Irene waved a hand vaguely. “No. They call them care assistants, or something like that. It’s very important work.”
“So what do the nurses do then, Mummy? If they have somebody else to take the bedpans to the patients, what’s left for the nurses to do? Do they do the things that doctors do? Can nurses take your tonsils out?”
“I think they’d like to,” said Irene. “And I’m sure that they’d be very good at it.”
She patted Bertie on the head. “Enough of that, Bertie! If Tofu and Olive are coming this afternoon, then Mummy must check to see that she has all the ingredients for the Dundee cake. And I must go and see if Ulysses is awake.”
She left Bertie to his own devices. But he just stood there, staring down at the floor. Grown-ups did not understand, he thought. They did not understand how difficult it was being six and having to live with people like Olive and even Tofu. Grown-ups spoke as if the world were simple; as if people behaved nicely to one another. But Bertie knew that they did not. When you were a boy, as he was, and saw the world the way in which boys saw it, it all looked very different. Olive and Tofu would fight because that’s what people like that did: they fought. And it would end up with Tofu spitting at Olive, and Olive screaming and perhaps even trying to stab Tofu with the syringe from her junior nurse’s kit. Bertie could see it coming, but why was his mother so blinkered, so utterly unaware of the strikingly obvious? There was so much that she seemed just not to notice, thought Bertie – obvious things, like the way that Ulysses looked so like Dr. Fairbairn. Little things like that.
27. Pink for Danger
“So this is your place,” said Tofu, looking round him, wrinkling his nose slightly, as if there were a faintly unpleasant odour. Bertie, standing in the hallway, watching Tofu guardedly, wondered if his house smelled. People said that if your house smelled you might never know it because you became so used to it. And it was the same with people themselves, he believed; Hiawatha presumably did not know that his socks smelled but just accepted that this was what socks were like – naturally. Of course Olive had told him, quite bluntly in fact, but he had just laughed and pretended not to understand what she was talking about. That was the best tactic with Olive, thought Bertie. One should just laugh and pretend not to hear what she was saying; it was difficult, though, as sound advice so often was.
“So who lives here with you, Bertie?” asked Tofu, still looking round.
“My Mummy,” said Bertie. “And my Dad. And my little brother …”
“Is it true that your dad’s a wimp?” interrupted Tofu. “Not that I say that, of course. It’s just that everyone else does. Just like everyone else says your mummy’s a cow. Not me. Everyone else, though.” He looked at Bertie, waiting for the answer.
Bertie felt flustered. He admired his father and could not understand why anybody would consider him a wimp. He was not. “That’s not true,” he said hotly. “My dad’s – ”
Tofu cut him short. “Keep your hair on! I didn’t say it, remember?”
“Well you shouldn’t repeat fibs,” said Bertie. “Especially about people’s dads. What about your mummy then?”
Tofu became defensive. “My mummy? What about her?”
Bertie felt the advantage switch to him. “Olive says that your mummy’s in Saughton Prison. She said that she’s there for murder. I didn’t say it. Olive did.”
Tofu’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not,” he said. Then he looked down at the floor. “She … she was eaten by a lion in the Serengeti Game Reserve. I was very small. I don’t remember it. But my dad does, and that’s why he became a vegan.”
Bertie was a naturally sympathetic boy and his heart went out to Tofu. He had seen a picture of the Serengeti Game Reserve and it had been full of lions. Although Tofu was a notorious liar, this, at least, had the ring of truth. “I’m really sorry, Tofu,” said Bertie. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Tofu seemed relieved to be off the subject of mothers and now expressed an interest in seeing Bertie’s younger brother. “He’s probably sleeping,” said Bertie. “But we can take a look in his room if we don’t make a noise.”
They walked along the corridor and Bertie pushed open the door into Ulysses’ room. The baby, snuffling quietly, was lying in his cot.
“That’s him,” said Bertie. “He can’t say anything yet. And I don’t think he can think very much either. But he’s quite happy, most of the time. He’s called Ulysses.”
