‘You’ll both have a lovely time with Olive,’ said Irene. ‘I’ve noticed that her head is full of ideas for games. Positively buzzing with ideas for creative play. What was that game you played when she was last at the house? She had her nurse’s kit with her, didn’t she?’ She paused. ‘On which subject, Bertie, one wonders why Olive chose to have a nurse’s kit rather than a doctor’s kit. One might reflect on that, might one not?’
Bertie thought for a moment. His mother did not know, of course, what Olive had housed in her junior nurse’s kit - a real syringe with which she had forcibly taken a blood sample from Bertie. There had been enough fuss from Miss Harmony when she had heard of that - and of the subsequent test for leprosy that Olive claimed to have conducted on Bertie’s blood sample. Bertie did not want that row to continue, and so he said nothing of that. But why did girls like to have junior nurse’s kits? In his view, the answer to that was simple: some girls liked to play nurses, and some did not. He supposed that boys could play nurses if they wanted to, but Bertie had not met any who did. It was as simple as that.
‘I suppose that they have nurse’s kits, Mummy, because girls like to be nurses. They play with dollies and nurse them.’
Irene cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘Wrong, Bertie! Wrong!’
Bertie said nothing, but looked at the floor. He had simply reported what he had seen, but his mother, for some reason, did not seem to approve. It was something to do with Melanie Klein, perhaps.
Irene sighed. It was a constant battle to explain the evils of gender stereotyping, really it was. ‘Haven’t you noticed, Bertie,’ she began, ‘how most of the doctors at the health centre are women? Haven’t you noticed that? That doctor who looked at your foot when you hurt it the other day, she was a woman, wasn’t she?’
Bertie thought back. The doctor had indeed been a woman, but then all the nurses at the health centre were also women.
‘But all the nurses there, Mummy,’ he pointed out, ‘were ladies, weren’t they? I didn’t see any men.’
Irene thought quickly. ‘There are male nurses, Bertie. And they are very good at what they do, even if they’re just men.’
Bertie was silent.
‘So you see,’ went on Irene, ‘the fact that the shops sell those silly nurse’s kits to girls is just keeping alive these ridiculous preconceptions that girls like to be nurses. They don’t. They’re only nurses because they can’t be doctors. They’ve been conditioned, Bertie, to accept that they must do what’s second best.’
Bertie frowned. ‘But is it second best to be a nurse, Mummy? I read in the paper that some nurses don’t like people to say that.’
Irene smiled encouragingly. ‘No, they don’t, Bertie. You’re right. Many nurses nowadays don’t like doing the things that nurses used to have to do. Changing sheets and collecting bedpans - that sort of thing. Nursing has moved on, Bertie.’
Bertie was puzzled. ‘But if they don’t do that,’ he said, ‘then who does? Do people have to tuck themselves into bed when they’re in hospital?’
Irene was amused by this and raised her eyes again. ‘Dear Bertie, no, not at all. They have other people now to do that sort of thing. There are other wome . . . people who do that.’
‘So they aren’t nurses, Mummy?’ asked Bertie.
Irene waved a hand vaguely. ‘No. They call them care assistants, or something like that. It’s very important work.’
‘So what do the nurses do then, Mummy? If they have somebody else to take the bedpans to the patients, what’s left for the nurses to do? Do they do the things that doctors do? Can nurses take your tonsils out?’
‘I think they’d like to,’ said Irene. ‘And I’m sure that they’d be very good at it.’
She patted Bertie on the head. ‘Enough of that, Bertie! If Tofu and Olive are coming this afternoon, then Mummy must check to see that she has all the ingredients for the Dundee cake. And I must go and see if Ulysses is awake.’
She left Bertie to his own devices. But he just stood there, staring down at the floor. Grown-ups did not understand, he thought. They did not understand how difficult it was being six and having to live with people like Olive and even Tofu. Grown-ups spoke as if the world were simple; as if people behaved nicely to one another. But Bertie knew that they did not. When you were a boy, as he was, and saw the world the way in which boys saw it, it all looked very different. Olive and Tofu would fight because that’s what people like that did: they fought. And it would end up with Tofu spitting at Olive, and Olive screaming and perhaps even trying to stab Tofu with the syringe from her junior nurse’s kit. Bertie could see it coming, but why was his mother so blinkered, so utterly unaware of the strikingly obvious? There was so much that she seemed just not to notice, thought Bertie - obvious things, like the way that Ulysses looked so like Dr Fairbairn. Little things like that.
