“How old are you?” said another. “Somebody said that you were only four. Is that true?”
Bertie looked down at his plate. “I’m going to be seven on my next birthday,” he said.
“Six!” exclaimed another girl.
Fortunately, the conversation soon moved on to another topic, and Bertie’s embarrassment subsided. The topic, it transpired, was the other members of the orchestra, particularly the boys.
“Have you seen that boy called Kevin?” asked one of the girls. “He plays the oboe, or thinks that he does.”
“He’s gross,” said another. “He thinks he’s so cool, but he’s really gross. Have you seen his ears? They stick out like this. It’s really gross.”
“He needs surgery,” said the first girl. “That’s his only chance.”
They laughed at this. Bertie, who could see Kevin sitting on the other side of the room, looked at his ears. They did not seem too large to him.
“And that boy in percussion,” one said. “I saw him looking in the mirror in the hotel. There’s this big mirror in the hall, see, and he was standing in front of it looking at his profile. It was really sad.
“He actually asked Linda out, you know. She couldn’t believe it. She said: ‘Are you mad or something?’ She said to me that she saw the seat he’d been sitting in on the plane and there was a large patch of hair gel where his head had been.
“And what about Max? Do you know him? He sits next to Tessa in the cellos. She says she can’t bear him. She says that he’s really stupid and that she has to do all the counting for him.”
Bertie opened his mouth to say something. Max was his friend, and he did not think he was stupid.
“He’s not stupid,” he said.
One of the girls glanced at him. “You said something, Bertie?”
Bertie tried to make his voice louder, and deeper. “I said: He’s not stupid. Max isn’t stupid.”
“All boys are stupid,” said one of the other girls, and laughed. “Except you, Bertie. You’re not stupid. You’re sweet.”
At the end of the meal, they returned to the hotel by bus and, after receiving instructions about the following day, when the concert was to be performed, they dispersed to their rooms. When Bertie got to his room, he found that Max was already there.
“I saw you sitting with those girls,” Max remarked. “What were they like?”
Bertie met his friend’s gaze. He was a truthful boy and he thought: would it be a fib, a real fib, not to tell Max what they had said about him? Was it a fib to say nothing when the effect of that would be exactly the same as if you had said something?
“They were quite…” Bertie began.
“I think one of them fancies me,” said Max casually. “You know that one with the fair hair? You know the one I mean?”
Bertie nodded. It was the girl who had passed on the comment about Max being stupid.
“She’s the one,” said Max. “Do you think I should ask her out, Bertie?”
Bertie looked doubtful. “I think she may be busy,” he said.
“I’ll think about it,” said Max. “Maybe I’ll give her a chance.”
Bertie looked out of the window. In the streets below, the cars moved slowly past and there was the sound of an approaching Metro train. “When are we going?” he asked Max.
Max lay back on the cover of his bed and looked at his watch. “It’s a bit late, Bertie,” he said. “And anyway, do you know the way?”
“To the Moulin Rouge?” asked Bertie.
“Yes,” said Max. “Because I don’t. And we can’t go if we don’t know the way.”
“I don’t,” said Bertie, looking crestfallen. “But maybe we could ask somebody in the street.”
Max laughed. “I can’t speak French,” he said. “We can’t ask if we don’t speak French. I do German, you see. And that’s no use in Paris.”
Bertie sighed. “So we can’t go?”
“Not this time,” said Max, slipping out of his shoes and throwing them onto a chair. “Next time we’re in Paris, boy will we have fun then!”
It took Bertie some time to get to sleep that night. He was disappointed by the cancellation of the visit to the Moulin Rouge, but he was looking forward to the concert tomorrow and they still had another night in Paris after that. He drifted off to sleep in a state of contentment and pride at being by himself–or almost–in Paris, fully accepted by a group of teenagers, more or less an honorary teenager. It was a fine state to be in.
He dreamed, and in his dream he was in the Moulin Rouge, which was a large room bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Queen’s Hall in Edinburgh. He was sitting at a table with one of the girls from the orchestra, who was talking to him, although Bertie did not hear anything that she said. And then, into the Moulin Rouge, came Dr Fairbairn.
