Bertie Plays the Blues

by Alexander McCall Smith

  68. On the Shoulders of Another

  The great slippery concourse of Waverley Station was heavily populated with travellers, some watching the bulletins on the departure board, some hurrying for trains, some engaged in conversation, some standing uncertainly by piles of luggage as if unsure where to go, or perhaps whether to go at all. In this general thrang of Scottish humanity, two small boys hardly stood out, and would have been assumed by others, if they noticed them at all, to be attached in some way to some adult in the crowd. Fifty years ago, of course, they would simply have been boys – and boys were ubiquitous, unattached, mendicant even; scruffy urchins who frequented street corners, who sold papers, did errands, picked pockets, played ancient and obscure games of marbles. How different were things now, as the streets had been largely cleared of children, who were now sequestered indoors, attached to addictive electronic gizmos, as if led off by some ultra-effective pied piper.

  “The ticket office is over there,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “I’ve been here before, you see. I went in there with my dad and we bought some tickets.”

  Keen not to be outdone, Bertie nonchalantly mentioned his own trip to Glasgow some time before, when he and Stuart had taken the train to retrieve their car. “I went to Glasgow too,” he said. “I went with my dad to fetch our car.”

  Ranald looked puzzled. “Why was your car in Glasgow, Bertie?” he asked.

  Bertie explained about his father’s having forgotten that he had driven over and then having taken the train back. “We met a very fat man over there,” he went on. “He was called Lard O’Connor and he ate those deep-fried chocolate bars. That’s what they eat in Glasgow – it’s their staple diet, I think.”

  “I wish I lived in Glasgow then,” said Ranald. “You’re lucky, Bertie: you’re going to be living there from this afternoon.”

  Bertie nodded, but said nothing. The idea of living in Glasgow still appealed, but not quite as much, perhaps, as earlier on. Even deep-fried chocolate bars could pall after a while, he imagined, and what if there were boys at Hutchies who turned out to be like that boy, Jack, who had pushed him over in the rugby match and then kicked him for good measure? And what if there was nowhere like Valvona & Crolla, which was perfectly possible, and consequently there was no panforte di Siena and no opportunity to sample small squares of salami on little wooden cocktail sticks? And what if there was no One-O’Clock Gun fired from the Castle, and even no castle at all? What then? What if there was no National Gallery of Scotland and no picture of a skating minister and no street like Princes Street with the flags all flying and the band playing in the Ross Pavilion, and no Ross Pavilion, and a river that was big and full of floating bodies, unlike the Water of Leith, and boys who said things to you that you couldn’t understand and then head-butted you for good measure when you asked them to repeat themselves or asked them something in Italian because that is what they might have been speaking? What then?

  But it was far too late for such thoughts. Like a pilot who realises that he has used too much runway to change his mind about taking off, Bertie felt that he could do nothing about withdrawing from the expedition now. He did not have many friends, after all – one could not count Tofu as a real friend, since he was such a liar, and so inveterately given to spitting at those who disagreed with him on virtually anything – so Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was really one of Bertie’s few real intimates, and he did not want to go down in Ranald’s estimation; not that Ranald was particularly brave – indeed, Bertie had always thought that Ranald needed the support of others to do anything. That came, he imagined, from the fact of having such spindly legs: if one had such legs in life, then support was one thing that one must constantly lack, at least in the physical sense.

  They entered the ticket hall, where a few orderly lines of people waited for their turn to purchase tickets from a long counter. Ranald and Bertie joined the queue, with Ranald clutching in his hand a small wad of Royal Bank of Scotland twenty-pound notes. “I got these from my dad’s safe, Bertie,” Ranald whispered, showing him the money. “You should have seen how much money there was. We’ve got heaps of money at home, you know. Any time you need some, just ask me.”

  “Thanks, Ranald,” said Bertie.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Ranald. “Any time.”

  The queue moved forward slowly and as they approached the counter, Bertie became aware that they were about to be faced with a problem.

  “He won’t be able to see us,” he whispered to Ranald.

  “Who won’t?”

  “The man behind the counter. Look, it’s way above our heads. He won’t see us when we’re standing right in front of it.”

  Ranald glanced in the direction of the counter. Bertie was right, he realised. He thought for a moment. “You sit on my shoulders,” he said. “Then you’ll be tall enough. And he’ll also think you’re much older – maybe even twelve – because you’ll be so tall. He won’t ask us then if we’re allowed to go to Glasgow.”

  At first, Bertie thought this a very good idea, but then an objection came to mind. “But will you be able to support me, Ranald?” he asked.

  “Of course I will,” Ranald answered. “Why not?”

  It was a delicate issue. “Your legs.” Bertie began.

  “What about my legs?”

  “They’re really good legs,” Bertie said hurriedly. “But I think my legs are maybe a bit thicker, Ranald – just a bit. So why don’t you get on my shoulders?”

  Ranald shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

  When their turn came to be served, Bertie bent down while Ranald Braveheart Macpherson climbed onto his shoulders. Then, holding firmly on to Ranald’s knees, Bertie raised his friend up. Ranald was now quite tall enough to speak directly to the man behind the counter, who was looking at him in astonishment.

