Angus stared at the man, astonished by his vast bulk, and by the dingy beige jersey he was wearing under an outsize black donkey jacket. He had seen him somewhere before; but where was it? and then he remembered. This was the man who had come into Big Lou’s café months ago, maybe even last year, and who had dealt with that unpleasant boyfriend of hers, the one who had virtually cleaned out her bank account – and would have got away with it, had it not been for this man whose name was … was … Lard O’Connor. That was it. Lard O’Connor! And here he was in Glass and Thompson, of all places; not their usual sort of customer.
Angus rose to his feet, while Cyril cowered under the vast bulk of the new arrival. “Mr. O’Connor?”
Lard swung round in surprise. “Aye, that’s mysel. And you’re …”
“Angus Lordie, sir. We met in Big Lou’s last year, I think.”
Lard scratched his head. “Big Lou? Oh, aye, that nice wumman. So youse were there were youse? So you were. I canna remember everything these days. But mebbe …”
Angus gestured to the other chair at his table. “Will you join me?”
Lard leaned his parcel against the wall and lowered himself into the chair. “Do they do pie and chips?” he asked. “I could dae wi’ a wee pie and chips, so I could.”
Angus smiled. “Well, it’s quiche, actually, this being Edinburgh. And I fear they don’t do chips.”
“Quiche? Ach well, make it a double for me. Double quiche. And lots of tomato sauce.”
Angus rose to his feet and passed the order to one of the young men behind the counter, who glanced at Lard and raised an eyebrow.
“I came over frae Glasgow,” said Lard, when Angus returned to the table. “I wanted to see my wee pal Matthew at his picture shop. But there’s a closed sign and it says he’s away for another week. All the way frae Glasgow fur nuthin. Jings. What a waste of time.”
Angus glanced at the parcel – it was painting-size. So Lard had acquired a painting, and how would he have done that? Fallen off something, no doubt.
“You have a painting to show him?”
“Aye. It’s a picture of a man. A bonny picture. Old. Fifty years at least.”
Angus glanced at the parcel again. “Perhaps you’d like to leave it with me,” he said. “Matthew is on his honeymoon – in Australia. I can keep it for him until he comes back.”
Lard seemed to weigh this proposal for a while before he nodded his assent. “It would be easier, right enough. I dinnae fancy carting that back tae Glasgow.”
“May I ask what the painting is?” asked Angus.
“Take a look if you like,” said Lard. “Up at the top there. Take the paper aff.”
Angus reached over and peeled the paper away at the top of the parcel. The frame, he noted immediately, was of good quality, gilt, with a patina of age. He looked up at Lard. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”
He pushed the paper further down, and as he did so he caught his breath, loudly, so loudly that Cyril looked up. Raeburn. It was unmistakeable. Sir Henry Raeburn, the greatest of the Scottish portrait painters of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, heir to the genius of Allan Ramsay, the man who captured the spirit of Edinburgh in subtle reds and blacks, in shadows and folds of cloth, and in cautious, astute eyes.
But when he looked further down, and saw the face, he could hardly contain himself. It was believed that Raeburn had painted Robert Burns, but the portrait had been lost. This was it. This was the Bard, caught on a visit to the capital; the comet of his genius passing quickly over the Edinburgh firmament, but slowly enough for Raeburn to preserve for posterity. And here was the result, in the parcel of a Glasgow heavy, in every sense of the word.
Lard studied Angus’s expression. “Will you look after it, then? Just for a week?”
Angus looked up from the painting. “I’d look after it till all the seas gang dry,” he said. “And the rocks melt wi’ the sun.”
“Does that mean yes?” asked Lard.
Angus nodded. “Yes, it does.”
“You’ve got an awfie odd way of expressing yoursels here in Edinburgh,” said Lard. “You sez wan thing and mean anither.”
