‘Now, Tofu,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘Why would Olive tell me that you boys had spat at her if you hadn’t? And, anyway, I noticed that there was something on her face.’
‘That was slime,’ said Tofu. ‘That had nothing to do with me.’
Miss Harmony turned to Bertie. ‘Now, Bertie,’ she said. ‘You’re a truthful boy, aren’t you? You tell me: did you spit at Olive?’
Bertie thought for a moment. He could answer this question quite truthfully. He had not spat at Olive, and he could tell Miss Harmony that. ‘No,’ he said, with some indignation. ‘I didn’t spit at her, Miss Harmony. Cross my heart, I didn’t.’
‘And Tofu, then?’ asked the teacher. ‘Can you tell me, Bertie: did Tofu spit at Olive?’
Bertie looked at Tofu. The other boy had been looking away, but now he shot a glance at Bertie and made a quick throat-slitting gesture with his hand. He did it quickly, but not quickly enough for Miss Harmony not to notice it.
‘I see,’ said the teacher. ‘Ignore that, please Bertie. Tofu has just confirmed his guilt.’
Tofu flushed. ‘It was her fault, Miss Harmony,’ he protested. ‘She told Bertie that he had leprosy.’
Miss Harmony frowned. ‘Bertie, did Olive tell you that?’
Bertie nodded miserably. ‘Yes, Miss Harmony. She took some blood of mine, you see, and did some tests.’
‘Blood!’ exclaimed Miss Harmony. ‘Are you making this up, Bertie?’
Bertie shook his head and began to explain to Miss Harmony about what had happened. He told her of Olive’s visit to Scotland Street and of the junior nurse’s set. When he came to tell her of the syringe and the taking of the blood sample, Miss Harmony winced, and shook her head in disbelief.
‘She actually put the needle in, Bertie?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘Then she told me that she had done some tests and that I had leprosy. That’s when Tofu came and—’
‘Well, we can pass over that,’ said Miss Harmony hurriedly, adding, ‘in the circumstances. But first of all, Bertie, let me assure you: you do not have leprosy. You positively don’t.’
Bertie felt a great weight of anxiety lift off him. Instinctively, he felt his nose again: it seemed more firmly anchored than ever.
‘So,’ went on Miss Harmony, ‘you should now forget all about that. Olive had no right to do any of that, and even if we cannot condone spitting,’ and here she looked at Tofu, ‘there are some occasions on which a blind eye might properly be turned. And so I want you two boys to go and sit down and not to think any more about all this. No more nonsense about leprosy! And no more spitting either!’
From the other side of the classroom, Olive had been watching this carefully. Now she saw the two boys sitting down in their seats and she noticed, somewhat to her alarm, that they were smiling. And now, even more to her alarm, she saw Miss Harmony beckoning her over to her desk.
‘Yes, Miss Harmony?’ said Olive as she approached the teacher.
‘Olive,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘I want a straight answer. No ifs, no buts. Just a straight answer. Did you take a blood sample from Bertie?’
Olive looked down at the floor. ‘Maybe,’ she said. And then she added: ‘I was only trying to help him, Miss Harmony.’
Miss Harmony expelled breath from between her teeth. To Olive, it sounded alarmingly like a hiss.
‘You silly, silly little girl,’ said the teacher. ‘Do you realise how dangerous it is to stick a needle into somebody? Do you realise that?’
Olive did not have time to answer before Miss Harmony continued. ‘And then you went and told him that he had leprosy! Of all the stupid, unkind things to do, that takes some beating. Do you even begin to understand how silly that is?’
Olive looked up at her teacher. She knew that her position was very difficult, but it was not in her nature to give up without a fight.
‘Please don’t destroy my confidence, Miss Harmony,’ she said.
‘What did you say?’ hissed Miss Harmony. ‘Destroy your what?’
‘My confidence,’ said Olive.
