Bertie Plays the Blues

  Anna burst out laughing. “Of course not. But that is very nice news! I have never helped with three babies before. I am very lucky.”

  Elspeth hesitated. Was this sarcasm? “You like the idea?”

  “Of course I like the idea. I love babies! I love them very much. And if you have three babies to love then that means … well, it means that there is more to love. I am very lucky.”

  “Let me introduce them to you,” said Elspeth. Suddenly she felt stronger.

  “I’m sure they will be very sweet,” said Anna. “And I’m sure that I will like your husband too. Four men in the house! Three tiny little ones and one big one. And they all need to be looked after. No wonder you were crying, Elspeth!”

  Elspeth rose from the sofa onto which she had temporarily collapsed, aided by Anna, who had extended a hand to her. “They are all in the one nursery,” she said. “Your room is next door. I must show that to you.”

  “There will be time later on,” said Anna. “The important thing now is to make the acquaintance of these lovely little boys.”

  “Your English is very good,” said Elspeth.

  Anna accepted the compliment gravely. “I went to school for a year in England when I was sixteen. That helped my English a lot. It was a boarding school and many exciting things happened. May I tell you about them some time?”

  Elspeth smiled. “I’d love to hear.”

  They were now at the nursery door. “What are the little boys called?” whispered Anna.

  “Rognvald, Tobermory, and Fergus,” Elspeth replied.

  “So sweet!” said Anna. “Such fine Scottish names, for fine little Scottish boys.”

  42. Anna Takes Command

  They went into the room that served as a nursery. It had been only half-prepared for its new inhabitants, with two of the walls decorated in the bright primary colours of childhood, with cheerful pictures to match, while the other two – unfinished projects of Matthew’s – were still eggshell blue, with the framed pictures of the Trossachs that had been left behind by the flat’s previous owners. Under the window, neatly lined up, were the three cribs in which the boys slept.

  Two of the infants were now awake, one crying and the other lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. Anna made her way across the room and bent down to pick up the crying child.

  “He’s very beautiful,” she said. “Don’t cry, little one.” She turned to Elspeth. “Which one is this?”

  Elspeth sighed; even as they had stood at the nursery door she had begun to dread this moment. What would Anna think of a mother who did not even know which of her children was which? What would she think of Scotland? “I’m afraid I don’t really know,” she muttered. “Not for certain, anyway …”

  Anna smiled. “You’ve mixed them up?”

  There was no accusing tone to the question and Elspeth answered it openly, and with relief. “Matthew took off their identification bracelets,” she said. “He didn’t realise …”

  Anna’s smile broadened. “It must be so easy to do that,” she said. “I hope that you didn’t blame him.”

  “Of course not,” said Elspeth quickly. And that was true, she thought; she had been too tired to blame Matthew for that, or for anything, for that matter.

  “So what we need to do is to decide which is which,” said Anna. “And then I know how to make sure that we don’t mix them up again.” She touched the baby gently on the cheek. “Which would you like this one to be?” she asked.

  “Rognvald,” said Elspeth. “Or maybe …”

  She did not finish. “Rognvald suits him very well,” said Anna. “Right, if you hold him for me, Elspeth, we shall make sure that he remains Rognvald.”

  Elspeth took the baby. It is very strange, she thought, but I don’t dread holding him any more. She felt calmer, more in control of the situation now that Anna was there; Rognvald was no threat.

  Anna left the room and returned a moment later with two small bottles in her hand. “These are from my rucksack,” she explained. “Nail varnish.”

  She now opened a bottle of red varnish and unscrewed the small brush-top. “Right,” she said. “Could you show me little Rognvald’s toes? Just the right foot, I think.”

  Elspeth complied, removing the tiny bedsock in which Rognvald’s right foot was sheathed. So small, she thought; so small and pink.

  Anna touched the little boy’s minute toes. “So perfect,” she said. “And you made him, Elspeth. Isn’t that a miracle?”

  Elspeth looked at her son’s toes. She wanted to cry again, and felt the first welling of tears. Gratitude. Relief. Love.

