“I don’t think so,” said Bertie. “I really don’t think she is.”
“Oh, but she is, Bertie. It’s just one of those things. Some people have mothers who are really good at tennis or make brilliant cakes, but some people have mothers who are cows. That’s the way it is.”
Now Olive, it seemed, was making an even more serious suggestion about his mother, and Bertie felt a tinge of anxiety.
“Ulysses really does bring up over my mother,” he pointed out. “It’s really very hard for my mummy, Olive. Whenever she picks him up he’s sick all over her.”
“That’s because even Ulysses thinks she’s a cow,” interjected Tofu, who had come to hear what Olive had to say on the subject.
Olive was not to be deflected. “We needn’t go into any of that, Bertie,” she said primly. “The point is this: your mummy is forgetting things, isn’t she? She forgot to collect you yesterday and then made up some excuse for it. That’s exactly what happens, Bertie. That’s one of the signs you have to look out for.”
Bertie looked puzzled. “Signs of what, Olive?”
Olive drew Bertie aside. Lowering her voice, she explained. “You know that people’s memories get worse when they get older: you know that, don’t you, Bertie?”
“Maybe,” said Bertie guardedly.
“Well, they do,” Olive went on. “They get so bad that they can’t even remember their own names. Then they have to tie labels on them to prevent them wandering off. My mummy told me that there’s a club called the New Club where just about everybody’s got a label tied on to them to remind them who they are. Did you know that, Bertie? You think you know everything – did you know that?”
Bertie shook his head.
“Well,” said Olive. “It’s true.” She paused. “Yes, it’s really sad about your mummy, Bertie. I think that you’re going to have to be quite watchful. Just look out for the signs. Check up on whether she remembers things. Ask her questions and see if she gets the answers right. You’ll see what I mean soon enough.”
“But she’s not all that old,” said Bertie.
Olive smiled tolerantly. “All grown-ups are old, Bertie. And any of them – any of them at all – can go like that. One moment they’re fine, and then the next moment, they’ve forgotten just about everything. Just be watchful, Bertie, that’s all I have to say to you. Just watch out! And look for the signs, Bertie – that’s the thing to do – look for the signs!”
15. Some Novelists
The attention of the class now focused firmly on her, Miss Maclaren Hope went on to reveal her project. “We are going to be creative, boys and girls,” she announced. “We are all going to write a novel!”
She looked at the faces before her. Tofu looked blank, but that, she thought, was to be expected; that child knew so little and yet was so opinionated.
“A novel, boys and girls,” Miss Maclaren Hope explained, “is a story – quite a lengthy one. Sometimes it tells the tale of a whole life; sometimes it just tells all about one particular thing that has happened to a person. There are many sorts of novels and there are many different sorts of novelists.” She paused. “Can anybody give me the name of a novelist? Anyone at all?”
Nobody said anything. Bertie looked down at the floor. He knew a number of names, of course, but he did not want to draw attention to himself.
Tofu broke the silence. “Jeffrey Archer,” he said. “My dad reads those books all the time. He’s got hundreds of them. A big stack. This high.”
Miss Maclaren Hope suppressed a smile. “Well, yes, Mr Archer is indeed a writer. And I’m sure that there are many people who love reading Mr Archer’s books and get great comfort from them. But I wonder if there is anybody else?”
“Irvine Welsh,” said Bertie.
Miss Maclaren Hope smiled. “Well, yes, Bertie. There is Mr Welsh who writes about Edinburgh, or perhaps we should say Leith, so … so vividly. His books are perhaps not for children, but that’s very good, Bertie.”
“And Ian Rankin,” said Bertie. “He’s a novelist.”
“Indeed he is,” said Miss Maclaren Hope. “Dear Mr Rankin has a very active imagination and writes very good books indeed. I often curl up with a book by Mr Rankin and a mug of hot chocolate! I freely admit that.”
“You can buy his books in Oxfam shops,” Bertie went on. “There are loads of them there.”
“That’s very nice, Bertie,” said Miss Maclaren Hope. “It’s so nice that people don’t just throw his books away but give them to these charity shops! That’s very kind of them, boys and girls.”
