He sighed, and laid Down Among the Men to one side. He closed his eyes. He did not think he could take this for much longer.
A voice spoke – a gentle, Italian voice.
“Oh, Mr Pollock, here you are,” said the voice. “I turn a corner in the garden, and what do I see? I see you, seated like one of Poussin’s shepherds on a convenient bank.”
He opened his eyes and saw Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna standing before him, clad in her nun’s habit of Marian blue, like one of those visions that appears from time to time to surprised bystanders in places like rural Fatima, or credulous Knock, or, perhaps even Drummond Place Garden.
13
Looking for Mother
Stuart had been pleased to see Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. There were some people whom he normally did not wish to see in Drummond Place Garden, particularly those members of the Garden Committee who policed access. This was a much-contested point: the founding charter of the Garden stipulated that it was for the exclusive use of the proprietors of Drummond Place flats and houses. That was clear enough, but then there had arisen a number of difficult issues over whether those whose windows overlooking Drummond Place, but whose doors were on a different street, were eligible to use the Garden. That had, by immemorial custom, been interpreted in favour of access, and it meant that there were some whose address was Dundonald Street or Nelson Street who were allowed to parade around the Garden with all the assuredness of those who had an actual Drummond Place address. There was, of course, always a certain qualification to their entitlement – a whiff of the narrow shave – but nobody openly called into question their rights. In addition, there were certain properties in nearby streets that had been given a right of access under some ancient letter of comfort, and whose position was therefore more parlous. Stuart was one of these. They had inherited a key when they bought the flat, and that key had originally been accompanied by a letter from the committee saying that the owners of flats in 44 Scotland Street could enjoy the gardens in perpetuity. But did that mean that any owner of a flat in 44 Scotland Street could enjoy that right until his or her demise, or did it extend to their heirs? That was the issue, and on several occasions it had been brought up in a confrontational way by a member of the committee.
“May I ask what you’re reading?” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.
Stuart folded the piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket. The nun was notoriously nosy, and even had the document in question been an uncontroversial one, he would have resisted any effort on her part to discover the contents.
“It’s just a report,” he said, and then, deliberately changing the subject, he observed how neat and tidy the gardens were looking. “Midsummer produces such luxuriant growth – it’s very easy for the gardens to look a little bit jungly.”
“Ah,” said the nun. “Like the background of a Rousseau painting? Very green. Very large leaves. Very dense.”
Stuart smiled. “I wouldn’t go so far as that, perhaps. But certainly, nature looks a little less ordered in summer than at other times.”
“So, what sort of report?” asked Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.
Stuart shrugged. “About the state of the world, I suppose.”
The nun sat down next to him on the bench. “Could I see it? I am most interested in the state of the world. Indeed, I spend long hours considering that very issue.”
Stuart pretended not to hear. He was aware, though, of the nun looking at him intently.
“Sometimes we are inclined not to hear what we do not wish to hear,” she said, after a while. “There is always that temptation, you know. If we do not like something, we act as if we are ignorant of it – but we are not ignorant, Stuart. We are far from ignorant. That to which we close our ears bypasses our hearing and goes into our heart, where it may fester away for a long time. So, by denying it to begin with, we lend to it great power in the long run.”
Stuart pursed his lips. What had he done to deserve this relentless persecution by women? There was Irene, there was Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, there were others – he was sure of it. But then he thought: am I becoming paranoid? And with that, he decided not to resist the nun’s inquisitiveness.
Reaching into his pocket, he extracted the report. “My wife has written this,” he said. “It’s for her progressive book club.”
He passed the nun Down Among the Men and the nun began to read it. When she finished, she folded it again, taking care to observe the same creases that he had used, and then handed it back to him. Then she crossed herself.
“That is very culture-specific,” she said calmly. “Not all men are like that.”
Stuart expressed relief. “I’m not,” he said. “Nor is Angus Lordie. Nor anybody, really.”
“Of course they aren’t,” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. “And you will see that she is only quoting northern, mostly Protestant writers, although Mr Mailer was Jewish, I believe.”
“That’s true,” said Stuart.
“And where are the Italian writers in all that?” asked Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. “Where is Ariosto? Manzoni? Calvino? Eco? Where are they?”
Stuart frowned. Irene made a great deal of her interest in Italian culture, and so the absence of Italian writers was surprising. “They’re not mentioned because they don’t fit the argument.”
“Exactly,” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. “Italy is not a male-dominated society. It would not fit the mould.”
“And yet,” said Stuart. “And yet it has the Catholic Church. Surely that is more or less entirely dominated by males? Where are the female cardinals? Where are the women in the higher echelons of the Vatican – or even in the lower echelons?”
