“Is there a spare desk?” he whispered to one of them. “I’m new here.”
The other boy pointed towards the back of the classroom. “That’s one’s empty,” he said. “Somebody was sitting there, but he went away after only one day. I think he got lost in the corridor.”
Bertie glanced at the desk. It was ideal for his purposes, as he did not want to draw undue attention to himself. Thanking his new classmate, he made his way to the back of the room and sat himself down at the desk. After a short while the teacher arrived and the class settled down to the task of copying out letters along a straight line. While the pupils were engaged in this, the teacher moved between the rows of desks, stopping to comment on the work of each child. Bertie sat quite still, staring down at the piece of paper on his desk and hoping that the teacher would stop before she reached him. But she did not, and he looked up to see her staring down at him, a surprised expression on her face.
“Are you in the right room, dear?” she asked kindly. “Have you got a little bit mixed up?”
Bertie looked up at her and swallowed. “I’ve been transferred,” he said. “I was over there, and now I’m here.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the corridor.
“Surely not,” said the teacher. “Tell me: what’s your name?”
“Bertie,” he whispered. “Bertie Pollock.”
“Well, I think that there must be a bit of a mix-up,” said the teacher. “I’ll check with the office later on. Perhaps they’ve just forgotten to tell me.”
“Yes,” said Bertie quickly. “That’s probably what’s happened. This is such a big school. It must be difficult to keep track.”
The teacher looked at Bertie with curiosity. “Well, yes, I suppose it is a big school. But people usually end up in the right place. I’m sure that we’ll sort it all out. Don’t you worry about it!”
When playtime came, Bertie made his way out of the room as quickly as he could. He was not sure whether he would go back into that particular class, as the teacher would presumably discover quite soon that he was not meant to be there. It might be better, he thought, to try another class, perhaps one with a less nosy teacher, if there was one.
He went out and stood at the side, watching the games that were developing around him. Children were dashing about, shouting at one another, enjoying themselves, but nobody asked Bertie to join in. Bertie looked down at the ground; there did not seem to be much difference between Watson’s and Steiner’s so far; perhaps the whole plan was not such a good idea after all. But then he saw him, and his heart gave a leap. Yes, there was Jock; brave Jock, the boy whom he had met before, the boy who would be his friend.
“Jock!” shouted Bertie. “Jock! Here I am!”
Jock, who was running towards the gate, a bag of some sort in his hand, stopped in his tracks and looked at Bertie. He looked puzzled.
“Yes,” he said. “There you are.”
Bertie took a few steps towards his friend. “It’s me,” he said. “Bertie. Remember?”
Jock still looked puzzled. “Not really,” he said.
Bertie felt a stab of disappointment, but did not show it. He gestured to the bag that Jock was carrying. “What are you doing with that?”
“Rugby,” said Jock. “Over there.” He pointed to a playing field, where a group of boys was beginning to form round a teacher wearing a red tracksuit. “Are you coming too?”
Bertie lost no time in replying. “Of course,” he said. Then he paused, and added: “I’ve got no kit. I can’t play in my blazer.”
“Changing rooms,” said Jock casually. “There’s always stuff lying around. Just wear that.”
Bertie followed Jock to the changing rooms, where he soon found a pair of discarded rugby shorts, a torn and muddy jersey, and a pair of boots that, although several sizes too large, at least did not pinch his toes. Then, trotting along beside Jock, he made his way onto the field, to join the knot of other small players in the middle. His anxieties over the possibility of detection had now faded, and he felt immensely happy. Here he was at last, on the rugby field, in rugby kit, about to play a game with his rediscovered friend, Jock. Mr Gavin Hastings must have started like this, he thought, although he probably wore boots that fitted his feet and wore a jersey that did not have a tear across the right shoulder. But these were small things; the important matter was that he was about to play rugby, on real grass, with real boys, and with a real ball.
The teacher divided the boys into two teams. Bertie had hoped that Jock would be on his side, but he was not. He waved to Jock, though, but Jock did not return the greeting. Perhaps he did not see me, thought Bertie. Perhaps his mind is on the game already.
The whistle blew and the ball was in play. Bertie was not quite sure what to do, but he ran enthusiastically in the direction of play. The ball was passed, and Bertie’s side had possession. Bertie cried out: “Over here!” and, rather to his surprise, the boy who had the ball passed it over to him. Now, the ball in his arms, Bertie started to run towards the posts in the distance. He knew that one had to score a try if at all possible, and that all one had to do was to run fast and touch the ball down on the other side of the line.
He ran as fast he could. There were boys coming towards him, but he ran on. Then one of the boys–and it was Jock–stepped in front of him and neatly inserted a foot and ankle between Bertie’s feet.
Bertie fell to the ground, the ball beneath him. Jock, standing above him, now kicked Bertie in the ribs and, as the effect of this kick made him writhe in agony, Bertie felt the ball being snatched from beneath him. There was no whistle blown; there was no shout of objection; the game simply passed Bertie by.