It seemed to Bertie that Dr Fairbairn was looking for him, and he tried to hide under the table. But he had been spotted, and the psychotherapist came up to him and pulled him back onto his chair.
“What are you doing in the Moulin Rouge, Bertie?” asked Dr Fairbairn.
“I came here because…” Bertie started to reply.
“Because it’s a dream, Bertie?” interrupted Dr Fairbairn. “Is that why you’re here? Is that why any of us is here? Is that it, Bertie?”
89. Irene Has a Shock
The following day was the day of the concert, which took place in a hall in the UNESCO building. The performance was to be in the evening, which left the day for sightseeing, including a boat trip on the Seine, a trip to the Pompidou Centre, and a walk round Île de la Cité. Bertie, guidebook in hand, enjoyed all of this a great deal, and ticked off each sight against a checklist in the back of his book.
The Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra was one of a number of youth orchestras which had been invited to perform in the UNESCO Festival of Youth Arts. The day before, there had been a concert performed by the Children’s Symphony Orchestra of Kiev, and the day afterwards was to feature the Korean Youth Folk Dance Company, which had recently danced in Rome, Milan and Geneva, before admittedly small, but nonetheless enthusiastic audiences. Now it was the turn of Edinburgh, and the orchestra had prepared a programme of predominantly Scottish music, including Hamish McCunn’s ‘Land of the Mountain and the Flood’, George Russell’s rarely-performed ‘Bathgate Airs for Oboe and Strings’ and Paton’s haunting ‘By the Water of Leith’s Fair Banks’.
This programme was well received by the audience of several hundred Parisians. In Le Monde the following week, it was to receive a mention in a feature on young people and the arts, in which the writer referred to the fact that while the youth of France appeared to be burning cars at weekends, Scottish youth seemed to be more engaged in cultural pursuits. This, the writer suggested, was the complete opposite of what one might expect, were one to believe the impression conveyed in film and literature.
After the concert, the members of the orchestra were given a finger buffet and listened to a short speech of thanks delivered by a UNESCO official charged with responsibility for youth culture. In the mingling that followed, Bertie attracted a circle of admiring concert-goers, who stood round him in wonderment while he charmed them with his frank answers to their questions. Then, the party over, the members of the orchestra made the short walk back to their hotel. The concert, the conductor declared, had been a great success and he was proud of everybody, from the oldest (a trumpet-player of nineteen) to the youngest (Bertie). Now it was time for bed, as everybody would have to get up at five the following morning in order to catch the flight back to Edinburgh.
When five o’clock came, there was a milling crowd of teenagers in the hotel vestibule. The bus was waiting outside, its coachwork shaking from the vibration of its diesel engine, which made it look as if it was shivering in the cold morning air.
“In the bus everybody,” called out one of the adult volunteers who had accompanied the orchestra. “And whatever you do, don’t forget your instruments!”
Nobody forgot their instruments–but they did forget Bertie. Max had awoken him and then made his own way downstairs. Bertie had sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and then flopped back again. He had been in a deep sleep, and he had not been properly roused. So it was not until nine o’clock that morning, halfway across the North Sea, that somebody in the plane asked the question: “Where’s Bertie?”
The question passed up and down the plane, and nobody was able to provide anything but one answer: wherever Bertie was, he was not on the aircraft. And once that conclusion had been reached, messages were rapidly radioed back to Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was possible that Bertie was still in the terminal somewhere and an immediate search should be instituted. But then further questions were asked and it became clear that nobody had seen Bertie on the bus to the airport. He was therefore still in the hotel.
Irene was at Edinburgh Airport to meet her son. When the first of the members of the orchestra appeared from behind the doors of customs, she readied herself for an emotional reunion. But then, grim-faced and apologetic, one of the volunteers rushed up to her and informed her of what had happened.
“He’ll be fine,” said the volunteer. “It’s a charming hotel and they were most co-operative. We shall phone through immediately and tell them to go and check his room and make sure that he’s all right. And I’m sure that they’ll put him on the next flight back.”
