“Oh yes?” Stuart sounded cautious.
“There was an article in it that I didn’t manage to finish,” Bertie began. “We reached Holy Corner and we had to get off. And Ulysses had just been sick over Mummy again, and I had to try to wipe it off her jersey. You know that red one? Mummy had given him some squashed beetroot so it didn’t matter too much. The sick was all red, you see. It was full of little bits of beetroot.”
“Yes, Bertie, I can imagine. But what was the article you read?”
“It was about spontaneous combustion. It said that people can be walking along and then suddenly—whoosh—they go up in flames. They burn to bits and all that’s left is the shoes. There was a photograph.”
“A photograph of somebody spontaneously combusting? I don’t think so, Bertie. I don’t think they’ve ever recorded it in a photograph.”
“No, just the shoes,” explained Bertie. “They had a picture of some shoes with smoke coming out of them.”
Stuart laughed. “That would be fake, Bertie. Magazines do that sort of thing. There’s something called Photoshop. You can do things with photographs.”
“But they said that it really happens. Is that true, Daddy? Can people suddenly burn up altogether—just like that?”
“It’s a peculiar thing, Bertie. Some people say that it happens. I read something about it too—quite some time ago. But I think there have been cases where it seems to have happened. And I think that Charles Dickens …”
“Did Mr. Dickens spontaneously combust, Daddy? Is that how he died?”
“No, Bertie, Charles Dickens wasn’t a victim of spontaneous combustion. But he did mention it in one of his books—Bleak House, I seem to recall. There’s an incident of spontaneous combustion in that novel, I think. It’s certainly a very odd thing.”
Bertie looked thoughtful. “Has it ever happened in Edinburgh?” he asked.
Stuart shook his head. “I don’t think so, Bertie.”
“Maybe it’s happened in Glasgow,” suggested Bertie.
“Possibly. Who knows? But I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.”
But Bertie was still intrigued. “I wonder if you just feel yourself getting a bit hotter,” he said. “Then you get hotter and hotter until you start to go on fire.”
“Possibly,” said Stuart. “But let’s not bother ourselves too much with spontaneous combustion, Bertie. As I said, it’s unlikely to happen in a place like Edinburgh, and even if it did, we have an excellent fire brigade. I’m sure that they’d know exactly what to do.”
“If you started to spontaneously combust, Daddy,” Bertie asked, “would you call the ambulance first, or the fire brigade?”
Stuart thought for a moment. “That’s an interesting conundrum, Bertie. Very interesting indeed.”
32. Professor Purdie, Sleepers, Top Hats
The rather surprising conversation about spontaneous combustion saw them the length of St. Stephen Street. Now, just before they turned into India Place, Bertie noticed the Floatarium and pointed it out to his father.
“That’s the place where Mummy goes to float,” he said. “See it, Daddy? They have those big flotation chambers and you go inside and it’s all dark and you float on the water. Even your pillow floats. They fill the tanks with water from the Dead Sea.”
“Really, Bertie?”
“Yes. Mummy likes it. She takes her friends there sometimes.”
Stuart nodded. “It must be fun.”
“Remember that therapist? Remember my last psychotherapist, Daddy?”
“Yes, Bertie, I remember him.”
Bertie looked up at his father. “Not the one I’ve got now. Not the Australian one. Not him. The one who looked like Ulysses?”
Stuart was silent.
“He went to the Floatarium,” said Bertie.
“I suppose a lot of people go there,” said Stuart evenly. “It must be very relaxing.”
“He went to the Floatarium with Mummy,” said Bertie casually.
Stuart’s pace slowed down. He looked up at the sky.
“I think he liked it,” said Bertie.
They walked on. “That house over there,” said Stuart, pointing to an ancient stone house standing by itself on a corner, “that’s a very old house called Duncan’s Land, Bertie. That’s where Professor Purdie lives. He’s a friend of Angus Lordie’s, I believe. Angus says that Professor Purdie tells some very good stories.”