Bertie picked himself up and looked at the game, now at the other end of the field. He tried to control himself, but he could not, and the tears ran down his cheeks; bitter tears, that were for everything, really–for the failure of his plan, for the end of his friendship with Jock, for the sheer humiliation of being who he was.
44. Going Back
Bertie ran out of the gate of George Watson’s College, hesitated at the edge of the street, and then launched himself across Colinton Road. The traffic was light and he felt none of the panic that had paralysed him during his recent foiled attempt to cross Dundas Street. Now, the ill-fitting rugby boots chafing against his lower ankles, he made his way blindly back towards Spylaw Road and the sanctuary of the Steiner School. It had been a terrible mistake, his break for freedom; he did not belong at Watson’s and he never would. And rugby, which he had so looked forward to playing, was a violent nightmare; a game in which even one’s friends would think nothing of tripping one up and kicking one in the ribs. There was none of that at Steiner’s, where aggressive ball games were not encouraged.
By the time he reached the Steiner’s gate he was exhausted. Running all the way from Watson’s had given him a stitch, and the nagging pain from Jock’s kick was still present. He had hurt his wrist, too, in his fall, perhaps from clutching the ball as he went down. That was a sharp pain, that seemed to come and go, but which made him catch his breath and wince each time it made itself felt.
He slipped through the gate and walked slowly to the shed at the edge of the garden. He did not bother about being seen now; there was no secret any more–or no secret worth keeping. Entering the shed, he kicked over the bucket under which his clothes were stuffed. There were his familiar dungarees and his checked shirt. But there were no shoes, of course, as he had left those in the changing room at Watson’s. Those were gone forever, then, as was his new plum-coloured blazer and his tie. Those at least he had no use for; it was different with his shoes–the loss of these would have to be explained to his mother.
The rugby kit abandoned on the floor of the shed, Bertie made his way to his classroom. The door was closed, but through the glass panel he could make out the figures of his classmates, all seated in a circle. He took a deep breath and entered the room.
Miss Harmony looked up as Bertie came in. She smile
d, and indicated to the empty place which awaited him.
“You’re a little late today, Bertie,” she said. “But no matter. We’re doing some drawing and I know you’re good at that!”
Bertie sat down and sank his head in his hands. He was aware of the interest of his fellow pupils–of Tofu’s stare, of Olive’s more discreet, and concerned, glance. They would have noticed his rugby boots, he thought, or heard them at least, as the studs had made a loud clicking noise on the floor. They would also be laughing at his dungarees, of course, once they had finished laughing at his boots.
After a few minutes, he became aware of Miss Harmony crouching beside his table. She had bent down and was whispering in his ear: “We were very worried, Bertie. That funny note you sent me–that was very odd, you know.”
Bertie looked up at her. She was smiling, and had placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “I won’t show it to anybody. I’m on your side, you know.”
Bertie stared fixedly at the table surface. He had not expected this. He had thought there would be recriminations and a summons to the office. He had not expected sympathy.
“You see,” went on Miss Harmony, quietly so that even the neighbouring tables could not hear, “this school is based on love and respect. We love one another and look after one another. So we all love you, Bertie, because you are one of us. And if there is anything wrong, then you can tell us about it, and we will try to help–because we love you.”
“My mother…” Bertie began. But he did not know what to say, and so he stopped. And as he stopped, he felt the pressure of Miss Harmony’s hand tighten upon his shoulder.
“I know,” she said. “Sometimes mothers make it difficult for their boys. They don’t mean to, you know. The trick is not to let it worry you.”
“She makes me wear dungarees,” said Bertie. “And I feel so silly.”
Miss Harmony nodded. “Would you like me to talk to her about that?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Bertie. “But she won’t listen.”
“Well, I can try,” said Miss Harmony. “There’s no harm in trying.” She paused, and looked down at Bertie’s boots. “We have some spare shoes in a cupboard downstairs,” she said. “Should we go and have a look for a pair that fits you?”
They left the classroom together and went downstairs, Bertie hobbling now from the pain in his chafed ankles. “Poor Bertie,” said Miss Harmony. “Here–take my arm. Lean on me.”
There was a pair of shiny brown shoes in the cupboard that fitted Bertie exactly, and once he was thus clad he began to feel somewhat more cheerful. He looked up at Miss Harmony and smiled.
“I’m sorry I wrote you that letter,” he said. “I haven’t got an infectious disease, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I didn’t think for one moment that you had. The important thing is that you should be happy. And you’ve said sorry to me, which is very important.” She paused. “You will be happy here, you know, Bertie. It’s a very happy school.”
Bertie thought for a moment. She was right. He did feel happier here than in the din and rush of Watson’s, with all those hundreds of boys and girls with names he would never remember. Rugby was not for him, he decided, and it was a good thing that there was no rugby at Steiner’s. It was fine for Mr Gavin Hastings to play it, he thought, but he, Bertie, would find something else to do. Even learning Italian was better than rugby.
Later that day, as he waited for his mother at the school gate, Tofu came up to him and asked him where he had found those boots. “Great boots,” he said.
“Would you like them?” said Bertie nonchalantly. “You can have them if you like.”
