‘MOMA,’ muttered Bruce, wiping mayonnaise from the side of his mouth.
‘That’s the place. Strange name.’
Bruce reached out and patted her gently on the wrist. ‘Nothing to do with mother,’ he said. ‘It stands for the Museum of Modern Art.’
Julia thought for a moment. ‘I don’t get it. Anyway, this place, you wouldn’t know that it’s a restaurant, as there’s nothing on the door. Just a glass door. It’s really cool.’
Bruce nodded. ‘That’s to keep the wrong sort out,’ he said. ‘They have to do that. It’s the same in London. There are no signs outside the really good clubs. Nothing to tell you they’re there. You could spend weeks in London and not see any of the really good places because you just wouldn’t know.’
Julia looked at Bruce. She was studying his chin, which had a cleft that she found quite fascinating. She watched that and she noticed, too, how when he smiled the smallest dimple appeared in each of his cheeks. It was unfair, she thought, it really was; that a man should have a skin like that and not have to worry about moisturisers and all the expensive things that she had to use. Unfair; just unfair. He put something on his hair, though, something with a rather strange smell. What was it? Cloves? Perhaps she should ask him. Would he mind? Or she could find out by going through his things in the bathroom; that would be easy, and interesting. Julia liked going through men’s things in the bathroom; it was a sort of hobby, really.
She brought herself back to the present. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That restaurant in New York served tiny portions. Tiny. This size.’ She made a tight circle with her thumb and forefinger.
Bruce speared a piece of lobster meat. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I filled up on olive bread and Daddy asked for a banana. Everything cost thirty-six dollars. Except for the banana, which was free.’
‘There you are,’ said Bruce. ‘Every cloud—’
Julia interrupted him. ‘Anyway, Brucie, what are you going to do, now that you’re back?’
Bruce, the lobster finished, pushed his plate to one side. ‘Well, I’m not going back to being a surveyor. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Pas plus de ça pour moi. So I’ve been thinking, and I’ve had one or two ideas.’
‘Such as?’
Bruce sat back in his chair. ‘Personal training,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be a personal trainer.’
A shadow of disappointment crossed Julia’s face. She had not envisaged settling down with a personal trainer. ‘You mean one of those types you see in the gym?’ she said. ‘The ones who hold their stop watches and tell you how long to spend on the treadmill?’
It was clear to Bruce that she did not think much of his plan. He would have to explain; Julia was a bit – how might one put it?– limited in her outlook, poor girl. Rich, but limited.
‘Personal trainers do much more than that,’ he said. ‘Getting people fit is one part of it, but there’s much more to it. Lifestyle advice, for example. Telling people how to dress, how to deal with anxiety, stress and all the rest. Sorting out relationships. That sort of thing.’
Julia’s reservations evaporated. ‘Brilliant!’ she said. ‘I’m sure that there’ll be a demand for that sort of thing. Lifestyle coach. Style guru. That sort of thing.’ She paused. ‘And personal shopper?’
Bruce looked doubtful. ‘I’ve heard of them. But I’m not sure what a personal shopper does.’
Julia knew. ‘They usually have them in big shops,’ she said. ‘If you go somewhere like Harrods or Harvey Nicks, they have these people who will get you what you need. You tell them your general requirements and they find it for you. But one could do it as a freelance. Then you could shop all over the place.’
‘I don’t know if I could do that,’ said Bruce. ‘I don’t know enough about shopping.’
‘I do,’ said Julia quickly. ‘I’ve done a lot of shopping.’
Bruce smiled. He had no doubt about that; Julia was certainly a shopper. Then a possibility came to him. He and Julia could enter into a . . .
‘Partnership?’ said Julia. ‘Do you think it would work, Brucie? You do the personal thingy and I’ll do the personal shopping. We can offer a complete service.’
Bruce nodded. ‘There are startup costs,’ he said. ‘There always are.’
Julia waved a hand dismissively. ‘How much?’
