The World According to Bertie

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘Somebody told on her,’ said Tofu. ‘Somebody’s mummy went and complained because she had heard about Miss Harmony’s act of self-defence.’

  People reacted in different ways to this. For his part, Bertie froze. He had an inkling of the fact that it was his mother who was responsible for the downfall of Miss Harmony, but he had no intention of revealing this.

  ‘Not my mother,’ he said, in a small voice.

  Everybody looked at him, and he blushed. He was a truthful boy and he would not normally tell a lie, but, in this case, he felt he could say what he said because he had no actual proof that Irene had been the cause of Miss Harmony’s departure. Moreover, on a strict construction, all he had said was ‘Not my mother’, which was a sentence capable of many interpretations. ‘Not my mother’ could mean: may misfortune strike others, but not my mother (the first phrase being understood). Or it could be a general denial of maternity; there were many senses in which the statement could be read. So it was not really a lie.

  ‘Nobody said it was her,’ said Larch, suspiciously. ‘Although . . .’ He left the rest of the sentence unfinished, and Bertie quaked.

  ‘Bertie only said that because he knows that everybody hates his mother,’ said Tofu kindly. ‘Isn’t that so, Bertie?’

  Bertie swallowed. ‘Well . . .’ He trailed off. They knew what his mother was like – there was no point in trying to hide it; but did they actually hate her?

  Tofu’s pronouncement evoked a very different reaction in Olive. ‘Self-defence?’ she said, glowering at Tofu. ‘What do you mean by self-defence, Tofu?’

  ‘I meant what I said,’ retorted Tofu hotly. ‘Miss Harmony only pinched your ear because you were threatening her. I saw you. I saw you try to scratch her. And I’m going to tell everybody. I’m going to tell the other teachers.’

  Olive’s eyes opened wide in outrage. ‘Scratch her? I never did. You’re a liar, Tofu! Everybody knows what lies you tell. Nobody will believe a liar like you.’

  ‘I will,’ said Larch. ‘I’ll tell them that Tofu’s telling the truth. I’ll tell them that you had your hands round Miss Harmony’s neck and that she had to pinch you to bring you to your senses.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Tofu. ‘And Bertie will say the same thing. And Lakshmi. And everybody, in fact, because everybody knows how horrid you are, and they’ll blame you when Miss Harmony commits suicide. In fact, she’s probably done that already. That’s what people do when they’re falsely accused of things.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Larch. ‘She’s probably climbing up the Scott Monument right now . . .’ He leaned forward and pointed an accusing finger at Olive. ‘And it’ll be your fault, Olive! Your fault!’

  Olive opened her mouth to say something, but was prevented from doing so by Tofu. ‘So,’ he said. ‘We have to find out who told on Miss Harmony and we have to get that person to say that it was all made up and that it was self-defence, as I’ve said.’

  ‘And then we’ll get Miss Harmony back,’ said Pansy. ‘Because she was the nicest teacher we could ever hope to get. She was kind, and she liked all of us.’

  ‘Except Olive,’ said Tofu. ‘She knew what Olive was like. That’s why she pinched her.’

  ‘I thought you said it was self-defence,’ crowed Olive. ‘Now you’re saying it was because she hated me.’

  ‘Both,’ snapped Tofu. ‘She hated you and she had to defend herself. Both are true.’

  The argument might have continued had it not been for the arrival of the new teacher, a man in his mid-twenties, who walked into the classroom and stood smiling at the top of the class. He introduced himself as Mr Bing.

  ‘I’m your new teacher,’ he said, ‘now that Miss Harmony . . .’

  ‘Is dead,’ supplied Tofu.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mr Bing. ‘Miss Harmony’s not dead! Where on earth did you get that idea? She’s just reassessing her career. People often do that, boys and girls – they have another look at what they’re doing and decide whether they aren’t better off doing something quite different. That’s all.’

  ‘But did she want to reassess her career?’ asked Tofu. ‘Or was she forced to go because she had to defend herself against Olive?’

  Mr Bing frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you . . . what’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Tofu.’

