‘You should write the winning number on a piece of paper before we choose,’ Pansy had suggested. ‘That would be much fairer.’
Tofu smiled. ‘Not possible,’ he said.
‘And you’ve won three out of the last six times,’ pointed out Hiawatha.
‘I’m really lucky,’ said Tofu.
Bertie had said nothing about this to his parents, who would not have understood it, nor possibly even believed it. But now, faced with this direct question from his father as to what happened, he vacillated as to whether to mention the letter at this stage. He had decided that he would read it first, and, if necessary, lose it if its contents were in any way likely to threaten his continued membership of the cub scouts. It could be a letter about some new activity of which his mother disapproved, and that might mean the end of his cub scout career; one could never tell with her.
He decided that the best thing to do in relation to his father’s question was to pretend not to have heard it. But Stuart persisted. ‘I said, did anything happen, Bertie? Anything interesting?’
Bertie told his father about the compass game, but resolutely omitted to say anything about the letter. He felt it in his pocket, as bulky and as obvious as any incriminating object tends to be, and when they got back to Scotland Street he rushed into his room. Taking the letter from his pocket, he held it up against the light of his reading lamp. Through the thin paper of the envelope he saw a folded piece of paper, but that was all; he could make out that there was something printed or written on the paper, but he could not decipher what it was.
Bertie put the envelope down and closed the door of his room. If he had had a lock, he would have locked it, but his requests for a lock had been turned down by his mother.
‘A lock, Bertie?’ she said. ‘Whatever would you want a lock for?’
Bertie thought quickly. It was no use telling her that it was to lock her out; that would not have gone down well. ‘Security,’ he said quickly. ‘If a burglar climbed down the chimney, then he wouldn’t be able to steal my things.’
Irene raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I see. But it would be all right for him to steal my things, would it? Or Daddy’s? Or even little Ulysses’s things?’ She paused. ‘But not yours. What sort of attitude is that, Bertie?’
Bertie could see that he was being misconstrued – again. ‘But I didn’t mean that, Mummy!’ he protested. ‘You and Daddy have a lock on your door, so you could stop him taking your things.’
Irene gave Bertie a hug. He felt himself being enveloped; it was like drowning, he thought. ‘You shouldn’t want to lock Mummy out,’ she said. ‘Boys should have no secrets from their mummies, Bertie! A boy’s best friend is his mummy – not only when he’s a boy, like you, but for the rest of his life too.’
Bertie looked dismayed. Could this possibly be true? If it were, the future certainly looked bleak.
‘Of course, you can have other friends,’ conceded Irene. ‘Olive, for example. She’s a nice little girl, isn’t she? And you appear to be very friendly with her, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Bertie. ‘I hate her, Mummy.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Irene quickly. ‘Don’t talk such nonsense, Bertie, even as a joke. How can you hate Olive? She’s lively and engaging. She’s fun. No, you don’t hate her, Bertie.’
Bertie wanted to say: how do you know, Mummy? But he could not say that. In fact, he could say nothing, because anything he said would be immediately refuted by his mother, and it was no good arguing with her. She was like the weather – always there; and to resist her was like trying to resist the weather itself. There was just no point.
Now, trying to make out what was in this letter from Akela, he remembered something that he had read in that book he had borrowed from the library, 100 Things for a Boy to Do: Part 1. There had been a feature in that book called ‘Tips for Spies’, and it purported to be written by somebody called the Grand Spymaster, First Class.
‘If you need to read an intercepted letter,’ the article ran, ‘don’t slit the envelope open – the recipient will be very suspicious. Rather, wait until the letter is passed on to you to forward to another person. Then, making sure that you are not seen by the first person, you should gently steam open the flap. The contents photographed, the letter can then be re-sealed, and the information passed on to headquarters.’
Gently steam open the flap. Well, Bertie had no steam in the room, but he did have his breath, which was, he believed, warm and moist.
26. 100 Things for a Boy to Do: Part 2
Bertie drew in his breath, held it for as long as he could – to warm it up – and then exhaled across the flap of the envelope. He was surprised at how much air his lungs contained and at how long it took him to expel it. His surprise, though, was matched by his disappointment when he discovered that the flap seemed as obstinately stuck down at the end of this exercise as it had been at the beginning. He drew in another breath, held it, and then breathed out again, this time placing his lips so close to the paper that they were virtually touching it. Once again, although the envelope felt slightly moist at the end of the exercise, it still remained firmly sealed.
Bertie tried to remember the pages from 100 Things for a Boy to Do: Part 1. The ‘Tips for Spies’ section had featured a line drawing of a spy opening a letter, and he now tried to remember exactly what the illustration had shown. There had been a kettle – he remembered that clearly enough – and there had been a cloud of steam. But he could not remember where the letter had been placed and exactly how the flap had been opened. Was it necessary to use a knife? Bertie ached for a Swiss Army penknife, but his mother had forbidden him to have one, and so he would have to find a knife in the kitchen. Well, there were plenty of knives there, even if none of them was as useful, or as exciting, as a Swiss Army knife.
