an expert–it's just that I never call myself that. I'm a psychologist, you see. I specialise in how people do things, in particular how they make mistakes.”

Angus was interested. “So what's going on today?”

“Oh, it's the usual thing,” said the psychologist. “Somebody made a mistake over something. They've called me to give evidence on how the mistake was made. They want to find out who's responsible. That's what they do up here.”

“Whose fault?”

The psychologist smiled. “Well, yes. But what these people,” he indicated the lawyers, “what they don't understand is that mistakes, human error, may have nothing to do with fault. We all make mistakes–however careful we are.”

“Yes,” mused Angus. “This morning I put tea in the coffee pot…”

“But of course you would!” said the psychologist. “That's exactly the sort of mistake that people make. We call it a slip/lapse error. We do that sort of thing mostly when we're doing things that we are very used to doing. We're wearing our glasses and we look for them. Or we dial one familiar number when we mean to dial another. I know somebody who thought he had dialled his lover and had dialled his wife. He launched straight into the conversation and said: ‘I can't see you tonight–she's invited people to dinner.' And his wife said: ‘Good. So you've remembered.'”

Angus laughed, although the story, he thought, was a sad one.

“And you?” asked the psychologist. “Why are you here?”

“Because of my god,” Angus replied.

The psychologist frowned. Then his expression lightened.

“You mean dog! Another slip/lapse error! The transposing of
g
and
d
.” He paused. “Mind you,” he said, “if one were a theist, your statement would be correct. Unless, of course, one removed the space between
a
and
theist
, in which case it would be incorrect.”

“Oh,” said Angus.