Bertie Plays the Blues

  “We did that,” said Bertie.

  “Well, then, what are you doing in Edinburgh? You must have come back again.”

  There was a silence. Bertie looked at Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, and Ranald stared down at the ground.

  “You said it was Glasgow,” whispered Bertie. “I thought that it was too quick. That was Haymarket Station we got off at, Ranald!”

  The woman had overheard this, and laughed. “So you got off before you even left Edinburgh. Oh dear … And what were you boys doing going to Glasgow by yourselves, may I ask?”

  Bertie looked away. “Business,” he said. Bertie was a truthful boy and did not like to lie; this answer was, he felt, honest enough – adoption business was business.

  “Oh yes,” said the woman. “And what business would you boys be in?”

  It was at this point that Ranald Braveheart Macpherson began to cry. The tears came suddenly, and Bertie was taken by surprise. “Don’t cry, Ranald,” he said, putting a protective arm about his friend’s shoulder.

  “I never wanted to go,” sobbed Ranald. “Honest. I like Edinburgh. I never wanted to go to Glasgow. It was him. I promise. It was him.”

  The woman looked disapprovingly at Bertie. “Did you force this little boy to run away?”

  Bertie blanched. “I didn’t! I promise I didn’t!”

  “Well,” said the woman. “Whatever may have happened, I think that I should get you two boys home. Where do you live?”

  “44 Scotland Street,” said Bertie. “But Ranald Braveheart Macpherson lives in Church Hill. He’s got this house with a swing in a tree and …”

  “And my dad’s got surround sound,” added Ranald, still sobbing. “And he’s got a safe.”

  The woman seemed to recognise the Scotland Street address. “I have a friend who lives there,” she said. “Well, well. Now it sounds as if you both have nice families who would be very worried if they heard that you had run away. And to Glasgow, of all places! What Edinburgh boys would ever think of running away to Glasgow? What could you be thinking of?”

  “It’s his mummy,” said Ranald, pointing at Bertie. “She makes poor Bertie do all sorts of things. Yoga. Psychotherapy. Saxophone. Italian.”

  The woman listened gravely. “Is that true?”

  Bertie nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “And are you unhappy about all this?”

  Bertie nodded silently.

  The woman pursed her lips. “And have you ever told anybody that you’re unhappy?”

  “I tried to tell my psychotherapist,” said Bertie. “But all he wants to do is to talk about my dreams.”

  They continued their walk, the woman holding hands with Ranald on one side and Bertie on the other. Before too long the path they had been following emerged in Stockbridge, and Bertie realised exactly where they were. “That’s where I go for yoga,” he pointed out. “And Mummy’s floatarium is just round the corner. She went there once with the psychotherapist and Mummy showed him how to float.”

  “How interesting,” said the woman.

  “Yes,” said Bertie, who was feeling more cheerful now. “That was my first psychotherapist. He went to Aberdeen where they had found somewhere for him to sit down. My wee brother, Ulysses, looks just like him, you know. They’ve got the same sort of ears.”

  “Even more interesting,” said the woman.

  They reached Scotland Street and made their way up the several flights of stairs that led to the Pollock flat.

  “I hope Mummy’s in,” said the woman.

  “I hope she’s not cross,” said Bertie.

  “I’m sure that she’ll just be relieved that you’re safe,” said the woman. “Then we can get Ranald back home too.”

  Irene opened the door. For a few moments she was completely nonplussed, and nothing was said or done. Then Bertie rushed forward and threw his arms round her legs.

  “I met the boys down by the Water of Leith,” said the woman. “I brought them back, but I think perhaps we might have a word or two.”

  Irene recovered herself. “Bertie,” she said. “You go and play with Ranald in your room. Show him your Italian books, maybe.”

  The two women went into the kitchen. “My name is Dilly Emslie,” said the rescuer. “I happen to be a friend of your neighbour – Domenica Macdonald.”

  Irene nodded. “I see.”

  “Those boys were running away,” said Dilly. “I found them.”

  Irene’s expression was sceptical. “Highly unlikely. Why would Bertie run away?”

  Dilly hesitated. “He tells me he’s unhappy. Very unhappy.”

  Irene looked at her coldly. “Unhappy about what?” she asked.

