Espresso Tales

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “So,” said Irene, her voice low and forgiving. “So, what you need to do, Stuart, is to let me sort everything out. You don’t have to worry. I’ll handle everything. But, as a quid pro quo, you just behave yourself. All right?”

  Stuart nodded. He was about to say: yes, it was all right, but then he remembered the trip on the train with Bertie and what he had said to him. So now he looked Irene in the eye. “No,” he said. “It’s not all right.”

  93. The Gettysburg Address

  “Six years ago,” said Stuart, “we conceived a child, a son…”

  Irene interrupted him. “Actually, I conceived a son,” she said. “Your role, if you recall the event, was relatively minor.”

  Stuart stared at her. “Fathers count for nothing then?”

  When she replied, Irene’s tone was gentle, as if humouring one who narrowly fails to understand. “Of course I wouldn’t say that. You’re putting words into my mouth. However, the maternal role is undoubtedly much more significant. And when it comes down to it, women do most of the work of child-rearing. They just do. Who takes Bertie to Italian? Who takes him to yoga, to school? Everywhere in fact? I do.” She paused. “And whom do I see there, at these various places? Not other fathers. Mothers, like me.”

  Stuart took a deep breath. “That’s part of the problem. Bertie doesn’t want to go to Italian lessons. He hates yoga. He told me that himself. He said that it makes him feel…”

  She did not let him finish. “Oh yes? Oh yes? And where would you take him then? Fishing?”

  Stuart smiled. “Yes, I would. I would take him fishing.”

  “Teach him to kill, in other words,” said Irene.

  “Fishing is not killing.”

  “Oh yes? So the fish survives?”

  Stuart hesitated. “All right, it’s killing. But…”

  “And that’s what you want to teach him to do! To kill fish!”

  Stuart looked out of the window. The evening sky was clear, bisected on high by the thin white line of a vapour trail. And at the end of the trail, a tiny speck of silver, was a plane heading west; a metaphor for freedom, he thought, even if the freedom at the end of a vapour trail was a brief and illusory one.

  “I want him to have some freedom to be a little boy,” he said. “I want him to be able to play with other boys of his age, doing the sort of thing they like to do. They like to ride their bikes. They like to hang about. They like to play games, throw balls about, climb trees. They don’t like yoga.”

  The roll-call of boyish pursuits was a provocation to Irene. “What a perfect summary of the sexist concept of a boy,” she exclaimed. “And what about ungendered boys, may I ask? What about them? Do they like to climb trees and ride bikes, do you think?”

  “I have no idea what ungendered boys wish to do,” answered Stuart. “In fact, I’m not sure what an ungendered boy is. But the whole point is that Bertie is not one of them. He wants to get on with being what he is, which is a fairly typical little boy. He’s clever, yes, and he knows a lot. But the thing that you don’t seem able to understand is that he is also a little boy. And he needs to go through that stage. He needs to have a boyhood.”

  Irene was about to answer, but Stuart, in his stride now, cut her off. “For the last few years I think I’ve been very patient. I was never fully happy with the whole Bertie project, as you called it. I expressed doubts, but you never let me say much about them. You see, Irene, you’re not the most tolerant woman I’ve known. Yes, I’m sorry to have to say that, but I mean it. You’re intolerant.”

  He paused for a moment, gauging the effect of his words on his wife. She had become silent, her face slightly crumpled. Her confidence seemed diminished, and for a moment Stuart thought that he saw a flicker of doubt. He decided to press on with his address.

  “Then you were surprised,” he went on, “when Bertie rebelled. Do you remember how shocked you were when he set fire to my copy of the Guardian while I was reading it? You do? And here’s another thing, by the way: has it ever occurred to you that I was secretly pleased that he had done that? No? Well, let me tell you, I was. And the reason for that is that I was never consulted about what newspaper we should take in this house. You never asked me. Not once. You never asked me if I would like to read the Herald or the Scotsman, or anything else. You just ordered the Guardian. And that’s because you can’t tolerate another viewpoint. Or…or is it because you’re trying so hard to be right-on, to have all the correct views about everything? And in reality, deep underneath…”

  Irene, who had been looking at the floor, now looked up, and Stuart, to his horror, saw that there were tears in her eyes.

