The World According to Bertie

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Big Lou waited for Robbie’s response. It was slow, but at last he said something: ‘No. I don’t see that, Lou. Sorry, I don’t.’

  Big Lou sighed. Why was it her lot in life, she wondered, to find men who had something odd about them? Every time, every single time, she had been involved with a man, there had been something strange about him. There had been that man in Aberdeen who had been obsessed with billiards and had spent all his spare time watching replays of classic games; that had been very trying. Then there had been Eddie, with his thing about teenage girls; that had been intolerable. And now here was Robbie, who was, of all things, a Jacobite! She had to smile, she really had to. Teenage girls or obscure Jacobite shenanigans? Which was worse?

  There was no doubt in Big Lou’s mind. ‘Oh well, Robbie,’ she said at last. ‘Whatever makes you happy.’

  Robbie leaned forward and kissed Big Lou on the cheek. ‘You’re a trouper, Lou,’ he said. ‘One of the best. Just like Flora MacDonald.’

  61. ‘Middle-class’ Used as a Term of Abuse

  It was rare for the Pollock family to go on an outing together. This was not through any lack of inclination to do so, but it was rather because of the crowded timetable which Irene prepared for Bertie. Not only was there a saxophone lesson each week – complemented by a daily practice session of at least half an hour (scales, arpeggios, and set pieces) – but there was also Bertie’s yoga in Stockbridge, which took at least two hours, and Italian structured conversazione at the Italian Cultural Institute in Nicolson Street. On top of that, of course, there was psychotherapy, which, although it might take only an hour, seemed to occupy much more time, what with Bertie’s writing up of dreams in the dream notebook and the walk up to Queen Street for the actual session.

  It was an extremely full life for a little boy, and there was more to come: Irene had planned a book group for Bertie, in which five or six children from the New Town would meet regularly in each other’s flats and discuss a book that they had read.

  The model for this was, in Irene’s mind, her own Kleinian book group, which had flourished for several months before it had been sabotaged by one of the members. This still rankled with Irene, who had resisted this other member’s attempts to introduce works of fiction into the group’s programme. This had effectively split the group and left such a sour taste in the mouths of Irene and her allies that the group’s meetings had fizzled out and never restarted.

  ‘The whole point about our group,’ Irene had complained to a friend, ‘is that we are not one of those awful groups of middle-class ladies who meet and talk about the latest vapid imaginings of some novelist. That we are not.’

  The friend had nodded her agreement. ‘Thank heavens for that,’ she said. ‘Those people are so earnest. So self-consciously serious. All trying to outdo one another in the depth of their comments. It’s quite funny when you come to think of it.’

  This conversation had taken place in the Pollocks’ flat in Scotland Street and had been overheard by Stuart. He wondered what was wrong with book groups, which he thought were a rather good idea. Indeed, Stuart would have liked to have been in a book group himself and had almost joined one organised by a colleague in the office – a book group for men – but Irene had poured cold water on the idea.

  ‘Join it if you wish,’ she had said disparagingly. ‘But it’s sad, don’t you think? Rather sad to think of these middle-class men all sitting around talking about some novel they’ve tried to finish in time for the meeting.’

  Stuart had said nothing. He had never understood Irene’s prejudice against people whom she called middle-class; indeed, he had never comprehended why the term middle-class should be considered a term of abuse. To begin with, he thought that they themselves were middle-class; not that he dared say that to his wife, but surely it was true. In income terms, they were about the middle, and they lived in a street where just about everybody else was in roughly the same position. And Edinburgh, of course, was itself mostly middle-class, whatever some people liked to think. As a statistician, Stuart knew the figures: 60 per cent of the population of the city was in highly skilled jobs and was therefore middle-class. So why should Irene speak so scornfully about the middle-class when the middle-class was all about her; and if you took the middle-class away, the city would die . . . just as it would if you took away the people who did the hard, thankless jobs, the manual work that was just as important in keeping things going. That, thought Stuart, was why class talk was so utterly pointless: everybody counted.

