The Bertie Project

  “Do you have a car?” asked Katie as she searched for her keys.

  Stuart hesitated. Their car was an issue. Over the last couple of years, it had suffered quite remarkable—and mixed—fortunes. It had been left by mistake in Glasgow, and had been stolen. Recovered by the new friend that Stuart and Bertie had made in Glasgow, Lard O’Connor, † RIP, the car had been returned to Edinburgh, where it was subsequently mistaken for a conceptual art installation, sliced in two, and sent down to London, where it won the Turner Prize. That had been unfortunate, but the insurance money had allowed for the purchase of a slightly better car, currently parked in…Stuart hesitated. Where had he parked it? Or had Irene been the last one to drive?

  “Yes, I have a car,” he said. “I’m not very interested in them, though.”

  “Me neither. I don’t run one.”

  “Very wise.”

  She unlocked the door and led the way into a large entrance hall.

  “Flagstones,” said Stuart.

  “I love them,” she said. “This flat actually belongs to my parents, who live in Skye now. They kept the flagstones.”

  My parents live in Skye now…Absurdly, Stuart thought of how that line might have come from some condescending colonial story, where a speaker of halting English, perhaps an orphan on some distant South Sea island, says sadly to the traveller, My parents live in sky now…Mind you, one lived on Skye rather than in Skye; not that he wanted to correct her. He wanted, rather, to embrace her, to smother her with kisses, to tell her how he felt and how he felt about the way he felt.

  “The drawing room’s through there,” she said. “Go through. I’ll make some coffee.”

  He noticed that she said drawing room. Not lounge. Not living room. And this gave him a sudden thrill, because Irene had interdicted the use of the term. “Drawing room,” she said scornfully, “is irretrievably bourgeois. Not only that, it’s patriarchal. Women used to withdraw to the drawing room—can you believe it? Leaving the men at the table after dinner. Outrageous.”

  Stuart had said nothing. He would willingly have withdrawn altogether—just to escape the barrage. Perhaps men could start withdrawing—going off to their sheds, if they were lucky enough to have a shed. Or were sheds patriarchal too? Were sheds now forbidden as a locus of clandestine male networking? Come round to my shed for some networking.

  Was it wrong for a man to want a shed? Or a lover? There were men, he thought, who had all three things: a shed, a drawing room, and a lover. Some of them had even more: a motorbike, perhaps, that made their metaphorical cup run over.

  He stood by the window, looking out over Howe Street, aware that he felt alive in a way that he had not experienced for years. Alive. Here in this lovely city, in the flat of this beautiful, intriguing woman, with her drawing room and her twentieth-century Scottish poetry. He closed his eyes and quietly thanked whatever gods had guided his step into that particular restaurant at that particular hour, and thereby changed his life.

  Snakes and Ladders

  Poor wee Bertie…but no, Bertie had never bemoaned his fate, had never complained about the mother whom the Fates had allocated to him, never once wondered whether there had been some terrible mix-up in the maternity department of the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh resulting in his being given as a new-born infant to the wrong mother—to Irene rather than to the woman in the bed next to hers who might, for all he knew, have been a circus acrobat, or an aviatrix, or the owner of a puppy farm on the Lanark Road, or even a Glaswegianess (and therefore much, much more fun)…there were so many possibilities that would have been infinitely preferable, but being loyal, he had never allowed himself to think of them. So Bertie would never have thought of himself as poor in any sense, and would, moreover, have defended his mother against the slings and arrows directed against her by people like Tofu and Olive, who both took a dim view of her and had described her at various times in the most uncomplimentary language. Only Ranald Braveheart Macpherson saw no fault in Irene, and never suggested that Bertie was unfortunate in his choice—if one could call it that—of parents.

  “What people say about your mummy isn’t true,” said Ranald one day when Bertie was visiting him in Church Hill.

  They were playing Snakes and Ladders at the time, and Bertie’s counter, having just landed on the head of a particularly long snake, had slid down to a lowly square near the start of the board. His position was very discouraging, and Ranald’s comment, although intended to be helpful, did not make it any better.