  “You,” said Dilly.

  75. Bertie Plays the Blues

  Bertie did not hold it against Ranald Braveheart Macpherson that his friend had so quickly buckled under adult pressure and accused him of engineering the abortive Glasgow trip. Ranald was unreliable – he had long since come to understand that – and he was also not particularly courageous, in spite of his name, with its unlikely William Wallace associations. But for all that he was aware of these failings in Ranald, Bertie was tolerant of them. Ranald’s bravery might by questionable, but Bertie thought that this was something to do with having spindly legs; it must be difficult to stand up to people when the slightest push, even a puff of breeze, might have one down on the ground. So when he and Ranald went off to his room while Dilly Emslie, their rescuer, engaged Irene in conversation in the kitchen, Bertie did not confront Ranald with his recent perfidy, studiously avoiding any mention of it. For his part, Ranald was interested in Bertie’s saxophone, inviting him to play him something.

  “I can do ‘As Time Goes By,’ if you like, Ranald,” he offered.

  “No thank you,” said Ranald. “Can you do ‘Nellie the Elephant,’ Bertie?”

  Bertie shook his head. “I can play blues, though, Ranald,” he said. “Listen to this.”

  In the kitchen, Irene had made Dilly a cup of tea. She had not done so with particularly good grace, but had realised that she could hardly decline to acknowledge that her visitor had, after all, retrieved Bertie from the depths of Stockbridge somewhere.

  “You say that he told you he was running away,” said Irene, passing the cup to Dilly.

  “Yes,” said Dilly. “Actually it was the other boy who said that, but Bertie did not contradict him.”

  “Well, that’s just a piece of childish nonsense,” snapped Irene. “Children get these ridiculous ideas put into their heads by Enid Blyton and the like. Her absurd books are full of stories of children running away. She’s a disgrace. And as for that Rowling woman and her wizards and whatnot. How thoroughly ridiculous!”

  “Do you really think so?” said Dilly, taking a sip of her tea. Tea bags, she thought. “I was under the impression those Harry Potter books brought great pleasure to millions of children.”

  “Bah!” said Irene icily. Adding, “Infantilism. Magical thinking.”

  “I suppose magic does involve magical thinking,” said Dilly mildly. “Anyway, I do think that your son was serious about running away. Apparently he wanted to get himself adopted.”

  Irene, who was on the point of saying something about Melanie Klein, paused. “Adopted?”

  “Yes,” said Dilly. “The poor little boy was under the impression that children could arrange their own adoption if they were unhappy with …” She hesitated. This woman was insufferable, she thought, and she could well see how Bertie would want to be adopted by somebody else. But she was tactful. “If they were unhappy with their circumstances.” For circumstances, she thought, read: overbearing, pushy mother.

  Irene was silent.

  “It has nothing to do with me, of course,” said Dilly. “But I wondered whether you aren’t perhaps arranging rather too much for that little boy of yours. He’s obviously very talented – he seems to have an extraordinary knowledge of all sorts of things – but he’s still a little boy, isn’t he?”


  Irene remained silent.

  “Perhaps you might consider loosening up a bit,” said Dilly. “Let him do the things a little boy wants to do.”

  Irene was looking at the floor. In the background, drifting through from Bertie’s room, they heard the sound of the saxophone. The blues. Sad, haunting music – even when played by a small boy; but this was no average small boy, this was Bertie, who had had so much to worry about in his short life; who wanted only to have fun, to explore the world, to do the things he had seen other boys do; who wanted to wear jeans rather than pink dungarees; who wanted a dog; who wanted to play rugby and cricket and have a bicycle with racing handlebars; who did not want to talk Italian and have psychotherapy; who wanted to drink Irn-Bru and go fishing in the Pentlands; who wanted so much and had, it seemed to him, so little.

  “I love that little boy so much,” muttered Irene.

  Dilly put down her cup. Reaching out, she laid a hand gently on the other woman’s forearm. “Of course you do. I can tell that. Of course you do.”

  “And I’m only trying to give him the best start in life,” Irene went on.

  “I can see that,” said Dilly. “But sometimes you need to let children make their own start. And sometimes you have to give them what they want, not what we want for them.” She paused. “And it’s never too late, you know. It’s never too late to start afresh. In all sorts of circumstances.”

