Irene glanced at Olive. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘You could pretend to be the granny who has to stay in bed, and we could feed you soup from a cup,’ Olive went on. ‘And you could pretend to forget everything we said to you.’
‘I don’t think so, Olive,’ said Irene coldly. ‘But thank you anyway. You two just go off and play in Bertie’s room. At half past four, I’ll make you some juice and scones. I’ll be putting Ulysses down for a sleep shortly and he will be ready to wake up then.’
‘He’s a very nice baby, Mrs Pollock,’ said Olive. ‘My mummy says that you’re lucky to have him.’
Irene smiled. ‘Well, thank you, Olive,’ she said. ‘We’re all very lucky to have Ulysses come into our lives.’
‘Yes,’ Olive continued. ‘Mummy said that she thought you were too old to have another baby. She said that wonders will never cease.’
Irene was silent for a few moments. ‘I think that you should go and play now,’ she said, tight-lipped. ‘Off you go!’
‘Where’s your room, Bertie?’ asked Olive. ‘Can you show me the way, please?’
Bertie cast his eyes about in desperation. There seemed to be no escape; or was there?
‘It’s at the end of this corridor,’ he said, pointing in the direction of the dining room. ‘That’s the door over there.’
Olive walked over to the door and opened it. She looked inside, at the table and chairs, and the small bureau where Stuart sometimes did the work that he brought home with him. ‘Is this it?’ she asked. ‘Is this your room, Bertie?’
Bertie nodded.
‘Where’s your bed?’ asked Olive. ‘Don’t tell me you sleep on the table.’
Bertie gave a forced laugh. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I don’t sleep on the table. I sleep over there, in that corner. We have some cushions and a sleeping bag. We put them over there each night before I go to bed. It’s healthier, you see.’
‘So you don’t even have a proper bed?’ asked Olive.
‘No,’ said Bertie. ‘But that’s quite common these days. Didn’t you know that?’
Olive did not wish to appear uninformed, and so she nodded in a superior way. ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ she said. ‘I know about these things.’ She paused, looking around at the sparsely furnished room. ‘But where do you keep your clothes?’
Bertie glanced at the sideboard. ‘In those drawers over there,’ he said.
Olive turned her head and looked in the direction of the sideboard. Then, without giving any warning, she took a few steps across the room and opened the top drawer.
‘You mustn’t,’ protested Bertie. ‘That’s private. You can’t go and look in other people’s drawers. What if they keep their pants in them?’
‘There are no pants here,’ said Olive scornfully. ‘All there is are these mats. What are these table mats doing in your drawer, Bertie?’
‘I collect them,’ said Bertie. ‘It’s my hobby.’
‘A pretty stupid hobby,’ said Olive. She slammed the drawer shut and then immediately bent down and opened the drawer beneath it.
‘And there aren’t even any clothes in this one either,’ she said. ‘Look. Just candles and some knives and forks. Why do you keep knives and forks in your bedroom, Bertie? What’s wrong with you?’
Bertie sat down on the floor. ‘I’m very ill,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to go home, Olive. I’m too ill to play house. I’m sorry.’
Olive looked at him for a moment. ‘You don’t look ill,’ she said. ‘But anyway, you can still play house when you’re ill. I’ll just put you to bed and nurse you. Then you can get up when you’re better. Come, Bertie, let’s find a better room for that.’
Bertie tried to resist, but Olive had seized his hand and had dragged him to his feet. She was surprisingly strong for a girl, he thought.
Half pulled, half pushed, Bertie was propelled down the corridor by Olive. His bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she now pushed this open and saw the bed within. And she saw Bertie’s construction set, which was on the floor, and his spare pair of shoes at the bottom of the bed.
‘So this is your real room!’ she exclaimed, with the satisfaction of one who has discovered an important secret. ‘And it’s pink.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Bertie weakly. ‘You mustn’t say it’s pink. It’s crushed strawberry.’
‘Crushed strawberries are a pink colour,’ Olive retorted, pushing Bertie towards the bed. ‘This is a very nice room, Bertie! But quick, you must get into bed since you’re so ill. I’m the nurse now. Come along, darling, into bed you go. That’s better. Now, you’re very lucky that I brought my nurse kit with me.’
