Cyril’s first session with Dr. St. Clair was not a conspicuous success. It took place a couple of days after that initial discussion between Irene and the psychotherapist in which the possibility of treatment for Cyril’s behavioural problems had been raised. Irene had immediately been attracted by the idea, which might not only bring the dog under control and stop his irritating creeping around the flat, but would also give her the opportunity to spend more time talking to the intelligent and, when viewed in a certain light and from a particular angle, rather handsome young Australian.
From Dr. St. Clair’s point of view, taking on Cyril as a patient would allow him to practise some of the skills he had been taught on that early attachment to an animal behaviour specialist in Melbourne. Irene herself was another matter; he was not quite sure what to make of her. At one time he had thought that she was no more than an overanxious middle-class mother, the sort that any person – any teacher as much as any psychotherapist or psychologist dealing with children – was very familiar with: the mothers who were firmly convinced their child was uniquely talented or simply uniquely interesting. There had been plenty of those in Melbourne and he had discovered that they were equally prevalent in Edinburgh, where Irene, it seemed, was perhaps their standard-bearer. But this initial, somewhat dismissive view did not last, and gradually he had come to think that here was an intensely interesting woman – a woman who was thoroughly familiar with the works of Melanie Klein and who, moreover, had a way of listening to him that was both flattering and reassuring. So it had not been long before he found himself looking forward to her visits and not worrying if she tended to take up an increasingly large part of the hour nominally allocated to Bertie for his therapy.
For Bertie, of course, it was quite otherwise. He had been appalled when his mother had revealed to him, on their return to the flat, that the subject of therapy for Cyril had been raised and that she had decided it would be a good thing.
“But Cyril’s a dog, Mummy,” he had protested. “Dogs don’t get psychotherapy.”
Irene had smiled. “But there we’re wrong, Bertie! We think dogs don’t need therapy because most dogs don’t get it, but that doesn’t mean to say that dogs might not benefit from it, does it, Bertie? No, it does not. Some dogs are fortunate enough to get it, and I’m sure it makes them much better dogs. It’s really just a form of dog training – that’s all.”
Bertie stared at the ground. He felt responsible for Cyril. Mr. Lordie had said to him, “I think you’ll look after Cyril very well, Bertie. And I also think that Cyril will really enjoy staying with you.” Those, he now remembered, had been his exact words, and Bertie interpreted them as a conferring on him of an obligation of trust. And what had happened? Cyril’s life had been made a misery by all those ridiculous rules about what he could do in the flat and what he could not do. Now, to add insult to injury, the poor dog was going to have to go up to Dr. St. Clair’s consulting rooms and … and what? Bertie tried to imagine Cyril sitting on the patient’s chair and being asked endless questions by Dr. St. Clair. And Cyril would not understand any of it. As far as Bertie knew, the only words Cyril understood were sit, biscuits, walk, and, possibly, cat. You wouldn’t get far with free association with that vocabulary, thought Bertie. Dr. St. Clair would say sit and Cyril would bark. Then Dr. St. Clair would say biscuits and again Cyril would bark. Bertie did not see the point of that exchange.
He looked at his mother; he had had an idea. “Wouldn’t it be better for Ulysses to get therapy, Mummy? Wouldn’t that be better?” He felt slightly disloyal in offering his brother as a substitute victim, but he had always thought that Ulysses had absolutely no idea of what was going on and it would make no difference. In fact, Ulysses would probably be grateful to have Dr. St. Clair looking at him rather than his mother; it would give him a bit of a rest from bringing up his food, which is what he seemed to do whenever Irene tried to pick him up or addressed any remarks to him.
“Ulysses doesn’t need therapy at present,” said Irene briskly. “He’s too young. Everything in good time, Bertie.”
Bertie had realised that it was hopeless; once his mother decided on something, then it was almost always impossible to budge her. So, with great reluctance and with a heavy heart, he had accompanied Cyril to Dr. St. Clair’s rooms and had sat staring miserably out of the window while Irene recited a litany of Cyril’s problems.
“He’s only with us for a short time,” she said. “But it really is impossible. He barks far too much and sneaks around the flat in a most disconcerting fashion. He also comes creeping up to me in the kitchen and stares at my ankles for some inexplicable reason.”