  Irene looked up at her. “What shall I do?”

  Dilly smiled. “Take him out for … for an ice cream. Or fish and chips. Yes, what about fish and chips? There’s that place down in Henderson Row – L’Alba D’Oro. They get awards for their fish and chips. Take them both down there and then Ranald can go home. Then take Bertie to buy some jeans on Princes Street. And some of those trainers with lights in the heels. How about that – for a start?”

  Irene nodded. “I’ll do it,” she said. She looked at Dilly. “You must think I’m an awful mother.”

  Dilly shook her head. She did think that, but she knew that telling awful people that they are awful is never the way to change them. You should tell awful people that they are really rather nice, and that made them less awful. It worked every time – every time. And there were very few people, when one came to think of it, who were without some redeeming features. Irene was typical of the excessively pushy mother, but for all the complications that brought, it was infinitely preferable to the mother who did not love her children at all. Love sometimes needs to be redirected; love sometimes needs to be told that it is swamping or overwhelming its object, but it should never be locked out entirely, never be told to go away.

  “Thank you,” said Irene suddenly.

  Dilly was modest. “I’ve done nothing,” she said.

  “You’ve done a great deal,” said Irene. “Let me give you more tea.”

  Dilly hesitated. “Have you tried leaf tea?” she asked.

  76. The Oleaginous Bruce

  Bruce’s accident – one of the few hair-gel related accidents to be reported in Scotland in recent years – had resulted in his having a leg in plaster and sporting a dramatic head bandage for a few days. Vanity kept him out of circulation for a few days – his bandage, he decided, looked vaguely comic – but once that was off, he was quite ready to accept Matthew’s invitation to join him for a drink in the Cumberland Bar.

  “Need my advice on something?” Bruce asked jauntily when Matthew telephoned him. “Always ready to dispense that.”

  “It’s not advice,” said Matthew. “It’s a proposition.”

  Bruce laughed. “Sorry, Matthew. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Can’t oblige. I don’t play for that team. They’d love me to, of course, but you know how it is.”

  Matthew bit his lip. “I didn’t mean that. I meant a business proposition.”

  “Now you’re talking,” said Bruce.

  They made the arrangement and Matthew was already sitting in the bar when Bruce hobbled in on his crutches.

  “I’ve broken a leg,” he said, waving a crutch. “Slipped on something. Last time I had a leg in plaster was yonks ago when I was playing rugby at Watson’s.”

  “You’re a Watsonian?” asked Matthew.

  “Of course,” said Bruce. “Who isn’t?” He paused. “Anyway, what’s this so-called proposition of yours?”

  Matthew looked at his hands. He did not like Bruce – he never had – and he felt uncomfortable talking to him about this. But he had no real alternative, he had decided. “India Street,” he said.

  Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly. He seemed amused. “Nice street,” he said. “I’ve always liked it. Broad. Slopes the right way – which is down. Of course if you live at the bottom end then you can only go up, which is not bad, after all. Some cool flats.”

  Matthew nodded. “As you know, I lived there.”

  Bruce affected surprise. “You lived in India Street? Really? Well, that shows that you’ve got good taste, Matthew.”

  “You knew I lived there,” muttered Matthew.

  Bruce said nothing.

  “I sold my flat, as you know, and we moved to Moray Place, just round the corner. You surveyed the place for us, you may remember.”

  “Good address,” said Bruce. “Now that you mention it, yes, I did look it over for you. I see so many places that I forget. No offence, of course. I remember it quite well, come to think of it. It had that big Chinese thingy that was holding up the ceiling, didn’t it?”

  Matthew ignored the question. “Then you bought India Street – through a nominee.”

  A smile flickered around Bruce’s lips. “Maybe.”

  “Not maybe,” said Matthew. “You definitely did. And the woman you used as the buyer implied that she wanted to live in it.”

  “She liked it,” said Bruce. “She liked it a lot.”

  “Whereas in reality,” Matthew continued, “you intended all along to develop it.”

  Bruce shrugged. “That’s what I do. Property deals. Fair enough?”

  Matthew looked directly at him. “I need to buy it back, Bruce. Elspeth is unhappy in Moray Place. She wants to go back to India Street. We were both happy there.”

