Bertie's Guide to Life and Mothers

  72. Tea for Three

  “It’s been a long time,” said Domenica as she welcomed her friend Dilly Emslie into her drawing room. “We should see our friends more frequently, but do we?” She answered her own question as soon as she had posed it. “We do not.”

  Dilly smiled. “I know what it’s like, but at least I have the chance of catching up with Angus too. That’s a bonus.”

  Angus was in the kitchen, making tea for the three of them. He had also baked scones and was setting these out now on the three-tiered cake stand that Domenica used—with proper irony, of course: it’s quintessentially Edinburgh, she had said when she had first shown it to him. Now he brought the tray through and set it down on the table.

  There was a lot to catch up on. Dilly enquired after Angus’s health. “And how is your somnambulism, Angus?” she asked.

  “Completely cured,” he said. “Relegated to my medical history—or shall I say my psychiatric history? I saw Dr. Macgregor about it—he’s a well-known shrink—and after one or two sessions the whole thing went away. He told me that the solution to so many psychological problems is to talk about them. If you talk freely about a problem, then you take away its power to distress you.”

  “That’s a great relief,” said Dilly. “Perhaps we should talk a little bit more about our tram system. Perhaps that would take away its power to distress us.”

  Domenica laughed. “So droll,” she said “So very droll. But what if one has no problems? Should one talk about the problems one doesn’t have, or perhaps about the problems that others have?”

  “Maybe a bit of both,” said Angus.

  “It’s always so very satisfying to talk about the problems that beset one’s friends,” said Domenica. “In a proper spirit of sympathy, of course …”

  “If they have any,” said Dilly. “And now, with Angus’s somnambulism dealt with, you won’t have any yourselves.”

  “Oh, we do,” said Domenica. “We have Antonia …”

  Dilly sighed. “Of course. I was forgetting.”

  “And there’s Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna,” continued Domenica. “She’s an Italian nun who’s staying with us at the moment. She’s full of observations. It’s like living with an anthology of aphorisms.”

  “How trying,” said Dilly. “I don’t know if I could bear too many aphorisms in the home. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Anything,” said Domenica.

  “Why don’t you introduce her to somebody and get her launched in Edinburgh society, even if she isn’t here for long? I believe they’re crying out for a new enthusiasm as they’re fed up with hearing the same old thing time and time again. When did you last hear a good aphorism at an Edinburgh dinner party?”

  Domenica looked thoughtful. “That’s possible,” she mused. “But I’m not too exercised about it. The visit has had its moments, of course.”

  Angus said nothing, but he felt his neck getting warm as he remembered the reference that Antonia had made to the blue Spode cup. That had been one of the visit’s saliences, so far, and it really was confrontational on Antonia’s part to drag that up when it could so easily have been consigned to history. There was no doubt that he did not emerge very well from that story, even if he had acted in the belief that he had been entitled to reclaim his—or Domenica’s—own property. Was he destined now to feel this great burden of Spode-related guilt more or less forever?

  Dilly replaced her cup on the table. “You have such lovely Spode,” she said.

  Domenica glanced at Angus, but then very quickly looked away.

  “It is nice, yes. Of course, we also have a very nice set of Mason’s that came from …”

  She did not finish. Dilly had picked up her empty cup to examine it. “Where does one get blue Spode these days?” she asked. “I’ve heard it can be difficult.”

  “There’s that shop behind the Museum,” said Angus quickly.

  “I’m not sure if they have Spode,” said Dilly. She paused, holding the cup up to get a better view of it. For a few moments it seemed to Angus that she had perhaps discovered something in the particular cup that she was about to remark on—the owner’s initials, for instance, somehow inserted into the glaze. He felt the hot patch behind his neck get larger.

  “It used to be very popular,” Dilly remarked. “Fewer people have it now, of course.”

  One fewer, thought Angus.

  Domenica came to his rescue. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Antonia can be trying. But then, I suppose most of us have what I call our quota of lame-duck friends.”