  “Now look,” he said, reaching out to touch her, “I’m sorry…”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “I don’t know,” said Stuart. “I’m sure you were doing your best.”

  Irene disregarded this. “I had so many ambitions for Bertie. I wanted him to be everything that I’m not. What have I done with my life? What have I ever achieved? You have a job–you have a career. I haven’t got that. I’m just a woman who stays at home. Nothing I do ever changes the world. So I thought that with Bertie I could achieve something, at least have something that I could point to and call my creation. And now all that I’ve achieved is to get Bertie to hate me, and you too, it seems.”

  “I don’t hate you,” said Stuart. “I admire you. I’m proud of you. I love you very much…”

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  “I do.” But he added: “I want you to loosen up. I want you to be yourself. I want you to let Bertie be himself. I want you to stop trying.”

  “And what if the self I should be is something quite different?” asked Irene, dabbing at her cheek with a corner of tissue. “What then?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” But he was intrigued by the possibilities. Was there a side to Irene that he had never guessed at? “Are you different?”

  Irene nodded. “I’m quite conservative,” she said. “In my heart of hearts, I’m conservative. You see, Stuart, there’s something I’ve never told you before. You don’t know where I come from, do you?”

  “Moray,” he said. “You come from Moray.”

  “No,” said Irene. “Moray Place.” She paused, studying Stuart’s reaction. He seemed to be taking it fairly well, she thought; well there was more news for him.

  “And there’s something else,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

  94. Bertie’s Dream

  That night, Bertie was reluctant to switch off his bedside lamp, so happy was he just to gaze at his newly-painted walls. He was still convinced that the transformation of his room had been achieved through some form of supernatural intervention, although he was not sure what precise form this had taken. One possibility was that the room had been painted by angels, as Bertie had recently read an account of the activity of angels which stressed that the heavenly beings frequently undertook good deeds by stealth. But ultimately it did not matter in the least who, or what agency, had effected the change in his colour scheme; the important thing was that he no longer lived in a pink room, but in a white one.

  After he had been lying on his bed for half an hour or so, gazing dreamily at the walls, his parents came through to say goodnight to him, as they always did. His father was first to appear, looking shocked and dazed, and then, after he had gone, his mother, whose eyes and cheeks struck Bertie as being puffy and red.

  “Are you all right, Mummy?” asked Bertie. “You haven’t been crying, have you?”

  Irene bent down and kissed Bertie on his brow. “No, Bertie, carissimo. Not crying. Just re-evaluating.”

  “Good-night, then,” said Bertie, snuggling down into his bed.

  “Buona notte, Bertie,” said Irene. She reached out to turn off his light and stood at his bedside for a few moments, wistfully, looking down at her young son. Then she turned away and left the room, leaving the door very slightly aja
r to allow in the small chink of light that Bertie liked to have at night, against the greater darkness.

  Bertie closed his eyes and thought of what he might do now that he had a white room. He might invite Tofu round some afternoon and give him bacon sandwiches to eat in the room. There was always plenty of bacon in their fridge and Tofu wouldn’t mind too much if it were to be uncooked. And then he might even invite Olive. He wondered about her. He had felt very wounded when she had accused him of wishing lockjaw upon her, but he thought that it was now time for both of them to move on. He would forgive her for spreading rumours that she was his girlfriend (he had even heard that she had told people that they were actually engaged and that there would be a notice to that effect in the school magazine quite soon). And if he forgave her for that, then she should surely forgive him for the misunderstanding over lockjaw.