Bertie had noticed that there seemed to be some sort of campaign about boys not being allowed to have pocket knives. Mr Baden-Powell had suggested that every boy should be equipped with a pocket knife, and had said as much in the old copy of Scouting for Boys that Bertie had managed to obtain and had hidden under his mattress. But now he had read in the newspaper that the government itself was saying that scouts should not be allowed to carry knives. This was upsetting for a number of reasons. Not only did it mean that scouts would be unable to do the sorts of things that they needed to do – whittle sticks, take stones out of horses’ hooves, or cut pieces of string to the desired length – but it also was a sign that the government was beginning to side with his mother.
Bertie had always believed that the government, if it were to hear of his difficulties, would side with him – after all, he had read that there was something called the Human Rights Act which he had always hoped might refer, even if only indirectly, to the position of boys whose mothers were … well, whose mothers had never heard of the European Convention on Human Rights. But now it seemed that the government had come round to his mother’s position, which made the world rather less comfortable from his perspective. Freedom – that tiny square of blue sky – could only be glimpsed with difficulty in Bertie’s world; now it seemed at once smaller, more clouded, and more distant.
Bertie decided that he would have no alternative but to use the kettle to steam open the letter. Poking his head out of the door to check that there was no sign of his parents, he crept along the corridor that led to the kitchen. When he saw that his mother was not there, he quickly put on the kettle and waited for the water to boil. This happened quickly, and there was soon an obliging cloud of steam issuing from the spout. It was into this that Bertie inserted the letter, and he watched with pleasure as the flap wilted and opened – exactly as had been predicted in 100 Things for a Boy to Do: Part 1.
Back in his room, Bertie extracted Akela’s letter from the damp envelope and sat down on his bed to read it.
Dear Parent or Guardian,
It is at this stage in the summer term that we begin to think of plans for the holidays. Here at the First Mornin
gside Cub Scout Pack we have been putting our heads together to think of what we can do for the boys and girls during the summer break. I had planned to see whether we could manage a three-day camp at Bonaly some time in August, but unfortunately that just does not look possible for one reason or another. However, I am happy to report that a cancellation has opened up a weekend slot in three weeks’ time and I have taken the plunge and booked the facilities for that weekend. We shall therefore be offering everybody in the pack a two-night camp (Friday evening to Sunday afternoon) at Bonaly. We shall spend the night under canvas, and all catering will be done on open fires. (Weather permitting!)
Bertie read this with a growing sense of excitement. He had never been camping before and the prospect of spending the night under canvas was profoundly thrilling. And their food would be cooked over fires, which they might be allowed to make themselves by rubbing sticks together, as Mr Baden-Powell had demonstrated in Scouting for Boys. He could almost smell the sausages already – and the marshmallows that they could put on sticks and toast on those same open fires. With racing pulse he read on.
As you can imagine, with so many children at the camp we shall require adult helpers. It is for this reason that I am writing to ask you (1) whether you wish your child to attend the camp, and (2) whether you are prepared to come along yourself as a helper for the weekend. If you can see your way to doing that, I am sure that you will have a good time, and I hasten to point out that adult helpers will not be required to sleep under canvas but will be accommodated in the very pleasant bunkhouse rooms which the Association maintains at the Bonaly site.
Bertie let the letter drop to the floor. His hands were shaking. He closed his eyes, in sorrow, in resignation. His mother would want to come as a helper – of course she would.
27. Forgery Exposed
When Bertie returned to the kitchen in response to his mother’s call that supper was ready, he was holding the newly re-sealed envelope in trembling hands. Noticing, with relief, that his father was in the room, already seated at the table, he approached him shyly and handed over the letter.
‘It says this is for my parent or guardian,’ he muttered. ‘I think that’s you, isn’t it, Daddy?’
Irene looked up sharply. ‘And me, Bertie,’ she said. ‘In fact, when a letter is addressed to the parent or guardian, it usually means that it’s for the mummy. Just for future reference.’
Stuart threw her a glance. ‘Not always,’ he said, mildly. ‘Sometimes, perhaps, but not always.’
Irene, who had been stirring a pot of soup, put down her spoon and crossed the room to her husband’s side. Reaching out, she took the still-unopened letter from his hands. Stuart raised an eyebrow, but did nothing.
Bertie watched, his heart sinking. ‘I don’t think it’s important,’ he said quickly. ‘Maybe Daddy can read it later.’ It was all he could say; he knew that there was little point, though, in trying to forfend what now seemed inevitable.
Irene picked up a table knife and slit open the envelope. ‘Now let’s see what this is all about,’ she said.
Bertie sat down at the table. He put his hands about his head, but watched his mother between his fingers. Her expression, he noted, was changing, from one of mild irritation to one of puzzlement. He closed his eyes; he could not bear to see his efforts at forgery so publicly uncovered.
Bertie had changed the terms of the letter. Using the treasured fountain pen that had been sent to him by a distant relative on his last birthday (his sixth), he had carefully changed the text of Akela’s letter by the insertion of a certain number of negatives and by making a number of other subtle changes.