It was a fine calculation for Bruce. It was always difficult to decide just how much to ask for. The trick, he had read, was to try to put oneself in the shoes of the person with the funds and work out how much they would think reasonable. In this case, the startup costs would be quite small – a few advertisements, a brochure, perhaps a press launch. But then there would be a salary for him, for, say, six months.
‘Thirty thousand,’ he said. ‘Give or take a couple of thousand.’
He watched her face. ‘Thirty thousand?’ She hesitated. ‘All right. We’re in business.’
She looked down at her plate. I’m buying him for thirty thousand, she thought. But if that’s what it costs to get a husband, then that’s what it costs. And her father, she knew, would not quibble over a small sum like that. He had been hoping that she would settle down with a suitable man, and he would certainly approve of Bruce. Dear Daddy! He had said to her once, when she was twenty or so: ‘When you eventually decide to settle down with somebody, darling, don’t for God’s sake go for some dreadful spiv or intellectual. Go for good stock. You know what I mean by that? Do you? Do I have to spell it out to you?’
He would like Bruce, she knew it. And that would complete her happiness. A husband, a contented father, and before too long a couple of children. For that’s what her father had meant, and she had known it. Good breeding stock. And Bruce was definitely that. Just look at him.
She looked at Bruce and smiled. And as she did so, she thought: maybe I should just forget to be careful. It’s so easily done, particularly if you want to forget.
39. Believing in Builders
Antonia Collie sat in her flat in Scotland Street, a set of architect’s drawings on the table before her; to her side, in a blue Spode cup, possibly stolen from Domenica Macdonald’s family – or removed by mistake – the Earl Grey tea she so appreciated. Antonia was engrossed in the drawings and in their complexity; what seemed to her to be a simple business of extracting old kitchen units and inserting new ones, of removing an old and uncomfortable bath and installing a modern and inviting one, and of doing one or other minor improvement to the flat, had been translated into page after page of detailed drawings by her friend Alex Philip, the architect. These were all executed in black ink with careful instructions to the builders as to the thickness of materials, the positioning of screws and wiring, about plaster and skirting-boards and tiles. A copy of the plans had been given to Antonia by Alex, and it was these that she was now trying to understand.
Antonia understood about the inconvenience which building work brought in its wake. In Perthshire, they had attempted an enlargement of their farm kitchen, a small project that had taken almost eighteen months to complete owing to the builder’s disappearance halfway through the work.
‘They all disappear,’ a friend had comforted her. ‘But they come back. The important thing to do is not to abandon belief in your builders. It’s rather like believing in fairies in Peter Pan; if you don’t believe in builders, their light goes out.’
There were more stories of this nature. Another friend narrated the tale of a builder he had engaged for a house in France; this builder had been arrested for murder some time into the contract, and had been replaced by his son, who had then been shot by the relatives of his father’s victim; passions ran deep in the French countryside, it seemed. But her position was different – she had the best builder in the business on her side.
Now, at her table, Antonia heard the bell ring and realised that the two men sent to begin work had arrived. Their rubbish skip, a giant, elongated bucket, had preceded them by a day or two and stood on the roadside, ready to receive
the detritus from Antonia’s flat. In time-honoured Edinburgh fashion, though, the neighbours had sneaked out at night and deposited unwanted property in the skip: several large pieces of wood, a pile of flattened cardboard boxes, an old tricycle missing its chain and a wheel – the abandoned property, Antonia decided, of that strange little boy downstairs . . . Bertie, or whatever he was called. And there was also a pile of old editions of Mankind Quarterly, which could only have been put there by Domenica. Really! thought Antonia. I’m paying for that skip, every single cubic foot of it, and yet people think that they have the right . . .
Antonia went to the front door and opened it to the men standing outside. It was obvious enough from their outfits that they were the builders, but she asked them nonetheless who they were.
‘I take it that you’re from Hutton and Read?’ she said. ‘Clifford’s men?’