  And now, overhearing this attack on book groups, Stuart pondered this again. It might be true that middle-class ladies belonged to book groups, but what was wrong with that? It seemed to him to be an entirely reasonable and interesting thing to do. It was fun to discuss books with others – to share the pleasure of reading – and one might learn from the views of one’s fellow members, even if they were middle-class.

  Irene was an enigma to him. He admired her, and there was a bit of him that loved her – just – but he could not understand her contempt for others and her desire to be something that she was not. Stuart was a reasonable person, who saw the good and the bad in others without reference to where they stood politically. He would read any newspaper he found lying about in the office and find something of interest in it. And if he did not agree with what was written, he would nonetheless reflect on the arguments put forward and weigh them up. Irene did not do that. There was one newspaper she read, and one alone, and she would barely look at anything else. On occasion, Stuart came back from the office with another paper, and this would trigger a firm response from Irene.

  ‘Stuart, I don’t think it’s wise to bring the Daily Telegraph into the house,’ she said. ‘Just think for a moment. What if Bertie read it? You know how he picks things up and reads them.’

  Stuart had shrugged. ‘He’s got to learn what the world’s like sooner or later,’ he said. He wondered if he should add: ‘He’s got to learn that there are Conservatives . . .’ but a look from Irene discouraged him.

  ‘That, if I may say so,’ she said, ‘is utterly and completely irresponsible. Do you want his mind to be poisoned? It’ll be the Daily Mail next. Or the Sun. For heaven’s sake, Stuart! And what if somebody saw you carrying that paper? What would they think?’

  That argument had not gone any further, for Stuart had capitulated, as he always seemed to do, and had agreed that inappropriate newspapers would not be brought into the house in the future. But, as they set off on their walk that Saturday morning, he thought about it, and wondered why he had not defended freedom of thought.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Bertie, as Stuart and Irene jointly manipulated Ulysses’ baby buggy down the common stair to the front door.

  ‘Valvona & Crolla,’ replied Irene. ‘It’ll be a nice walk.’ Bertie was pleased to hear this. He liked the delicatessen, with its high shelves of Italian produce. For the most part, they bought olive oil there, and sun-dried tomatoes, and packets of pasta. But there were other delights there too, such as Panforte di Siena, and Bertie, with all his soul, loved Panforte di Siena.

  62. Bertie Contemplates the woes of the World

  They walked around Drummond Place, the four of them – Irene, Stuart, Bertie and Ulysses, who did not walk, of course, but was pushed in his new MobileBaby baby buggy, of which Bertie was inordinately proud. Their car might be old, but their baby buggy, at least, was brand new. In fact, as they rounded the corner into London Street, Bertie saw their car, parked on the other side of the road.

  ‘There’s our car!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look, Daddy. There it is.’

  ‘So I see, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘That’s where Mummy must have parked it.’

  Irene reacted sharply. ‘I beg your pardon. You parked it there, Stuart. I very rarely park in this street.’

  Stuart looked down at the pavement. He was sure that he had not parked the car there, but he understood that there was no point in arguing about it. Irene seemed to win any argument that
they had, particularly in relation to their car, often by the simple technique of staring at Stuart until he became silent. It was a powerful method of overcoming opposition, and Stuart had come across one or two politicians who used it to great effect. These were generally the same ones who refused to answer any questions, usually by giving a response which bore no relation to the actual question which was asked. In fact, when he came to think of it, Irene would make a good politician – but for which party? Would Jack McConnell have her in the Labour Party, he wondered, or would she simply stare at him until he became uncomfortable? Irene would not join the Conservatives, and they, quite understandably, would not want her. Which left the Liberal Democrats, the Scottish National Party and the Greens. The Greens! There was an idea. Stuart knew Robin Harper, their leader, and liked him, but wondered if even Robin Harper, the leader of the Greens, could continue to smile if he found himself faced with Irene. No, Irene should perhaps remain out of politics after all.

  ‘Well, at least we know where our car is,’ said Bertie. ‘That’s something.’

