Bertie's Guide to Life and Mothers

“You can’t run away from the truth forever, Bertie,” interjected Pansy, who, as usual, was standing behind Olive, a faithful lieutenant and Greek chorus rolled into one. “You have to listen to what Olive says. You can’t carry on being in denial.”

  “I’m not in denial,” Bertie protested. “But I don’t have to listen to Olive all the time.”

  Pansy drew in her breath, shocked at the blatant lèsemajesté.

  “It’s all right, Pansy,” said Olive reassuringly. “Bertie’s just stressed; he doesn’t really mean it.” She turned to Bertie. “My dad says your father’s a wimp. That was the word he used, Bertie. I didn’t use it. He did. And there’s one thing I know about my dad, Bertie. There’s one thing I can tell you.”

  “Yes, Bertie,” crowed Pansy. “You jolly well listen to Olive.”

  Bertie stared at the ground, but there was no help for him there—or anywhere else.

  Olive savoured the moment. “My dad is always right, Bertie. That’s something I’ve learned.” She paused before continuing. “My dad also says he’s sorry for him, being married to your mummy, Bertie. He says it’s jolly bad luck to have a wimp for a father and a cow for a mother. He says that people get taken into care for less. I heard him say all this to my mummy. I heard every word, Bertie.”

  “How do you hear everything, Olive?” Bertie mumbled. “You don’t know …”

  She did not let him finish. “Because I hide under their bed at night,” said Olive. “I hear everything, you see.”

  “See!” said Pansy triumphantly.

  Bertie said nothing.

  “Poor Bertie!” said Olive. “It’s bad luck—it really is. You didn’t ask to have a wimp for a father. It’s not your fault.”

  “Then why are you telling me?” muttered Bertie.

  “Because I’m on your side, Bertie,” answered Olive. “Isn’t that true, Pansy?”

  Pansy hesitated, but only briefly. “Yes, it’s true, Bertie. Olive has your best interests at heart. She always has had. I promise you, that’s the truth.”

  “So if I tell you things,” said Olive, “it’s only to be helpful. You do understand that, don’t you, Bertie?”

  Bertie remembered this conversation as he and his father returned—Jo-less—to Scotland Street that afternoon. But if he feared that Irene would immediately challenge him about the doll, his fears proved unfounded. It was Irene’s book group night and she was occupied with putting the finishing touches to a paper she was to read to the members. Her recent observations on the psychopathology of A. A. Milne had been well received, and she had spent some time preparing a deconstruction of Robert Louis Stevenson. This paper, “Stevenson: the bourgeois transparency of an opaque writer,” was, she thought, rather good, and might even be worked up into something publishable. She was pleased.

  Nor was there any mention of the doll the following morning, even as Bertie, in an attempt to distract attention away from the absence of Jo, had played ostentatiously with his Junior UN Peacekeeping Kit, winding one of the blue armbands around the upper arm of his young brother, Ulysses, and giving the infant a peacekeeping leaflet to chew upon.

  Irene barely noticed. She had received a letter that morning and appeared quite elated by its contents.

  “Well, I never!” she exclaimed as she read the contents of the large blue envelope that the postman had dropped through the letterbox.

  “Something interesting?” asked Stuart. “Won the lottery?”

  “No,” said Irene. “But many a true word is spoken in jest. I have indeed won something.”

  Bertie looked up from a section of carpet he had designated as a refugee zone. Small UN signs had been placed around this territory and Ulysses was being informed that he was not to crawl into it. “Is it a big prize, Mummy?” he asked.

  “It’s a trip to Dubai,” said Irene. “Well, well!”

  Bertie knew where Dubai was. “There are camels there. And lots of desert.” He paused. “Are you going to go, Mummy?”

  The question was posed with Bertie’s usual politeness, but there was a hinterland of longing behind it.

  “Of course not,” said Irene. “Why would anyone wish to go to Dubai, of all places?”

  “Don’t write it off too quickly,” said Stuart. “Let’s take a closer look at this. Pass me the letter, darling. Let’s see what they say.”