“Stupid name,” said Tofu. “But I suppose that’s not his fault.”
“Ulysses was a Greek,” said Bertie. “He was a Greek hero. In a legend.”
“Still stupid,” said Tofu, peering at Ulysses over the edge of the cot. “He looks really ugly, Bertie. Are you sure that he’s the right way up? Is that his face – or is it his bottom?”
“He’s not ugly,” said Bertie, defensively. “Babies can’t help looking like that. All babies look like that.”
“But some are uglier than others,” retorted Tofu. “And that’s a really ugly one you’ve got there, Bertie. Do you think that there’s a competition for ugly babies? Because he could win a prize, you know. You should ask.”
This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Irene, who had heard the boys going into the room and had come to find out what was going on. “I know you’ve come to admire little Ulysses,” she whispered. “But he needs his sleep, or he becomes a little bit crotchety. Why don’t you go and play in Bertie’s room?”
This is exactly what Bertie had hoped not to do. His room, which had been painted pink by his mother, was an embarrassment, and he had made a small sign for the door: Closed for Renovation. That, he hoped, would prevent Tofu from seeing the room at all.
“Good idea,” said Tofu. “Let’s go, Bertie.”
Bertie was trapped. Tofu would laugh at his room – he knew it, but it seemed to him that he now had no alternative.
“Closed for what?” asked Tofu as he peered at the sign. “What does this say, Bertie?”
“Nothing,” muttered Bertie, as he took the sign down.
They went in. Tofu took a step or two into the room and then stopped. He looked around at the walls, and at the ceiling; then he turned to look at Bertie. “Pink,” he said.
Bertie felt himself on the verge of tears, but checked himself. It was bad enough Tofu’s seeing his pink room; how much worse would it be if Tofu saw him crying.
“That’s an undercoat,” he said miserably. “The next coat of paint will be white.”
It was as if Tofu had not heard him. “Pink walls!” he gloated. “Boy, wait until the others hear this. Pink walls!”
Bertie said nothing.
Tofu, smirking, stared at his host. “Do you know what pink means, Bertie? Do you know?”
Bertie shook his head. He had no idea what pink meant, other than that it was a girl’s colour. That was all he knew.
“Pink is a colour for sissies,” said Tofu. “You know that? Sissies.”
Bertie was not sure what a sissy was, but he did not think that he was one. He was just an ordinary boy, like any other boy, and it was so unfair that he had this pink room and those pink dungarees. And what sort of friend was Tofu, that he should rub it all in? It was so unfair.
“I’m not a sissy, Tofu,” stuttered Bertie. “I’m not.”
“Then why do you have a pink room?” asked Tofu.
Bertie did not answer. He was wondering if he could somehow get rid of Tofu; if he could ask him to leave. He did not think so. Tofu had come to play and was to be there until five o’clock when his father came to collect him. There was no escape …
Then there were steps behind him and the door was opened. “Look who’s here,” said Irene brightly. “Olive.”
Tofu spun round and glared at the new arrival. “Hello, Bertie,” said Olive, ignoring Tofu. “Are we going to play in your pink room?”
“It’s not pink,” growled Tofu. “It’s … sort of red. Are you colour-blind, Olive?”
Bertie, defended in this way, the beneficiary of male solidarity, could have embraced Tofu with gratitude. But did not, of course, as that would have been sissy.
28. Unmarried Bliss
Bruce had not expected to find his new job difficult. And it was not. “Anybody could manage a wine bar,” he said to Julia one morning over breakfast. “Even you.”
Julia looked up from the catalogue she was reading. Mauve was in this year; look at all that mauve. Even that full-length cashmere coat. Mauve. It was the sort of thing that she had seen at Barneys in New York when her father had taken her over there for her birthday. It was expensive, of course, but Barneys was worth it. Everything there had edge. That was pre-Bruce, of course. Perhaps she should take Bruce over for a weekend and show him round.
“Me?” she said. “Me what?”