  They continued down London Street, with Bertie throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder at the car. Now they went up the hill, up Broughton Street and into Union Street, in the direction of Leith Walk. A dog walking along Union Street with its owner made Bertie think of Cyril and the plight in which the dog found himself.

  ‘Tofu says that they’ll cut Cyril’s tail off as a punishment for biting,’ he ventured. ‘Tofu said that’s what happens to dogs that bite.’

  ‘That’s absolute nonsense,’ said Irene. ‘Your friend Tofu is full of ridiculous notions. It would be much better, Bertie, if you had nothing to do with him.’

  Bertie was relieved to hear that Tofu, as usual, was wrong. ‘So they won’t do anything cruel like that?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Irene.

  ‘Then what will they do?’ asked Bertie. ‘If they find him guilty?’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Well?’ said Stuart, looking at Irene. ‘Will you answer, or shall I?’ He waited a moment, and then turned to his son. ‘I’m afraid that they’ll put Cyril down, Bertie. Sorry to have to tell you that.’

  Bertie looked puzzled. ‘Put him down where?’ he asked.

  There was another silence. Then Irene took charge of the situation. She remembered Cyril as the dog who had bitten her – quite without provocation – in Dundas Street. He was a nasty, smelly creature in her view, and she still had a slight scar, a redness, on her ankle where his gold tooth had penetrated the skin.

  ‘Put down is a euphemism, Bertie,’ she said. ‘You’ll remember that Mummy told you about euphemisms. They’re words which sound nicer than . . . than other words.’

  Bertie remembered their conversation about euphemisms, but he could not remember any examples that his mother had given. In fact, he had pressed his mother for examples and she had been strangely reluctant to give any. ‘Such as, Mummy?’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Irene. She trailed off.

  ‘Putting down for . . . for killing,’ said Stuart.

  Bertie stopped in his tracks, causing them all to come to a halt. He looked up at his father, who immediately regretted what he had said.

  ‘You mean that they’re going to kill Cyril?’ asked Bertie, his voice faltering.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Stuart. ‘But they’ll do it humanely, Bertie. They won’t shoot him or anything like that.’

  ‘Will they put him in an electric kennel?’ asked Bertie. ‘Just like an electric chair?’

  Stuart reached for Bertie’s hand. ‘Of course not, Bertie!’ he said. ‘What an idea!’

  Holding his father’s hand was a comfort for Bertie, but it was not enough. As he stood there on the pavement in Union Street, his eyes began to fill with tears. He could not believe that anybody would wish to kill Cyril, or any dog, really. Nor could he believe that anybody would want to kill anything, for that matter; and yet it seemed that the world was filled with killing. People killed seals and deer and birds. They killed elephants and rhinoceroses and buffalo. The Japanese even killed whales, when just about everybody else had recognised that as wrong; those great, intelligent, friendly creatures – they killed them. And then people killed other people with equal, if not more, gusto: Bertie had seen pictures in the newspaper of a war that somebody was fighting somewhere, and had seen a soldier firing a gun at somebody who was firing back at him. That seemed utterly absurd to him. People should play with one another, he thought, not fight. But then obviously there were people who disagreed with that, who wanted to fight; people such as Larch, for example, who loved to punch people and kick them too, if he had the chance. Larch had pinned a sign saying ‘KICK ME’ on Tofu’s back, and had then kicked him hard in the seat of the pants. That had brought whoops of delight from Olive, who had witnessed the event and had run over to try to kick Tofu while the offer still stood, only to have her hair pulled by an enraged Tofu. That sort of violence solved nothing, thought Bertie. But that, it seemed to him, was what the world was like. People kicked one another and pulled each other’s hair and wept at the result. Why?

  ‘There, there, Bertie,’ said his father. ‘I’m sure that everything will turn out well in the end.’

  Irene shook her head. ‘It’ll do no good your telling Bertie that, Stuart,’ she said. ‘It won’t. You know it. I know it. It won’t.’