  “What do they say, Ranald?” asked Bertie.

  “Oh, everything,” said Ranald airily. “They talk about her face sometimes.”

  “Her face?” asked Bertie. “What’s wrong with her face, Ranald?”

  Ranald shrugged. “I don’t think there’s much wrong with her face, Bertie. She looks much the same as most grown-ups to me—you know, all saggy and lined—a bit like a prune. You know how grown-ups look.”

  “Do you think she looks like a prune, Ranald?”

  Ranald shook his head. “No, I don’t, Bertie. I didn’t say that. I said that most grown-ups look like prunes, but I didn’t say that your mummy was particularly like one. I never said that.”

  Bertie was silent for a moment. It was his turn to throw the dice and he needed a three, a four or a five to avoid further snakes. With a sigh of relief, he threw a three. Turning to Ranald, he asked, “What do they say, then, Ranald?”

  Ranald thought for a moment. “It depends who you’re talking about. You see, there’s Tofu…”

  “I never listen to anything he says,” pronounced Bertie firmly.

  “Just as well,” said Ranald.

  Bertie bit his lip. “What does Tofu say, Ranald?”

  Ranald hesitated. He lowered his voice. “He says she’s a cow. He says that she forced your dad to marry her. He says that when they got married, they had to carry him into the church and then lock the door to stop him escaping.”

  Bertie listened to this wide-eyed. “I don’t think that’s true, Ranald. I really don’t.”

  “Good,” said Ranald. “I thought it probably wasn’t—but I thought I’d just check.”

  Nothing was said for a few turns. Ranald landed on a snake, but only a short one, while Bertie’s counter landed on a moderately good ladder which partly retrieved the situation for him.

  “I don’t think what Olive says is true either,” volunteered Ranald. “She’s such a liar, isn’t she? People say she’s one of the worst liars in Scotland.”

  Although Bertie thought there might be some truth in this, his kind nature prevented his saying it. So he said nothing.

  “So what she says is probably not true,” continued Ranald. “At least I don’t believe it. Others may, but not me.”

  Bertie’s voice was small when he next spoke. “What did she say, Ranald?”

  “She says that your dad’s planning to run away. She says that he’s digging a tunnel so that he can escape. She says that it’s like that film where those people who are caught by the Germans dig a tunnel and get away.”

  “That’s just not true,” said Bertie. “And where’s this tunnel meant to be, anyway?”

  “She said it’s in your flat—in the kitchen. She said he’s covered up the entrance to it by putting a table over it. She said that he takes the earth outside by putting it in his pockets. She said your mummy’s probably German and is just pretending to be Scottish so that nobody’s suspicious.”

  “That shows how much Olive knows!” shouted Bertie. “Our flat in Scotland Street is two floors up. How could my dad dig a tunnel?”

  “Those were my thoughts entirely,” said Ranald. “And your mother isn’t German, is she, Bertie? Although I can see how some people might think she is.”

  “She’s not German,” said Bertie. “And it’s jolly unfair to accuse her of being German.”

  “I agree,” said Ranald. “Germans can’t help it. They didn’t decide to be Germans, did they? It’s not their fault. You can??
?t blame them just because they’re German.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Bertie. “And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being German. It’s just like being Scottish. We can’t help it, can we, Ranald?”

  “No,” said Ranald. “That’s what my father says about the English. He says they can’t help it. Did you know that my father’s a Scottish Nationalist, Bertie? He says that Scotland will be free one day. He says that once we’ve beaten the English at rugby, we’ll be free and we’ll have the Euro and everything. He keeps Euros in his safe, you know, Bertie. I’ve seen them. A whole pile of Euros. He showed me once and said, ‘Those are my Euros, Ranald.’ Has your dad got any Euros, Bertie?”

  Bertie shook his head. “We’re quite poor compared with you, Ranald. I think he’s only got about twenty pounds.”

  “That’s all right, Bertie,” said Ranald. “I know you can’t help it. Maybe when Scotland is free again you’ll have a bit more. More Euros, that is.”