  Mr Bing hesitated for a moment. ‘Well, Tofu,’ he said, ‘it’s possible that Miss Harmony might have become a little bit stressed. And it’s possible that she might have done something a little bit impulsive.’

  ‘It was self-defence,’ said Tofu, looking around the class for support. ‘Olive tried to strangle her, and it was the only way in which she could calm her down. She gave her a little pinch to get her to loosen her grasp round her neck. That’s true, isn’t it, everybody?’

  A chorus of support was raised.

  ‘Yes,’ said Larch, his face contorted into an expression of sincerity. ‘She’s quite dangerous, Mr Bing. We all know that. But Miss Harmony still wants to protect her, and so she probably didn’t say anything about Olive trying to strangle her. Miss Harmony is so kind, you see. If somebody tries to strangle her she never says anything about it.’

  Mr Bing seemed flustered. ‘Well, we might talk about this later,’ he said. ‘For the time being, I should like to get to know you all. So what we’re going to do is to write a little piece about ourselves– just a page or so. And then we’ll put our names on top of that, and in that way I’ll know all about each of you! Now isn’t that a good idea?’

  ‘Some people can’t write yet,’ said Larch. ‘Olive can’t.’

  ‘No,’ said Tofu. ‘She’s illiterate, Mr Bing.’

  Olive glared at Tofu, but was steadfastly ignored.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Bing. ‘In that case, those who can write will write, and those who can’t can draw pictures for me! How about that? They can draw pictures of themselves and of their favourite things to do.’

  ‘How do you draw fibs?’ asked Tofu. ‘Because Olive will have to draw them.’

  ‘Now Tofu,’ scolded Mr Bing. ‘We mustn’t say such things. What you’ve just said about Olive creates negative karma. But I’m sure that you didn’t mean it, and so we’ll move on and start our little project. I’ll give you each a bit of paper and you can get down to work. What fun we shall all have!’

  93. The World According to Bertie

  Giving the tip of his pencil a lick for good luck, Bertie began to write:

  The world according to Bertie.

  My name is Bertie Pollock, and I’m a boy. I live in Scotland Street, which is a place in Edinburgh. Our house is at No. 44, which is easy to remember. It is hard to get lost in Scotland Street, because it just goes up and down and you can see each end if you stand in the middle. I have a brother called Ulysses, who is very small and can’t talk or think yet. My Daddy’s name is Stuart, and he works for the Scottish Executive, where he makes up numbers. I think that he is very good at that because he has been promoted and given more money.

  My Mummy’s name is Irene. She is quite tall and she talks more than Daddy, who sometimes tries to say something but is told not to say it by Mummy. Mummy has a friend called Dr Fairbairn, who is mad. He wears a blue jacket which Mummy says is made of stuff called linen. Dr Fairbairn lives in Queen Street. Most people have a living room, but he has a waiting room. He keeps copies of a magazine called Scottish Field in his waiting room so that people can read it before they go in to talk to him. I like reading Scottish Field because it has pictures of dogs and castles in it, and also pictures of people having fun. Often I see a picture of Mr Roddy Martine in it and also Mr Charlie Maclean. They go to parties and have lots of fun. I am not sure what they do apart from having fun, but I still think that they are quite busy.

  Dr Fairbairn does not have much fun. I think that this is because he knows that they are going to send him to Carstairs one day. That is where they send all the really dangerous mad people. I think that they have booked a place for him
there, but he is not ready to go just yet. Mummy will probably visit him there because she likes talking to him and she will miss him when he gets sent to Carstairs.

  When she is not talking to Dr Fairbairn, Mummy likes going to the floatarium in Stockbridge. That is where she floats, in a special tank that makes you feel as if you are lying down on top of something. Mummy took Dr Fairbairn to the floatarium one day to show him how to float. I think that the tank is big enough for two people. Dr Fairbairn liked it because he seemed much more cheerful afterwards and did not just talk about ink-blots and dreams. Mummy said I should not tell Daddy about how we took Dr Fairbairn to the floatarium, as that would make Daddy want to go too and he would not like floating as much as Dr Fairbairn liked it. Mummy said that Daddy is happier with sums and numbers and that is the best thing for him to do.