  44. Irene Makes a Fateful Decision

  Stuart smiled as he read Irene’s letter. “This is terrific,” he said. “What did you have to do?”

  Irene clearly did not wish to make much of it. “Oh, it was just some silly little competition in The Scotsman. You had to write a slogan for the Dubai Tourist Board. I admit that I dashed a few words off—just for the fun of it.”

  Stuart beamed with pleasure. “But, darling, that’s wonderful! You must have written something really clever.”

  Irene shrugged. “Not really. These slogans are hardly profound, Stuart. They want something they can put on posters or make into a jingle—that sort of thing.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” pressed Stuart. “Talent deserves recognition.”

  Bertie joined in. “Yes, Mummy, tell us what you wrote.”

  Irene looked out of the window. “I think it was something like this: Lots of sand—so close at hand.”

  Stuart and Bertie were silent. Then Stuart clapped his hands together. “That’s pretty good,” he said. “No wonder you won. It can be read at so many different levels—well, two at least. It means that there’s lots of sand in the desert and then the desert is close to Dubai.”

  “Dubai is actually in the desert, I think,” said Bertie.

  “Indeed,” said Stuart. “But it also means that Dubai itself is close to other places. You can get there very easily these days. That’s what that means.”

  Irene allowed a slightly superior smile to flicker around her lips. “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Well done, Mummy!” exclaimed Bertie. “You’re really clever.”

  Irene smiled at him. “Grazie tante, Bertissimo!”

  Stuart returned to the letter. “It says that you can take up the offer of a free ticket from Glasgow to Dubai at any point. But …” He paused as he read ahead. Then he continued, “Then they go on to say that you may wish to attend the Emirates Literary Festival as their guest. They’ll provide a hotel room and full board for five days. Isn’t that generous!”

  Irene shrugged. “I have no wish to go to Dubai,” she said.

  “But you must, Mummy,” urged Bertie. “It would be rude to say no to these people once they’ve asked you.”

  “Nonsense, Bertie,” said Irene. “They’re a commercial organisation. You can’t be rude to a commercial concern.”

  “Actually,” said Stuart, “I think you can. If commercial concerns can be rude to you, then you can be rude to them. And the Arabs are very sensitive about these things, I understand. They’re very good hosts, with such strong ideas of hospitality that you must be careful not to give offence. I think you should go.”

  “Yes,” chimed in Bertie. “Go, Mummy. Go.”

  From somewhere down on the floor, where Ulysses was chewing on the UN pamphlet, there came a tiny voice. “Go!”

  “And it is a literary festival, after all,” said Stuart. “Imagine whom you might be mingling with.” He looked again at the letter. “It says that many high profile authors will be there and that people will have the chance to ask them questions and mix with them. Think of that!”

  Irene did not want to appear impressed, but it was clear that she was. “Pah!” she said. “High profile indeed! I’m not impressed by celebrity.” She paused. “Who are they, by the way?”

  Stuart looked at the letter. “William Dalrymple will be there,” he said. “Think of that. All those wonderful books about India and Afghanistan. And then there’s …” He consulted the letter again. “Michael Longley, the poet—he’ll be there too. And there are lots of others.”

  Irene looked thoughtful.

  “It starts
in two days’ time,” said Stuart. “It’s a bit rushed, but …”

  “I suppose I should make an effort,” said Irene.

  “The ticket is business class, of course,” said Stuart.

  “I’m not impressed by such things,” said Irene.

  “You could always sit in economy on principle,” Stuart pointed out. “You could put some poor person from economy in your business class seat.”

  Irene ignored the suggestion. “What about Ulysses?” she asked. “I could hardly leave Ulysses, could I?”

  From under the table, again a small voice could be heard. It was difficult to make out what was being said, but it sounded to Bertie rather like “Yes, yes!”

  “I’ll hold the fort,” said Stuart. “I’m due some leave and I could take a week off. You could probably extend your ticket by a few days if you paid for the hotel part.”