Bertie watched in mute horror as Olive took a small plastic box from her school bag. It had a red cross on the lid, and when she opened it he saw a tiny plastic hammer, some wooden spatulas, and a few small bottles. But Olive was interested in none of these. She had taken out a disposable syringe, complete with a long, entirely real needle.
‘You’re going to have to give a blood sample, Bertie,’ Olive said. ‘It’ll only hurt a little, but you’ll feel much better afterwards, I promise you. Now where do you want me to take it from?’
36. In the Shower
It had been a very satisfactory day for Bruce. His flat-hunting, which had taken less than three hours, had resulted in his finding a very comfortable room in Julia Donald’s flat in Howe Street. There had been no mention of rent – not once in the conversation – and Bruce saw no reason why the subject should ever come up. From his point of view, he was going to be staying with her as a friend, a close friend probably, and it was inappropriate for friends to pay one another rent, especially when the friend who owned the flat had no mortgage to pay. So that was a major advantage to the arrangement, he thought. And even if Julia should become a little bit trying – and she was a bit inclined to gush, Bruce thought – he was still confident that he could handle her firmly, but tactfully. Bruce knew how to deal with women; he knew that he had only to look at them with the look – and they were putty in his hands. It was extraordinary: the slightest smoulder from Bruce, just the slightest, seemed to make them go weak at the knees, and in the head too. Bruce smiled. It’s so very easy, he thought – so very easy.
Before he went out that evening, Bruce took a shower in Neil and Caroline’s flat in Comely Bank. There were minor irritations involved in this, as he did not like the multiple bottles of shampoo and conditioner which Caroline insisted on arranging on the small shelf in the shower. Bruce moved these every time he used the shower, shifting them to a place on top of the bathroom cupboard, but he noticed that they always migrated back to their position within the shower cubicle. He thought of saying something to Caroline about this, but refrained from doing so, as he was not absolutely sure if she appreciated him as much as most women did. He had tried giving her the look, but she had returned it with a blank stare, which thoroughly unsettled him. Normally, he would have put such a response down to a lack of interest based on lesbianism, but the fact that Caroline was happily married to Neil made that judgement unlikely. So what exactly is her problem? Bruce asked himself. Was it something to do with rent? He saw no reason why he should pay them anything when he was going to be there for such a short time, and they had, after all, invited him to stay, or almost. No, there was something more complicated at work here, he decided.
And then it occurred to him exactly what this was. Bruce decided that Caroline was jealous of him. That must be it! Neil, her husband, was such a weedy specimen in comparison with Bruce, that it must be hard for Caroline to have somebody in the house who was so clearly at the opposite end of the spectrum from him. So rather than resenting her husband for being puny, she was transferring her dissatisfaction onto Bruce himself.
This insight made Bruce feel almost sorry for Caroline, and as a result of this he had said something to her in an attempt to make things easier.
‘Don’t judge Neil too harshly,’ he remarked one ev
ening when he found himself alone in the kitchen with her.
She had looked at him in astonishment. ‘What on earth do you mean? Judge Neil harshly? Why would I do that?’
Bruce had smiled. ‘Well, you know. Some men are a bit more . . . how shall I put it? Impressive. Yes, that’s it. Impressive.’
She stared at him. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
He winked. ‘Don’t you . . . ?’
She had continued to stare at him. ‘I really have no idea what you’re going on about, Bruce,’ she had said. ‘And, by the way, do you mind not moving my conditioner bottles from the shower? You know that little shelf in there? That’s where I like them to be. That’s where I put them.’
Bruce smiled. ‘Come and show me,’ he said. ‘Show me when I’m in the shower.’
She did not appreciate that, he decided, which was typical of somebody like her. There was a sense-of-humour failure there, he thought. A serious one. And she did not take well either to his next remark, which took the form of a good-natured question.
‘Are you interested in other women, Caroline?’ he asked. ‘I just want to know.’
‘What do you mean?’