  “There, my little darling,” said Anna as she daubed a speck of red nail varnish on the exposed toenails. “Rognvald has red toes. R and R. Easy to remember. Now, what about this little man here? What should his name be?”

  “That one, I think … maybe that one is Tobermory. Yes, let’s make him Tobermory.”

  “Tobermory will have much paler varnish,” said Anna. “This is the colour that my mother uses. She calls it mother-of-pearl. In fact, this bottle of varnish belongs to my mother but she said I could take it to Scotland. I use all her things, you see, and she has stopped complaining. She lets me now.”

  Elspeth thought of her own mother. She had done the same thing with her mother’s clothes, as they were the same size. “It is always a problem for mothers,” she said. “For mine too.”

  “Family possessions belong to everybody,” said Anna. “That’s the way it should be.”

  She unscrewed the top of the mother-of-pearl varnish and waited for Elspeth to replace Rognvald in his crib and to pick up Tobermory. Deftly wielding the nail varnish brush, Anna in due course painted his nails. “There,” she said. “That’s Tobermory. He has mother-of-pearl. And finally, little Fergus, he is the one who has nothing on his toes at all. He is as nature intended.”

  Elspeth sighed with relief. “Such a simple solution,” she said. “And now all we have to do is to keep their toenails those colours.”

  Anna nodded. “Exactly. And now maybe you could show me my room. Then I can meet your husband, if he is in. Is he?”

  “I think so,” said Elspeth. “He was falling asleep when you rang the bell. We’re very tired.”

  Anna touched her lightly on the arm. “Of course you are. That is why you sent for me.”

  Elspeth smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Anna pointed to the door. “Shall we look at my room?”

  The rucksack was moved in and placed at the end of the bed. Anna then looked out of the window and approved the view. “Edinburgh is very beautiful. Just like Copenhagen. I have a feeling that I shall be very happy here.”

  There was a noise from behind them – the opening of a door. “I think that might be Matthew,” said Elspeth.

  They made their way into the drawing room, where Matthew, who had been asleep on the sofa, was standing scratching his head. “I dozed off, he mumbled. “I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep …” He suddenly noticed Anna. “Oh …”

  Elspeth effected the introduction.

  “You look very tired,” said Anna. “And have you had anything to eat?”

  Matthew shrugged. “There was breakfast,” he said. “Or maybe it was lunch … I don’t know.”

  “You poor man,” said Anna. “Let’s go into the kitchen. Elspeth, please show me where everything is. Eggs. Have you got any eggs? And ham? Do you like ham in Scotland? Men like eggs and ham very much, I think.”

  “The babies,” said Matthew. “They’re crying …”

  Anna took command of the situation. “Elspeth,” she said, “you go and feed Rognvald. Matthew, you bring Tobermory and Fergus into the kitchen. We’ll look after them there while the eggs and ham are cooking. Right, everybody?”

  Matthew looked to Elspeth for guidance.

  “Mother-of-pearl,” she said. “And natural. Simple.”

  43. Bertie Takes the Fifth

  Bertie had been collected fro
m Ranald Braveheart Macpherson’s house the following morning by Stuart, who had taken him back to the flat in Scotland Street before going off on some unexplained errand.

  “Did Daddy say where he was going?” asked Irene, who was making ciabatta bread in the kitchen.

  Bertie shook his head.

  “Are you sure, Bertie?” Irene pressed.

  Bertie looked out of the window. He had assumed that his father had some business with the club to which he had recently been admitted, but he had been asked quite specifically not to speak to his mother about that. “He may have gone shopping,” he ventured. “Maybe he’s gone to Valvona & Crolla. Maybe he’s gone to buy some olive oil.”

  Irene shook her head. “We have plenty of olive oil, Bertie, as I’m sure your father knows quite well.”

  Bertie shrugged. “Well, he’s gone somewhere else,” he said. “Maybe he’s gone to Glasgow.”

  “And what would Daddy be doing going to Glasgow on a Saturday morning?” asked Irene. “No, Bertie, I don’t think that Daddy has gone to Glasgow.”