  “Absolutely,” enthused Angus, with relief. “And I suppose we have to put up with them.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” said Dilly.

  Domenica expanded on the theme. “There must be very few people who, when contemplating their friends, can’t list at least some whom they view with a certain … how shall I put it? A certain sinking of the heart?”

  Angus thought of his friends. There had been one or two at art college who had always tagged along and who … He thought of charity, and our obligation to be charitable, and then suddenly he thought of the late Ramsey Dunbarton, whose portrait he had painted and whom he had found so very tedious but who had looked upon him as a friend and had sought out his company at the Scottish Arts Club. Poor Ramsey, with his interminable tales about playing the role of the Duke of Plaza-Toro in the Church Hill Theatre’s production of The Gondoliers; and his account of playing bridge at Blair Atholl; and his story of how the senior partner in his legal firm had invited him as a young man to have a glass of sherry and made a joke about the Water of Leith; and his story of how he had seen the Gardyloo in the Firth of Forth, and so on, and so on … until he had died, and suddenly Angus had realised that he could have been nicer to him and given him more of his time; which, he reflected, was a thought that all of us might think about those whom we know, but that in general we did not, because life got in the way, which it always did, until suddenly …

  73. The Innocent Games of the Innocent

  Bertie returned unscathed from the cub scout expedition to Ardnamurchan. The ill-fated trip to the Cairns of Coll that he made with Tofu and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson had not had the serious consequences it might have had. For some reason their absence from breakfast had gone unnoticed—such was the general excitement—and by the time they were eventually missed they had been landed by their rescuer and were making their way up the brae to the camp ground.

  The boys agreed that nothing would be said about their experience. “There’s no point making adults worried,” said Tofu. “You know how anxious they get over nothing.”

  Both Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson remained silent over this. Ranald opened his mouth to speak, but was warned off by Tofu, who leaned towards him in a way that was unambiguously threatening.

  “Agreed, Ranald?” growled Tofu.

  Ranald nodded. He did not express the wish he privately felt, and had whispered to Bertie, that Tofu had taken the boat by himself and had been blown over to the Outer Hebrides, possibly never to return. But such sentiments had no effect on his, or on Bertie’s, enjoyment of the next few days, and when the time came to return to Edinburgh they were in a state of complete bliss.

  When the bus arrived back in Edinburgh, Stuart and Ulysses were waiting to meet Bertie. On seeing his brother, Ulysses let out a shriek of delight and waved his tiny arms about hysterically.

  “You see,” said Stuart. “He’s been missing you, Bertie.”

  “I think he needs changing,” said Bertie, wrinkling his nose.

  “All in good time,” said Stuart.

  “And is Mummy still …” Bertie’s voice trailed off.

  “She’s still in the desert, Bertie,” said Stuart. “They say it might be as long as three months.”

  Bertie absorbed this information stoically. The true period, which Stuart did not communicate to Bertie out of sensitivity to his feelings, was six months—or so the Foreign Office had r
ecently revealed. They had been in touch with the Bedouin sheik who was holding Irene and he had disclosed that he was in no hurry to release her. Apparently Irene had organised a book club for the wives in the harem, and this had proved immensely popular. The sheik, who was used to grumbling wives, was pleased with the relative peace that prevailed in the harem and had no inclination to bring it to an end.

  As they made their way back to Scotland Street, Stuart mentioned a conversation that he had had with Angus on the stair.

  “I was talking to Mr. Lordie, Bertie,” he said. “He had been taking Cyril for a walk. I think Cyril is missing you—he looked around my feet just to check that you weren’t somewhere there.”

  “He’s a very good dog,” said Bertie.

  Stuart nodded. He wondered whether it was hard to be a good dog—whether they had to make a moral effort—or whether it came naturally. Was human goodness natural? He looked at his son; he was naturally good, he thought, but no doubt the world, alas, would chip away at that as he got older. The doctrine of original sin, Stuart had always thought, was an utter nonsense—a miserable notion, full of fear and negativity about human nature; if anything we arrived in this world, he thought, endowed with original goodness rather than burdened with evil.