The effect was not perfect – he would have been the first to admit that – but he had hoped that in the dim conditions of the kitchen he might get away with it. The letter, therefore, now read:
As you can imagine, with so many children at the camp we shall not require adult helpers. It is for this reason that I am writing to ask you (1) whether you wish your child to attend the camp, and (2) whether you are prepared to come along yourself as a helper stay at home for the weekend. If you can see your way to doing that, I am sure that you will have a good time, and I hasten to point out that adult helpers will not be required to sleep under canvas but will not be accommodated in the very unpleasant bunkhouse rooms which the Association maintains at the Bonaly site.
Irene read the letter, and then re-read it. She smiled. ‘A charming letter from that Akela woman,’ she said. ‘Do read it, Stuart.’
Stuart took the piece of paper from his wife and perused it quickly. He looked at Bertie, who was still hiding his head in his hands, and then he gave Irene an imploring look.
‘Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘This is a very interesting letter from Akela. Why did you change it, darling? Don’t you want to go to cub scout camp?’
Bertie did not move. From behind his clasped hands came a little voice. ‘I do want to go.’
‘Well that’s perfectly all right,’ said Irene. ‘Mummy may not be wildly keen on the cub scouts but I understand that you want to go off with your friends. With Olive and the others.’
‘Not her,’ said Bertie. But he spoke too quietly and neither parent heard him.
‘Of course it will be fun for you,’ Irene went on. ‘But all this business about not wanting the mummies and daddies to be helpers – that’s not what Akela really said, is it?’
Bertie said nothing.
‘And it would be fun for the mummies too, wouldn’t it?’ she continued. ‘I can’t remember when I last went camping. Can you, Stuart?’
Stuart shook hs head. He had given Irene a warning glance, but she appeared not to have noticed.
‘We’ll have such fun,’ said Irene brightly. ‘I think I’ve got a sleeping bag somewhere in that cupboard in the spare room. And we’ll probably find one for you too.’
Bertie took his hands away from his face. Rising to his feet, he rushed out of the room and down the corridor, back to his room.
‘Funny little thing,’ said Irene to Stuart. ‘What can possibly have got into his mind?’
Stuart looked up at the ceiling. ‘He doesn’t want you to go,’ he said evenly. ‘Bertie doesn’t want you to go as a helper. I think he wants to get away from … from us for a day or two.’
Irene looked surprised. ‘Surely not.’
‘No, I think he does.’
‘Well, I disagree. All boys sometimes feel the occasional tinge of embarrassment over their parents, but they get over it. And Melanie Klein …’
‘I don’t see what she’s got to do with this,’ said Stuart.
‘But, Stuart, can’t you see? What we’re witnessing here is a token rejection of parental involvement by a child who really needs his parents to support him but fears that they will not answer his call. He therefore feels anxiety and needs to test the depth of parental commitment by appearing not to want parental involvement. Can’t you see that?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Well, I assure you – that’s what’s going on. And as far as I’m concerned, I would see myself as failing little Bertie if I did not go to Bonaly as a helper.’
Stuart bit his lip. ‘Irene, sometimes I wonder …’
Irene glared at him, and Stuart got up from the table. ‘Where are you going?’
He pointed to Bertie’s door at the end of the corridor. ‘To have a word with my son.’
He knocked on the door but did not wait for a reply. Going in, he found the little boy stretched out on his bed, his head buried in the pillow.
‘Cheer up, old chap,’ Stuart whispered. ‘And don’t be too cross with Mummy. She’s just trying to help – she really is. And she loves you very much, you know. You do know that, don’t you?’
Bertie sniffed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know.’
‘Let me tell you something,’ said Stuart, sitting down next to Bertie on the bed. ‘I’m going to take you fishing in the Pentlands. Just you and me. Would you like that?’
‘When?’ asked Bertie.
‘Next weekend,’ said Stuart. ‘We’ll go on Saturday. But one little word of advice. Don’t tell Mummy we’re going to catch fish. I think we’ll tell her we’re going to look at them. Understand?’
Bertie understood perfectly.
28. A Game of Bridge
Bruce Anderson enjoyed going to the gym. For years he had belonged to a health club in Fountainbridge; now he had ‘traded up’, as he put it, to a gym in the Sheraton Hotel in Lothian Road where, in addition to working out on the various exercise machines, he could swim in the pool and use the various saunas and Turkish baths on offer.
Bruce liked Turkish baths; he liked sitting on the tiled benches, unclad apart from a pair of swimming trunks and a towel wrapped around his waist. He liked to flex the muscles that he had just put through their paces in the gym below, feeling the satisfactory ripple of tendon and muscle under his gently perspiring skin. He liked it when others in the Turkish bath, although mostly strangers, watched this display from the corner of their eye; the women in frank admiration, the men in barely concealed envy. He felt like saying to some of the men, ‘You could have a body like mine, you know, if you only spent more time on the rowing machine.’ But one could not say that; in fact, there was a strict etiquette about not talking in such circumstances; one sweated away in silence.