  “I’m sure you could do that, Mummy,” said Bertie quickly. “You could maybe even stay for a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Bertie,” said Irene. “One week would be quite enough, I suspect.”

  She gestured for Stuart to pass her the letter, and she noted down the telephone number of the agency that had organised the competition. “I assume this is the number I call to accept,” she said.

  “I’ll fetch the telephone, Mummy,” offered Bertie.

  Irene took the telephone and dialled the number. The agency that acted for the Dubai Tourist Board was delighted to hear from her and assured her that a seat could be found on the Emirates flight from Glasgow Airport the following day. Would she mind, they asked, if a photographer were present at the airport to record her departure for Gulf Life and one or two other magazines? Irene said she had no objection to this, although the time made available for photographers would be strictly limited.

  “We understand,” said the agency manager. “You will have many calls on your time. Just a quick photo-shoot.”

  “You’ve made the right decision, Mummy,” said Bertie, after Irene had finished her telephone conversation. “I’m so proud of you, Mummy.”

  “Thank you, Bertie,” said Irene. “But you will promise to help Daddy look after little Ulysses, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Bertie. “Cub scout’s honour.” And with that he gave the cub scout salute.

  “I don’t want any of that paramilitary nonsense, Bertie,” said Irene. “Your own word will be more than enough.”

  “Ulysses will be really pleased …” Bertie began, but did not finish. He had been about to say “that you’re going away,” but he realised that this was a bit tactless, and so he said “that you’ve won” instead.

  45. Irene Embarks for Dubai

  Having started off being somewhat unenthusiastic about her trip to Dubai, once she started to make preparations Irene discovered that the prospect of five days away, staying in an expensive hotel—but not paying for it, of course—became increasingly attractive. She packed quickly and then found the time to go up to a bookshop on George Street to purchase a copy of the relevant Lonely Planet guide. With everything else prepared, she left Stuart to attend to Ulysses and to make Bertie’s supper while she paged through the guidebook’s account of the attractions of Dubai.

  “I wonder if I shall swim,” she mused. “They seem to have some rather nice-looking beaches.”

  Bertie expressed concerns about sharks. “There are sharks out there, Mummy,” he said. “Please be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, Bertie, I can cope with sharks,” said Irene.

  Bertie looked relieved. He found it hard to imagine his mother coming off second best to anything, even a shark.

  “And always remember to bargain when you’re shopping in the souk,” said Stuart helpfully. “The opening price is never what the merchant really expects.”

  Irene assured her husband that she would drive a hard bargain. She was interested in getting a new rug for the entrance hall and she imagined that there would be many of these to be had in the souk. “I shan’t have too much time for shopping,” she warned. “I’m really going for the literary festival.”

  “Of course,” said Stuart.

  “However, I’m sure I’ll find time for a bit of sightseeing. What a pity it is that the prize was only one ticket, rather than four. We could all have gone as a family.”

  “A great pity,” said Stuart hurriedly. “But let’s look on the bright side. It’s surely better that at least one of us manages to get to Dubai rather than none at all.”

  “Daddy’s right,” said Bertie. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Mummy. You just go and enjoy yourself.”

  Irene smiled at Bertie. “Dear Bertie,” she said. “You’re so sweet.”

  The following morning they loaded Irene’s suitcase into the back of the car and drove off along the motorway to Glasgow Airport. It was a bit of a crush in the new car, as this was not as roomy as the Volvo station wagon they used to have. That car, to which Bertie had been particularly attached, had been subjected to the indignity of being mistaken for a car destined to participate in a sculptural installation by a well-known contemporary artist. It had been taken down to London, sliced in two, and then mounted on a board—to win that year’s Turner Prize handsdown. Bertie had been upset and it had been some time before he had come to accept the substitute Volkswagen Golf that Stuart had acquired in place of the station wagon.

  Once at Glasgow Airport, Stuart parked the car while Bertie and Ulysses accompanied their mother to the check-in desk. By the time Stuart came in, Irene had been duly allocated her window seat in the business class cabin and was ready to go through security.