It was at this point that Miss Harmony felt her self-control evaporating. She was a graduate of Moray House, the beneficiary of a fine training in the Scots pedagogical tradition. She knew all the theory of how to maintain control in the classroom; she knew all the theory about reinforcing positive behaviour. She also knew that one should never use violence against children, no matter what the temptation. Yet here, faced with this infinitely irritating child, she felt an almost irresistible urge to do something physical.
She tried to collect her thoughts. ‘Olive,’ she said, ‘do you know the test that people used to see if somebody had leprosy? They would pinch them on the ear to see if they felt pain. The poor people with leprosy didn’t, you see. Look, I’ll show you.’
She leaned forward and took Olive’s right earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s what they did.’
She pinched extremely hard, and Olive gave a yelp of pain.
‘Good,’ said Miss Harmony. ‘So you haven’t got leprosy. That’s a relief, isn’t it?’
As Olive made her way back to her desk, Miss Harmony looked out of the window. She knew that the eyes of all the children were on her; they had heard Olive’s yelp; they had seen what had happened. Yes, thought Miss Harmony. I have just abandoned everything I was ever taught, but, oh my goodness, it was satisfying!
79. Julia’s Mother
Several days had passed since the evening on which Julia and Bruce had made their respective discoveries; or rather, since Julia had made her discovery and Bruce had discovered her discovery.
For Julia, it had been an exciting and positive moment; she wanted to secure Bruce, and she knew that this might be difficult without a certain amount of leverage. And what better leverage was there than the fact of a pregnancy? He might not like the idea at first, but, with a certain amount of help from her father, she thought that any slight objections that Bruce might have to marriage could be smoothed over. That was her strategy.
For Bruce, the finding of the instruction sheet for the home pregnancy test had been the cause of immediate panic. Fortunately, as he lay in the bath and reflected on what had happened, this panic subsided, and he began to work out the best approach to the problem. What he required was level-headedness; a careful appreciation of just where he stood and where the danger lay would be followed by a few cautious moves, and, with one bound, he would be free. Julia might think herself smart, but she was no match for Bruce, or so he thought. Indeed, as he reflected on it, he realised that he had never once been outsmarted by a woman. That’s not at all bad, he said to himself. In all my years of playing the field, I’ve never once, on any single occasion, had any girl get the better of me. Hah! And I’ve known quite a few, he thought, who were considerably wilier than Julia Donald.
He felt reassured; the situation was awkward, yes, but no more than that. And Julia would get over him quickly enough, even if she decided to go ahead with having the baby. If she did that, of course, Bruce felt that it would be her own decision – and her own responsibility. The baby, no doubt, would be good-looking – just like me, he mused – and would keep her company, would give her something to do other than read those stupid magazines and have her hair styled. So getting her pregnant, really, was an act of kindness on his part, a gift.
Over the days that followed, Bruce was careful to give no indication that he had found out about Julia’s pregnancy. And Julia, for her part, did nothing to indicate that her situation had changed. They were pleasant enough to one another and they talked about much the same things that they always talked about. They went to a party together and had some mutual friends round to the flat in Howe Street. Nothing was said, not a word, to suggest that anything had changed or would change in the future.
But then Julia announced to Bruce one morning that she had invited her father for dinner that night and that he was looking forward to meeting her new flatmate.
>
‘He likes you already,’ she said. ‘He told me that on the phone.’
Bruce smiled. Of course her father would like him, but surely he should have the chance to meet him first. It was typical of Julia, he thought, half-fondly: she was enthusiastic about everything.
‘But he hasn’t met me yet,’ Bruce pointed out. ‘I’m not sure if one can like somebody without meeting him first.’
Julia laughed. ‘But Daddy does,’ she said. ‘I tell him all the things you say and he says: “Seems pretty sound to me.” So, you see, he knows you quite well already.’
‘Oh well,’ said Bruce. ‘I look forward to meeting him too. He sounds a nice guy, your old man.’
‘Oh, he is,’ said Julia. ‘He’s so kind too. He’s always been kind.’
Bruce was curious about Julia’s mother. She had never mentioned her, as he could recall, and he wondered if there was some difficulty there.
‘And your mother, Julia? Is she . . . ?’