The nun sighed. “They are there,” she said. “But only in an idealised state. There may be no real women in those places, but they are there in the cult of the Virgin. The feminine principle infuses Latin Christianity, Mr Pollock, because of the absent father in Mediterranean culture. That is why pre-Christian religions in those parts had powerful female goddesses who simply became the Virgin Mary later on. And because the father was not present, men looked for a female figure to replace their mother when she was no longer there. And they created the Virgin Mary as the expression of all that longing for a feminine presence in their lives – these sad, lonely men expressed their longing for the feminine by creating a figure whom they could venerate. That explains the Marian cult, you see.”
She smiled sweetly. “Whereas in Scotland, men did not feel the same need to have a mother-substitute. Nor any statues, nor superstitions. Scots looked for love in Reason, and in sympathy.”
Stuart smiled. “You’re sounding more and more like a Protestant,” he said.
“I understand that,” said the nun. “I have been moving gently towards Protestantism, although not going as far as your Free Kirk, I’m afraid.”
Stuart laughed. “What are they looking for?”
“They’re looking for mother too,” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. “If you listen to those Gaelic psalms of theirs, the keynote – the authentic note – is this: Where are we? Where are we going? Why is there so much rain?”
14
The Merits of an Open Mind
Stuart had found the encounter in Drummond Place Garden with Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna strangely comforting, and now, in the combat zone that was the kitchen of his flat in Scotland Street, he thought back to the socialite nun’s words. It was so easy for women to make men feel desperate – and there were many women who seemed to enjoy doing just that. Stuart was fair-minded enough to realise that men’s current discomfort was but as nothing when compared with the humiliation and oppression of women by men over the ages, but he still felt that the ending of one wrong was no excuse for the encouragement of another. He felt
that he, personally, had never been party – at least not consciously – to the subjugation of women, and he felt, then, that he did not deserve the treatment that he had had from Irene during the entire currency of their marriage. Nor did he think it helpful for people to belittle men, as this involved something that he had never seen as justified: collective guilt.
Yet Irene and her co-zealots seemed to be everywhere, and their influence extended even into the remotest of corners. Bertie’s situation was an example of that: Stuart had recently become aware of what Bertie had to put up with at the hands of Olive, the girl in his class at school who most closely approximated to Irene in her seemingly relentless agenda of persecution.
It was Stuart’s mother, Nicola, who had reported on a conversation she had had with Bertie on the 23 bus back from Morningside.
“Bertie was a bit upset this afternoon,” she told Stuart. “I was travelling back with him and Ulysses on the top floor of the bus, which he normally likes. Today, though, he was a bit piano, and so I asked him if everything was all right at school.”
“They normally give you a monosyllabic answer to that,” Stuart observed. “They say fine, and leave it at that.” ’
“Not today,” said Nicola. “He said, ‘It’s that Olive, Granny. I hate her like poison.’ ”
“There’s never been any love lost between them,” said Stuart. “Olive has been hounding Bertie for years. She insists that he promised to marry her when they’re twenty. I even came across a letter she had written to him about it.”
“No!” exploded Nicola. “The little minx!”
Stuart explained how he had found the skilfully forged letter tucked away behind Bertie’s bookcase. “She had obtained a genuine solicitor’s letterhead,” he said. “She had cut out the top part that gave the name of the firm. It was Morton Fraser, I think, and then she had typed underneath it – or had typed for her, as I don’t think she can write yet – a whole spiel about breach of promise and how, if he failed to discharge his responsibilities, an action would be raised against him in the Court of Session, with damages, and interest on damages.” He paused. “Heaven knows where she got it from, but it all looked very official.”
Nicola groaned. “Poor wee boy. She knows how to turn the knife, that young lady.”
“Oh, she does that all right. But what’s the latest?”
“Apparently Olive and her sidekick…”
“Pansy.”
“Yes, Olive and Pansy have been telling Bertie that they think he’s really a girl – psychologically, that is – and that he should get counselling about this.”
Stuart frowned. “Where on earth does that come from?”
Nicola smiled. “Well, whatever the source, they’ve put the wind up him. They told him they’ve been observing him and that any time he feels he wants to talk about it, they’re ready.”
Stuart shook his head in despair.
“He was very upset,” said Nicola. “It all came out as we made our way along George IV Bridge and down the Mound. He said that he likes being a boy and he sees nothing wrong with it, although he did say that he did not think that Tofu was a very good role model.”
“There’s something to be said for that,” said Stuart. “So, what did you say?”
“Well, I listened,” said Nicola. “It’s a difficult issue. Children pick things up and don’t understand, as you know. All this discussion about gender filters down eventually, and they can get a bit confused.”
“But Olive doesn’t exactly help.”
“No. So I told him that it was very clear that he was a boy, and that Ulysses was a boy as well. Then I gently tried to find out exactly what Olive had said. And then it all came out.”
Stuart listened.