  For a moment or two Bruce’s composure was disturbed. But he recovered quickly enough. “So you want to go back? You have to be careful about going back to things, Matthew. Often it’s a mistake. You have to look forward in this life. Look forward. Let go. Keep on the move.”

  Matthew pressed on. “So I want to make you an offer.”

  Bruce sat back in his chair. “Well, that’s fine, Matthew. I’m always open to offers.”

  They stared at one another. Matthew found himself looking at the cut on Bruce’s scalp, just at the hairline. He saw the sutures and noticed that there were small globules of what looked like gel on the surface of the wound. He smelled cloves.

  “I realise that you’ll be forgoing your developer’s profit if you sell at this stage,” he said.

  Bruce nodded. “Big time,” he said.

  “So what I intend to do,” said Matthew, “is to offer you eighty thousand pounds above the price you paid for it – the price you effectively paid me. That’s eighty thousand for a period of what is it? Two months. Two months in which you haven’t had to do anything.”

  Bruce held Matthew’s gaze. “Not nothing, Matthew. Two months of having my money in that property. That’s money that could have been working elsewhere, Matthew. So that’s two months of lost profit on some other venture – maybe something really big. Plus all the skill. Plus all the risk. Plus everything.”

  Matthew sighed. “All right. Two months of lost interest on the money. That’s …”

  “Not just interest,” interjected Bruce. “Capital appreciation too. What if I’d invested in gold? Look at gold prices. I would have made far more. No, Matthew, it’s not that simple.”

  Matthew looked defeated.

  “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Bruce. “I’ll sell it back to you for the price paid and … and, let?
??s say, three hundred thousand on top. How’s that sound to you?”

  Matthew closed his eyes. It was a ridiculous premium, but he realised that he was not in a position to argue. Bruce knew that he was desperate to get back into the flat, and he had pitched his price accordingly.

  “Three hundred thousand on top,” Bruce repeated. “And your wife.”

  Matthew gasped.

  “Only joking. You can keep your delightful wife. No, just the price I paid plus three hundred grand.” He paused. “And you pay the legal fees too. Agreed?”

  “I don’t seem to have much choice.”

  “You could carry on living in Moray Place,” said Bruce. “Nobody’s forcing you. You came to me, remember, not the other way round.”

  Matthew agreed, and Bruce leant forward to shake his hand. Matthew hesitated, but took the proffered hand and shook it. Bruce then offered to buy him a drink. “It’s the least I can do,” he said, smiling. “You’ve enriched me by three hundred grand, so I should be able to manage to stand you to a beer.”

  Matthew looked at his watch. He wanted to get home. He wanted to tell Elspeth the good news; he wanted to get away from Bruce.

  “Do you mind if I don’t stay?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” said Bruce. “Busy, busy.”

  77. Danish Pastries in the Pleasure Gardens

  Matthew did not tell Elspeth that evening of his conversation with Bruce. There were several reasons for this, the main one being that he wanted to tie everything up before he spoke about it. Bruce was slippery, and he was quite capable, Matthew thought, of reneging on their agreement. The other reason why Matthew did not speak to Elspeth about it was that he was ashamed. He knew that he should have stood up to Bruce and yet he had not. Greed – in the shape of Bruce – had triumphed over need – in the shape of Matthew. That was a bleak conclusion, but it was an accurate one.

  The next morning, Matthew made an early appointment to meet his lawyer, Lesley Kerr, at the offices of McKay Norwell. These were in Rutland Square, immediately behind the great Victorian edifice of the Caledonian Hotel, and were opposite the Scottish Arts Club, where Matthew had occasionally had lunch with Angus Lordie. It was in the Scottish Arts Club that Cyril, some years ago, had been given his gold tooth, an operation performed by another member, a dentist who had carried out the pioneering procedure – after a few generous glasses of whisky – in the Club’s main drawing room, watched over by several other interested members, while another member, a talented pianist, played arrangements of Hamish MacCunn’s “Land of the Mountain and the Flood,” Marjory Kennedy-Fraser’s “Eriskay Love Lilt,” and Robert Burns’s “Ca’ the Yowes” on the grand piano.