The taller of the two men, a man in his early thirties with a rather good-looking face, nodded enthusiastically. ‘Clifford!’ he said, and then added for emphasis, ‘Clifford!’
Antonia gestured for the two men to enter. They turned round and each picked up a small chest of tools that they had put down on the landing behind them.
‘I don’t know where you want to start,’ said Antonia. ‘I suggest that you just begin wherever you want to. Don’t mind me.’
She looked at the two men, who returned her stare. The tall man smiled and nodded. ‘Brick,’ he said.
Antonia frowned. ‘Brick?’
‘Brick,’ said the man.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Antonia. ‘I assume that you use brick in your internal walls. But I really don’t know. I take it that you’ve seen the architect’s plans, have you?’
‘Brick,’ said the builder. He had now put down the tool chest in the hall and was struggling with the catch that secured its lid.
‘I really don’t see the point of saying brick,’ said Antonia, somewhat tetchily. ‘What I really want to know is where you want to start.’
‘Poland,’ said the tall man.
Antonia looked at him. It had taken a few minutes, but at least now it was clear. ‘Poland?’ she asked.
The tall man smiled. ‘Poland,’ he replied, pointing out of the window vaguely in the direction of Cumberland Street.
Antonia shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s west. Poland is over there. There.’ She pointed in the direction of London Street and the Mansfield Traquair Church.
The builder looked concerned and glanced at his colleague, as if for reassurance.
‘Poland,’ said the second man, staring intensely at Antonia.
‘Well, I do get the point,’ said Antonia. ‘And I don’t think we need worry too much about the exact location of Poland. I think that you make your point clearly enough. You’re Polish. And you’re here to work on my flat. But I take it that you understand nothing of what I have just said.’
‘Poland,’ said the tall man, and held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of resignation.
Antonia nodded, and pointed to the kitchen. ‘Go and look,’ she said. ‘Kitchen.’
The senior Pole bowed to her and moved towards the kitchen with his friend. Scottish builders did not bow, thought Antonia; but then they did not carry on their shoulders quite such a history of defeat and invasion and dashed hopes. She watched the Poles as they entered the kitchen and set down their cases of tools. What was it like, she wondered, to be so far from home, in a country where one could not speak the language, without one’s family? These men knew the answer to that, she assumed, but they could not tell her.
She went through to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made tea. The Poles, in between the unpacking of their tool chests, watched her. And when she poured them each a mug of tea, they took it gravely, as if it were a precious gift, and cradled the mug in their hands, tenderly. She saw that these hands were rough and whitened, as if they had been handling plaster.
The tall man watched her and smiled. His eyes, she thought, had that strange blueness which one sometimes sees in those who come from northern places, as if they could see long distances, faraway things that others could not see.
Antonia raised her mug to them, as if in toast. The tall man returned the gesture. As he did so, he mouthed something, and smiled. Antonia, who had hardly looked at a man over the previous year, looked at him.
40. Angus Talks to Bertie
While Antonia was busy communicating, albeit to a very small degree, with her new Polish builders, Angus Lordie was making his way up the stair of No. 44. He was coming to visit Domenica, not Antonia; indeed, it was the cause of some anxiety on his part that Antonia could, theoretically, be met on the way up to Domenica’s house. Angus was in some awe of Antonia.
There was to be a meeting on the stair that morning, but not between Angus and Antonia. Halfway up, as he turned a corner, Angus came across a small boy sitting disconsolately on one of the stone steps. It was Bertie.
‘Ah!’ said Angus, peering down and inspecting Bertie. ‘The young man who plays the saxophone, I believe. The very same young man who exchanged warm words with my dog . . .’
The mention of Cyril had slipped out, and it revived the pain that seemed to be always there, just below the surface, as the mention of the names of those we have lost can do.
‘He’s a very nice dog,’ said Bertie. ‘I wish I had a dog.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said Angus. ‘Well, every boy should have a dog, in my view. Having a dog goes with being a boy.’
