The Revolving Door of Life

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “A very good idea,” said Domenica. “And he’ll say: ‘Yes, of course, they’re mine.’ Who wouldn’t?”

  “We’ll see,” said Matthew. “At least my conscience will be clear.”

  “Even if his won’t,” said Domenica.

  “Cynic,” said Angus, but not rudely. Not every allegation of cynicism need be rude. One can accuse people of cynicism quite gently—as if it were, in fact, something of a virtue; which, of course, it is not.

  38. Things Improve for Bertie

  With Nicola established in the flat, life for the three members of the Pollock family then resident in Scotland Street improved beyond measure. Nobody was sure how Irene was at that time, although the general view was that she was doing rather well in the desert harem in which she found herself. A letter had been received by the British chargé d’affaires in the region that was unquestionably in her handwriting and appeared to be written free of duress. No mention was made in this message of any privations or suffering, and there were no pleas for release.

  “I wouldn’t be inclined to regard this as in any way distressed,” pronounced the Foreign Office official who passed it on to Stuart. “In fact, your wife appears to be, well-settled, so to speak.”

  Stuart did not wish to appear disloyal. “I do hope they release her soon,” he said. He did not sound convinced of his own words, though, and the conversation had been brought to an end.

  “Mummy is still busy in the Gulf,” Stuart said to Bertie that night. “I think she has a lot to do there.”

  Bertie did not appear at all concerned. “She shouldn’t hurry back, Daddy. Write to her and tell her that everything’s all right here and there’s no hurry for her to come back to Scotland. Tell her that, Daddy, so that she doesn’t worry.”

  Overhearing this conversation, Nicola suppressed a smile. She understood the situation perfectly well, and had already noticed how relaxed and happy both Bertie and Ulysses seemed to be. Over the two days that she had so far spent in Edinburgh, Ulysses, in particular, had become much more content and was bringing up his food much less frequently. He had settled to the bedtime she had imposed and slept all through the night, only wakening in the morning when the rest of the household was already up and about.

  The patterns of her own day had quickly established themselves. After giving both boys their breakfast, she prepared Ulysses for the journey on the 23 bus that took Bertie up to Bruntsfield. From there they walked the short mile to the Steiner School, where she dropped Bertie off at the gate before making her way home.

  There was plenty to fill the morning. She had found Big Lou’s by chance and had decided that this was where she would regularly have her morning coffee. Big Lou prepared foamy milk for Ulysses, and this kept him occupied while Nicola tackled The Scotsman crossword over one of Big Lou’s generous lattes. If there was company, she took advantage of it; she had already had one conversation with Angus Lordie, whom she had met briefly on the stairs, and she and Matthew had discovered a common interest in Robert Louis Stevenson and, to their mutual surprise and delight, the life and times of Robert the Bruce.

  After coffee she wandered up to the National Portrait Gallery or into a bookshop—Ulysses was happy with both these destinations—before returning to the flat for a light lunch. While Ulysses had his after-lunch sleep, Nicola read or did the ironing until it was time for her to collect Bertie from school. It was not a demanding routine, but it had its occasional salience and she took great pleasure in the thought that not only was she helping Stuart in an almost impossible spot, but it was also giving her the time to get to know her grandchildren.

  For Bertie, the arrangement was perfect: just as he had hoped she would do, Nicola had cancelled his psychotherapy sessions indefinitely, had contacted the yoga teacher to withdraw him from Yoga for Tots, and had suspended music lessons until further notice. Moreover, not a word of Italian had been spoken, although she had taught him the occasional Portuguese expression, mostly ones that could be used to express irritation or to put a curse on somebody one did not like. “Not that we should ever do that, Bertie,” she had warned him. “But it’s good to have these things up one’s sleeve for an emergency, you know.”