  “Now, goodbye, my darlings,” said Irene. “Be good while I’m away.”

  She leaned forward to plant a kiss on Bertie’s head. He blushed, as any small boy would do in the circumstances, but did not resist. Irene then took Ulysses from Stuart, who had been holding him, and tried to kiss him on the cheek. Ulysses squirmed in his mother’s arms and then, without any warning at all, was sick all over her shoulder.

  Stuart tried his best to clean up the side and back of Irene’s jacket.

  “He always does that with you, Mummy,” said Bertie. “You shouldn’t try to hold him.”

  “Nonsense, Bertie,” snapped Irene. “This is really most irritating. There’ll be nobody else in business class with sick all over them—in economy maybe, but … How can I possibly not hold Ulysses? I’m his mother, after all.” She handed Ulysses back to Stuart. “And he’s your son.”

  Bertie frowned. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Am I sure about what?” asked Irene.

  “Are you sure that Ulysses is Daddy’s son?”

  Irene looked menacingly in Bertie’s direction. “Now don’t talk nonsense, Bertie,” she said. And then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, “And look, Bertie, that man in the blue uniform is a pilot! Look at the wings on his jacket.”

  Bertie was not to be that easily deflected. “It’s just that he looks so like Dr. Fairbairn, Mummy. He really does. Lots of people have noticed it. And people at school said that Dr. Fairbairn helped you to make him. Could that be true, Mummy? Or could Dr. Fairbairn have made some of him—his ears, for instance—and Daddy made the rest?”

  Stuart moved forward to whisper in Bertie’s ear. “Hush, Bertie. I don’t think Mummy likes to talk about that sort of thing.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes!” joked Irene, uneasily.

  Stuart shot her a glance. “That particular expression may not exactly be appropriate in this context,” he said. “Usually one would say it when a child makes an unusually perceptive or true observation.”

  Irene laughed. She tried to sound casual, but the laugh was forced. “Such nonsense! Now I think it’s time for me to go through security.”

  They waved as she went off to join the queue lined up for the search. When she had gone through the metal detector, she turned round and looked back towards them. Stuart raised a hand to wave, and then
dropped it. The thought had occurred to him that this might be the last time he saw his wife.

  He wanted to follow her. He wanted to call out and tell her that she shouldn’t go after all. He wanted to keep her. It would be easy enough to run up to the security barrier and bring her back. She would be cross, of course, but he would beg her to stay. He would say that he had had a premonition—which in a way he had. He saw flames. He heard cries. And then he felt just a terrible heavy sense of dread, like a great weight about him, pressing down on his shoulders.

  “Irene …” he half-called out.

  She did not turn round. She had retrieved her case from the X-ray belt and was moving off towards the departure gates.

  He watched her until she disappeared. And then he thought: we leave it too late—we always do—to say the things that we need to say to people.

  46. The Dear Green Place

  They made their way back to the car park—the small group of Stuart, Bertie and Ulysses, with Bertie pushing his brother in his squeaking, much-in-need-of-oil pushchair. While Stuart paid the parking ticket, Bertie scanned the confusing ranks of vehicles, trying to remember where their own car was parked. Such was his excitement on their arrival at the airport he had not paid attention to where his father was parking, and now, faced with row after row of confusingly similar cars, he was unable to make out their own.

  “Right,” said Stuart breezily, as he re-joined his sons. “Now, off we go to the car.”

  He hesitated. Bertie looked at him expectantly. “Do you remember …” he began, but trailed off as he saw his father look anxiously around. Bertie sighed. It was not the first time they had lost their car.

  Stuart gave a cry. “There it is, Bertie! You see that one over there, that red one. That’s our car.”

  He was right, and they were soon safely strapped in and ready to depart. Bertie opened a window. “You can get these things that make cars smell better,” he said to his father. “They’re sort of round things that sit on the dashboard. Could we get one, Daddy? It would take away the smell of Ulysses.”