  My brother Ulysses looks just like Dr Fairbairn, but I do not think that he is mad like him. My friend Tofu tells me that there are lots of mad babies in Carstairs and that they have special padded playpens for them. I am not sure if this is true, because Tofu tells a lot of fibs and you never know when he is fibbing. One day his pants will go on fire and that will serve him right for all those fibs he has told.

  We do not have any pets. I would like to have a dog, and a cat too. I would also like a rabbit and a hedgehog. Mummy says that all of these things are smelly and are best left in the wild. She says that dogs are really wolves and would be happier in the forest. She said that cats hate people and are spiteful too. She says that rabbits are an evolutionary mistake and that hedgehogs have lots of fleas. So I am not allowed to have any of these animals.

  There is a dog who lives in Drummond Place. He belongs to a man called Mr Lordie, who paints pictures and smells of turpentine. The dog is really nice. He is called Cyril and he has a gold tooth. When he opens his mouth to stick out his tongue you can see the gold tooth inside. He is a very smiley dog and everybody in Scotland Street, where I live, likes him, except for Mummy, because Cyril bit her when she called him bad and smelly. He was arrested for biting other people, but it was not him, and they got him out of the pound before they shot him. Now he is back and can go to the Cumberland Bar again. That is where people go to drink beer in the evenings. You cannot go there unless you are eighteen. There is a different rule for dogs. Dogs can go there even if they are only one.

  When I am eighteen I am going to go to live in Glasgow or Australia, or maybe Paris, where I have already been. Once I went to Glasgow and I met a very fat man there called Mr O’Connor. Mr O’Connor eats deep-fried Mars bars and is very proud of Glasgow. Mummy did not like him when he came to see us, but my Daddy likes him, a bit.

  That is everything about me. I am happy with my life except for some things. I do not want to have any more psychotherapy and I do not want to go to yoga any more. I would like to go out with my Dad more and I would like Olive not to come and play at my house. I would like to have some nice friends, nicer than Tofu, and I would like to make a fort in the gardens with these friends. I would also like to go fishing with my friends, on a boat, but I cannot do that now because I do not have a boat and I do not have those friends yet.

  I think the world is nice. I think that it is very sad that there are people who are unkind to one another. I also think that it is sad that there are people who want to kill other people just because they do not like them. I think that we should share things, and not be selfish, like Tofu.

  Miss Harmony was a very kind teacher. We all loved her and she was very kind to us. I hope that wherever she is she is happy. I want her to come back, though. I want things to be the same again and for everybody to be happy. That is what I want.

  Bertie Pollock (6).

  94. Robinsonade

  Domenica had arranged to meet her old friend, Dilly Emslie, forcoffee in the Patisserie Florentin in North West Circus Place. Theyhad last met shortly after Domenica’s return from the Malacca Straits, and Domenica had given Dilly an account of her anthropological research project among contemporary pirates – a project that had ultimately led to the discovery that the pirates stole intellectual property rather than anything else. Dilly had greeted this news with some relief; it was she who had encouraged Domenica to take on a new piece of research in the first place, although she had not envisaged that she would choose to work among pirates. Had Domenica come to an unfortunate end, she would have felt a certain responsibility, and so now, if Domenica again showed signs of itchy feet, she would certainly not give her any encouragement.

  The two old friends had much to discuss.

  ‘I take it that everybody behaved themselves while I was off in the Malacca Straits,’ said Domenica, as she contemplated a small Italian biscuit that had been placed on the side of her plate.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Dilly. ‘Or if they didn’t, then word hasn’t reached me yet.’

  Domenica sighed. ‘So disappointing. That’s Edinburgh’s one, tiny little fault: most people behave rather well.’

  ‘On the surface,’ said Dilly, smiling. ‘But there are some people who are still capable of surprising one.’

  ‘Next door, for example,’ said Domenica. ‘My erstwhile friend, Antonia – she of the work-in-progress on the lives of the Scottish saints, and, incidentally, the person who removed a blue Spode teacup from my flat, but that’s another story – she has just finished an affair with a Polish builder, would you believe it? A man who had only one word of English, and that was “brick”.’