Julia looked down at the floor. ‘She’s dead, I’m afraid. Or we think she’s dead.’
Bruce was puzzled. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Well, it was fairly awful,’ said Julia. ‘They went to the Iguazu Falls in South America. They didn’t take me – I was quite young then, and I was left with my aunt in Drymen. You know, right on Loch Lomond. And . . .’
‘Nice place,’ said Bruce.
‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘But they were in Argentina, you see, and . . .’ She broke off.
‘Oh well,’ said Bruce.
Julia said nothing, and Bruce shifted in his chair. Something had obviously happened at the Iguazu Falls, but perhaps it was better not to go there, he thought, in the metaphorical sense, of course. One could always go to the Iguazu Falls but not . . .
Julia interrupted his train of thought. ‘I don’t really like to talk about it,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Bruce. ‘But I’m really looking forward to meeting your father. I really am.’
‘I’m so pleased, Brucie,’ she said. ‘Just the four of us.’
Bruce looked up sharply. ‘Four?’
Julia’s eyes widened. ‘Did I say four? Four? I meant three, of course. Daddy, me, Daddy. That’s three. That’s what I meant.’
Bruce frowned. ‘You counted your father twice,’ he said. ‘You mentioned two daddies. You did.’
Julia was becoming flustered. ‘Oh, Brucie, you’re getting me all mixed up. What I meant was you, me and Daddy. That makes three.’
‘I see.’
‘And I’m going to cook something really nice,’ she said. ‘And you’ll have the chance to chat with Daddy.’
‘About?’ asked Bruce casually.
‘Anything,’ said Julia. ‘Rugby. Business. Politics. Anything you like. He’s very easy. In fact, you could talk to him about property things. You know a lot about that, being a surveyor and all. Daddy has quite a bit of commercial property.’
Bruce hesitated a moment. ‘Commercial property?’
‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘You know those shops in Queensferry Street? He has quite a few there. And George Street too. He has some there.’
‘Interesting,’ said Bruce.
‘Not to me,’ Julia said. ‘I find all that talk of square metres and rents and stuff like that really boring.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, I’m really glad that you and Daddy are going to get on so well. And now I’m going to go and start to get things ready.’
She left Bruce and went into the kitchen. He stood up and walked to the window of the flat, looking down onto Howe Street. He was very comfortable here, and Julia was not all that bad; if she went on, one could simply turn off and let it all wash over. And she was certainly attractive, in her dim, rather vacuous sort of way. In fact, she was a real head-turner, now that one came to think of it, and there would be no shame involved in walking into a wine bar with her. A wine bar . . .
There were wine bars in George Street, and she had said that her father had commercial property there. It would be interesting if it turned out that he owned a wine bar. Very interesting.
80. Julia’s Father Comes Straight to the Point
Julia ushered her father into the flat. ‘Every time I come here,’ said Graeme Donald, ‘I find myself thinking – they really understood the need for space, those Georgians. I was in one of those new flats the other day – you know those ones down the road there. Tiny. And quite a price, too. Ridiculously expensive.’
He was a tall, well-built man with an air of easy self-assurance about him. He kissed his daughter on the cheek, almost absentmindedly, and cast a glance towards the open door of the drawing room. ‘In there?’ he whispered. ‘This young man of yours?’
Julia nodded. ‘Yes. And you will do what we discussed? Is that all right, Daddy?’
He looked at her. ‘Is that what you want? Are you sure he’s the one? Because there’ll be plenty of time to be sorry if . . .’
‘Believe me, Daddy. We just click. He’s lovely.’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Anything that makes my girl happy. Anything.’
Julia took him gently by the arm. ‘Just make sure that he won’t say no,’ she said, her voice still low.
‘Well, as long as he’s reasonably well disposed, then I think I can make things attractive enough for him.’
‘Good.’
They entered the drawing room, where Bruce was sitting by the window. As they entered, he rose and crossed the floor to shake hands with Graeme.
‘So you’re Bruce.’ Graeme took Bruce’s hand and shook it warmly.
‘Sir.’