Bertie looked at the house. “Did Mr. Lordie tell you what they were?” he asked.
“He did, as it happens,” said Stuart.
“Can you tell me one, Daddy?”
Stuart tried to remember; something about the Crown Prince of Japan at Oxford—that was one of them. And then there was the man on the sleeper from London … “Oh yes,” he said. “I remember one, Bertie. There was a businessman in London who got on the sleeper train bound for Glasgow. But just as he left London he had a telephone call from his boss who said there was some trouble at their business in Carlisle. Could he get off the train at Carlisle and then go on to Glasgow later the next day? So the man went to the sleeper car attendant and asked him whether he could get off early.
“The sleeper car attendant said no, they only stopped for a minute or two to change drivers in Carlisle and it wasn’t an official stop. But the man persuaded him to wake him up and put him and his luggage off the train as a special favour. And the sleeper car attendant was a very kind man, and so he said he would.”
“And did he, Daddy?” asked Bertie.
“Well, no,” said Stuart. “You see, the next morning the man woke up and found that the train was coming into Glasgow. And so he was jolly cross and he went to see the sleeping car attendant and he told him how cross he was. And I’m sorry to say, Bertie, he swore at him very badly. You mustn’t swear at people, as you know …”
“Tofu does,” said Bertie.
“Yes, Tofu … Anyway, this man was very cross and he swore really badly at the poor attendant. And then the attendant said: ‘I’m awfie sorry, sir. It’s entirely my fault; my mistake. But I can say one thing for you, you’re a very good swearer, sir, very good—almost as good a swearer as that man we did put out at Carlisle station …’ ”
Stuart looked down at Bertie. “You see …” he started to explain.
But Bertie was grinning. “So they did put a man out at Carlisle station,” he said. “And that man was jolly cross because he didn’t want to be put out.”
“Precisely,” said Stuart.
Bertie smiled. “I wonder who told Professor Purdie that story.”
“I expect he made it up himself,” said Stuart. “Angus Lordie says he’s very good at these things.”
“Could we go and see him some day?” asked Bertie.
Stuart thought this was possible. “I think we could, Bertie. We’d get Angus to give us an introduction.”
“A letter of introduction?” asked Bertie.
“Well, we probably wouldn’t need anything that formal. I would have thought that maybe just a telephone call from Angus would be enough. He could say that there’s this fellow called Bertie who’d like to make your acquaintance …”
“Who’s seven now,” said Bertie proudly.
“Exactly. Who’s seven now and who’s interested in Scottish history and Robert Burns and things like that. I’m sure that would do the trick.”
Bertie beamed with pleasure at the thought of being introduced to a real professor, and particularly to one who knew a lot of stories and jokes. “You know that painting in the Scottish National Gallery?” he said to his father. “I saw it when Mummy took me there. It’s called The Letter of Introduction.”
“I think so,” said Stuart. “Is it the one where the boy, or young man, rather, is standing in front of the older man, who’s looking at the letter he’s given him?”
“That’s the one,” said Bertie. “And the man’s dog is sniffing at the boy. He looks very suspicious.” He paused. “It’s by Sir David Wilkie, Daddy. He was a famous ar
tist, you know.”
Stuart laid a hand on Bertie’s shoulder and patted him. “You’re a fund of information, Bertie,” he said. “You really are.”
Bertie looked anxious. “I’m not showing off, Daddy. I promise you.”
“Of course you aren’t, Bertie. I’d never accuse you of showing off. And never be ashamed to know things, Bertie. There are a lot of people these days who think it’s smart to know nothing.”
“Tofu,” said Bertie. And added, “Larch too.”
“Really? Oh well, don’t you worry about them, Bertie.”
They were now getting close to the bridge that crossed the Water of Leith at the end of Danube Street. Off to their left, set up against the edge of Lord Moray’s Garden, was a large, quite isolated house, deposited as if an afterthought to the elegant Georgian terraces at the top of the cliff behind it. Stuart remembered something that he had heard about that house years ago.