“Apparently, Olive said that the acid test of whether a boy was a boy was whether he could whistle. She said that if you couldn’t whistle, you were more or less certainly a girl.”
Stuart gasped. “She said that?”
‘Yes. And, as you know, Bertie can’t whistle – he’s too young, anyway.”
Stuart looked away. He was unable to whistle – or at least, to whistle convincingly. He had always envied people who could put two fingers in their mouth and emit a loud whistling sound – sufficient to hail a taxi in a noisy street, for example. But he was not one of them – and of course being unable to whistle, he had not taught Bertie.
‘What can we do?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Nicola. “I suppose we can have a word with the school. This is a form of bullying, after all, and they have a very strong policy on that.”
“We could,” said Stuart. “I’m sure they’d be supportive.”
“And we can give him a boost,” Nicola went on. “We can build him up. Make him confident as to who he is.”
Stuart nodded. “Of course.”
Nicola hesitated. “There is another possibility.”
“Oh yes?”
“Boarding school,” said Nicola. “We could take him away for a while and send him to a boys’ boarding school. That would get him away from the baneful influence of Olive and Pansy.”
Stuart shook his head. “I’m not a great believer in boarding schools,” he said. “It seems so unnatural to take a child away from the home and send them off like that.”
“I know what you mean,” said Nicola. “But there are plenty of children who do very well at boarding school. There are plenty of children who seem to benefit.”
Stuart was unconvinced. “And anyway, they’re terribly expensive.”
“I’ll pay,” said Nicola. “I have the means, as you probably know. I can pay.”
“But where?” asked Stuart. “Most of these places are co-ed now. Fettes, Strathallan, Dollar. Are there any boys’ schools left?”
“There’s a boys’ boarding school right here in Edinburgh,” said Nicola. “Merchiston. It’s academically very strong and they have plenty of rugby and so on.”
“Mmm,” said Stuart.
“All I ask is that you keep an open mind,” said Nicola. “I know that open-mindedness is very unfashionable these days. But it has its merits, you know.”
15
A Lover in Aberdeen
Stuart had been dreading spending the evening in Scotland Street with Irene, and when she announced that she did not object to his going out, he immediately retreated to the bathroom – the one place in the flat where he felt secure from Irene’s prying eyes – and telephoned his new friend, Katie.
“Look,” he said, his voice lowered, “I know that I said I was likely to be tied up this weekend, but…”
“Why are you whispering?” she asked. “Are you in a library?”
“No, I’m in Scotland Street. I’m in my flat…It’s just that Irene is down from Aberdeen and I don’t want her to hear me.” He waited. He had told her about Irene, but he was not sure that he had explained the situation adequately. Stuart was loyal by nature, and it went against the grain of his character to disparage somebody to whom he was still married and who was, after all, the mother of his children. It was possible, he thought, that Katie simply did not grasp the full extent of Irene’s contrariness. It was possible, too, that she would think that his explanation of their estrangement was no different from the unexceptional my wife doesn’t understand me plea of so many wandering husbands.
There was silence at the other end of the line. Then Katie said, “I’m uncomfortable with this, Stuart. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. I don’t like the idea.”
“Of what? Of seeing me?”
“Of having to communicate in whispers. Of deceiving somebody.”
Stuart sighed. His fears were proving well-founded. “I’m not deceiving anybody,” he pleaded. “The situation really is as I’ve explained it. Irene left me to go to Aberdeen because she has…” He
hesitated. It was still hard for him to say this, but he felt that he had to. “Because she has a lover there. She has a lover in Aberdeen.”
There, he had said it. She has a lover in Aberdeen. It was such an explosive thing to say. A lover in Aberdeen. Having a lover simpliciter was unremarkable enough; to have a lover in Glasgow or London was a little bit more exotic, but to have a lover in Aberdeen was in a different league altogether. It was a bit like confessing to having a lover in the Arctic Circle.
“Well, I suppose…”
“She’s the one who left,” he interjected. “It wasn’t my fault, and I don’t see why I should feel guilty about it.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“And she was never all that keen on marriage,” Stuart continued. “Especially marriage to me.”
Katie made a sympathetic noise.
“So that’s why I don’t think I’m deceiving anybody,” Stuart concluded, his tone now that of one who has been unfairly accused.
There was a brief silence, then Katie said, “I’m sorry, Stuart. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, and just at that moment there was a knocking on the door.
“Stuart,” shouted Irene, “what are you doing in there?”
Katie overheard. “Is that her?” she asked.
“Yes,” whispered Stuart. “She’s knocking on the door.” He was glad that Katie had heard Irene shouting. Now she might be able to understand what he had put up with. He moved the phone a bit closer to the keyhole, so as better to pick up Irene’s voice.
“Stuart?” repeated Irene. “Are you talking to somebody?”
“What did she say?” asked Katie.
A Promise of Ankles Page 6