  There were two highlights of the day, both of which occurred in the evening. One was the bath that Bertie always took after his supper and before bedtime. Under Irene, this had been a rather brisk experience, involving only a few inches of lukewarm water and not lasting very long; under Nicola it had been transformed by the addition to the water of a large quantity of Portuguese bubble-bath liquid that she had brought with her. This was so effective that it filled the bath to overflowing with foam, and Bertie was allowed to throw this foam around to his heart’s content. “It’s only foam,” said Nicola. “Foam never harmed anything.”

  Ulysses was allowed to join in these baths, shrieking with delight and often disappearing under mountains of foam for several minutes until located again by Bertie. All this was allowed to happen while Nicola made herself a martini in the kitchen and listened to classic recordings of Italian opera. Bertie liked the sound of opera drifting through to the bathroom. “Puccini!” he would cry, tossing foam into the air. “Verdi! Rossini!” He amused himself by transposition: “Puverdi! Versini! Rosscini!” bringing gales of laughter from Ulysses, somewhere under the foam.

  After the bath, which often lasted a good three-quarters of an hour, it was time for bed for both of them. Ulysses was settled first, and while this happened Bertie read in his room. Scouting for Boys, previously hidden under the bed to avoid Irene’s censorship, was now openly perused, along with other literary contraband including unexpurgated Enid Blyton and the formerly banned Just William novels. But this literary fare, compelling though it was, paled beside the story that Nicola began for Bertie once the light was switched out. Sitting on his bed in the dark, she held his hand as she related a story that she had conjured up especially for him, the story of Fersie MacPherson, the Scottish Person.

  Bertie listened entranced. Fersie MacPherson, the Scottish Person, lived in Lochaber and earned his living through prize money won at various Highland Games. He could toss a caber further than anybody in all Argyll, and was adept at other trials of strength conducted at Highland Games up and down the country.

  “He was a good man too,” said Nicola. “He would never tolerate any bad behaviour by anybody. If he saw any of that he put an immediate stop to it.”

  “How?” asked Bertie. He was thinking of Tofu, who behaved badly and presumably would never be tolerated by Fersie MacPherson.

  “Oh,” said Nicola. “He biffed them. Biff! And that put a stop to that.”

  Bertie listened open-mouthed and in silence. “I bet they respected him,” he said at last.

  “Oh they did,” said Nicola. “Immensely.”

  39. Do Something, Stuart

  The changes brought about by Nicola touched every area of Bertie’s life, including those of diet and clothing. As far as diet was concerned, while Nicola subscribed to the general principles of healthy eating, she did not believe—as Irene did—that anything a child would naturally appreciate was suspect. So pizzas, never permitted under Irene, were now allowed—in moderation, and accompanied by something healthy. Bertie was quite content with this: broccoli or curly kale were perfectly palatable when served on the same plate as a slice of glutinous, cheesy pizza topped with pepperoni. Other foods were put on the table without any accompanying vegetables: macaroni, approved of by Irene as long as it was eaten either plain or with the merest hint of butter, was smothered by Nicola with melted cheese and copious quantities of tomato sauce, much to Bertie’s delight.

  But it was the wardrobe reforms that Bertie most welcomed. When Nicola first explored the cupboard in his room she had expressed shock at what she found.

  “Are you sure that these are all the clothes you have, Bertie?” she asked. “Do you wear pink dungarees every day?”

  Bertie nodded. “There are three pairs,” he explained. “
That means one pair can be in the wash and I still have two.”

  “Yes,” said Nicola, “but surely you need other trousers. One can’t wear dungarees all the time.”

  Bertie was silent. He agreed: one can’t, but one did.

  Nicola peered into the recesses of the cupboard. “You don’t have any jeans,” she said. “I thought that everybody had jeans.”

  Bertie looked down at the floor. His grandmother was right: everybody had jeans—except him. Even the Prime Minister had a pair of jeans: he had seen a photograph of him in the newspaper and he had clearly been wearing jeans.

  Nicola reached out to touch her grandson’s arm. “Would you like some jeans, Bertie?”

  He nodded. He was close to tears. He did not want to be different from everybody else; he wanted to be the same.

  “I think we should go shopping—you and I,” said Nicola. “We could get some jeans. What colour would you like?”