  Bertie said nothing. After a moment or two, Irene resumed her questioning. “Are you sure that he didn’t say, Bertie?”

  Bertie shook his head. He had recently watched a film on television – at Tofu’s house, television being forbidden in Scotland Street – and there had been a scene in which a German officer had been interrogating a member of the French Resistance. The officer had told his prisoner that he would get the truth out of him one way or another. “And another will not be very pleasant,” he had said. “You can count on that.”

  “He’s going to tickle him,” said Tofu. “That’s what they did, Bertie. They tickled them and they talked.”

  “That’s very unkind,” said Bertie.

  Tofu, more wordly-wise than Bertie, had shrugged. “That’s what happens in war, Bertie. I wouldn’t tell, though, if they tickled me. I would refuse to talk.”

  “You’re very brave, Tofu,” said Bertie.

  “Yes,” said Tofu. “I am. You’d talk, I think, Bertie. You’d talk straight away if they tickled you. You’d tell them everything, I think.”

  Bertie remembered this conversation now as his mother asked him about his father. Tofu might have no faith in him, but he was determined not to let his father down. “He’s not in a club,” he said.

  Irene paused with her kneading of the ciabatta dough. “What did you say, Bertie?”

  Bertie swallowed. “He’s not in a club,” he repeated.

  Irene dusted her hands on a tea-towel. “That’s very interesting, Bertie,” she said. “Why would you say that Daddy isn’t in a club? Who said anything about a club?”

  “I said he wasn’t in one,” said Bertie. He felt slightly miserable now. Had he inadvertently betrayed his father? The whole point about saying that he was not in a club was to throw his mother off the scent. But it seemed, for some reason, to be having the opposite effect.

  Irene came and sat down next to Bertie. “Listen, Bertie,” she said quietly. “Your mentioning a club when Mummy had said nothing about clubs makes Mummy think that maybe Daddy is in a club. You see what I mean?”

  Bertie stared fixedly at the floor. “He’s not,” he said.

  Irene took his hand. “Bertie, Mummy doesn’t mind if Daddy is in a club. It really doesn’t matter. She would just like to know what club it is. That’s not unreasonable of Mummy, is it? If I were in a club, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I? And if you were in a club, you’d want Mummy to know all about it, wouldn’t you?”

  Bertie thought about this. He would certainly not want his mother to know if he was a member of a club. It was the last thing he would want, in fact.

  He decided on diverting tactics. “Are you in a club, Mummy?”

  Irene laughed airily. “Of course not, Bertie! Can you see Mummy in a club?”

  “What about the Labour Party?” asked Bertie. “You’re in that, aren’t you, Mummy?”

  Irene smiled. “The Labour Party isn’t a club, Bertie. The Labour Party is a political party.”

  “But you have meetings, don’t you?”

  “Of course we have meetings, Bertie. But the fact that one has meetings doesn’t make us a club.” She paused. “Daddy would be able to confirm all that to you – if he were to get round to joining the Labour Party. Which I’m sure he will do one of these days.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bertie.

  “Oh? And why don’t you think so, Bertie?”

  “Because Daddy wouldn’t want that,” said Bertie. “Daddy doesn’t like the Labour Party.”

  Irene drew in her breath. “That’s absolute nonsense, Bertie. Of course Daddy likes the Labour Party. Of course he does. He voted for it.”

  Bertie shook his head. “He didn’t, Mummy,” he said. “He voted for the Conservatives. He told me.”

  For a few moments Irene was silent. Bertie was still looking down at the floor and did not dare look up. He was vaguely aware that he had said something that compromised his father, but he was not quite sure what it was.

  At last Irene spoke. “I think that you must have misunderstood Daddy, Bertie,” she said icily. “Daddy would never do a thing like that.”

  Bertie decided not to say anything more. So this, he thought, is what it was like to be in the French Resistance. He wondered what had happened to the man in the film he had watched with Tofu. They had not seen the end, as Tofu’s father had turned the set off before the film was finished.

  “To get back to this club,” Irene now said. “It really would be best, Bertie, if you told me what club it is.”