  63. Panforte for Bertie and a Shock for Stuart

  In the delicious caverns of Valvona & Crolla, Mary Contini, author of Dear Olivia, was busy adjusting jars of truffle oil on a shelf when the Pollock family entered. She turned round and saw Irene, and for a moment her heart sank. She knew Irene slightly, and their relationship had not been easy. Irene had strong views on olive oil and was only too ready to share these with the staff of the delicatessen, even when, as was often the case, she was on shaky ground. Mary listened patiently and refrained from correcting or contradicting Irene, but it was not easy. And that poor little boy of hers, she thought. And the husband! Look at him. There’s a hearth from which freedom has been excluded, if ever there was one. And now there was another baby, who would no doubt have to face the same awful battle that poor little Bertie had faced. Poor child!

  Irene smiled at Mary. She had read her books and enjoyed them, but it did remind her that she herself could have written a number of books, and that these books would undoubtedly have been very successful; indeed, they would have been seminal books. But she had not actually got round to doing this yet, although it was, she felt, merely a question of time. The books would certainly come, and she would handle the resulting success very much better than many authors did. Of that she was certain.

  ‘Can we get some Panforte di Siena, Mummy?’ asked Bertie. ‘I know where they keep it.’

  ‘Very well, Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘But not a large one. Just one of those small ones. In Italy, boys eat small pieces of Panforte di Siena.’

  Bertie led his mother to the shelf where the panforte was stacked, resplendent in its box with its Renaissance picture. He picked up a small box and showed it to his mother, who nodded her approval. Then they all went on to the sun-dried tomato section and, after that, to the counter where the salami and cold meats were served.

  Once their purchases were complete, Stuart looked at his watch. ‘I think I’m going to walk over to the Fruitmarket Gallery,’ he said.

  Irene agreed to this. She would go home with Bertie, she said: he had saxophone practice to do in view of his impending examination. Bertie was not pleased by this, but his mind was now on the panforte, and he was wondering if he could persuade his mother to allow him to eat it all in one sitting. This was unlikely, he thought, but he could always try. Irene believed in rationing pleasures, and Bertie was never allowed more than a small square of chocolate or a spoonful or so of ice cream. And some pleasures – such as Irn-Bru – were completely banned; it was only when Stuart was in charge that they slipped through the protective net.

  Irene
and Bertie walked back together. It was a fine morning, and Drummond Place was filled with light. In Scotland Street, they saw Domenica walking up the opposite side of the road, and she waved cheerfully to them. Bertie returned the wave.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Irene quietly.

  Bertie said nothing. He did not understand why his mother should call Domenica poor woman; it seemed to him that Domenica was quite contented with life, as well she might be, he thought, with her large, custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz. But then Bertie realised that his mother had views on just about all the neighbours, with whom there was, in her view, always something wrong.

  Inside the flat, Bertie was allowed to eat half the panforte, with a promise that he could eat the remainder the following day, provided he did his music practice.

  ‘Mr Morrison is counting on you to do well in the examination,’ said Irene. ‘So don’t let him down.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Bertie, licking the white dusting of icing sugar from his lips. Panforte was Italy’s greatest invention, he thought. His mother went on about Italian culture, about Dante and Botticelli and all the rest, but in Bertie’s mind it was Panforte di Siena which was Italy’s greatest gift to the world. That, and ice cream.

  Bertie’s practice was finished by the time that Stuart returned from the Fruitmarket Gallery. He let himself into the flat and sauntered into the kitchen, where Irene was standing at the stove, stirring a pan of soup, and Bertie was sitting at the table, reading.

  Irene turned round to greet Stuart. ‘Interesting exhibition?’ she asked.

  ‘Very,’ said Stuart. ‘All sorts of marvellous artists – Crosbie, Houston, McClure. And I saw that chap Duncan Macmillan there. You know, he’s the one who has been poking such fun at the Turner Prize recently. And he’s right, in my opinion.’

  Irene was not particularly interested in this. The Turner Prize was, in her view, a progressive prize, and it was nothing new to have people attack progressiveness. She put down her spoon. ‘Where’s Ulysses?’ she asked. ‘Is he in the hall?’