Tofu accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “You’re a real pal.”
“And would you like me to bring a ham sandwich in tomorrow?” asked Bertie.
“Yes, yes,” said Tofu quickly. “Two, even. If you can spare them.”
“Fine,” said Bertie.
Tofu slapped him on the back in a friendly manner and went on his way.
Bertie watched him walk away and thought about the events of the day. There had been several discoveries. One was that rugby was a rough game and another was that Jock was a false friend. But there were other things to reflect upon. Tofu was no longer a threat–and could even become a friend. And he suspected, too, that he might be happy at this nice school, which was a good place–even if it had been his mother’s choice. After all, there were some things which she might just get right.
45. Dinner with Father
If Bertie’s problem was with his mother, Irene–and that would seem to be the case–then Matthew’s problem was with his father, Gordon. Irene and Gordon would not have seen eye to eye on anything very much, but, in their own ways, they had each succeeded in bringing unhappiness into the lives of their offspring. So, while Bertie was trapped by a mother who was relentlessly ambitious for him, Matthew was aware that his father nursed no ambitions for him whatsoever. Gordon had decided that his son was a failure, and had come to accept this. The gallery in which he had set him up was not intended to be anything but a sinecure, a place to sit during the day while the rest of the world went to work. And if this was an expensive arrangement–for Gordon–then it was an expense which he could easily afford to bear.
Matthew had accepted his father’s offer simply because it was the only one on hand. He understood that he was not a good businessman, but one had to do something, and running the gallery had proved rather more interesting than he had anticipated. This interest had made up for the discomfort that he felt over his father’s writing him off. It is not easy to accept another’s low opinion of oneself, and there were times when Matthew longed to show his father that he was made of sterner and more successful stuff. The problem, though, was that if he tried to do this, he thought it highly likely that he would fail.
Now Matthew was preparing for an evening with his father. Gordon had called in at the gallery unannounced and invited his son to dinner to meet his new friend, Janis, who owned a flower shop. As he stood before the mirror and tied his tie, Matthew thought of what he might say to this woman, whose motives were, in his view, perfectly clear. It would be good to indicate to her that he understood exactly what was going on, and that no gold-digger could fool him. But how to do this? One could not say anything direct, especially since the dinner was taking place at the New Club–where one could hardly speak directly about anything–and it would be necessary then to give a mere indication–to allow her to read between the lines. But would a woman like that–a “challenged blonde” as Matthew imagined her–be able to read between these lines? Some such people had difficulty enough in reading the lines themselves, let alone what lay between them. “She’ll move her lips when she reads the menu,” Matthew thought, and smiled at himself in the mirror. Like this, he thought, and he mouthed the word money.
Matthew stared into the mirror at the tie he had chosen. It had linked red squares on a blue background. It was wrong. He reached for another one, a blue one with a slight jagged pattern in the background. These jagged lines looked vaguely like lightning, Matthew thought. That would be appropriate. If Janis looked at his tie she would receive a subliminal message: back off. Yes, he thought; that would be just the right note to strike. He would be distant and cool, which would send to her exactly the message he wanted to convey: I know what you’re about; it doesn’t really matter to me, of course, but I know.
Satisfied with his appearance, he moved away from the mirror and fetched his coat from the hall. Matthew lived in India Street, in a flat bought for him by his father, and the walk up to Princes Street and the New Club would take no more than fifteen minutes. As he left the front door and made his way up the hill, he realised that it was not going to be easy to be distant and cool. Indeed, he already felt hot and edgy. It was not going to be simple: this woman is taking my father away from me, he thought. It’s as simple as that. She’s taking him away from me–and he
’s mine.
He stopped at a corner and composed himself, telling himself that it did not mean that much to him. How often did he see his father? Less than once a month, and yet here he was persuading himself that he felt possessive. I shall be mature about this, he told himself. I shall see the whole thing in perspective. Janis is a passing phase–an entertainment. She was no more than that. And as a passing phase she could be tolerated.
He arrived at the New Club, making his way up the sombre, cavernous staircase that led into the lobby. Everything was very quiet and measured–a world away from the bustle outside, and the chewing-gum-encrusted mess that had been made of Princes Street. As Matthew stood at the window of the drawing room, looking out across the dark of the gardens to the illuminated rock of the Castle, he thought for a moment of how his father would be feeling about this meeting. He would be feeling anxious, no doubt, because it was always awkward for a parent to introduce a lover to a child. It was all wrong. Parents did not have lovers as far as their children were concerned.
Matthew turned round. His father was approaching him from the doorway, walking round the imposing leather sofas that stood between his son and himself. They shook hands.
“Janis will be through in a moment,” said Gordon. He dabbed at his nose. “Powdering…you know.”
It was intended to be a moment of shared understanding between men, but it did not set Matthew at his ease. He did not smile.
Gordon looked at his son, and frowned. “This is important to me, Matthew,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’m…I’m very fond of Janis, you know. Very fond.”
Matthew closed his eyes, and swallowed.
“You’re going to be all right about this?” his father continued.