Bruce sighed. ‘I’m really having to spell it out,’ he said. ‘I mean: are you, you know, interested in other women? Don’t look so cross. Lots of people are a little bit that way, you know, now and then. It’s perfectly understandable, you know . . .’
‘How dare you!’ Caroline screamed. ‘I’m going to tell Neil when he comes back. I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe that I’m being talked to like this in my own kitchen.’
‘Temper! Temper!’ said Bruce. ‘Most people these days don’t get all uptight about these things. We live in a very enlightened age, you know. I mean, hello!’
Now, standing in the shower, Bruce poured on a bit of Caroline’s conditioner and rubbed it into his hair. His conversation with his hostess had not been an edifying one, and it was probably just as well that he was going out for dinner with Julia Donald that evening. He might even move out that very evening, which would give Caroline something to think about, but any decision could wait. For the moment, he had the sheer pleasure of the shower ahead of him; a shower first, then decisions, said Bruce to himself. That’s a good one, he thought. Just like Bertolt Brecht with his Grub first, then ethics.
He turned his head slightly and caught sight of his reflection in the glass wall of the shower cubicle. His profile, he thought, was the real strength of his face; that straight nose, in perfect proportion to the rest of the features – spot-on. It was amazing, he thought, how nature gets it just right. And the cleft in his chin – how many women had put the tip of their little finger in there? – it was almost as if they could not resist it; a Venus flytrap, perhaps.
He pouted. ‘Drop-dead gorgeous,’ he whispered, through the sound of the shower.
37. Eye Toffee
Bruce had suggested to Julia that they should meet in the Tower Restaurant, above the museum. He had been there once before when a client of Macaulay Holmes Richardson Black had invited him to discuss over lunch the purchase of a piece of land near Peebles. Bruce had made a mental note to return for a more leisurely meal, but then he had become occupied with his wine business – a ‘semi-success’ as he called it – and that had been followed by his removal to London. Eating out in London, of course, was ruinously expensive and, unless invited, he had avoided it as far as possible. Now, back in Edinburgh, he contemplated, with pleasure, the variety of restaurants he would be able to explore with Julia. She was the sort of girl who would pay the bill without complaint, although he would reach into his own pocket from time to time if pressed; Bruce was not mean.
The Tower Restaurant was above the new part of the National Museum of Scotland. As a boy, Bruce had been taken to the museum on several occasions, on school trips from Crieff, and had enjoyed pressing the buttons of the machines kept on display in great, ancient cases. The cavernous hall of the museum, with its vast glass roof, had been etched into the memory of those days, and could still impress him; but now it was the business of dinner that needed to be attended to.
He was early. Perched on one of the bar stools, he nursed a martini in front of him while waiting for Julia. Bruce did not normally drink martinis, but tonight’s date justified one, he thought; and the effect, he noted, was as intended – the gin, barely diluted by vermouth, indeed possibly unacquainted with it, was quickly lifting his spirits even further. How had Churchill made martinis? he asked himself. He smiled as he remembered the snippet he had read in The Decanter or somewhere like that – Churchill had poured the gin on one side of the room while nodding in the direction of the vermouth bottle on the other side. What a man, thought Bruce; a bit like me in some ways.
Julia arrived ten minutes late.
‘Perfect timing,’ said Bruce, rising from the bar stool to plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘For a woman, that is. And you look so stunning too. That dress . . .’
Julia beamed. ‘Oh, thank you, Brucie! It’s ancient – prehistoric, actually. I bought it from Armstrongs down in the Grassmarket. You know that place that has all those old clothes. Très retro!’
Bruce touched the small trim of ostrich feathers around the neck of the dress. ‘It’s a flapper dress, isn’t it?’
Julia was not sure what a flapper dress was, but it sounded right. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s good for flapping in.’
‘Very funny!’ said Bruce.
They both laughed.
‘Let’s go to our table,’ said Bruce. ‘That’s the maître d’ over there. I’ll catch his eye.’
‘You can catch anybody’s eye, Brucie,’ said Julia, playfully. ‘You’re eye candy.’