  “Blue,” said Bertie, his voice barely audible. To talk about things like that too loudly—miraculous things like blue jeans—could be to invite disappointment.

  “Then blue the jeans shall be,” said Nicola.

  She explored the cupboard once more. “And a kilt? Don’t you have a kilt?”

  Bertie caught his breath. In his mental list of wants, a kilt had always been second only to a Swiss Army penknife. “I’d love to have a kilt,” he said, adding, “Ranald Braveheart MacPherson has a kilt.”

  Nicola smiled. “Ranald Braveheart MacPherson? He sounds like quite the boy.”

  “He’s my friend,” said Bertie. “He lives in Church Hill and his dad has tons of money. He has a safe where he keeps it. Ranald showed it to me.”

  “How interesting,” said Nicola. “And he has a kilt?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “He gave me a shot of it once when I was at his house.”

  “And you liked it?”

  “Yes. I liked it very much.”

  Nicola looked thoughtful. “Did you ever ask Mummy for a kilt?”

  Bertie hesitated. Then he replied, “Yes. I asked her three times. But every time she said no. She said that she disagrees with tribalism, and kilts are all about tribalism.”

  “Oh really!” Nicola burst out. She checked herself immediately. “Does Daddy have a kilt? He used to have one, you know. When he was at school he wore a kilt quite often.”

  “Daddy had one,” said Bertie. “But Mummy cut it up.”

  Nicola’s eyes narrowed. “Mummy cut up Daddy’s kilt?”

  “Yes. She made it into cushions.”

  Nicola struggled to control herself. “And did Daddy mind?”

  Bertie thought for a moment. “I think he may have minded, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Why can’t you be sure, Bertie?”

  “Because I think Daddy’s scared of Mummy. So I don’t think he’d tell her he was cross when she made his kilt into cushion covers.”

  Nicola closed her eyes. You don’t interfere in your child’s marriage, she told herself—you just don’t. Your child makes his bed and then he has to lie in it. And yet, and yet…how could Stuart tolerate all this? How could he live with this ghastly, overbearing woman with her absurd ideas and the tyranny…yes, the tyranny that went with them? How could he? Was Stuart that weak?

  She opened her eyes again. Bertie was looking at her with that direct, innocent stare that she found so endearing. She wondered just how much of all this he picked up; he was a highly intelligent little boy—prodigiously intelligent, she thought—and surely he must understand at least a little of what was going on. And yet he was so loyal; he did not want to criticise his mother directly, in spite of what must be the most extreme provocation.

  She realised that she would have to reach a decision. She had kept out of Stuart’s marriage but now things were different: she was Bertie’s grandmother and she was responsible for him, at least temporarily. That position gave her the standing, she felt, to do all that she thought was necessary for his welfare—and that was to give this poor child a life. It was as simple as that. He was being denied everything that a small boy might want. He was a victim of some bizarre theory of child-raising. That woman was…that woman was half-mad.

  “Bertie,” she said, “tomorrow you and I will go and buy some jeans—some blue jeans. Then we shall get you a kilt.” She paused. “And is there anything else you want?”

  Bertie’s eyes widened. Nobody had ever asked him this before.

  “A Swiss Army penknife,” he said. And then added, “Please. If possible.”

  Nicola winced, and Bertie noticed. “No, not really,” he said quickly. “I don’t really want one. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Nicola watched him. This was extraordinary. What seven-year-old boy would have the sensitivity to see that his request had put her in a difficult position? It was one thing to buy one’s grandson a pair of jeans and a kilt—it was another thing altogether to buy him a penknife.

  “Well, in that case we’ll concentrate on the jeans and the kilt,” said Nicola. “You can talk to Daddy about the penknife.”

  Bertie shook his head. “I don’t think I can talk to him about that,” he said. “Daddy can’t do anything about it.”