‘I’m not allowed to have one,’ said Bertie. ‘My mother . . .’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Angus. ‘Your mother.’ He knew exactly who Irene was, and Bertie had his unreserved sympathy. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘don’t worry. I’m sure that you’ll get a dog one of these days.’
There was a brief moment of silence. There’s something wrong, thought Angus. This little boy is feeling miserable. Is it something to do with that mother of his? I would certainly feel miserable if I were her son; poor little boy.
‘Are you unhappy?’ Angus asked.
Bertie, still seated on the stone stair, hugging his knees in front of him, lowered his head. ‘Yes,’ he said. His voice was small, defeated, and Angus felt a surge of feeling for him. He, too, had endured periods of unhappiness as a boy – when he had been bullied – and he remembered what it was like. Unhappiness in childhood was worse than the unhappiness one encountered in later life; it was so complete, so seemingly without end.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Angus said. ‘It’s rotten being unhappy, isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘I’m a bit unhappy myself at the moment. But you tell me why you’re unhappy and then I’ll tell you why I’m feeling the same way. Maybe we could help one another.’
‘It’s because of Olive,’ said Bertie. ‘She’s a girl at school. She came to play today and she pretended to be a nurse. She took some of my blood.’
Angus’s eyes widened. ‘Took some of your blood?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘She had a syringe which she found in her bathroom cupboard. It had a proper needle and everything.’
‘My goodness,’ said Angus. ‘Did she actually . . . actually . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘She stuck the needle into my arm – there, just about there – and then she squirted the blood into a little bottle. She said she was going to do some tests on it and would let me know the result.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear about that,’ said Angus. ‘She shouldn’t have been playing with needles.’
‘She said that the needle was a clean one,’ said Bertie. ‘It was all wrapped up in plastic and she had to take it out.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Angus. ‘But why did you let her do this? I wouldn’t.’
‘I thought that she was just pretending,’ said Bertie. ‘So I closed my eyes. Then the next thing I knew she had the needle in my arm and was telling me not to move or it would go all the way through to the other side.’
Angus extracted a
handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘How very unpleasant for you, Bertie,’ he said. ‘Did you tell your mother about this?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘I ran through and told her, but I don’t think she heard me. She just started to talk to Olive, who was pretending that nothing had happened. She’s very cunning that way.’
‘I can imagine that,’ said Angus. ‘Well, Bertie, I don’t know what to say, other than to suggest that you give Olive a wide berth in the future. But I suppose that’s difficult. And I certainly won’t say to you that you should cheer yourself up by thinking of how many other people are worse off than you are yourself. The contemplation of the toothache of another does very little to help one’s own toothache, you know.’
Bertie nodded. ‘Daddy sometimes says: worse things happen at sea. But when I ask him what these worse things are, he can’t tell me. Do you know what they are, Mr Lordie?’
Angus thought for a moment. Terrible things undoubtedly happened at sea, but he did not think it appropriate to tell Bertie about them. ‘Oh, this and that, Bertie,’ he said. ‘It’s best not to talk about these things.’
Bertie appeared to accept this. He looked up at Angus and asked: ‘Mr Lordie, you said that you were unhappy too. Why are you unhappy?’
‘My dog,’ said Angus. ‘He’s in the pound. He’s been accused of biting people in Northumberland Street.’
Bertie thought for a moment. ‘That’s another dog,’ he said eventually. ‘It looks like your dog, but it’s another one. I’ve seen it.’
Angus hardly dared speak. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered.
‘Of course,’ said Bertie. ‘There’s a dog who lives in a basement flat in Northumberland Street. They let him wander about. And he’s a very bad dog – he tried to bite me once in Drummond Place Gardens, but I ran away in time.’
Angus could barely contain his excitement. ‘Bertie!’ he said. ‘Would you be able to help me find that dog? Would you?’
The World According to Bertie Page 14