Irene stared at the well-meaning woman, mute with incomprehension. Then, when the significance of what had been said was absorbed, she sat down in a state of shock.
“I’m so sorry about this,” said the volunteer. “But look, I’m getting through to them right away. I’m sure that they’ll have Bertie on the line in no time at all.”
As Irene stared dumbly at the ceiling, the volunteer spoke quickly into her mobile phone. Then she paused, smiled encouragingly at Irene, and waited for a response. When it came, her face clouded over. “I see,” she said quietly. And then, again: “I see.”
“What did they say?” said Irene. “Let me speak to Bertie.”
The volunteer put the mobile away. “They said that he’s not in his room,” she announced apologetically. “They said that he appears to have gone out.”
Irene sat back in her seat, her head sunk in her hands.
“I’m sure that he’ll turn up somewhere,” said the volunteer, looking anxiously about her. “In the meantime, I suggest that we just…that we wait.”
Irene stared at her. “I can’t believe I’m hearing all this,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “I can’t believe that you could take a six-year-old to Paris and leave him there. I just can’t believe it.”
“But you’re the one who insisted that he go,” said the volunteer. “It was explained to you that it was a teenage orchestra and yet you…”
“So now you’re blaming me?” said Irene. “Is that it?”
The volunteer sighed. She had been at the audition where Irene had insisted on Bertie being given a hearing. She had heard Irene dismiss the argument that Bertie was far too young. If he was incapable of coping with the arrangements, then it was hardly anybody’s fault but his mother’s.
“Well, now that you mention it,” she said, “yes. Yes. I do happen to think that it’s your fault. Sorry about that. But I really do. You insisted that he should be included. You really did. But he was far too young. That’s all there is to it.”
90. Stuart Lends a Hand
Matthew had seen Stuart several times in the Cumberland Bar. They had exchanged a few words on occasion, but neither had really worked out exactly who the other was. Matthew knew that Stuart lived in Scotland Street and had a vague idea that he might have lived on the same stair as Pat. He also thought that he had seen him with that impossible woman–the one whom Cyril had once bitten in the ankle–and that strange little boy. Somebody had said, too, that he worked in the Scottish Executive somewhere; but that was all that Matthew knew. And for his part, Stuart knew that Matthew had something to do with one of the galleries in Dundas Street, or that he was an antique dealer or something of the sort.
On that evening, though, when Matthew went into the Cumberland, Stuart was standing at the bar ordering a drink, and the circumstances were right for a longer conversation. And this was particularly so when Angus Lordie came in and suggested that they all sit at one of the tables, under which Cyril could drink his dish of beer undisturbed.
The conversation ranged widely. Matthew had seen a picture in an auction catalogue which he was thinking of buying and he wanted advice from Angus. It was a Hornel–a picture of three girls sitting in a field of flowers.
“I don’t really like it,” he said. “Flowers all over the place.”
Angus agreed. “I never put flowers in a painting,” he observed. “Not that I’m disrespectful of flowers. Far from it. I have no wish to upset them.”
Matthew laughed. “Are you one of these people who talk to plants?”
Angus shook his head. “I have nothing to say to plants,” he replied. “Although you may be aware of Lin Yutang’s lovely essay on conditions that upset flowers.”
Stuart stared at Angus. One did not come across people like this when one worked in the Scottish Executive.
“I have a lot of time for Lin Yutang,” Angus went on. “People don’t write essays any more, or not many of them do. He wrote beautifully about tea and flowers and subjects like that. He said that flowers were offended by loud conversations. One should talk softly in the presence of flowers.”
“Very nice,” said Matthew. “I’ll remember that.”
“And then there’s Michael von Poser’s essay, ‘Flowers and Ducks’,” Angus continued. “Another lovely bit of whimsy. But back to Hornel, Matthew. People like him, and I’d buy it. Look at how art has out-performed other investments. Imagine if one had a few Peploes about the house. Or Blackadders. She’ll be the next one.”
“I had a Vettriano,” said Matthew, thoughtfully.