‘Eye toffee,’ said Bruce, taking hold of her forearm. ‘I stick to people.’ He smiled as he remembered something. ‘You know, we had a dog up in Crieff and he had a sweet tooth. I gave him a toffee once and he started to chew it and got his teeth completely stuck together. It was seriously funny.’
Julia laughed. ‘When I was at Glenalmond, we gave our housemistress a piece of cake with toffee hidden in the middle. It stuck her false teeth together and she had to take them out to get rid of it!’
‘The things one does when young,’ said Bruce.
‘A scream,’ said Julia.
They moved to the table. ‘You must let me treat you,’ said Bruce as they were handed the menu.
‘Oh, please let me,’ said Julia.
‘All right,’ said Bruce quickly. ‘Thanks. What are you going to have?’
If Julia was taken aback, it was only momentarily. ‘I love oysters,’ she said. ‘I’m going to start with those.’
‘Make sure that you put a bit of Tabasco in,’ said Bruce. ‘And lemon. Delicious.’
‘What about you?’ asked Julia.
‘Lobster,’ said Bruce, examining the menu. ‘Market price. That’s helpful, isn’t it? Everything is market price if you come to think of it. Anyway, I’ll start with lobster, then . . .’ He examined the menu. ‘Which do you think would win in a fight? A lobster or an oyster?’
Julia looked out of the window. ‘That’s a very interesting question, Brucie. I’ve never thought about that, you know.’
‘The lobster would have the advantage of mobility,’ said Bruce. ‘But the oyster has pretty good defences, I would have thought. It would probably be a stand-off.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Julia. ‘Interesting.’
The waiter came and took their order. ‘And wine?’ he asked.
Bruce looked at the list. ‘You know, I was in the wine trade for a while,’ he said to Julia, but loud enough for the waiter to hear.
‘I’ll fetch the sommelier,’ said the waiter.
‘No need . . .’ Bruce began. But the waiter had moved off and was whispering something into the ear of a colleague. The sommelier nodded and came over to Bruce and Julia’s table.
‘So, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you any ideas?’
Bruce looked
at the wine list. ‘Bit thin,’ he said. ‘No offence, of course. No Brunello, for instance.’ He smiled at Julia as he spoke. She made a face as if to mourn the absence of Brunello.
‘Oh, but I think there is, sir,’ said the sommelier. ‘Perhaps you did not register the name of the producers. Look, over there, for example. Banfi. We don’t always feel it’s necessary to describe exactly where a wine comes from. We assume that in many cases people know . . .’
‘Where?’ snapped Bruce. ‘Oh, yes, Banfi. Wrong side, of course.’
‘Of what, sir?’
‘The river,’ said Bruce.
‘But there isn’t a river in Montalcino,’ said the sommelier gently. ‘Perhaps you’re thinking of somewhere else. The Arno perhaps?’
Bruce did not respond to this; he was peering at the list. ‘What about a Chianti?’ he said. ‘What about this one here?’
The sommelier peered over his shoulder. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘I find that a bit unexciting, personally.’
‘Well, why do you have it on the list, then?’ Bruce said. His tone was now defensive, rattled.
‘Well,’ said the sommelier, smiling, ‘we like to have one or two– how shall I put it? – pedestrian wines for some of our diners who have . . . well, not very sophisticated tastes. We don’t actually carry Blue Nun, but that’s pretty much for the diner who would go for a bottle of Blue Nun. I would have thought that you might be interested in something much more . . . much more complex.’
Bruce kept his eyes on the list. ‘We’ll have a bottle of this,’ he said, pointing wildly.
‘Oh, a very good choice,’ said the sommelier. ‘And well worth the extra money. I always say that when you pay that much, you’re on safe ground. Well chosen, sir.’
38. A Personal Shopper
Bruce ate his lobster with gusto, watched by Julia, whose oysters had slipped down with alacrity. He offered her a claw, but she declined; a small appetite for one so curvaceous, Bruce thought.
‘I prefer really small courses,’ she said. ‘We went to a restaurant in New York once, you know the one near the new Modern Art thingy. Mummy, or whatever it’s called.’
The World According to Bertie Page 13