“What went wrong, Lou?” Matthew ventured. “It seemed so suitable, what with you both coming from Aberdeen …”
“Angus,” corrected Big Lou sharply. “Alex came from Mains of Mochle. That’s just outside Arbroath.”
“Yes, Arbroath. So you both had a similar background. You could both talk about … Arbroath and … well, farming and things. Cattle. You know.”
Big Lou corrected him. “Alex has pigs. They always had pigs at Mains of Mochle.”
“Of course,” said Matthew quickly. “Mains of Mochle. But you did have a lot in common, didn’t you? More than you had in common with that Elvis chap. You said he could only talk about Elvis and how he’d been to Memphis once. You told me that. Remember?”
“Yes. And Alex was definitely better than that. And yes, we could talk, but it may surprise you, Matthew, that I don’t always want to talk about pigs and tatties and things like that. Not any more.”
Matthew was quick to agree. He knew that Big Lou had not had the advantages of the education he had himself had, but he knew, too, that she had done a great deal to remedy that through reading.
“Of course, Lou. Of course. You’ve got all those interests of yours now. I assume Alex wasn’t much of a reader.”
She shook her head. “No. Just the Courier. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Courier, but after a while …”
“After a while you might want broader fare?”
“Yes.”
Matthew made a gesture of acceptance. “Well, perhaps you’re best out of it, Lou. But it’s a pity because I thought that you and Alex might … well, I thought maybe you might like to have children some day, Lou. I thought …” He stopped. He had not intended to bring that subject up; it had somehow slipped out. And now that he thought of it, he realised that he had no idea of Lou’s age. Thirty-eight? Forty? Was she too old to have a family, or was it possible nowadays? There were plenty of women having children in their early forties, weren’t there?
Big Lou reached out to refill his cup. “Me? Have children?”
“Well, lots of people want that, Lou. Look at us. We’ve got three. Just like that.”
“Aye, you have, but I’m getting on a bit, Matthew, and … and I don’t have a man, do I?”
Again Matthew did not think before he spoke. “But you don’t need a man these days, Lou.”
Big Lou pressed the button on her coffee machine. “Oh yes? Having been brought up on a farm, Matthew, I learned at a very early age that men have their role in all this.”
Matthew laughed. “Oh, of course. But what I meant was that you don’t have to have a husband. Lots of women these days have children by a … well, by an obliging friend or by going to a clinic and getting them to arrange things.”
The coffee maker hissed and gurgled; so much noise, Matthew thought, for a little dribble of dark black liquid and white foam. But that was what the world was like; we battered and bashed and poured out clouds of smoke and chemicals and particles of every description to bring forth our little objects of desire, our baubles.
Big Lou handed him his second cup of coffee. “You offering, Matthew?”
There was complete silence. For a moment there was no traffic noise; no purring from the fridge; no sound at all.
Matthew looked down at the surface of his cappuccino. Was she asking him? He looked up. Big Lou was watching him, her face quite impassive. It was as if she had asked me the time, thought Matthew. That simple. You offering?
“I’m a married man, Lou. I couldn’t …”
Big Lou smiled. “I wouldn’t expect that. There are ways, though, Matthew.”
Matthew broke into a nervous laugh. “Of course, yes. Yes, I understand. But …”
He did not finish.
“I’m not serious, Matthew. Thanks anyway for thinking about it.”
“You could adopt, Lou.”
She shrugged. “There aren’t many babies, Matthew.”
“We’ve got three,” he said.
15. I Know What I Don’t Mean
Matthew’s wife, Elspeth, had spent that day in the way in which she now spent every day—coping. She was not given to bemoaning her situation, and did not do so, but having triplets, all boys, who were just at the point of crawling energetically would have given anybody an entire litany of possible complaints against a Fate that had dealt her this particular set of reproductive cards.
Of course there were people who were considerably worse off than her; Elspeth had become an avid devourer of the literature on multiple births, and had read of a Texan woman who, in the space of some twenty-two years, had given birth to one set of quintuplets, one of quadruplets, three sets of triplets, and five sets of twins. Not content with that, she was also the mother of nine children who were born singly. Of course there was a lot of room in Texas, and Elspeth assumed that this woman had not lived on the top floor of whatever building she occupied and had not had to struggle to get baby buggies down several flights of stairs.
Elspeth had Anna to help her, and that made a major difference. The Danish au pair had very quickly made herself indispensable, making it possible for Elspeth to get the occasional chance to read the paper, attend to household bills, or snatch a half-hour of the sleep that had become so precious to her, and so elusive too: the boys invariably chose different times at which to wake up during the night.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Elspeth once said to Anna. “If you went back to Copenhagen …” She left the sentence, and its awful speculation, unfinished.
“They’re getting on perfectly well over there without me,” Anna assured her. “Your need is much greater.”
Elspeth looked at her in sheer gratitude. She would do anything to keep Anna, even to the extent of getting an au pair for her au pair.
When she had gone so far as to make that offer, Anna had simply laughed. “I don’t need an au pair,” she said. “I am the au pair.”
“But we can get you one,” Elspeth insisted. “She could be your assistant.”