“I see,” said Dr. St. Clair, looking with interest at Cyril, who was seated beside his desk, grinning. “He seems a well-enough behaved fellow right now.” He paused, peering intently at Cyril. “And what’s that he’s got in his mouth?”
“Believe it or not,” said Irene, “it’s a gold tooth. It’s ridiculous, but that dog’s got a gold tooth. Heaven knows how he got it.”
“Mr. Lordie told me,” interjected Bertie. “He said that a friend of his who’s a dentist put it in Cyril’s mouth in the Scottish Arts Club one night. He said that the original tooth had worn away and Cyril was very pleased when he got this new tooth.”
“Interesting,” said Dr. St. Clair. “It was probably a very traumatic experience for him. That may have some role in the aetiology of his disturbed behaviour.”
Bertie sat back in his chair. He wondered if, by closing his eyes hard enough, he could will himself to be somewhere else altogether – somewhere where there were no psychotherapists, no mother, no yoga lessons, no Tofu, no Olive – just a wide beach of golden sand along which a dog and a boy might run, with the wind all about them, and the sun high in the sky above their heads. Or even in Glasgow.
27. The Benefits of Self-Government
It seemed that one session of psychotherapy was quite enough for Cyril. Although he was, of course, unaware of what was going on, he could sense, as dogs often can, that what was happening in the room pertained to him. He felt acutely uncomfortable as he sat in Dr. St. Clair’s consulting room while Irene talked, occasionally looking down and pointing her long finger at him to emphasise some point. And when that happened, and the finger was pointed, Cyril felt an overwhelming urge to bite it. It would be so easy simply to lunge forward and snap at it when it was so close to his snout, wagging disapprovingly. Dogs understand a wagged finger – somewhere deep in the canine mind that gesture spells out hostility and blame. He had done something wrong, then, but what? He had looked at her ankles, it was true, and he would have loved to sink his teeth into them, but he had not, understanding full well what the consequences would be. In that, Cyril was Pavlovian through and through. Biting ankles meant that he would be beaten with a rolled-up copy of The Scotsman, the punishment that Angus had traditionally meted out to him for any truly egregious piece of wrongdoing – eating a visitor’s hat, for instance, as had happened one day when his master had been visited by Sir Angus Grossart, who had been seeking his opinion on a painting he was proposing to acquire for the entrance hall of his bank. This painting – a scene of people waiting by the harbour at St. Andrews for the fishing fleet to return – had been discussed at length by the two men over a cup of coffee in Angus Lordie’s studio, while all the time Cyril had been chewing his way through the visitor’s hat in the hall.
When Sir Angus emerged to take his leave, it was to find only a small fragment of his hat uneaten, and Cyril looking at the same time deeply satisfied and guilty, waiting for the punishment that he knew must follow. Angus Lordie’s apologies had been profuse, and the visitor had been gracious. “I believe I have another hat,” he said. “And what your dog has just done relieves me of the responsibility of ever having to do in metaphor what he has just done in reality!”
Now, having resisted the temptation of Irene’s ankles, Cyril was not sure why he seemed to be in disgrace. He had tried smiling at Dr. St. Cl
air but it seemed to have little effect, and now he looked up at him mournfully. In return, the psychotherapist stared down on him, once or twice even leaning forward slightly to peer more closely and more intently at the embarrassed dog. Confused, Cyril looked over his shoulder towards Bertie, but there was no comfort there. And things did not improve. As they returned to Scotland Street, Bertie was silent: he knew what Cyril was feeling and felt a bit that way himself.
“It’s not working, Cyril,” Bertie whispered to the dog once they were back in the flat. “You can’t stay here. Your life will be ruined.”
Cyril looked up at Bertie. He licked his hand gently, as one friend will touch, will comfort another.
“So I’m going to take you somewhere else,” Bertie went on. “I’m going to ask if I can take you to the gardens, but I’m really going to take you to a new home.”
Bertie obtained permission to take Cyril for a walk. As a truthful child, Bertie did not like to deceive his mother, but he felt that the dog’s position was now so desperate that minor deception was justified. He was indeed taking Cyril for a walk – it was just that the walk was going to be rather longer than his mother might imagine.
“Be careful, Bertie,” said Irene. “Just to the gardens, no further, remember.”