  “Mr. Lordie made a very interesting suggestion,” said Stuart. “I thought I’d run it past you, Bertie.”

  Bertie looked at his father expectantly.

  “He had heard that your birthday party had never really got off the ground,” said Stuart. “What with Mummy being very busy and then having to go off to Dubai at short notice. So he wondered whether you would like to have it at the same time that he and Domenica have a little party they’ve been planning. You could ask your guests and they could ask theirs. Mr. Lordie would open up the Drummond Place Gardens for you and your friends to play whatever it was you wanted to play.”

  “Chase the Dentist?” asked Bertie excitedly. “Could we play that, Daddy?”

  “Of course,” said Stuart.

  “And Greeks and Turks?” asked Bertie. “Could we play that one as well? We’ll need some mud for that.”

  “How do you play it?” asked Stuart.

  “Well,” said Bertie, “you have two sides, see? And one side are the Greeks and the other side are the Turks. And they shout at each other. The Greeks shout ‘Horrid Turk!’ and then the Turks shout ‘Horrid Greek!’ And then they throw mud and hit each other—not hard, just pretending—until somebody shouts ‘European Union!’ and they stop. Then somebody shouts: ‘European Union Over!’ and it all starts over again.”

  “What fun,” said Stuart. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

  “And could we play Campbells and Macdonalds too?” asked Bertie.

  “Yes,” said Stuart. “If there’s time.”

  “I think it’ll be really good fun,” said Bertie. “When will it be?”

  “On Saturday,” answered Stuart. “It will be a sort of lunch for the adults and you and your pals can have a separate lunch …”

  “Of sausages?” interjected Bertie.

  “Yes. Sausages,” said Stuart.

  The question of the guest list was then discussed. “Do I have to have Olive?” asked Bertie.

  Stuart shrugged. “Not if you don’t want her to be there, Bertie. It’s up to you.”

  Bertie frowned. He was a kind boy, and he did not want to hurt Olive’s feelings. Perhaps she could come, after all, but would find it difficult to order him around if she were outnumbered by boys.

  “She can come if she wants to,” he said at last. “And she can bring Pansy too. But no other girls will be allowed.”

  “Fair enough,” said Stuart. He paused. “What about your friend Tofu?”

  Bertie hesitated. “He can come,” he said. “And so can Ranald. But not Larch or Eck.”

  Again Stuart readily agreed. “There’s another boy you might like to ask,” he said. “Big Lou—you know that woman with the coffee shop, round the corner—she’s looking after a boy of about your age. He’s called Finlay, I’m told. I hear he’s very nice. It would be good to have him along, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “He can come.”

  74. Architecture, Love, Dessert

  The lunch party took place on a Saturday, with guests, both juvenile and adult, arriving at shortly before one. The guest list was an eclectic one—Domenica’s parties had always involved people of every talent, and very rarely of none. She believed, though, that everybody present should know, or know of, at least half the other guests, thus ensuring that the conversation could rise above the cautious platitudes that strangers exchange. In this case, everybody knew one another, except for Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, who, although she did not know everybody, was rapidly being known herself as a star in the Edinburgh firmament: a major dinner party, hosted in Heriot Row by Felicitas Macfie, had introduced her to a number of Edinburgh people who had been enchanted by the nun and her arresting aphorisms. Her success was remarkable: an introduction at this party to Hugh Andrew, the publisher, had already brought an invitation for her to edit a small collection of outstanding aphorisms, and she had also been requested to participate in a Radio Four discussion panel chaired by James Naughtie. She had readily and courteously accepted these invitations, pointing out to Antonia that “if we are invited to do something, then that is because some other person wants us to do something.” Antonia had agreed that this was, indeed, the case and had suggested that this observation be added to the list of those that would in due course appear in print.