“Nothing,” said Bruce, smiling. “You, nothing. I was just talking about running the wine bar and what a doddle it is.”
Julia returned to her catalogue. “That’s nice,” she said.
Bruce reached for his acai juice. He had looked in the mirror a few days ago and had experienced a bit of a shock. There was a line, a wrinkle even, at the side of his mouth. At first he had thought it was a mark of some sort, a smudge, but after he had rubbed at it, it was still there. That had made him think. It was all very well being drop-dead gorgeous, as he admitted to himself he really was, but could you be drop-dead gorgeous with wrinkles?
Moisturiser, he thought. More moisturiser and more anti-oxidants, such as acai juice, which was also good for the … in that department. Now, drinking his acai juice, he looked over the rim of the glass at Julia, his fiancée, sitting on the other side of the table. There was no sign of her being pregnant – no visible sign yet – and she was still a bit drop-dead gorgeous herself. Both of us, he thought; both drop-dead gorgeous.
Bruce had to admit that he was happy. He was not one to sit down and count his blessings, but they were, he decided, manifold. Firstly, he had this marvellous flat in Howe Street – it was in Julia’s name, actually, but a brief “I do” in front of some minister wheeled out for the purpose and all that would be changed! God, it’s easy, he said to himself. Marriage brings everything: a flat, a job. Get married, boys; that’s the life!
And then there was the car, the Porsche – not quite the model he would have picked if he had been given a totally free rein, but a Porsche nonetheless. A Porsche was a statement. It said something about you, about how you felt about yourself. Of course there were always those wet blankets who said that you only drove a car like that if you were making up for something – some inadequacy, perhaps. But that was rubbish, Bruce thought. That was the sort of thing made up by people who would never get a Porsche and knew it. They had to come up with something to make themselves feel better about their Porsche-less state.
And of course there was money. Bruce had suggested to Julia that they have a shared current account.
“No need to double things up,” he said. “You know how banks slap on the charges. Keep it straightforward. One account for both of us. Simple.”
Julia, who received a monthly allowance of three thousand pounds from her father, and who had only the vaguest idea about money, was happy enough to do this. Bruce’s salary from the wine bar, once tax was deducted, also turned out to be three thousand pounds, and so together they had a disposable income of six thousand pounds a month. Bruce had discovered that Julia rarely used much more than a quarter of this, as she liked to try on clothes but not necessarily buy them. So he was in a position to spend more than his salary, if he wished, although that proved to be rather difficult. He could get more clothes, of course, and shoes and general accessories, but beyond that, what could one spend the money on? It was a bit of a challenge – a pleasant challenge, of course, but a challenge nonetheless.
Recently Bruce had bought himself five pairs of shoes and one pair of slippers from the Shipton & Heneage catalogue (he had acquired the habit of reading catalogues from Julia). He had bought two pairs of single-buckle monk shoes – one pair in brown and the other in black; a pair of burgundy loafers; a pair of patent leather evening pumps, with discreet fabric bows; and a pair of George boots in supple black leather. The slippers were monogrammed, BA, and had embroidered gold Prince of Wales feathers on the toes for good measure. They were made of black velvet and had firm leather soles.
But all this material comfort was topped by having Julia herself. In the earlier days of their relationship, Bruce had wondered how he would possibly be able to bear her vacuousness and her simpering. He had gritted his teeth when she called him Brucie, and when she insisted on sharing the shower with him. Of course, she’s mad about me, he told himself. That was understandable – women just were. But I wish she’d give me a bit more room. You can’t have somebody stroking you all the time, as if you were a domestic cat.
Then, slowly and almost imperceptibly, his attitude towards Julia had changed. From mild irritation at her apparent obsession with him, he had come to appreciate it. He found himself looking forward to coming back from work – if his job could be described as work – and finding Julia waiting for him with her cooing and her physical endearments. I’m fond of her, he found himself thinking. I actually like this woman.
Miracle! thought Bruce, in French. I’m settling down at last. And what a way to settle: money, flat, Porsche, sexy-looking woman who thinks I’m the best thing ever – and who can blame her? All on a plate. All there before me for the taking. And I have taken it.