“That house,” he said to Bertie. “Did you know that a long time ago when it changed hands, the new owners discovered the attic was full of top hats, Bertie?”
“How strange,” said Bertie. “Why?”
Stuart shook his head. “I have no idea, Bertie. Nobody has.”
33. By the Water of Leith
There were very few people on the walkway beside the Water of Leith when Bertie and his father reached it. In the distance, a woman was walking her dog on a lead; a young couple were strolling back in the direction of Stockbridge, arms round each other’s waists, oblivious of all but their own company. A man clad in an overcoat, in spite of the warmth of the late afternoon, shuffled despondently along, his step faltering from time to time as the burden of his memories, or sorrows perhaps, became too great: sadness has a slow step; cheerfulness, with its clear conscience, has a lighter one.
The river, swollen by heavy rains that had fallen on its catchment slopes in the Pentlands a few days earlier, was in spate, yet its waters, unusually for a river that flowed through a city, were as clear as any Highland stream’s—the colour, here and there, of whisky. Below them, but reachable from their footpath, was St. Bernard’s Well, with its stone-columned temple to Hygieia. Cyril, it seemed, wanted to go in that direction, and tugged them down to the foot of the small building, panting eagerly, as if ready to take the waters himself.
Bertie stared at the statue of the goddess and then looked quizzically at his father.
“Hygieia, Bertie,” said Stuart. “She was the Greek goddess of hygiene.”
Bertie turned to face the river. “Could we go and sit down there, Daddy? On the rocks?”
“If we’re careful. The river’s very full at the moment. All that rain.”
They picked their way gingerly across an expanse of rock until they were just above the level of the water, perched on a smooth and accommodating boulder. Cyril, who was still on the lead, sat next to Bertie, his mouth open to reveal his gold tooth, his pink tongue hanging out. The water, uttering something between a chuckle and a roar as it leaped over rocks impeding its path, was a white torrent here, only a few feet deep perhaps, but voluminous enough to be a set of miniature rapids.
Bertie had to shout to make himself heard. “The doll, Daddy …” he began.
Stuart had been so wrapped up in his conversation with his son that he had almost forgotten that he was carrying the hated present. Now he remembered and felt a sudden pang of guilt that he should have agreed to be party to the throwing of the doll into the Water of Leith. He would have to renege, he thought; he would have to persuade Bertie that no matter how much he disliked the present, it was simply wrong to fling it away. And it was littering too …
He extracted the doll from the packet in which he had been carrying it. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea to throw poor Jo away like this, Bertie. I think you should think again.”
Bertie had half-risen to his feet, and now leaned forward to take hold of Jo.
“You said I could,” he muttered to Stuart.
Stuart winced. It was a moment of choice. “You don’t like Jo, do you?”
Bertie shook his head. And then, without uttering any warning, he threw the doll out over the river with all his strength.
Jo described a high curve. For a moment she seemed to hang in the air, her little plastic arms wide apart in surprise, and then she fell, head first into the Water of Leith. The river took her, but she did not sink, bobbing about instead on the current, staring at her previous owner with the optimistic fixed grin with which she had left her factory in China. Then she was tugged away, and dipped into the first of a series of rapids that would carry her downstream.
Bertie looked up at his father. His face revealed the sudden wave of regret he felt at the appalling thing he had done.
“I didn’t really mean to,” he began, and then trailed off. It had been a terrible thing to do, and he feared that no words of his would excuse him.
He had reckoned without Cyril. The dog had been watching silently, but with interest. Now, seeing Jo hurled into the water, he decided that this was an unexpected, but very welcome invitation for him to fetch her. Angus threw sticks into the water and he retrieved them; this was just a variant of that timeless human-canine game.
Dashing forward, his lead trailing behind him, Cyril lunged into the water. Bertie cried out in alarm and snatched at the lead, but he was too late. Cyril was now fully in the water, scrabbling, half-swimming, through the shallows. Within a few seconds he closed in on Jo, who had been swept into a patch of less turbulent water, and it was there that he closed his jaws around her, his teeth sinking deep into her yielding plastic flesh. Then he turned round and made his way back to the rock on which Bertie and his father were now standing, transfixed by the heroic rescue they had just witnessed.