27. Pink for Danger
‘So this is your place,’ said Tofu, looking round him, wrinkling his nose slightly, as if there were a faintly unpleasant odour. Bertie, standing in the hallway, watching Tofu guardedly, wondered if his house smelled. People said that if your house smelled you might never know it because you became so used to it. And it was the same with people themselves, he believed; Hiawatha presumably did not know that his socks smelled but just accepted that this was what socks were like - naturally. Of course Olive had told him, quite bluntly in fact, but he had just laughed and pretended not to understand what she was talking about. That was the best tactic with Olive, thought Bertie. One should just laugh and pretend not to hear what she was saying; it was difficult, though, as sound advice so often was.
‘So who lives here with you, Bertie?’ asked Tofu, still looking round.
‘My mummy,’ said Bertie. ‘And my dad. And my little brother . . .’
‘Is it true that your dad’s a wimp?’ interrupted Tofu. ‘Not that I say that, of course. It’s just that everyone else does. Just like everyone else says your mummy’s a cow. Not me. Everyone else, though.’ He looked at Bertie, waiting for the answer.
Bertie felt flustered. He admired his father and could not understand why anybody would consider him a wimp. He was not. ‘That’s not true,’ he said hotly. ‘My dad’s—’
Tofu cut him short. ‘Keep your hair on! I didn’t say it, remember?’
‘Well you shouldn’t repeat fibs,’ said Bertie. ‘Especially about people’s dads. What about your mummy then?’
Tofu became defensive. ‘My mummy? What about her?’
Bertie felt the advantage switch to him. ‘Olive says that your mummy’s in Saughton Prison. She said that she’s there for murder. I didn’t say it. Olive did.’
Tofu’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s not,’ he said. Then he looked down at the floor. ‘She . . . she was eaten by a lion in the Serengeti Game Reserve. I was very small. I don’t remember it. But my dad does, and that’s why he became a vegan.’
Bertie was a naturally sympathetic boy and his heart went out to Tofu. He had seen a picture of the Serengeti Game Reserve and it had been full of lions. Although Tofu was a notorious liar, this, at least, had the ring of truth. ‘I’m really sorry, Tofu,’ said Bertie. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
Tofu seemed relieved to be off the subject of mothers and now expressed an interest in seeing Bertie’s younger brother. ‘He’s probably sleeping,’ said Bertie. ‘But we can take a look in his room if we don’t make a noise.’
They walked along the corridor and Bertie pushed open the door into Ulysses’ room. The baby, snuffling quietly, was lying in his cot.
‘That’s him,’ said Bertie. ‘He can’t say anything yet. And I don’t think he can think very much either. But he’s quite happy, most of the time. He’s called Ulysses.’
‘Stupid name,’ said Tofu. ‘But I suppose that’s not his fault.’
‘Ulysses was a Greek,’ said Bertie. ‘He was a Greek hero. In a legend.’
‘Still stupid,’ said Tofu, peering at Ulysses over the edge of the cot. ‘He
looks really ugly, Bertie. Are you sure that he’s the right way up? Is that his face - or is it his bottom?’
‘He’s not ugly,’ said Bertie, defensively. ‘Babies can’t help looking like that. All babies look like that.’
‘But some are uglier than others,’ retorted Tofu. ‘And that’s a really ugly one you’ve got there, Bertie. Do you think that there’s a competition for ugly babies? Because he could win a prize, you know. You should ask.’
This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Irene, who had heard the boys going into the room and had come to find out what was going on. ‘I know you’ve come to admire little Ulysses,’ she whispered. ‘But he needs his sleep, or he becomes a little bit crotchety. Why don’t you go and play in Bertie’s room?’
This is exactly what Bertie had hoped not to do. His room, which had been painted pink by his mother, was an embarrassment, and he had made a small sign for the door: Closed for Renovation. That, he hoped, would prevent Tofu from seeing the room at all.