‘Please call me Graeme.’
Julia moved to Bruce’s side and linked her arm in his. ‘You two will have lots to talk about,’ she said, gazing at Bruce. ‘Daddy, Bruce used to be a surveyor.’
‘Macaulay Holmes et cetera,’ said Bruce.
Graeme nodded. ‘Good firm. I’ve had dealings with them. Nice chaps, the Todds.’
‘Yes,’ said Bruce, less than enthusiastically.
‘Why did you leave?’ asked Graeme.
Bruce’s answer came readily. ‘Challenge,’ he said. ‘I needed to get my teeth into something new.’
Graeme nodded appreciatively. ‘Always a good idea.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Bruce spoke. ‘You’re in commercial property yourself, Julia tells me.’
‘Yes,’ said Graeme. ‘Mostly here in Edinburgh. Shops. I prefer them to offices, you know. I felt that you’re more at the mercy of the economy if you have office space on your hands. But if you have retail property in a good area, then there’s always somebody prepared to take on a lease. Or that’s what I’ve found. The triumph of hope over commercial experience.’
Bruce laughed. ‘George Street?’ he asked. ‘Julia said something about George Street.’
Graeme nodded. ‘I have a wine bar there,’ he said. ‘You may know it.’
Bruce did know it. It was one of the more fashionable wine bars. He and Julia had been there together and she had said something about her father, but he had paid no attention.
‘A great bar,’ said Bruce. ‘It must do very well.’
‘It could do better,’ said Graeme. ‘I need to get somebody to take it in hand. Somebody who . . .’ He trailed off. He was watching Bruce, and he saw the slight movement of the brows. I can see what she sees in him, Graeme thought. And what a relief, with all that riff-raff around these days; at long last she’s come up with a young man about whom I can be enthusiastic; somebody who shares my values. Bit dim, I suspect, but obviously capable of producing grandchildren, and nothing in the least artistic about him, thank heavens, unlike the last one: talk about barking up the wrong tree with him! No, she’s quite right; this is more like it.
He looked at Bruce. ‘Would you mind if I had a frank talk with you?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I’ve never been one to beat about the bush – I don’t see the point. Man to man. Much better.’
Bruce froze. She’s told him, he thought. She’s gone and
told him.
‘You see,’ said Graeme, ‘we’re not a big family. I lost my wife, as you may know, some time ago.’
Bruce thought of Julia’s mother, lost at the Iguazu Falls. He nodded.
‘And so I’m very close to Julia,’ Graeme went on. ‘And the one thing I want is her happiness. That means more to me than anything. Can you understand that?’
Bruce nodded. This was going to be very embarrassing.
‘So if there’s a young man who’s keen to marry her,’ said Graeme, ‘then that young man . . .’ he paused for a moment, fixing him with a direct stare, ‘whoever he might turn out to be, will find himself very . . . how should I put it? . . . very well provided for. In fact, he would find himself in the business, as a director. And Julia, of course, would end up with a very nice share of the business, too – the whole lot, eventually. For instance, that wine bar in George Street. The young man would probably rather like being the . . . being the owner of that. And there are two parking garages that go with it, you know. He would need somewhere to park the little runabout that would go with the job. Not that a Porsche needs all that much space, of course!’
For a few moments, there was complete silence, at least in the drawing room. In the kitchen, there was the sound of a mixer whirring and then a metal spoon scraping against the side of a pot.
Bruce had been taken aback by the directness of the approach, but at least Graeme had made his position clear. And why shouldn’t he? Bruce asked himself. He was making an offer, and what point was there in making the offer less than clear?
Bruce did a rapid calculation. A wine bar in George Street would be worth well over a million. And that was without the other things that Graeme had hinted at. Life was a battle, Bruce thought, and here was he with nothing very much to show for the last six years. Look at Neil in that flat in Comely Bank, stuck there for the foreseeable future, struggling to make ends meet on what was probably a perfectly good salary. How long would that mortgage be? Twenty-five years? Anything would be better than that, anything.
The World According to Bertie Page 28