Anna had looked thoughtful. “You mean I could tell her what to do? She’d work for me, rather than for you?”
“Yes,” said Elspeth. “We’d pay her, but she’d report to you. Anything you like.”
“And she can be Danish?” asked Anna.
“Yes, she can be Danish.”
On hearing about this, Matthew had at first been incredulous. “Hold on,” he said. “You mean you’re getting an au pair for Anna? Is that what you mean to do?”
Elspeth nodded. “You have no idea, Matthew,” she said. “You come home and see the boys all neat and tidy, but have you got any idea—any idea—of how difficult it is to run them? Just getting them dressed in the morning is a major battle—three writhing little boys resisting your efforts. And then feeding them involves the sort of effort that a military field kitchen must have to make in the midst of battle. They throw things now, you know. Boiled egg, porridge, bowlfuls of that ghastly prune stuff—everything is a missile, Matthew. These boys have never even heard of the Geneva Convention, you know.”
He did not argue, sensing that he was on weak ground. The addition of another au pair would mean that he would have to give up the room that he used as a study, as the au pair would have to be given somewhere to sleep. But he sensed that Elspeth had made up her mind and that the matter was not open for discussion. So the agency that had sent them Anna was contacted and invited to send somebody as similar to her as possible. And that person—the au pair’s au pair—was due to arrive in little over a week.
But now, it was just Elspeth and Anna who had to keep the boys fed, dry, and amused. That was a more or less fulltime job for both of them, and tiring as well. So when Matthew came home that night, Elspeth was exhausted, as she always was at the end of a day spent with Tobermory, Rognvald, and Fergus. Matthew began to help with the boys and it was not until they were safely in bed and their light turned out that he and Elspeth were able to talk to one another.
“
I can tell you’ve had a demanding day,” Matthew said. His tone was apologetic, as he knew that his own day would sound positively leisurely in comparison with Elspeth’s.
Elspeth shrugged. “The usual,” she said. “Nappies. Feeding. Sick. Nappies. Feeding. Sick.”
Matthew smiled. “It won’t go on forever,” he said. “They’ll grow up.”
“I don’t want them to grow up too quickly,” said Elspeth. “It’s just that I wish there weren’t …” She hesitated. “I wish there weren’t quite so many of them.”
Matthew looked down at the floor. “I had a conversation with Big Lou today.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. We talked about whether she would ever want to have children.”
Elspeth thought for a moment. “She’d make a wonderful mother. I can just imagine it. But it’s a bit late, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. And she hasn’t got a man, anyway.”
He explained about Alex, and Elspeth said that she could well sympathise with Big Lou and her disinclination to talk about pigs and potatoes forever. “We move on,” she said.
“We discussed adoption,” said Matthew.
“What did she think?”
Matthew told her that Big Lou was well aware of the scarcity of babies for adoption. Then he said: “I suggested she could have one of ours. I didn’t say that in so many words, though—I suppose I implied it.”
Elspeth stared at him. “You what?”
“I was just thinking aloud,” Matthew said. “I wondered if it would be easier for you to have just two, rather than three. And we’d see the other one at Big Lou’s. He’d have an excellent upbringing—you know what she’s like.”
Elspeth was silent. For a while she did nothing, but simply stared unflinchingly at Matthew. Then she said: “I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.”
Matthew paled. “I … I was just speculating,” he said. “I wasn’t serious about it.”
“You were,” said Elspeth, through clenched teeth.
“But you just said you wished that there were fewer of them. You said it. I heard you.”
“I’m not talking about me,” Elspeth shot back. “I’m talking about you. I know what I don’t mean.”
16. Bertie’s Party: Social Issues
Word had got out at the Steiner School that Bertie would be celebrating his seventh birthday with a party in Scotland Street. Bertie knew how this had happened; it was Olive who had been responsible for spreading the news, even if he had been as guarded as he possibly could when she had started to question him.
“So you’ll be turning seven quite soon, Bertie,” Olive remarked casually one morning. “And about time too, in my view. One can’t be a Peter Pan forever, you know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Olive,” said Bertie. “What’s this got to do with Peter Pan?”
Olive laughed. She had a very particular laugh she employed when she was keen to imply that something glaringly obvious had not been sensed by the person to whom she was speaking.
“Poor you, Bertie,” she said. “You’re so naïve. Peter Pan never grew up. He wanted to be a little boy forever. But you can’t do that, I’m sorry to tell you. You have to grow up, Bertie. You just have to.”
“But I do want to grow up, Olive,” said Bertie. “I want to be eighteen.”
Olive laughed again. “Eighteen is a long way ahead, Bertie.” She paused. “Of course that will be more or less when we announce our engagement, so perhaps we’d better start getting ready.”
Bertie looked away in embarrassment.
“You can’t deny it,” said Olive. “You promised ages ago that we’d be getting married when we were twenty. I’ve got it in writing, Bertie Pollock, and if you think you can just ignore something like that, then you’ve got another think coming. What do you imagine happens to people who break their promises, Bertie? Their pants go on fire. It happens all the time.”
“I never said …” Bertie began, but Olive cut him short.
“That’s just by the way,” she said. “The real question is your party, Bertie. I know you’re having one.”