  “Two tickets to Glasgow please,” said Ranald, trying to make his voice sound as deep as possible.

  The man smiled. “Single or return?”

  Bertie realised the significance of the question and gave a slight shiver. “One single and one return,” said Ranald.

  “Halves?” asked the man, and then added, with a further smile, “Since you appear to consist of two halves anyway.”

  69. Queen Street Station

  Their tickets grasped firmly in their hands, Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson made their way towards the relevant platform at Waverley Station.

  “Mine say OUT and RTN, Bertie,” commented Ranald. “I see that yours just says OUT. That’s because you’re not coming back.”

  Bertie glanced at the wording on his ticket and saw that this was so. He swallowed hard. There was something very ominous about the word OUT on a ticket, and it brought home to him the full implications of what he was doing: as far as his old life was concerned, he was, indeed, going out and was not going to be coming back in. Suddenly he thought of his room at home, and of his things. His model aeroplanes. His shelf of books. He thought of Valvona & Crolla. He thought of the cub scouts. He was leaving all that for a future that although it might be fun and exciting, was also quite uncertain.

  “Ranald,” he began, as they neared the platform from which their train was due to depart. “I’ve been thinking and …”

  Ranald cut him short. “We’ve got to hurry, Bertie. That’s our train.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Bertie said again, but just behind them, on a line that disappeared in the opposite direction under the cavernous roof of the station, a passing train let out a mournful whistle, completely masking Bertie’s words.

  “Come on, Bertie,” urged Ranald. “We don’t want it to go without us.”

  They entered a carriage and found two empty seats. Ranald glanced at his watch and then looked at Bertie. “The big hand is on …”

  Bertie read the time for him and Ranald pointed out that they had only a minute more to wait. If that: the doors slammed shut and there was a whirring sound from a mo
tor somewhere underneath the carriage floor. And then, with a gentle jolt, their journey began.

  The train drew out of Waverley Station slowly, giving the boys a view of the towering cliffs of the Old Town’s stone buildings. Bertie recognised the Bank of Scotland, with its fluttering Saltire flying alongside the flag of the ancient bank itself. He spotted the top of a bus as it made its way down the Mound, and he wondered whether it was the 23. The thought caused another pang: there might well be a 23 bus in Glasgow, but he would have no idea what its route would be and it could well be a very different bus from the Edinburgh 23. He looked away; it was just too painful. He was making a terrible mistake and he wanted to go back to Scotland Street. He wanted to go home and throw himself on the mercy of his mother, who would be so cross with him for trying to run away, and who would probably arrange even more psychotherapy for him as a result.

  “Ranald …” he began, but the train had now entered the tunnel under the National Gallery and his words were once again lost. By the time that they emerged at the other end, to trundle through Princes Street Gardens, Ranald was making some remark about the Castle above them and Bertie was prevented from completing his sentence, which consisted of only five words anyway: I want to go home.

  There was another tunnel and then within a very short time the train started to slow down.

  “We’re here,” announced Ranald, getting out of his seat. “Come on, Bertie. This is Queen Street Station. We’re in Glasgow.”

  Bertie thought that the trip had taken a remarkably short time, but he was now seized by a strange acceptance of his fate and he was not in a mood to argue with Ranald. The train now stopped to admit more passengers, and to allow Bertie and Ranald off.

  “This way,” said Ranald confidently, pointing to a set of covered stairs climbing up from the platform. “Hurry up, Bertie.”

  They joined a small crowd of passengers, disgorged from another train, and went out into the street.

  “So this is Glasgow,” said Ranald, gazing about him. “It looks different, doesn’t it, Bertie?”

  Bertie nodded. He had now decided on his course of action, which would be to go through with the visit to the adoption agency but then to reject the parents they offered. This would mean that he would not lose face with Ranald and could quite legitimately say that he would return to Edinburgh with his friend, to think about coming through to Glasgow some other time; which of course he would not do, and it would all be forgotten about.

  The making of this plan had cheered Bertie, and he was now able to face Glasgow without feeling too miserable.

  “Let’s just walk about a bit,” said Ranald. “I’m sure that we’ll eventually find the street we’re looking for.”

  This suited Bertie: if they did not find the street, then it would be even easier to bring the expedition to an end.

  “I think that looks like it,” he said, pointing to street going off the main thoroughfare. “Let’s try there.”

  “Good idea,” said Ranald.

  They walked along the street that Bertie had indicated, and then along another one. At each corner, where a sign indicated the name of the street, Bertie read this out to Ranald, who consulted his piece of paper and shook his head. They continued their search, wandering along streets and crescents until they came to a road that led sharply downhill. They followed this, and found themselves in a small cluster of buildings beside a river.

  “Look, Bertie,” shouted Ranald excitedly. “The Clyde!”

  Bertie stared at the water flowing past them. “It’s not very deep,” remarked Bertie. “I can see the bottom. Look, those rocks are sticking out of the water.”

  “That’s very dangerous for ships,” said Ranald. “They have to sail very slowly on the Clyde in case they hit a rock.”