“Look!” shouted Bertie. “Cyril’s saved Jo!”
Dropping the bedraggled action figure at Bertie’s feet, Cyril shook himself vigorously, drops of water spraying liberally over Stuart and the boy.
Bertie picked up the doll, who stared up at him blankly. One of Cyril’s teeth had punctured the place where her mouth had been, leaving a small hole, out of which water now dribbled, as if from the mouth of one saved from drowning.
“What are we going to do?” asked Bertie. He suddenly felt protective towards Jo; Cyril had taken such a risk to save her, and it had been so wrong of him to throw her into the river. He could not hurl her back into the water.
Stuart looked at the doll. “It’s up to you, Bertie,” he said. “Do you want to keep her? You don’t have to, you know.”
“It’s not her fault,” muttered Bertie. “She didn’t ask to be given to me.”
Stuart frowned. He realised that he would have to take control of the situation. He could not leave his son wrestling with guilt and shame.
“I’ve had an idea, Bertie,” he said. “There’s a charity shop down in Raeburn Place that takes toys. They’ll find a home for Jo.”
Bertie’s face brightened. “Do you think so, Daddy?”
“Yes,” said Stuart. “I really do, Bertie.”
Suddenly Stuart felt stronger. What was the word Irene always used? he asked himself. She talked about empowerment of women—that was it. Well, thought Stuart, women might be empowered, but so might men, and he felt suddenly empowered. Very empowered.
“220 volts,” he muttered under his breath. “DC.”
34. Big Lou Makes an Appointment
Big Lou had been waiting rather a long time. She was patient by nature, but after an hour of sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a cramped recess off a corridor, entertained only by a tattered pile of out-of-date magazines and copies of the Edinburgh Social Services Review of the Year, she was beginning to wonder whether three o’clock had really been four o’clock, and whether she had misread her appointment time. But she had the letter with her, tucked away in a pocket, and when she extracted it and read it again, she found that there had been no mistake.
Eventually, though, an official arrived
to inform her that she would be seen, and apologies were made. “We’re very sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re a bit understaffed at the moment, you see.”
The apology was made with evident sincerity, and Big Lou did not say anything, as she had half-decided to do, about the difficulties that making an appointment entailed for those who ran their own businesses. Her coffee bar, which she ran entirely herself, had been closed for this meeting and she would have lost business. Not much business, it was true—only the sale of three or four cups of coffee, perhaps, as the afternoon was a slack time, but there was the principle of the thing. She paid her business rates as everybody else did, and …
“And you’ve probably had to close your coffee bar to be here,” the official continued. “We’re very sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Big Lou said hurriedly. “I’m understaffed myself. I know what it’s like.”
The official, a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a plain grey trouser suit, smiled at Big Lou as she led her into her office. “Please call me Marjory,” she said. “And you’re Lou, aren’t you?”
Lou nodded. “Most people call me Big Lou. They always have. You can, if you like. I don’t mind it.”
Marjory looked slightly embarrassed. “Oh well, names … It’s a bit cramped in here,” she said. “But I chose this room for the view. View over space, I think. Don’t you?”
Big Lou looked out of the window. Beyond her was the skyline of the Old Town—a field of spires and chimneys and spikes. Edinburgh was a spiky city, she thought; one so easily forgot that. And there, beyond the rooftops, were the Salisbury Crags and the brooding shape of Arthur’s Seat. In the far distance, the Firth of Forth, opening out at that point, was a field of light blue across which a tanker ploughed its furrow.
“A fine view,” said Big Lou.
The official joined her at the window. “It’s better even than the view from the Lord Provost’s window,” she said.
They sat down. Marjory opened the file on her desk in front of her. “Now then,” she said. “You’ve had your preliminary interviews, I gather. And everything seems to be in order. We’re happy to approve you.”
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