Bertie tried again. “I never said …”
“You never said anything about a party?” interrupted Olive. “You don’t have to say it, you know. Of course you’re having a party. Why wouldn’t you?”
Bertie sighed. “Some people don’t have parties,” he said.
“Oh yes?” challenged Olive. “I can’t think of any, Bertie. Even Tofu had a party, I believe—not that anybody wanted to go.” She paused to take breath. “So your party, Bertie—who’s going to be invited, apart from me?”
“I haven’t decided,” mumbled Bertie.
“So you are having a party,” crowed Olive. “I knew it, Bertie! My mother says men are really hopeless liars, and she’s right!”
After that, the news soon spread, and it was later that day that Tofu raised the subject with Bertie.
“This party of yours,” said Tofu. “Thanks, I’m coming.”
Bertie bit his lip. He knew that he would have had no alternative but to invite Tofu, but he did not like the other boy’s assumption.
“Well …” he began.
“Yeah,” said Tofu. “Just as well you’re inviting me. Who else? Can I bring Larch?”
Bertie’s heart sank. He had not intended to invite Larch, who was well known for his tendency to hit those with whom he disagreed—and occasions of disagreement with Larch were frequent.
“I’m not sure if Larch will want to come,” he said mildly.
“No, he will,” said Tofu. “I’ve already asked him, you see, and he says that he’s coming.”
“I see.”
“Yes,” said Tofu. “And he wants to bring his cousin Eck. He doesn’t go to Steiner’s. In fact, I don’t think he goes to any school.”
Bertie looked puzzled. “But everybody has to go to school. It’s against the law not to go to school.”
“Not if you’re a tinker,” said Tofu. “Tinkers don’t go to school. Eck lives in a caravan, except in the summer, when he lives in a tent.”
Bertie frowned. “I’m not sure that you’re meant to call them tinkers,” he said. “My mummy says that you should call them travelling people. She says it’s rude to call them tinkers.”
Tofu made a face. “But that’s what they are,” he said. “And Eck pinches things.”
Bertie looked shocked. “But my mummy says that you must never say things like that.”
“But what if he does?” asked Tofu. “Eck’s got four watches that he’s pinched. He wears them all the way up his arm. I’ve seen him.”
“How do you know they’re pinched?” asked Bertie.
“Because he told me,” said Tofu. “He said, ‘Look at all the watches I’ve pinched.’ That’s what he said. And then he tried to pinch mine, but I held on to it until Larch came and hit him.”
Bertie was silent. He had nothing against travellers, and no time for unkind talk like that—indeed it seemed to him that it would be rather fun to live in a caravan, and even in a tent if it was not raining too heavily—but he was appalled at the thought that both Larch and Eck were proposing to come to his party uninvited. Tofu had no right to go around inviting people; it was not his party, and the only person who had the right to invite anybody was him, Bertie.
“I don’t think I want them to come to my party,” he said. “We haven’t got enough chairs in our flat. Sorry about that.”
Tofu made a dismissive gesture. “That doesn’t matter. Larch and Eck don’t need to sit down. They’re quite happy to stand if necessary. They told me that.”
And that was just the beginning of it. Later that day, Bertie was approached by Olive’s friend and lieutenant, Pansy, who had a small diary in her hand, pencil poised at the ready.
“What’s the date, Bertie?” she asked.
Bertie affected ignorance. “What date?”
Pansy smiled. “Come on, Bertie! I know you know. It’s the d
ate of the party of the year—the party they’re all talking about. Your party: what date will it be? Next Saturday? Don’t say it’s next Saturday because I won’t be able to come, and nor will my friend Hyacinth.”
“Who’s Hyacinth?” asked Bertie.
“Just a girl,” said Pansy. “I don’t think you know her, but that doesn’t matter. She always comes to parties with me. She’s learning salsa. I’ve texted her about this.”
Bertie drew in his breath sharply. Mobile phones and texting were not allowed at school, but Pansy was noted for her carefree attitude towards regulations—except when they suited her purposes, when she would become their stoutest defender.
It was all too much for Bertie, and he suddenly found himself in tears. The sight of this brought Olive running to his side. “Oh, poor Bertie,” she said, putting a comforting arm about him. “I so understand; I really do. It’s stress. Parties are such stressful things. I sooo understand.”
17. Tintin Issues
Bertie’s mother, Irene Pollock, had not given much thought to Bertie’s party after that initial, and rather brief, conversation about it that they had on their way to the psychotherapist’s consulting rooms in Queen Street. That discussion had been cut short by Bertie’s disclosure of his wish list for his birthday (a Swiss Army penknife and a fishing rod), and that had given rise to an anxious and inconclusive discussion with Dr. St. Clair as to why it was that boys yearned after penknives. Now, sitting at her writing desk in the Pollock living room in Scotland Street, Irene gazed at the blank sheet of paper before her. Her husband, Stuart, was watching a football game on the television, with the sound turned off in response to Irene’s request for the quiet that she needed to think, while Bertie was in his room reading. Ulysses had already been put to bed, and it would be Bertie’s bedtime, too, in forty minutes or so.