  ‘The strong and almost silent type,’ said Dilly.

  Domenica laughed. ‘Yes, but it’s over now, and she’s decided to look for a better sort of man. Where she’ll find somebody like that, I have no idea, but hope springs eternal. Meanwhile, she continues to write about her saints.

  ‘A very popular field at the moment,’ she went on. ‘Do you know that Roger Collins is writing a great work on the lives of the popes? He’s got quite far with it. I had tea with Judith McClure and she showed me the new study they’ve built. There are two desks in it – one for Judith and one for Roger, with a rather comfortable-looking chair that Roger can swing round in while he’s writing about popes.’

  ‘This city, taking a broad view of its boundaries, is becoming very productive,’ said Dilly. ‘Roger Collins and his book on popes. And Allan Massie, with those marvellous historical novels of his. Even if the Borders claim him he’s almost Edinburgh. And—’

  ‘Ian Rankin writing all about criminal goings-on,’ interjected Domenica. ‘Such an active imagination, and a very fine writer too. And then there’s Irvine Welsh, with his vivid dialogue!’

  ‘Quite an impressive range,’ said Dilly.

  Domenica nodded. ‘And that’s only mentioning the books that make it into print. Imagine all the others. On which subject, do take a look at Stuart Kelly’s Book of Lost Books – it’s all about books that people have talked about but which were never really written or have been lost. Great missing masterpieces. Books that never were, but which may still contribute to their authors’ reputations!’

  They moved on. Had Domenica seen the latest article by Lynne Truss?

  ‘A real heroine,’ Domenica said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dilly. ‘But I can’t help but feel that she’s fighting a losing battle. The other day I saw an article about grammatical mistakes that had two grammatical mistakes in it. And these weren’t the examples – they were in the text itself.’

  ‘Of course, language changes,’ said Domenica. ‘And how do we decide what’s correct? What did Professor Pinker say about the songs of the whales?’

  ‘Oh, I think I remember that,’ said Dilly. ‘Didn’t he say that it would be nonsensical to point out that the whales made mistakes in their songs? That whale songs were what whales sang?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Domenica. ‘He implied that grammatical rules should merely reflect the language that people used, because that’s where they came from in the first place.’

  Dilly smiled. ‘So they weren’t hand
ed down on tablets of stone? No Académie Française?’

  ‘No. So if you were to ask me how I was, I suppose I could now reply either “Fine”, which is what I’d actually say, as would you, or “Good”, which is what lots of other people now say. They say: “I’m good.”’ Domenica paused before continuing. ‘And I always think: how immodest! Because good is a moral quality when used without a noun.’

  ‘There are some battles which are destined to be lost,’ said Dilly.

  Domenica lifted up her biscuit, examined it, and popped it into her mouth. ‘You’re right. And I suppose that if we don’t have an Académie Française to authorise words we must rely on what happens in the street, so to speak. Mind you, not all new words come into existence like that. Some new words are really very clever. Somebody must have made them up.’

  Dilly thought for a moment. ‘Like “Robinsonade”. Do you know what that is? No? It’s a word for a book which deals with people being taken out of their normal surroundings and dumped somewhere where they have to struggle to survive. It comes from Robinson Crusoe. So Lord of the Flies is a Robinsonade.’

  They sipped at their coffee. ‘Well, words aren’t the only things that change,’ Domenica went on. ‘Look at Edinburgh. What used to be a prim, maiden aunt of a city is now something quite different. Should we embrace these changes?’

  ‘If they’re for the better,’ said Dilly. ‘And lots of them are, surely?’

  Domenica looked wistful. ‘Yes, some are. But I’m not sure if all of them are. I’m not sure if I think that crudity of language and attitude are things that we should embrace with enthusiasm. You know, I went to a Burns Supper a couple of years ago and I had to sit through a tirade against men from one of the speakers– a very aggressive performance. The speaker thought it appropriate to speak like that at a celebration of Burns’s birthday. But I found myself wondering: why is it considered smart to be crude and combative?’