He drained his acai juice. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight,” he said. “The St. Honoré?”
Julia shrugged. “Maybe.” Then, after a pause, “Actually, I’ve been invited to a party. And I’m sure they won’t mind if you come too. I meant to tell you. There’s a party down in Clarence Street.”
“Clarence Street? Who do we know there?”
“I know them. I don’t think you do. Watson Cooke? Do you know him?”
Bruce thought. Watson Cooke? Where had he heard that name before? Somewhere. But where?
29. An Unwelcome Message
Bruce felt vaguely irritated. He had not particularly wanted to go out to dinner and had proposed that they should do so more for Julia’s sake than his own. What annoyed him was that she should not want to spend time with him in the intimate circumstances of a table for two at the St. Honoré; this both angered and surprised him, in fact. Most girls – every girl he had ever met – would jump at the chance to go out to dinner with him, thought Bruce, and who did Julia think she was to come up with a counter-proposal? Watson Cooke? Bruce was at first inclined to say No, I don’t want to go to a party in Clarence Street at Watson Cooke’s place. But then, just when he had decided to say this, Julia arose from the table and said, “I’ll tell Watson that we can come. You’ll like him.”
“Who …” Bruce began, but she had left the room and the rest of his question – which was who was Watson Cooke – would have been addressed to an empty kitchen.
Bruce’s feeling of irritation lasted for much of the rest of the day. That morning he had to conduct interviews for new bar staff, a task he did not really enjoy, as the applicants were, for the most part, unappointable. It was not that they lacked experience – some of them had served in bars for years – it was just that, well, he had to admit it privately, it’s just that they were so unattractive. The women were such frumps and the young men so pale and … He could not find quite the right word to describe the young men, but unappointable would have to do.
In desperation he telephoned the agency which had sent the candidates over. “Those people,” he said. “Not much of a bunch.”
The woman at the other end of the line sounded puzzled. “Not much of a bunch?”
“Useless,” said Bruce. “Dross. Human dross.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Are you saying that they weren’t suitable in some way? Not sufficiently qualified?”
>
“Unsuitable,” said Bruce. “I wouldn’t want any of them cluttering up my wine bar. We’re a place, well, I suppose one would just have to say, we’re a place with a certain coolness. Do you know what I mean?”
“So you’re saying that all of those young people weren’t cool enough? Do I understand you correctly?”
Bruce laughed. “Exactement,” he said. “Haven’t you got anything better? My customers like to have somebody half-way presentable serving them. They don’t want to be served by somebody who looks as if she’s on day release from Edinburgh Zoo.”
Again there was a silence at the other end. “I’m not sure if I understand you.”
Bruce sighed. “Well, let me explain. You sent four men and two women – right?”
“I believe so.”
“So,” said Bruce. “Take the two women first. There was one called Shona, I think. Now, I don’t like to be unkind, but, frankly, she was pretty gross. I don’t know where she got her nose from, but … there are limits, you know.”
“Her nose? Shona’s nose?”
“Yes. Helen of Troy’s face may have launched a thousand ships, but Shona’s nose must have sunk a few. More than a few, maybe.”
Bruce heard the woman breathing heavily. Asthma, perhaps. But then, “I suppose she got her nose from me,” said the voice. “I am her mother, after all.”
Bruce bit his lip. “Ah,” he said. “Her …” He stopped; the receiver at the other end had been put down.
He shrugged. Some people had no sense of humour and he had never liked that woman, anyway; not that he had met her, but one could tell. The call, however, had unsettled him and the rest of the day was spent in a state of discontent. By the time five o’clock arrived, he was ready to go home and to tell Julia that he had decided that they would not go to the party in Clarence Street after all. Julia, however, was not in when he returned to Howe Street.
“It’s me,” called Bruce, as he entered the flat, throwing a quick glance at the hall mirror. Nice profile. “It’s moi.”
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones Page 10