51. Prodigious Fibs
The day on which Bertie was due to go to his first meeting of the First Morningside Cub Scout Pack was, for him, a day of extraordinary excitement. He knew that the issue of his membership had divided his parents; he had heard the arguments between them – often intense – and he had picked up from his mother’s manner that she had, on this question at least, been defeated. It was unlike his father to stand up to his mother – he knew that from long experience – but on this point at least he had done so. This new determination, however, had not carried through on the question of the Swiss Army knife, which had somehow been shelved. But Bertie had decided that one victory was enough, especially in a campaign in which one side had, until now, been consistently defeated. So nothing more was said of the knife lest it disturb the apparently settled matter of cub scout membership.
Of course there was another respect in which the membership of the cub scouts seemed an uncertain matter, and not one to be counted upon. This was the issue of age. In the literature on the matter that Bertie had perused, it stated quite clearly that the age at which one might join the cub scout movement was eight. Before that, it appeared that there was another organisation, the Beavers, which one might join at the age of six before progressing, in the fullness of time, to the dizzy heights of the cub scout section itself. Bertie was six, and had been six for some time, and although there were occasions on which he had used the fact of being six as a defence, this was not one. When Irene had insisted, for instance, that he join the Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra, Bertie had pleaded that he was seven years too young for that; to no avail. Chronological age had never put Irene off – she had once talked about the possibility of Bertie’s being admitted to university on the grounds that he was sufficiently advanced intellectually to hold his own there, and this had led to an acrimonious exchange with an admissions tutor at the University of Edinburgh who had, for some strange reason, taken a contrary view.
“And at what age did David Hume start at the University of Edinburgh?” Irene had shouted down the telephone. “Would you care to inform me of that?”
“I have no idea,” said the tutor. “But that is not the point, I’m afraid. There are now rules …”
“Eleven,” interjected Irene. “Hume was eleven when he enrolled at your university.”
The tutor sighed. “Things were very different in the eighteenth century. One can hardly …”
“And Mozart?” interrupted Irene again. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory as to Mozart’s age when he composed his first symphony?”
“Mozart was a prodigy. Yes. But these days … Health and Safety …”
“Mozart was eight,” said Irene. “Eight.”
“And what age is your son, again?”
“He’s six, in strict chronological terms. But the whole point that I’m making is that what counts is intellectual maturity. But let us not prolong this argument. I can see that you’re unwilling to budge. There are other universities, you know. There’s St. Andrews.”
“You’re welcome to phone them. Please don’t let me inhibit you,” said the tutor. “But if he went off to St. Andrews, who would supervise bedtime? And make sure he brushed his teeth?”
That had been the last that had been said of university – to Bertie’s relief – but the experience had taught Bertie that chronological age counted for his mother only if it would prevent his doing something that she was unwilling for him to do, whereas it did not count if it prevented his doing something that she wanted him to do. It was simple really. As far as the cub issue was concerned, he thought that she was probably unaware of the potential age bar, and so he decided to say nothing about it.
He had discussed it, though, with Tofu.
“Don’t you have to be at least eight?” Bertie asked. “Look. It says so here in th
is leaflet I found. It says that if you’re under eight you have to join the Beavers. Then you can go to cub scouts when you’re eight.”
Tofu had grabbed Bertie’s leaflet. “Give it here,” he snapped. “Where does it say that?”
Bertie had shown him, and Tofu had frowned. “So what?” he said. “We just tell them that we’re eight. I look big enough to be eight, and if you stand behind me they won’t even see you when we join up.”
Bertie was shocked. “But that’s fibbing,” he said. “And you mustn’t tell fibs. It says that here too. Look, it says that cub scouts must be truthful. That means no fibs.”
Tofu laughed. “They always say that,” he said. “They say that you shouldn’t tell fibs, but they don’t really mean it.”
“Then why do they say it?” asked Bertie.
Tofu shrugged. “Because it sounds good,” he said.