  Bertie shook his head. “He isn’t in a club. And he didn’t vote for the Conservatives, Mummy. I was only joking.”

  Irene looked as if she was unsure whether to be angry or relieved. “You shouldn’t joke about these things, Bertie.”

  Bertie nodded. “Sorry, Mummy.”

  “Now tell me, Bertie, how did your evening with Ranald go? Are his mummy and daddy nice people?”

  “Very nice,” said Bertie. There was so much else that he wanted to say, but he remained silent. Ranald had promised to phone him that night and tell him whether any adoption offers had come in on eBay. If they had, then this sort of conversation would become a thing of the past. That, at least, was something to look forward to.

  44. B.O.A.C.

  Bertie was in his room, engaged with a challenging model aeroplane kit, when his father came home. The model aeroplane had been a gift from a colleague of Stuart’s, who had discovered it in the attic, untouched in its pristine box, the price – in old money – stamped on the outside: five shillings and sixpence. The colleague had three daughters and no son, and when the girls had turned up their noses at the model he had offered it to Stuart, to pass on to Bertie.

  Bertie had been thrilled. The plane was a passenger one, Stuart explained – a Comet, in fact. “The Comet was a wonderful plane, Bertie,” Stuart said. “It was very big and it really was the beginning of modern air transport. Very few people travelled by air in those days.” He pointed to the plane’s livery. “And look at that, Bertie. B.O.A.C. That meant British Overseas Airways Corporation. How’s that for the name of an airline?”

  Bertie looked at the illustration on the box. The aircraft stood prominently on the airport apron, the runway stretching out behind it. A large set of steps had been wheeled up to the plane’s open door and several passengers were ascending this. Down below, standing about the base of the steps, were the passengers’ friends, who had come to say goodbye. One of these had a dog on a leash – an Irish setter, Bertie thought – and the dog was looking up at the departing people as if it, too, was bidding them farewell. At the top of the steps the Captain was standing with a woman in uniform behind him. The Captain was shaking hands with the first of the passengers.

  “I wonder where they were going?” Bertie asked his father. “Do you think it was Glasgow, Daddy?”

  Stuart laughed. “I don’t think so, Bertie. They would have been going so
mewhere much further away. Look down at the bottom of the picture. There’s the luggage being loaded into the hold. If only we could read the labels!”

  Bertie looked at the suitcases. The man who was loading them was neatly dressed in overalls and was wearing a tie. He was clearly enjoying his job, as he was smiling in a friendly way at the departing passengers.

  He looked again at the Irish setter. “Are dogs allowed in planes, Daddy?”

  Stuart frowned. “I think you can take a dog in a plane, Bertie. Big dogs have to go in the special cages; small dogs are sometimes allowed in the cabin, as long as they behave themselves.” He pointed to the picture. “But I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to take a dog out to the steps like that. You wouldn’t be able to go out there yourself these days. Changed times, Bertie!”

  Bertie was puzzled. “Why not? How can you say goodbye?”

  Stuart thought for a moment. This was a difficult question to answer. How can you say goodbye? He looked down at his son, and for a moment he felt a curious, unexpected pang of regret. What sort of world were we bequeathing to our children? A world of distrust and conflict? A world in which ordinary human practices – ordinary human feelings – were suppressed by fear and the rules that fear brought in its wake? A world in which even dogs were regarded as a security risk.

  Bertie reminded him of his question. “How can you say goodbye, Daddy?”

  “You drop people off outside the airport terminal,” said Stuart. “Then you drive away. Once you’ve paid, of course.”

  “Do you have to pay to say goodbye?” asked Bertie.

  “Not in most normal places,” said Stuart. “Unfortunately you have to do that in Edinburgh, Bertie. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? The airport people make you pay to drop somebody off and say goodbye. Isn’t that the meanest thing you’ve ever heard of?”

  “They should feel ashamed of themselves, Daddy. Even Tofu wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “No,” said Stuart. “He wouldn’t. But this country, Bertie …” He paused. There was so much wrong, and he was not quite sure where to begin. He sighed. “You enjoy the model, Bertie, and if you get stuck making it, I can help you.”