Bertie said nothing. If you remained silent when your mother said something to you – if you gave no indication of consent, or even of hearing her – then it would not be wrong to do the opposite of what she told you to do. Tofu, he knew, took a similar view, perhaps even a more liberating one. Tofu said that you could say what you liked, no matter how untruthful it was, as long as you crossed your fingers when you said it. He had also explained that there was an alternative available if you did not believe in the permissive power of crossed fingers. This was to add, under one’s breath, the words “or not.” That meant that what you said was not a lie and that anybody who took exception to it had only himself to blame. Tofu had demonstrated this one day by telling Olive in the playground that she was wanted in the office because a message had been received that her house had burned down. Olive, who did not hear the muttered “or not” that followed this alarming news, had run tearfully into the school office, accompanied by an anxious Pansy, to emerge shortly afterwards to confront Tofu. He simply gloated. “You should listen more carefully,” he said. Bertie, of course, had been appalled. There was so much wrong with the world, he thought. There was Tofu, and there was Olive, and there was his mother … and now there was this awful conspiracy to inflict psychotherapy on poor Cyril, who had never done any harm to anybody – or very little.
He made his way out of the flat and into the street. Cyril, who would normally be cheered at the prospect of a walk, seemed dejected and listless, barely keeping up with Bertie as they made their way up Scotland Street.
“Cheer up, Cyril,” said Bertie. “You’re not going back in there, I promise you.”
Bertie, who received 37 pence pocket money a week, had saved enough for his bus fare. In Dundas Street he waited patiently until a No. 23 bus lumbered along the road towards them. A worrying thought occurred to him: what if Cyril would be required to have a ticket? Would he have enough money for that?
He had a plan for that contingency: as the bus neared the stop, Bertie all but closed his eyes and stepped uncertainly through the door, his arms stretched out before him, as if feeling his way into the bus. If there were to be any problem, then he would claim that Cyril was a guide dog, and that, he knew, would entitle him to travel free.
The driver looked at him in astonishment. “You on drugs, son?”
Bertie opened his eyes wide, and shook his head.
“Well, you and your dug hurry up, I’ve no got all day! One child fare? Single?”
“And my dog?” asked Bertie in a small voice.
“Dugs go free,” said the driver. “Thanks to Mr. Salmond. Benefits of having oor ain government.”
28. At the Home of Ranald Braveheart Macpherson
Travelling by himself on the 23 bus, or almost by himself – Cyril lay at his feet, under the seat – Bertie experienced the full thrill of doing something significant all on his own. He was no stranger to the 23 bus, that finest of Edinburgh buses that connects the low-lying swamps of Canonmills with the breezy altitudes of Morningside and the Braids, but he had never been on it alone, and in pursuit of a journey that he himself had planned. So might a student microlight pilot at East Fortune Airfield feel when his instructor, that reassuring presence who has been with him on every training flight, suddenly says to him: “You’re ready to go up by yourself” – and allows him to climb into the cockpit alone and taxi out and head down the runway, throttle open, and then, oh heavens, nudge the nose of the aircraft up and see the ground fall away beneath him, parted from the earth without the umbilical presence of an instructor who can take the controls and deal with an emergency; and the Firth of Forth is suddenly there and the North Sea stretching out like a wide blue field and Cockenzie Power Station and the hills and …
Such experience of freedom can be heady; can intoxicate; can set the heart thumping as fear and exhilaration fight with one another; and so it did with Bertie. Suddenly the normal sights of Edinburgh streets seemed at the same time to be exciting and frightening. And it appeared, too, that time itself had speeded up, and within what seemed to Bertie to be no more than a couple of minutes the bus was approaching Holy Corner and he would have to alight. Rising to his feet, he pressed the button that would signal the driver to stop: for him an act of immense significance – he, Bertie, was sounding a bell that would make this entire bus, with all its souls aboard, actually stop!
Cyril seemed to be in better spirits now. Perhaps he sensed that something was changing; perhaps he appreciated the distance that had been put between him and the restrictions of his temporary lodging in Scotland Street. Perhaps, as was most probably the case, he had merely forgotten what had happened before; dogs are not ones to linger on the past if there is the prospect of investigating new smells and marking out new territory. Now, as they made their way up towards the Church Hill theatre, Cyril gave every appearance of enjoying himself, wagging his tail enthusiastically, and even managing a small bark to register his more elevated state of mind.