  Lockjaw, of course, was not the only threat. Bertie had also heard about the dangers of cutting the skin between one’s thumb and forefinger. That, he was told, induced immediate blood-poisoning, unless, of course, one had ready access to a frog, in which case the rubbing of the frog on the wound was a quick and effective treatment. Merlin, the boy in his class who was consulted on all physical matters, had reliably informed them that there was a special tank at the New Royal Infirmary where frogs were bred for this precise purpose, along with leeches, which, he explained, doctors used to treat patients whom they particularly disliked. Olive, Tofu said, would definitely have a leech attached to her if she were for any reason to be admitted to the Royal Infirmary.

  Bertie eventually drifted off to sleep and during the course of the night had a dream. In this dream, which he remembered vividly upon waking, he found himself walking in a field of grass, alone to begin with, but first joined by a spotted dog, which trotted contentedly at his heels, and then by a friend. And this friend was Tofu, who walked beside him, his hand resting on Bertie’s shoulder in comfortable companionship. Bertie felt proud to have a friend, even if it was only Tofu, and to have a dog, too, added to his pleasure. Above them was a high sky of freedom, unsullied by clouds.

  Then suddenly the spotted dog ran away. It scampered off into the undergrowth and Bertie called out to it, but it did not come back. He felt bereft now that the dog had gone and he turned to Tofu for reassurance, but Tofu himself had skipped off, disappearing into a thicket at the edge of the field. Bertie called after him, just as he had called after the dog, but a wind had arisen, and it swallowed his words.

  Now he was alone, but only for a short time, for his mother suddenly appeared round the corner of a path and she rushed towards him and lifted him up, smothering him with caresses. Bertie squirmed, trying to escape, but could not; his mother was too powerful; she was like the wind, a gale, an irresistible tide; she could not be vanquished. She held him in her grip, which was a strong one, and prevented him from moving.

  But at last she put him down, and Bertie looked up at her and saw something which made his heart turn cold. Irene had a baby in her arms, and she held this baby out to Bertie, saying: “Look, Bertie! Look at this baby!”

  Bertie stared at the baby and thought: Now I have a brother.

  “Yes,” said Irene. “You have a brother, Bertie!”

  Bertie did not know what to say. He stood quite still while Irene held the baby up to allow it to gaze down on Bertie, which it did with a smile, like one of those babies one sees in pre-Raphaelite paintings, slightly sinister babies. Then Irene turned. To her side there was a piano and a piano stool, and she put the baby down on the stool. The baby reached out and began to play the piano, its tiny, chubby fingers dancing across the keyboard with great skill.

  Bertie watched. He was fascinated by the baby’s ability to play the piano. My mother has forced him to learn the piano, he thought. And he is only six months old!

  He looked more closely at the baby, who had reached a difficult passage in the music and was frowning with concentration. Then the baby stopped, and turned towards Bertie and smiled. And Bertie saw that the baby was wearing a baby suit made of the same blue linen as that worn by Dr Fairbairn.

  That was Bertie’s dream.

  95. The Wind Makes the Trains Sound Faint

  When he awoke the next morning, Bertie was initially unwilling to open his eyes. He had gone to sleep in a room which had miraculously turned white; now he feared that it would have changed colour again overnight, back to the pink that he so disliked. But it had not, of course, and he was able to gaze, wide-eyed, at his new colour-scheme and confirm that it was true.

  After he had dressed, Bertie went through to the kitchen, from which he heard the strains of an aria from The Magic Flute issuing forth.

  “Good morning, Bertie,” said Irene. “Do you know what they’re singing about on the radio?”

  “Catching birds,” said Bertie. “Isn’t that the man who catches birds?”

  “Yes,” said Irene. “Papageno. Do you know, I briefly considered calling you that when you were born? But then I decided that Bertie sounded better.”

  Bertie felt weak. It would have been impossible to live down a name like that, and he felt immensely relieved at his narrow escape. But if she had been thinking of calling him Papageno, then what would she have called that baby in the dream?

  Irene looked at him. “Your father and I had a discussion last night,” she said. “We talked a little bit about you.”

  Bertie looked at his mother impassively. She was always talking about him, although it was perhaps a bit unusual for his father to do so too. He reached for his porridge bowl and poured in the milk.