‘Good idea,’ said Tofu. ‘Let’s go, Bertie.’
Bertie was trapped. Tofu would laugh at his room - he knew it, but it seemed to him that he now had no alternative.
‘Closed for what?’ asked Tofu as he peered at the sign. ‘What does this say, Bertie?’
‘Nothing,’ muttered Bertie, as he took the sign down.
They went in. Tofu took a step or two into the room and then stopped. He looked around at the walls, and at the ceiling; then he turned to look at Bertie. ‘Pink,’ he said.
Bertie felt himself on the verge of tears, but checked himself. It was bad enough Tofu seeing his pink room; how much worse would it be if Tofu saw him crying.
‘That’s an undercoat,’ he said miserably. ‘The next coat of paint will be white.’
It was as if Tofu had not heard him. ‘Pink walls!’ he gloated. ‘Boy, wait until the others hear this. Pink walls!’
Bertie said nothing.
Tofu, smirking, stared at his host. ‘Do you know what pink means, Bertie? Do you know?’
Bertie shook his head. He had no idea what pink meant, other than that it was a girl’s colour. That was all he knew.
‘Pink is a colour for sissies,’ said Tofu. ‘You know that? Sissies.’
Bertie was not sure what a sissy was, but he did not think that he was one. He was just an ordinary boy, like any other boy, and it was so unfair that he had this pink room and those pink dungarees. And what sort of friend was Tofu, that he should rub it all in? It was so unfair.
‘I’m not a sissy, Tofu,’ stuttered Bertie. ‘I’m not.’
‘Then why do you have a pink room?’ asked Tofu.
Bertie did not answer. He was wondering if he could somehow get rid of Tofu; if he could ask him to leave. He did not think so. Tofu had come to play and was to be there until five o’clock when his father came to collect him. There was no escape . . .
Then there were steps behind him and the door was opened. ‘Look who’s here,’ said Irene brightly. ‘Olive.’
Tofu spun round and glared at the new arrival. ‘Hello, Bertie,’ said Olive, ignoring Tofu. ‘Are we going to play in your pink room?’
‘It’s not pink,’ growled Tofu. ‘It’s . . . sort of red. Are you colour-blind, Olive?’
Bertie, defended in this way, the beneficiary of male solidarity, could have embraced Tofu with gratitude. But did not, of course, as that would have been sissy.
28. Unmarried Bliss
Bruce had not expected to find his new job difficult. And it was not. ‘Anybody could manage a wine bar,’ he said to Julia one morning over breakfast. ‘Even you.’
Julia looked up from the catalogue she was reading. Mauve was in this year; look at all that mauve. Even that full-length cashmere coat. Mauve. It was the sort of thing that she had seen at Barney’s in New York when her father had taken her over there for her birthday. It was expensive, of course, but Barney’s was worth it. Everything there had edge. That was pre-Bruce, of course. Perhaps she should take Bruce over for a weekend and show him round.
‘Me?’ she said. ‘Me what?’
‘Nothing,’ said Bruce, smiling. ‘You, nothing. I was just talking about running the wine bar and what a doddle it is.’
Julia returned to her catalogue. ‘That’s nice,’ she said.
Bruce reached for his acai juice. He had looked in the mirror a few days ago and had experienced a bit of a shock. There was a line, a wrinkle even, at the side of his mouth. At first he had thought it was a mark of some sort, a smudge, but after he had rubbed at it, it was still there. That had made him think. It was all very well being drop-dead gorgeous, as he admitted to himself he really was, but could you be drop-dead gorgeous with wrinkles?
Moisturiser, he thought. More moisturiser and more antioxidants, such as acai juice, which was also good for the . . . in that department. Now, drinking his acai juice, he looked over the rim of the glass at Julia, his fiancée, sitting on the other side of the table. There was no sign of her being pregnant - no visible sign yet - and she was still a bit drop-dead gorgeous herself. Both of us, he thought; both drop-dead gorgeous.
Bruce had to admit that he was happy. He was not one to sit down and count his blessings, but they were, he decided, manifold. Firstly, he had this marvellous flat in Howe Street - it was in Julia’s name, actually, but a brief ‘I do’ in front of some minister wheeled out for the purpose and all that would be changed! God, it’s easy, he said to himself. Marriage brings everything: a flat, a job. Get married, boys; that’s the life!