  Bertie continued to gaze at the river. “I can’t see any ships,” he said.

  “That’s because they’ve all gone out to sea,” said Ranald knowingly. “They’ll be back.”

  Bertie looked at the river again. The owner of a small dog out on a walk had thrown a stick to the other side of the river and the dog, although hesitant at first, had scampered across, hardly getting its feet wet. How could ships navigate such a river, he wondered? Was the mighty Clyde another of these myths, dreamed up by civic bureaucrats anxious to find something to boast about?

  70. Mains of Mochle

  While Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson contemplated their dubious river, Big Lou, her coffee bar closed for the day, was in Crieff, a pleasant Perthshire town known for its famous hydropathic institution, a large Victorian hotel, popular with generations of Scottish families. This hotel had been chosen by the South of Scotland Elvis Association for its annual Elvis impersonators’ conference, and it was for this reason that Big Lou found herself there, having been invited to attend this event by her new friend, Darren Gow.

  Big Lou had accepted the invitation, but stipulated that she would be returning to Edinburgh that evening after the commemorative dinner and subsequent Elvis karaoke competition. Darren would be staying on, he announced, and would not return to Edinburgh until the following day. “We could have dinner in Edinburgh, maybe,” he said. “And I can tell you about what happened on day two.”

  Big Lou had made a non-committal response.

  She had rather taken to Darren, but she wanted to be sure before matters went any further. The Elvis interest was unfamiliar to her and she was not sure about it. Was it really all that different from being a Jacobite – as her previous boyfriend had been? What was it about her, she asked herself, that seemed to attract men with issues? Big Lou travelled up to Crieff on her own, Darren having gone up the previous evening. “Committee business,” he said, giving these two words all the gravity they inherently had, even when applied to something like an Elvis impersonators’ association. “We need to set the agenda the day before – the Elvises can be a bit bolshy if we don’t have things very clearly set out. Prima donnas, many of them.” Big Lou arrived at four in the afternoon, which was in time to see the cavalcade of Elvis-impersonating bikers ride up the driveway of the hydro, three abreast, the engines of their Harley-Davidsons roaring throatily under the cloudless Perthshire sky. Back towards the hotel, interrupted in mid-stroke on the lawn, a party of croquet players composed of retired Church of Scotland ministers and fund managers from North Berwick looked up in astonishment from their game and its polite incivility. Croquet and Elvis were not an obvious mixture, but the hydro staff had seen even more surprising combinations before and were quite capable of coping with such contradictions. For a hotel that had at the same time hosted a party of American morticians on a golfing tour of Scotland along with the North Sea Oil industry’s Gay Barbershop Quartet Singing Competition, the juxtaposition of ministers and Elvises was but as nothing.

  Big Lou met up with Darren near the reception desk. He seemed pleased to see her, and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Things are pretty busy, Lou,” he said, looking about him at the scenes of activity in the hall. “We’ve got a record attendance this year, you know. It’s going to be vintage – real vintage.”

  “I’m glad, Darren,” said Big Lou. “It must be awful if you hold a conference and you get no folk coming. Awful.”

  “Yes,” said Darren. “But no danger of that today. Things are going to be popping, Lou. You’ll see.” He looked at his watch. “Would you mind if I went and spoke to some people? We have to make arrangements for the banquet tonight. There’s a bit of competition about who’s going to sing, and things are getting a bit complicated. I’ll see you in the bar in an hour’s time? Five thirty? Okay, Lou?” She told him that she did not mind, and she went off on a walk through the gardens. She had not been to the hydro before and she wanted to explore. Perhaps she would come back one day and spend a few days here, she thought, in the peace of these hills, with this wonderful crisp air. By a quarter past five she was back inside to be in good time for her meeting with her host fifteen minutes later.


  By six o’clock there was still no sign of Darren, and Big Lou was becoming anxious. Had she heard him correctly? Had he said five thirty, or was it six thirty? She decided to wait. The banquet was at eight and she could always meet him then; presumably some tricky point of committee business had arisen and was keeping him from meeting her. Big Lou understood. It was never easy being on an organising committee, and a committee of Elvises must have challenges all of its own.

  A man sitting at the table next to Big Lou’s in the bar also appeared to be waiting for somebody. She noticed him glancing at her, and eventually she addressed him. “Fine day, isn’t it?” she said, looking out of the window towards the strath.

  The man looked at her quizzically. “Excuse me,” he said. “You’re from …”

  She recognised his accent, just as he had hers. “Arbroath,” she said.

  He smiled. “My name’s Alex MacPhail. And you’re …”

  He did not finish his question. “Alex MacPhail?” Big Lou asked.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” said Big Lou. “Mains of Mochle?”

  The man nodded, breaking into a smile. “Aye. And I know fine who you are. Don’t tell me. You’re … You’re Big Lou, aren’t you?” The introductions made, he moved over to join Big Lou at her table.

  “You waiting on somebody?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m here by myself.” He hesitated. “I lost my wife about a year ago and sometimes I find that time … well, it hangs awful heavy on my hands.”

  “But what about the farm?” asked Big Lou.