Their destination was a house a short distance from the theatre itself. This house, which lay on a side street off the busy thoroughfare of Morningside Road, was the house of Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, Bertie’s spindly-legged friend from cub scouts. Ranald, with whom Bertie had shared the adventure of the abortive trip to Glasgow – cut short when the two boys got off the train at Haymarket Station in the mistaken belief that they had reached Glasgow Queen Street – was perhaps Bertie’s greatest friend, and it was natural that he should turn to him now. Ranald had always been so obliging, offering to show Bertie the money that his father kept in his safe and even offering to share some of it with Bertie if he so desired. And Ranald’s parents seemed equally agreeable, having taken Bertie for a Christmas train ride and then to the German Market on the Mound. Ranald, it seemed to Bertie, led very much the life that he, Bertie, would love to lead. He had a rope hanging from the bough of a tree in the garden; he was given chocolate pudding for his dinner – not that this seemed to make much impression on his thin legs – and the adults in his house seemed to smile and laugh a great deal, rather than to preoccupy themselves with Melanie Klein and yoga and all the rest. It was, Bertie thought, just the sort of house in which Cyril – or any other refugee for that matter – might expect to be received with warmth.
Ranald’s mother answered the door. “Well, well, Bertie, this is a very nice surprise. And who have we here with you? What an interesting-looking dog!”
Bertie introduced Cyril and then asked if Ranald was at home.
“Ranald is always at home,” said his mother. “And I imagine that he’ll be at home for the next twelve years or so.”
Bertie smiled weakly at the joke. It was not really a joke as far as he was concerned: he, too, w
as destined to be at home for the next twelve years until that magical date – the day of his eighteenth birthday when the law of Scotland dictated that one could move to Glasgow if one wanted to and even if one’s mother had other plans.
He went inside. Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, having heard the door being answered, now appeared from within the house to greet Bertie warmly and express his delight at seeing him with a dog.
“Where did you find him?” Ranald asked. “He’s a really good dog, Bertie!”
Bertie looked over his shoulder. Ranald’s mother was still standing directly behind him, and he was not sure he could reveal his plan in her presence.
“Boys’ business, I see,” said Mrs. Macpherson. “Why not go off to your room, Ranald?”
Bertie followed his friend with relief. “I’ve not got anything against your mother, Ranald,” he started to explain. “It’s just that …”
“Don’t worry, Bertie,” said Ranald. “She’s not my real mother, you know. I told you that I was adopted, didn’t I? So I sometimes call her my carer. She doesn’t mind. She says it makes her laugh.”
“She’s very kind,” said Bertie.
“No, she’s not bad,” said Ranald. “And my dad – that’s the carer’s husband – he’s very rich. I told you about all his money, didn’t I, Bertie?”
Bertie nodded. “I want to ask you a favour, Ranald,” he said. “A big favour.”
“Fire away,” said Ranald.
“I want you to look after Cyril for me,” said Bertie.
“Fine,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “No problem.” He paused. “Anything else, Bertie?”
29. Malt Does More
Matthew lay awake trying to identify the line that had come to him in that curious state halfway between sleep and wakefulness. It was a zone in which an idea, a quotation, or even a vision of events can become fixed in the mind, nagging at one’s consciousness until sleep is dispelled and the mind realises that what one was thinking about was very little, or somewhat banal, or complete nonsense. In this case it was poetry; a couplet: “Malt does more than Milton can / to justify God’s ways to man.” It came to him at the end of a dream when somebody, familiar and yet unfamiliar – Matthew’s father, perhaps, or his English teacher from the Academy, Dr. Marsh – was standing before him advising, Malt does more, Matthew; malt does more … And then, emerging through layers of consciousness, the quotation was completed and he found himself awake and muttering it softly – not loudly enough to disturb Elspeth in bed beside him and in a totally different stage in her cycle of sleep. She had been up to deal with the triplets: to settle Rognvald, change Tobermory, and comfort Fergus, who was niggling over something – some small issue of a blanket or a sheet. She had then returned to bed, still half asleep, in that virtually somnambulistic way that parents know very well and parents of triplets know three times better than most.
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