Angus looked down at the floor. That had been an incident in which he had unfortunately put a rather excessive amount of paint-stripper on Matthew’s painting, obliterating all the umbrellas and people dancing on the beach. It had been most regrettable, and it was inconsiderate of Matthew–to say the least–to bring the subject up again.
The conversation drifted on in this vein, and then Angus mentioned his discussion with Big Lou that morning.
“Big Lou is pretty miserable,” he said. “I saw her this morning.”
Matthew, who had been unable to go for coffee that day, frowned. “Miserable? Why?”
“That man of hers,” said Angus. “That Eddie character.”
“Not my favourite person,” said Matthew.
“Nor mine,” said Angus. “I never liked the cut of his jib. From the moment I met him. Well, we were right. You and I were absolutely right.”
“He’s left her?” asked Matthew.
He thought that this would be sad for Big Lou, but only in the short term.
“Not as far as I know,” said Angus. “But the penny’s dropped anyway. She realises that he’s no good. I didn’t ask her how it happened, but I suspect that she found out about the girls he gets mixed up with. You know what he’s like in that department. But that’s not the point. The point is money.”
“This club of his?” asked Matthew.
Angus nodded. “He’s taken her for thirty-four thousand pounds.”
Matthew whistled. Turning to Stuart, he explained the background. “Eddie wants to set up a club. Lou has a bit of money. It was left to her by some old farmer in Aberdeenshire or somewhere. It’s the answer to this character’s dreams.”
“I wonder if it was a loan,” asked Stuart. “Would she have any way of getting it back?”
“Fat chance!” snorted Angus. “She can kiss that money goodbye.”
Stuart was silent. He was a very fair man, and it caused him great distress to hear of dishonesty or exploitation. That this should happen under his nose, round the corner, t
o somebody who sounded like a good woman, angered him. It was awful, this lack of justice in the world. We believed that the state would protect us, that the authorities would pursue those who preyed on others. But the truth of the matter was that the authorities could set right only a tiny part of the injustice and wrong that was done to the weak. Justice, it seemed, was imperfect.
It would be wonderful to be able to bring about justice. It would be wonderful to be some sort of omniscient being who saw all, noted it down, and then set things right. But that was a wish, a wish of childhood, that we grew to understand could never be. Except sometimes, perhaps…Sometimes there were occasions when the bully was defeated, the proud laid low, the weak given the chance to recover that which was taken from them. Sometimes that happened. “When I was young,” he said. “I used to read stories about people who sorted this sort of thing out. The end was always predictable, but very satisfying.”
“Sorry to have to tell you this,” said Angus. “But the comic-book heroes aren’t real. They don’t exist.”
Stuart laughed. “Oh, I’ve come to terms with that,” he said. “But I have a friend who does exist. He’s quite good at sorting things out, I think.”
Matthew looked at him. “He could get Big Lou’s money back? Unlikely. Eddie’s not going to reach into his pocket and disgorge it.”
“But this friend of mine has a way of getting round difficulties,” said Stuart.
“Is he a lawyer?” asked Angus.
Stuart smiled wryly. “No, he’s a businessman.”
“Who is he?” asked Matthew. If he was a businessman, then it was possible that he would know Matthew’s father.
“He’s called Lard O’Connor,” said Stuart. “And I could have a word with him if you like. He’s very helpful.”
91. Pat and Matthew Talk
Shortly before seven o’clock that evening, Matthew left the Cumberland Bar and returned to his flat in India Street. He had enjoyed his drink with Angus and Stuart. Angus, as ever, was amusing, and Stuart struck him as being agreeable company. It was good to have friends, he thought. He himself did not have enough friends, though, and he thought that he should make a bit more of an effort in future to cultivate friendships. But where would he find them? He could hardly make all his friends in the Cumberland Bar. Perhaps he should join a club of some sort and make friends that way: a singles’ club, for instance. He had heard that there were singles’ clubs where everybody went on holiday together. That would be interesting, perhaps, but what if one did not take to the other singles? Besides, the very word single sounded a bit desperate, as if one suffered from some sort of condition, singularity.
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