  “But if we beat the English, what about the Queen, Ranald? What will the Queen do?”

  “Now, she’s German, Bertie,” said Ranald. “I think they’re all German. That’s what my dad says, anyway. He’s a Jacobite, you see. He believes that the Stuarts are going to come back one day. He says they’re in France at the moment, but they’ll come back. And bring lots of Euros with them.”

  Bertie laid the dice down on the board. “I don’t want to play this game any more, Ranald,” he said. “Can we go out and play in your garden?”

  Ranald, too, was ready to abandon Snakes and Ladders. “We could dig a tunnel,” he suggested. “We could escape that way.”

  Bertie looked wistful. “Do you think we really could escape, Ranald? Do you think we could escape and go and live somewhere else? Maybe Glasgow? We could share. I’d be your best friend and you’d be mine. Do you think we could do that, Ranald?”

  Ranald thought for a moment. “Would you like that, Bertie?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “I would.”

  Ranald looked at his friend. Then he reached out and put a hand on his shoulder and left it there for a moment before taking it away again to put away the Snakes and Ladders set.

  Chez Macpherson

  Bertie had been taken to Ranald Braveheart Macpherson’s house by his grandmother, Nicola, who usually looked after him—and sometimes Ulysses as well—on Saturday afternoons. On this occasion, Ulysses remained with Irene, as she had booked him into a three-hour psychological assessment at the Institute of Infant and Child Psychology, the purpose of which was to determine whether or not he was gifted, and in what area his talents lay. These assessments were normally carried out at the age of five, but Irene had insisted that Ulysses should be tested early—before his first birthday, in fact—in view of his likely precocity.

  While Irene was thus engaged with Ulysses, Nicola took Bertie off to a pre-arranged play session with Ranald Braveheart Macpherson at the Macpherson house in Church Hill. She dropped him off there after a prolonged visit to the Royal Scottish Museum in Chambers Street, where an exhibition of Celtic artefacts engaged the attention of both of them to the extent that they both forgot about lunch altogether.

  “There’ll be sandwiches at Ranald’s,” Bertie said. “Don’t worry, Granny. They’ll have some for you as well. There’s bags of stuff at Ranald’s.”

  “I’m sure there is, Bertie,” said Nicola. “But you, in turn, shouldn’t worry. I shall go off and find a cup of tea somewhere in Morningside. And a scone. Morningside is just the place for scones.”

  She left him at Ranald’s and found herself a tearoom on Morningside Road. It was actually a coffee bar, but one that served more tea than coffee, and did, in fact, have cheese scones under a glass bell. Sitting there with her scone and tea, she allowed her mind to wander, and thought of Stuart and his affair. Would he have the courage to make something of that? She was not sure. Irene was powerful, and nobody should underestimate her ability to intimidate. What would she do if she were to discover that Stuart was seeing somebody else? She started to imagine the scene, but stopped herself. Her son would not stand up for himself; he just wouldn’t. But what if she—Nicola—were there? What if she were to stand up on his behalf? She saw that scene clearly enough. You have oppressed my son—that’s what you’ve done. No, don’t you glare at him like that and yes, it is my business, you ghastly, ghastly woman…The trouble was that the scene deteriorated too quickly and became something like the Battle of Monte Cassino…

  She returned to collect Bertie at half past five. Ranald’s father was as hospitable as ever, and invited her to join him in a martini.

  “The boys are still playing,” he said. “Let’s give them a wee while more.”

  She accepted. She liked Ranald’s father, who was a good conversationalist with a tendency to make slightly arch remarks.

  “Winston Churchill is my inspiration when it comes to martinis,” he said. “Apparently Churchill said that the way to make a martini was to pour in gin, and then bow in the direction of France. I suppose it should be the south of France.”

  “Hah!” said Nicola. “Whence comes our Noilly Prat…”

  “And Lyndon Johnson liked the in-and-out method. You pour the French into the glass, then you chuck it out and fill the glass with gin.”

  “Michty me!” said Nicola. “That would be too strong for me.”