The discussion moved on. Bertie pointed out that Walter Scott was a novelist, and Miss Maclaren Hope agreed that this was so, and spent some time extolling the virtues of Waverley and Rob Roy.
“So there we are, boys and girls,” she continued. “We have had some examples of famous novelists and now we are all going to have our opportunity to try our own hand at writing a novel. Not that we need to write something as long as one of Sir Walter Scott’s books – oh no, we should just aim for three or four pages, very neatly written, please! And you can put in pictures too, if you like.”
The class sat in silence. Hiawatha stared up at the ceiling while Olive looked thoughtfully out of the window.
“Any questions?” asked Miss Maclaren Hope.
Olive put up her hand.
“Yes, Olive, dear?” said the teacher.
“Can it be romantic, Miss Maclaren Hope?”
The teacher smiled. “Of course it can, Olive. There is nothing wrong with romantic fiction, children. Love is one of the great noble emotions of which people are capable. There are many very fine romantic novels.”
Now Bertie put up his hand. “Madame Bovary, for example, Miss Maclaren Hope.”
Miss Maclaren Hope took a moment to compose herself. Bertie really was a most extraordinary little boy, she thought; the depth of his reading was quite amazing for one who was still not quite seven. She had never encountered anything like it before, but did not want to talk too much about it, lest Bertie be spoiled. At present he was entirely composed of innocence and the last thing she would want would be for The Scotsman to get wind of the presence of a real prodigy in the school.
“Yes, Bertie,” she said at last. “Madame Bovary is indeed an example of a romance. She was, however, a little bit unhappy.”
“What did she do?” asked Tofu. “Was she rude?”
Miss Maclaren Hope blushed. “It’s rather complicated, Tofu, and I don’t think we should go into it just yet. It all happened in France and there are many things that happen in France that do not necessarily happen in Edinburgh.”
“Such as?” asked Tofu.
“They eat snails in France,” said Olive. “They put lots of garlic in them and they eat them. Can you imagine that, Miss Maclaren Hope? Eating snails that crawl around your mouth and leave trails of slime on your teeth? That’s why the French have slimy teeth. I saw all about it on YouTube.”
“Not nearly as slimy as your teeth,” said Tofu under his breath. “Girls have really slimy teeth.”
Olive’s hand shot up. “Did you hear that, Miss Maclaren Hope? Did you hear what Tofu said about girls’ teeth?”
“I am grateful that I did not hear it,” said the teacher. “But Tofu, you may care to stand outside the door and reflect on the importance of not criticising other people’s teeth. Then, when you have thought about it for ten minutes, you may come back in.”
Bertie sighed as he watched Tofu get up from his desk and leave the room, sending dagger-like glances at Olive as he did so. It was such a waste of time all this bickering; if only Tofu and Olive could love one another as everybody was supposed to do …
“I shall definitely write a romance, Miss Maclaren Hope,” said Olive. “It will be about a girl called … called Tracey Bovary who has a boyfriend called … Bertie Pollock who loves her very much but can’t bring himself to admit it and who doesn’t know that he will eventually marry her on the last page and live
happily ever after in Morningside. It will be very romantic.”
She glanced at Bertie as she related this, and Bertie, mortified, looked away. He had his own story to think about and a very interesting idea had come to mind. Yes, he would write a story called The Secret Baby, which would be all about a woman who has a baby who looks really like a psychotherapist she knows. She will discover that the psychotherapist is really the baby’s father, by a miracle. It would be quite exciting, he thought, as the baby himself would know – again by a miracle – that the psychotherapist was his real father and would eventually go to live with him, although he would still write regularly to his mother every week – once he learned how to write. Bertie had noticed that novels had dedications in them, and he thought that he would dedicate The Secret Baby to his mother, which would make her really proud of him, he thought.
16. Matthew Speaks Out of Turn
Big Lou was extremely pleased by the arrival of Matthew and Pat. It was not Matthew’s presence that gave her pleasure – although she was on perfectly good terms with him – rather it was the prospect of talking to Pat, whom she had not seen for some time. From Big Lou’s point of view, conversations with Matthew and Angus Lordie were all very well, as conversations with men went, but talking with another woman was different – in ways which it was sometimes difficult to explain. She was not sure whether it was the subject matter of such exchanges or whether it was the tone that counted. Men talked about things that happened in the world, about events; women, by contrast, talked amongst themselves about being in the world. The difference was crucial.