  Nicola turned away; she did not want Bertie to see her expression. She wondered whether there was anything she could do to give Stuart some backbone. He was her son, after all, and surely a mother could talk to her son about such things. Yes, she would talk to him and give him the advice that he needed. But what exactly was that? The words came into her mind unbidden: Do something about this, Stuart—just do something. Anything. Anything at all.

  40. The World According to Bruce

  Matthew had not seen Bruce for some months. The last time they met, which was by accident in George Street, Bruce had been about to enter a bar with people whom Matthew vaguely recognised but did not really know. He had acknowledged Bruce with a nod of the head and a halfhearted wave, but he did not want to get involved with the rowdy, exuberant crowd. They were, he knew, the friends with whom Bruce had worked in his days as a surveyor, and Matthew, now a father of three—father of three! he thought, with a sinking feeling of respectability—had neither the time nor inclination to prop up a bar with this group, discussing the fortunes of the various rugby clubs to which they almost certainly would belong. Those days, he said to himself, are past now, and in the past they must remain…He stopped. The words had entered his mind insidiously, the accompaniments of a musical meme, as some might call it. They were from Flower of Scotland, which Bruce and his friends would sing so volubly at Murrayfield Stadium as they watched poor Scotland go down to another defeat in the Six Nations Rugby Tournament; they referred, of course, to the Battle of Bannockburn which took place, in the minds of so many, only yesterday (1314). Edward II, a bully like his father, had no business interfering with Scotland, and had got his just desserts. Naturally one would not wish to be thought to be making too much of that enmity between England and Scotland today—hence the words of the song—Those days are past now, and in the past they must remain, although one could, so easily, mischievously add the line…but we can still mention them—every now and again. It scanned rather well and it fitted the tune too. Matthew smiled. He would sing those words next time and see if anybody noticed them; he might even start something; after all, folk songs had to start with somebody.

  On that occasion, Matthew and Bruce had exchanged only a few words: “Must dash, sorry, let’s catch up some time soon,” and “Great idea. Cool. Why not?”

  At the end of this brief and unimaginative conversation, Matthew had noticed that there was something unusual about Bruce’s appearance and, after a second or two, had realised that Bruce only had one eyebrow.

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean what happened?”

  “To your…” He pointed to his own, intact eyebrow.

  Bruce shook his head. “Waxing accident,” he muttered, and had broken off to join his friends inside the bar. “
Can’t tell you the whole story just now.”

  He had been puzzled, wondering how a whole eyebrow might be pulled off by mistake. Was the entire face covered with wax in some awful reenactment of the making of a death mask? Or was it merely a question of eyebrow-plucking that had gone awry, perhaps as a result of the overenthusiasm of the eyebrow-plucker?

  Now, as Matthew met Bruce in the Cumberland Bar, he saw that the missing eyebrow had grown.

  “So,” said Bruce, as he came up to the table where Matthew was waiting for him. “How goes it, old fruit?”

  Matthew did not like being addressed as old fruit, but he concealed his displeasure and gave Bruce a welcoming smile. “Not too bad.” And then, to add cliché to cliché, to pile Pelion upon Ossa, he added, “Can’t complain.”

  Bruce signalled to the barman to pour him a pint of beer, and then sat down opposite Matthew. “Fatherhood treating you all right? Any more, or is it still three?”

  “That’s it,” said Matthew.

  “Have you been to the vet?” asked Bruce. “You know what I mean? Snip, snip.”

  Matthew shook his head, grinning weakly. It was no business of Bruce’s, or of anybody else.

  “It’s a real indignity,” Bruce said. “The humiliation that we undergo for women. What we do for them…”

  Matthew thought that that particular burden fell disproportionately on women. “But they’re the ones who have to…” he began. He trailed off. “It’s far more difficult for them…”

  Bruce laughed. “Don’t believe the propaganda, Matty-boy. Women have it easy—dead easy. Who does all the work round here? Who has to slave away every day to keep some woman at home, drinking coffee and exchanging the latest goss?” He reached across the table to tap Matthew on the chest. “We do, Matthieu—it’s us. The chaps. We get a really raw deal.”