  She saw that Ranald’s father approved of the faux vernacular.

  “Michty indeed,” he said, smiling. “So I shall stick to a very conservative approach. Seven parts gin to one part of Vermouth.”

  “Oh goodness!”

  The drink was mixed and passed to Nicola. “My wife is out at her Pilates class,” said Ranald’s father. “She will come back, no doubt, much stronger than before, if that’s what Pilates does. Positively Amazonian. Who knows? But in the meantime—chin-chin!”

  “Sláinte!”

  “Of course,” he corrected himself. “Sláinte! How remiss of me! It’s just that Gaelic and martinis don’t exactly mix, so to speak.”

  He raised his glass to Nicola afresh. They were standing in the drawing room of the Macpherson house in Church Hill; out of the large, south-facing windows they could see the garden sloping down towards Morningside and the Pentlands beyond. And in the garden, huddled under a rhododendron bush, but only partly concealed, they could see Ranald and Bertie engaged in some game. Viewed from the Macpherson drawing room, the two boys appeared to be digging.

  “How innocent they look,” said Nicola. “Playing whatever it is they’re playing. Digging for something or other. Treasure perhaps?”

  “Playing Robert Louis Stevenson,” suggested Ranald’s father. He glanced out of the window. “Mind you, perhaps not as innocent as you might imagine. You know what Ranald told me the other day? He said that he and his friends at cub scouts had been playing Ebola. I asked him what it was and he said it was a game in which one person has Ebola and can pass it on to the others if he catches them. What a distasteful game!”

  “Little horrors,” said Nicola.

  “I sometimes think that Golding had it right,” mused Ranald’s father. “You know—the Lord of the Flies thesis—that boys left on their own will revert to savagery.”

  Nicola looked thoughtful. “I think there was some sort of experiment. I read about it.” She searched her memory. “Yes, that was it—the Robbers Cave experiment. I think that was it. Some American sociologists, or anthropologists perhaps, took a group of boys off to a camp in the country and divided them into two groups. Then they watched how the groups related to one another.”

  “And?”

  “Rivalry. Raids on each other’s tents. Fights between the groups. In other words, Lord of the Flies. Golding wasn’t writing fiction.”

  “Should we be surprised?” asked Ranald’s father. “Isn’t it ever thus?”

  Nicola looked around the room. It was expensively furnished, but comfortable in a way in which expensively furnished rooms often are not. O
ne wall was home to an impressive library; another was hung with paintings. One of these caught her eye—a rather desolate Highland scene.

  Ranald’s father noticed her gaze. He reached for the gin bottle to refresh his glass, his first martini having enjoyed a very brief shelf life. He looked enquiringly at Nicola, but she had taken little more than two sips.

  “So dry,” she said, declining. She approached the Highland painting and read the title lozenge at its base: Culloden.

  “Are you interested in art?” asked Ranald’s father.

  “Of course.”

  “That was painted barely a year after the defeat,” he said. “It was in a Macpherson house in Badenoch, but it came down to me. They say that the artist’s tears are dissolved in the oil paint.”

  Nicola studied the battle scene: did oil and tears really mix? As she was doing so, she heard Ranald’s father mutter something.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I missed that.”

  “We shall rise again,” said Ranald’s father.

  “Really?” asked Nicola.

  “Yes,” said Ranald’s father. “As surely as night follows day, we shall rise again.” Then he said, “Haven’t you noticed?”

  Bring Back Matron

  The morning rush—such as it was—at Big Lou’s coffee bar tended to be over by the time that Matthew made his way over from his gallery for his customary cappuccino. When he arrived, he found Lou standing idly behind the counter, her green cloth in her hand, looking up at the ceiling in a thoughtful way.

  “Not a busy morning, Lou?” he asked.

  Lou gave the counter a desultory wipe. “Just thinking,” she said.

  “About what?” asked Matthew, perching on one of the stools at the counter.

  “Life,” said Lou.

  She turned to her coffee machine and began to foam a small jug of milk.

  Matthew was concerned. “Are you all right, Lou?”