Bertie was unconvinced. He was worried about lying about his age, and he hoped that he simply would not be asked how old he was. If he was, then his only chance of avoiding a direct lie would be to reply “Eight” in a loud voice and then, in the quietest voice he could manage, he would add, “next birthday, after the one that’s coming up.”
But now was not the time to have doubts. Arrangements had already been made that Tofu would come home with Bertie after school and that Stuart, who would leave the office early, would then take them both up to the church hall. They would drive up in the car, Stuart had promised – if he could remember where it was parked. Bertie thought this unlikely; he thought that he had seen their car in Dundonald Street, but it had proved only to be one that looked like it. So unless it turned up, they would be likely to travel up in the 23 bus. And that would be fun: just the three of them – Tofu, Stuart and Bertie. Two boys and the father of one of them, going off together, leaving Irene and Ulysses back in Scotland Street. Poor Mummy, thought Bertie; she could be so much happier if she just stopped worrying about things. Why couldn’t she just relax and go off to tea or a film with her friend Dr. Fairbairn? They got on so well, talking about Melanie Klein and things like that. Perhaps he would suggest that to his father, and together they could persuade her to do just that.
52. Scouting for Girls
Bertie was inordinately proud of the cub uniform that he had purchased with his father. When they returned from the shop, he had immediately changed into the new outfit and presented himself in the kitchen for inspection by his parents. The atmosphere there appeared tense – he could sense that – but they both smiled when he entered the room.
“Very smart, Bertie!” said Stuart. “You look ready for anything.”
“The cub motto is Be Prepared,” said Bertie. “B.P. It’s the same as Mr. Baden-Powell’s initials.”
“Baden-Powell …” muttered Irene. “I’m not sure if …”
“A very great man,” said Stuart.
Silence ensued. Bertie fiddled nervously with the woggle securing his scarf. He knew that his parents disagreed with one another over certain matters, and it seemed to him that it was always his mother’s fault. What was wrong with Mr. Baden-Powell? he wondered. And what was wrong with being prepared?
“And the green will mean that you’ll be well camouflaged when you’re out in the country,” said Stuart. “That nice green sweat shirt. Nobody will see you, Bertie!”
“Which I think would be quite a disadvantage at times,” said Irene. “One doesn’t want the boys and girls to get lost. But still, you know best, Stuart.”
Bertie looked up. Boys and girls.
“Will there be girls?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Irene. “And I should hope so, Bertie. Why shouldn’t there be girls?”
For a moment Bertie said nothing. He had hoped that cubs would be an organisation just for boys, but he knew that that sort of thing was now frowned on. Of course he had nothing against girls – except for Olive – but he had never understood why boys should not be allowed to play with other boys – if they wanted to – and girls should be allowed to play with other girls. From his own observation of the girls at school, that is exactly what they did. They were always huddling together in the playground and when a boy approached they either screamed and ran away or glared silently at the boy until he moved off again. Everybody knew that that was how girls behaved, and Bertie had not thought much more about it. But he had hoped that cubs would be different; a vain hope, it seemed.
Stuart, who had been staring out of the window, now turned round. “In my day, cubs and scouts were for boys,” he said. “Girls had brownies and guides.”
“Yes,” said Bertie eagerly. “Girls can join brownies and guides. I read about that in the book. It said that brownies and guides were for girls. That’s where girls should go.”
“I believe that brownies and guides still exist,” said Irene. “But girls can join the cubs and scouts if they wish. And quite right too.”
Bertie thought about this. “And can boys join the brownies?” he asked. He could not imagine that any boy would wish to do that, but he was interested to find out.
Both Bertie and Stuart were now looking at Irene, waiting for her answer. “An interesting question,” said Stuart. “Very interesting.”
Irene shrugged. “I believe that they cannot,” she said. “I think that brownies are just for girls.”
Bertie frowned. “But, Mummy, if girls can join the cubs, then why can’t boys join the brownies? Surely that’s not fair.”
Irene smiled; a tolerant, patient smile of the sort needed when one was explaining things to men and boys. “There has been a lot of research,” she said, “which reveals that girls wish to associate with one another. I think that they’re happier at that age when they just mix among themselves.”