And then there was the car, the Porsche - not quite the model he would have picked if he had been given a totally free rein, but a Porsche none the less. A Porsche was a statement. It said something about you, about how you felt about yourself. Of course there were always those wet blankets who said that you only drove a car like that if you were making up for something - some inadequacy, perhaps. But that was rubbish, Bruce thought. That was the sort of thing made up by people who would never get a Porsche and knew it. They had to come up with something to make themselves feel better about their Porsche-less state.
And of course there was money. Bruce had suggested to Julia that they have a shared current account.
‘No need to double things up,’ he said. ‘You know how banks slap on the charges. Keep it straightforward. One account for both of us. Simple.’
Julia, who received a monthly allowance of three thousand pounds from her father, and who had only the vaguest idea about money, was happy enough to do this. Bruce’s salary from the wine bar, once tax was deducted, also turned out to be three thousand pounds, and so together they had a disposable income of six thousand pounds a month. Bruce had discovered that Julia rarely used much more than a quarter of this, as she liked to try on clothes but not necessarily buy them. So he was in a position to spend more than his salary, if he wished, although that proved to be rather difficult. He could get more clothes, of course, and shoes and general accessories, but beyond that, what could one spend the money on? It was a bit of a challenge - a pleasant challenge, of course, but a challenge none the less.
Recently Bruce had bought himself five pairs of shoes and one pair of slippers from the Shipton & Heneage catalogue (he had acquired the habit of reading catalogues from Julia). He had bought two pairs of single-buckle monk shoes - one pair in brown and the other in black; a pair of burgundy loafers; a pair of patent leather evening pumps, with discreet fabric bows; and a pair of George boots in supple black leather. The slippers were monogrammed, BA, and had embroidered gold Prince of Wales feathers on the toes for good measure. They were made of black velvet and had firm leather soles.
But all this material comfort was topped by having Julia herself. In the earlier days of their relationship, Bruce had wondered how he would possibly be able to bear her vacuousness and her simpering.
He had gritted his teeth when she called him Brucie, and when she insisted on sharing the shower with him. Of course, she’s mad about me, he told h
imself. That was understandable - women just were. But I wish she’d give me a bit more room. You can’t have somebody stroking you all the time, as if you were a domestic cat.
Then, slowly and almost imperceptibly, his attitude towards Julia had changed. From mild irritation at her apparent obsession with him, he had come to appreciate it. He found himself looking forward to coming back from work - if his job could be described as work - and finding Julia waiting for him with her cooing and her physical endearments. I’m fond of her, he found himself thinking. I actually like this woman.
Miracle! thought Bruce, in French. I’m settling down at last. And what a way to settle: money, flat, Porsche, sexy-looking woman who thinks I’m the best thing ever - and who can blame her? All on a plate. All there before me for the taking. And I have taken it.
He drained his acai juice. ‘Let’s go out for dinner tonight,’ he said. ‘The St Honoré?’
Julia shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Actually, I’ve been invited to a party. And I’m sure they won’t mind if you come too. I meant to tell you. There’s a party down in Clarence Street.’
‘Clarence Street? Who do we know there?’
‘I know them. I don’t think you do. Watson Cooke? Do you know him?’
Bruce thought. Watson Cooke? Where had he heard that name before? Somewhere. But where?
29. An Unwelcome Message
Bruce felt vaguely irritated. He had not particularly wanted to go out to dinner and had proposed that they should do so more for Julia’s sake than his own. What annoyed him was that she should not want to spend time with him in the intimate circumstances of a table for two at the St Honoré; this both angered and surprised him, in fact. Most girls - every girl he had ever met - would jump at the chance to go out to dinner with him, thought Bruce, and who did Julia think she was to come up with a counter-proposal? Watson Cooke? Bruce was at first inclined to say No, I don’t want to go to a party in Clarence Street at Watson Cooke’s place. But then, just when he had decided to say this, Julia arose from the table and said, ‘I’ll tell Watson that we can come. You’ll like him.’
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones: A 44 Scotland Street Novel Page 10