  Some of the other guests who were there as friends of Domenica or Angus, or of both, also knew Bertie, and had brought him a present. Judith McClure and Roger Collins, for instance, were old friends of Domenica, but were also fond of Bertie, on whose behalf they had looked after Cyril when Angus was away on his honeymoon. Mary and Philip Contini, the properietors of Valvona & Crolla, the delicatessen in which Bertie loved to inspect beautifully packaged boxes of Panforte di Siena, had been invited too and had brought Bertie a present of a large panforte. James Holloway, once again a neighbour of Matthew and Elspeth, was there, as he always came to Domenica’s parties, as did Dilly and Derek Emslie and Maryla and Edward Green.

  At an early stage in the party, James found himself talking to Matthew and Elspeth about their move to the house in the Pentlands that they had just bought from the Duke of Johannesburg.

  “We’ll miss you in India Street,” he said. “I know the Linklaters have just moved in, which is nice, but it won’t be the same without you and all those triplets of yours.”

  “And our au pair,” said Elspeth. “And our au pair’s au pair.”

  James laughed. “That girl! What’s she called? Birgitte? I saw her in Kay’s Bar, you know. With Bruce.”

  Matthew smiled. “Yes, they’ve met up. I wondered whether I should warn her, so to speak, but then I realised that you can’t warn people about other people. They don’t listen.”

  “They seem to be getting on very well,” said Elspeth. “Even if he looks a bit odd at present—he’s shaved off an eyebrow.”

  “No,” said Matthew. “That was a waxing accident.” He paused. “But I must say matters have been much improved by her taking up with him. She’s a little less …”

  “Strident?” offered Elspeth.

  “Exactly.”

  “Mind you,” said Elspeth, “I think he might have found his match. Bruce is all bluster—narcissistic bluster. She’s taking him in hand and making him do her bidding—or so Anna tells me. She says that Birgitte has decided that she wants to marry a Scotsman, and Bruce, it seems, is her choice. Apparently she always gets her way; he won’t stand a chance.”

  Matthew grinned. “The end of Bruce’s bachelor days—what a thought.”

  The conversation turned to the new house. James asked whether they would have to do much to it, and Matthew replied that they had already been there with their architect, but that all alterations would be organic
.

  “I’m so relieved,” he said. “I’ve at last found an architect who knows all about Christopher Alexander and his theory of natural order. When you look at what has been done to parts of this city by some architects …”

  Elspeth pulled a face. “But you can’t look at it—that’s the problem. You can’t look at what they’ve done because it’s so … so …” She searched for the right adjective. “So brutal,” offered Matthew.

  “Yes. Brutal. And banal. Their buildings don’t talk to their surroundings. Those great glass façades that kill the space they occupy, that are completely at odds with the buildings all around them.”

  “Ego statements,” said Matthew. “If you look at Professor Alexander’s book, The Nature of Order, you see pictures printed side by side. One will be of a crass creation of modernist architecture, the other of a small-scale, sympathetic building. Then he asks: which one is alive? And of course you know exactly what he means. Some spaces and buildings just live—they just live. Others are dead. Look at Princes Street. Bits of it are lifeless—killed stone dead by buildings that have no relief in them—big flat expanses, with no human nooks and crannies, no play of light and shade.”

  Elspeth reached out and laid a hand on his forearm, as if to comfort him. James lowered his eyes; he knew exactly how Matthew felt.

  Matthew took a sip of wine. “This city still has its beauty. But it is a fragile beauty, and that depends so much on one thing leading to another. One street leads into another; one view merges into another; one space draws attention to another space next door, and so on. Interrupt that flow and you destroy the beauty.”

  “We can’t let it happen,” said Elspeth.

  “No,” said Matthew. “We can’t—not just for our sake but for the sake of everyone who loves this place. And there are lots of them, you know. Lots of people all over the world.”

  “How lucky is a city to be loved,” mused Elspeth. “Just as we are lucky—ourselves—if we are loved.”