“Well, well,” said Big Lou. “This is a very pleasant surprise. When I saw Matthew’s legs through the window I thought it would be just him; then I saw yours and I thought …” She stopped. She did not want to be rude to Matthew, and she realised that what she had said made him sound second best.
Matthew did not mind. “That’s all right, Lou,” he said. “I’d far prefer to talk to Pat than to me – if you see what I mean.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Big Lou. “I meant … Oh well, it doesn’t really matter.”
They took a seat at one of the tables near the counter; this would enable Big Lou to talk to them while she prepared their coffees.
Matthew explained about employing Pat. “It’ll give me time to help Elspeth with the boys,” he said.
“Good,” said Big Lou, wiping the steam nozzle of her large, gleaming espresso machine. “She’ll need all the help she can get, poor lass.”
“That’s what paternity leave is for,” said Matthew.
When this remark was greeted by silence on Big Lou’s part, Matthew looked at her sideways. “Well it is,” he said defensively. “Paternity leave is a great idea. And I think that men should get exactly the same amount of leave as women.”
Big Lou snorted. “Rubbish,” she said.
Matthew prickled. “Why not?”
“Because it would cost far too much,” said Big Lou. “And, anyway, it’s a woman’s job to look after children. That’s just the way it is.”
Matthew smiled. “You’re very old-fashioned, Lou. Nobody thinks like that any more, you know.”
“Do they not? Well, they’re wrong, Matthew. You can’t wish biology out of existence, you know.”
“Men feel the urge to look after children every bit as much as women do, Lou. Men feel protective too.”
“Protective, yes,” said Big Lou. “Nurturing, no. Men don’t nurture.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” ventured Pat. “I know lots of men who … well, who are into nurturing.”
Matthew, who was normally very calm, now bristled. “Yes,” he said. “You can’t go making those … those utterly sexist remarks, Lou. You’re not back on the farm, you know. You’re in Edinburgh. Things have moved on.”
“Sexist?” Big Lou retorted. “To point out what’s obviously true? Let me tell you something, Matthew, one advantage of being brought up on a farm is that you know how things are. You get to know that in any animal it’s the female, Matthew – the female – that does the looking after of the young. Cattle. Horses. Pigs. Sheep. Hens. You name it. The female, Matthew. The male pushes off or even attacks the young.” She glared at Matthew. “Biology, ken, Matthew. Biology.”
“Well, we’re not animals,” snapped Matthew. “We’re a co-operative species that can decide what’s best based on thinking things through.” He paused. He felt a strong surge of resentment that Big Lou should have questioned the depth of his paternal instincts. And she was being sexist in her assumptions, no matter how she tried to dress it up in biological terms. That language was used, he felt, by all sorts of people who wanted to clad their reactionary prejudices in scientific clothing: as if it was inevitable that we should be greedy, or uncharitable, or suspicious of others because it was part of our immutable human nature. It was not! Human nature was malleable, and men could be as soft, as caring, and as concerned about feelings as women – and often were, thought Matthew.
He drew in his breath. His heart was beating hard within him; beating at the sheer injustice of what Big Lou had just said. How dare she suggest that he did not want to care for his young sons; how dare she imply that he would not be rolling up his sleeves to play an equal part in the messy business of their day-to-day care. He had already changed several nappies; he had already helped Elspeth with the feeding – in so far as he was able, of course; he was doing everything he could.
He looked at Big Lou, who stared back at him with that slightly bemused expression he had noticed she often used when speaking to him. She treats me as if I’m a little boy, he thought. I’ve had enough.
“And anyway,” he said impulsively. “What do you know about looking after children, Lou? What gives you the right to lecture me about that, when I’ve got three and you’ve got none?”
The words came out quickly, but there was no doubt but that they were meant.
“Matthew!” Pat hissed.