  “Yes,” continued Irene. “We talked about you and we thought that you might like to change things a bit.”

  Bertie looked up from his porridge. “Really, Mummy?” He thought quickly. Perhaps this was his chance.

  “Could I go and live in a hotel, Mummy?” he asked. “There’s one round the corner in Northumberland Street. I’ve seen it. I could go and live there. You could come and see me now and then.”

  Irene smiled. “What nonsense, Bertie!” she said.

  Bertie looked back at his porridge. The milk was the sea and the lumps of porridge were tiny islands. And his spoon, placed carefully down on the surface of the milk, was a little boat. Perhaps he could go to sea. Perhaps he could sign on as a cabin boy in the Navy and make the captain’s tea. Bertie had read one of the Patrick O’Brian books and he made it sound so much fun, although the parts where the ships did battle were rather frightening. However, it wouldn’t be like that these days, he thought, now that the European Union had stopped British ships firing upon Spanish or French ships. Perhaps they just met at sea these days and exchanged new European regulations.

  “Yes,” went on Irene. “We’ve been thinking, your father and I, that maybe you should do more of the things you really want to do. Would you like that, Bertie?”

  Bertie smiled at his mother. “Very much,” he said. He was pleased, but still rather doubtful. He was not sure whether his mother really understood what he wanted to do. Would he be let off yoga today?

  “So, Bertie,” said Irene, “I thought that although today is Saturday, and we normally have double yoga on a Saturday, we might skip it.”

  “Oh thank you!” shouted Bertie. “Thank you, Mummy!”

  “And instead,” continued Irene, “we shall…”

  Bertie’s face fell as he wondered what the alternative would be. Double Italian? Or perhaps the floatarium?

  “We shall get Daddy,” said Irene, “we shall get Daddy to take you up to the Princes Street Gardens. You can climb that bit underneath the castle there and look down on the trains. Would you like that, Bertie?”

  Bertie let out a whoop of delight. “I’d love that, Mummy. We could see the trains leaving for Glasgow!”

  Irene smiled. “An unusual pleasure, in my view,” she mused. “But there we are. Chacun à son goût.”

  Bertie finished his porridge quickly and then returned to his room to put on a sweater. It was a
warm day for the time of the year, but by wearing a sweater he could cover the top part of his dungarees and people would not necessarily think that he was wearing them. From a distance, and if they did not look too closely, they might even think that he was wearing nothing more unusual than red jeans. That is what he hoped for, anyway.

  Stuart emerged shortly after Bertie had got himself ready. After a quick breakfast, with Bertie champing at the bit to be out, they left the flat and Scotland Street and began to walk up the hill towards Princes Street. It was a fine morning and when they reached Princes Street the flags on the flagpoles were fluttering proudly in a strong breeze from the west.

  “It makes you proud, doesn’t it, Bertie?” said Stuart. “Look at the wonderful scene. The flags. The Castle. The statues. Doesn’t it make you proud to be Scottish, to be part of all this?”

  “Aye, it does that, Faither,” said Bertie.

  They crossed the road and made their way into the Gardens. Then, crossing the railway line on the narrow pedestrian bridge, they headed for the steep path that led up the lower slopes of the Castle Rock. After a short climb, they found a place to sit, half on rock, half on grass, and from there they watched the trains run through the cutting down below. As they passed, some of the trains sounded their whistles, and the sound drifted up to them, and the sound, to Bertie at least, meant the freedom of the wider world, the freedom of which he was now, at last, being offered a glimpse. And he was happy, even when the wind swallowed up the sound of the whistles and made the train sounds seem faint and far away.

  “I had a very strange dream last night, Daddy,” said Bertie suddenly.

  “Oh yes, Bertie. And what was that?”

  “I dreamed that Mummy had a new baby,” said Bertie. “And the baby was dressed in blue linen, which is what Dr Fairbairn wears. It was very funny. A little blue linen baby suit.”

  Stuart looked at his son. Down below a train went past and sounded a warning whistle, audible for a moment, but then caught by the wind and carried away.