“Oh yes?” said Stuart. “And boys? Might they not be happier mixing just by themselves?”
Irene cast a withering look in Stuart’s direction. “That’s not the point, Stuart, as well you know. Girls and women have been historically disadvantaged. That must be corrected. That’s exactly why male-only institutions need to reform. If you exclude girls from things like the cubs, then these exclusive, patriarchal tendencies will persist.”
Bertie listened intently. “But why should there be one rule for girls and another for boys?” he asked.
Stuart smirked. “Good question,” he said. “It seems to me that Bertie might just be right there. Why should women be allowed to have single-sex set-ups while men are not? Look at all those women’s clubs – book-groups and so on. And yet if men try to have such things they’re frowned upon, to say the least. Or made illegal, courtesy of Brussels.”
Irene looked at her watch. “There isn’t time to go into all that,” she said. “And besides, you’re wrong, Stuart. Women-only organisations are purely defensive. They’re a refuge from the oppression of men.”
Bertie watched closely. If anybody was oppressed, he thought, it was his father. And for a few moments, he experienced a feeling of utter bleakness. He had been looking forward to the cubs, to the excitement that it promised, and now it seemed to him that the cubs would be just like everything else; there would be no freedom there, particularly if Olive were to be there, as she had threatened.
“I know that you and Tofu have got something planned,” she had said a few days previously. “I can tell, Bertie. You’re planning something, aren’t you? And you think I don’t know what it is!”
“We’re not,” said Bertie.
“Oh yes you are!” Olive had said, wagging her finger under Bertie’s nose. “You should tell me, Bertie! You mustn’t keep secrets from your girlfriend.”
Bertie had looked about him, anxious lest anybody should have overheard. “I’m not your boyfriend, Olive,” he said. “Thank you very much, anyway. But I haven’t got a girlfriend.”
“Yes, you have,” said Olive. “Me. I’m your girlfriend. Everybody knows that.”
Bertie took a deep breath. “But what if I don’t want you to be?” he asked. “Surely you have
to ask somebody to be your girlfriend.”
Olive’s response was quick. “Not any more,” she said. “You’re living in the past, Bertie Pollock. It’s nothing to do with boys these days – whether or not they have a girlfriend is nothing to do with them.” She paused. “Now, let me see. What are you and Tofu planning, I wonder? Is it something to do with … Yes, that’s it, I think. Is it something to do with … cubs?”
Bertie struggled to keep his composure, but failed.
“Ah-hah!” crowed Olive. “So I’m right! Well, that’s very interesting, Bertie! Because I’ve been thinking of joining too. Isn’t that nice, Bertie? We can all be cubs together.”
53. Be Prepared, Be Very Prepared
It was indeed the 23 bus that eventually took Stuart and the two boys up the Mound and in the direction of Holy Corner. Stuart had tried to locate the car, but had failed, and had been unwilling to seek Irene’s help just yet. It was possible that she had been the last to use it, and knew where it was parked, but it was more likely, he admitted to himself, that he had been its most recent driver.
“I’m sorry, Bertie,” he said. “I have no idea where the car is. We shall have to use the 23 bus after all.”
Bertie had accepted the situation gracefully. “That’s all right, Daddy. I know the 23 bus. The important thing is to get there. It doesn’t matter how you do it.”
He felt disappointed, though. Tofu, who had come back with him from school in order that they might go off to cubs together, was usually rather disparaging about everything that Bertie possessed, but their car, Bertie knew, although somewhat old, was considerably more impressive than Tofu’s own family car. Tofu’s father had converted his car to run on olive oil, and this meant that it was considerably slower than the Pollocks’ Volvo, which still ran on petrol. But Bertie’s pride was saved – to an extent – when Tofu revealed that he had only a few scraps of uniform. In that respect, at least, Bertie was in a much stronger position.
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones Page 18