He looked at Pat. “What? She told me that …”
“That’s a very cruel, insensitive thing to say,” Pat said. “How could you?”
“She said …” he stuttered.
“It doesn’t matter what Lou said. You had no right to make such a hurtful remark.”
It was clear that Big Lou was shaken. Even so, she attempted to brush off the slight. “It disnae matter,” she said. “If that’s what he thinks …”
“It does matter, Lou,” said Pat. Then, turning to Matthew, she whispered, “Are you going to apologise to Lou, Matthew?”
Matthew rose to his feet. “No,” he said. “Not until she apologises to me … and to all men.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Pat.
“I’m not being ridiculous at all,” said Matthew. “If she thinks she can go about insulting men like that, then she can think again.” He turned, and began to walk out. “I’m going back to Moray Place,” he called over his shoulder to Pat. “To look after the children.”
“Aye, and don’t come back,” Big Lou shouted out after him.
17. A Letter from Arbroath
Pat felt distinctly uncomfortable when she returned to the gallery after coffee at Big Lou’s. She did not like conflict – she never had – and the unpleasant row between Matthew and Big Lou had left her feeling raw. It had all blown up so quickly, so unexpectedly, and yet she could see how she might well have anticipated something like that. Matthew should not have spoken to Big Lou in such a way, she said to herself – it was thoughtless, intemperate, and, most of all, unkind; but she was not entirely surprised by what had happened.
The problem was that Big Lou had a long history of goading – admittedly in a gentle way – both Matthew and Angus Lordie, treating them as errant youths who need not be taken too seriously. Pat could understand how Matthew would have resented Big Lou’s assumption that he would be a fair-weather father, prepared to help with the triplets until such time as the novelty wore off or something more interesting turned up. T
here were undoubtedly fathers who would behave in that way, but not, she thought, Matthew; it was very much in his nature to fuss, and attending to triplets was surely something he would relish.
Pat sighed as she unlocked the door of the gallery and took down the Back Soon notice. She had done her best to apologise to Big Lou on Matthew’s behalf, but she was not sure how successful her efforts had been. Big Lou had dismissed the contretemps with a curt remark about Matthew’s childishness, but she had not indicated that he was forgiven.
“You aren’t going to ban him, are you?” Pat said.
Big Lou hesitated for a moment. “I think so,” she said.
“Isn’t that a bit … extreme? I don’t think that he really wanted to hurt you.”
“Aye, mebbe. But he’s banned anyway. From now on, he’s the only person in Edinburgh who’s banned from entering these premises.”
Pat had not pressed the point, and the conversation had drifted off in other directions. Big Lou, Pat noticed, had attempted some redecoration of her coffee bar, which now had a freshly painted ceiling as well as a new oak skirting board.
“Very effective,” said Pat.
“Yes,” said Lou. “I thought things needed brightening up.”
“And what’s that over there?” asked Pat, pointing to a large framed document hanging on the wall above the espresso machine.
“The Declaration of Arbroath,” said Lou.
Pat peered at the framed picture of the ancient document, with its line of dangling seals. For a few moments she was transported back to a warm classroom at school, on a summer day some years ago – ten, possibly a dozen – when her teacher, Miss Fraser, cruelly called Miss Frazzle – which children are not innately cruel when they sense adult vulnerability? – taught them about that crucial moment in Scottish history.
“The Scots were in despair over the depredations of the English,” she intoned. “And who would not be – in the circumstances? Our nobles – and unfortunately, girls, we cannot be unduly proud of them, scheming and malodorous lot that they were – nonetheless spoke from the heart when they signed this letter to Pope John XXII, luxuriating away in his distant Vatican – but that is another matter that we shall return to when we turn our attention to the stirring events that were to come over two centuries later, in 1560, and not a moment too soon. These nobles were fed up, girls, utterly fed up, that Edward I and his equally unsavoury successor, most objectionable men, should seek to engorge themselves upon our poor wee country. And so they wrote to His Holiness and asked him to give recognition to our struggling land and to remove that most uncharitable and unmerited excommunication of the courageous Bruce for some minor offence involving the alleged murder of some meddlesome personage.”
Bertie Plays the Blues Page 6