The Bertie Project

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Stuart shook his head. “No, not in the Pentlands.”

  “We went there once,” interjected Bertie. “Remember, Daddy? We went fishing in Glencorse Reservoir and I almost caught a trout.”

  Stuart smiled. “I remember that very well, Bertie.”

  “And then we got lost on the way back and that haar came down and…”

  “And we ended up at that farmhouse,” Stuart said. “And there was a wee boy there, about your age—what was his name?”

  “He was called Andy,” said Bertie. “He was my friend.”

  “Of course he was,” said Stuart.

  For a moment, they were silent—all three of them—each with a memory, and then Nicola said, “So where will you have your walk, Stuart?”

  Stuart shrugged. “In town. Maybe along the Water of Leith. There’s that path you can follow.”

  She realised that he did not want to be more specific, and she knew the reason why.

  “Well,” she said, “I might come to Scotland Street later on.”

  Stuart looked at her sharply.

  “No, not to the flat,” said Nicola hurriedly. “I was going to visit Domenica. She asked me to pop in and I thought I might do so this afternoon.”

  Stuart nodded. “I saw her yesterday—she said something about that.”

  He was glad that his mother and Domenica seemed to have established a friendship. Stuart had always admired Domenica, even if he was slightly in awe of her intellectual ability and her reading, which was so much wider than his own. He struggled to remember what he had read; he had read a fair amount, and he wanted to read more, but he always found himself too tired to read in the evenings when he came back to the flat after a day of juggling with statistics.

  They made their way out of the shop. Nicola had shopping to do, and so she kissed Bertie goodbye outside the delicatessen. As she bent down to kiss him, she whispered, “Don’t worry, Bertie—life has a way of getting better, you know.”

  He looked up at her, and nodded. “I’m all right,” he said.

  She left them, but turned to look over her shoulder as she made her way up Elm Row. She saw Stuart leading Bertie across the road towards Gayfield Square. How strange, she thought, that anybody else, looking at this scene, would see only a man and his young son walking hand in hand and presumably think nothing more of it, whereas the real story was almost Shakespearian in its intensity.

  The Anthropology of Electricity

  Nicola called on Domenica at three thirty that afternoon. She entered the main door of 44 Scotland Street with some trepidation. It was, of course, the address of her son and grandson, and as such was rich in positive associations, but it was, of course, also Irene’s address, and that was a different matter altogether. The stone stair that wound its way past the Pollock door and up to Domenica’s flat on the top floor was deserted when she came in, but there was always the possibility that Irene could emerge onto the landing—perhaps on her way to yoga with Bertie and Ulysses. If that happened, Nicola would have to manage the encounter as best she could. She would be polite and would ask after Irene’s health, perhaps even going so far as to enquire whether she was missing the desert. No, she thought, perhaps not that; one did not ask those recently released whether they missed the place of their durance. So she would confine herself to an anodyne remark about the weather; Irene usually disagreed with everything Nicola said—sometimes quite volubly—but she could hardly dispute an observation on the fineness of the afternoon. Or could she?

  Nicola imagined the exchange.

  “It’s a nice afternoon, isn’t it?” she would say.

  And Irene would reply, “Hardly. If you think back to what it was like last year at this time, then you’d hardly say it was nice today. It’s much colder.”

  To which Nicola might reply, soothingly, “Well, at least it isn’t raining.”

  Normally that might be conceded, but not by Irene, who would probably say, “But we need rain. Haven’t you read about the level of the reservoirs?” She would then add, cuttingly, “Perhaps you don’t care about such things.”

  And at that point it might even deteriorate, with Nicola saying, “Yes, rain is good for the grass, and cows need grass, Irene, as you, more than others, should know…”

  But she would never say that, tempting though it might be. Nicola had recently read a magazine article entitled Keeping your channels of communication open, and the advice of the writer, described, as the writers of such articles often are, as a prominent psychologist and life-style expert, had urged readers never to stop talking civilly to those whom they found difficult. It was good advice, and she realised that it applied to her. If she ratcheted up the gap between her and Irene—if indeed one could ratchet up a gap, which she thought one probably could not—then that could compromise her access to her grandchildren. So not only should channels be kept open but metaphors, she thought, should be kept unmixed.

  She need not have worried. The common stair of No. 44 Scotland Street was deserted and silent, with not even the sound of a radio or conversation drifting out from under the landing doors. The thick walls of Edinburgh buildings—several feet of stone in most cases—were effective at deadening sound from outside; floors and ceilings, separated by thick layers of ancient clinker, had a similar effect on descending and ascending noise. Only stairwells provided, in the right conditions, a common acoustic space, allowing conversations in the entrance hall or on the first flight of steps to be listened to on the top landing. This led, of course, to a general lowering of voices lest neighbours hear; the Edinburgh whisper, a way of speaking still encountered in places, was a direct result of this phenomenon, and was, in the view of some, the explanation for the traditional success of Edinburgh candidates in the upper echelons of the British Civil Service.

  The fact that nobody could hear what was said in the Edinburgh whisper meant that those using it were thought to be both discreet and endowed with extraordinary wisdom—the latter on the grounds that what we cannot hear is usually believed to be considerably more important than what is plainly audible: a principle equally applicable to beauty—those we cannot see are almost certainly more attractive than those we can see close-up; to food in restaurants—those dishes we see passing us by on their way to other tables are inevitably more delicious than those we have ourselves chosen, Mahlneid (food envy) being the German composite noun for such a conviction; and to the romantic lives of others, which are almost always more exciting than our own. The popularity of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, of course, is a great antidote to that last feeling, especially in Scotland, where there is a strong view that all enjoyment will be paid for sooner or later—except in relation to public spending, which is free.

  On the top landing, Domenica answered the door to her pressing of the bell and led her into the kitchen. Nicola saw that the pine table in the centre of the room was littered with papers, topped by a copy of a journal, opened and spread out. “I’m obviously disturbing you,” she said.

  Domenica smiled. “I was ready for tea. I’ve been reading.”

  Nicola picked up the journal and glanced at the cover. It was an anthropological review and the issue was dedicated, a heading announced, to the anthropology of electricity.

  “The anthropology of electricity?”

  Domenica nodded. “Fascinating. That’s cultural anthropology. It may concern itself with anything that affects human life.”

  Nicola read out the title of one of the papers. “ ‘The Charge against Electricity.’ ” She replaced the journal on the table and looked up at Domenica. “Really?”

  Domenica reached for the journal and paged through it. “That was actually the article I was reading,” she said. “It’s rather good. It presents both sides.” She remembered the old Hebridean saying Tha dà thaobh air a’Mhaoil—The Minch has two sides. So many people’s Minch these days had only one.

  Nicola wondered how there could be two sides to the issue of electricity. “I would have thought that ele
ctricity was overwhelmingly desirable.” She paused. “Don’t you think people without electricity would take that view?”

  “Like food and water? As desirable as those?”

  Nicola thought for a moment. “Not entirely. Food and water are absolute essentials—along with oxygen. But once you have those…”

  “Then you yearn for electricity?” Domenica asked.

  “Yes, I think you do.”

  Domenica nodded. “I think you’re right,” she said. “But I think we need to be aware that the things we want may not be good for us—or may change our lives in ways we may not at first detect, but which are very significant.” She crossed the kitchen floor as she spoke and switched on the kettle.

  We Are Surrounded by New Puritans

  Over their cup of tea in Scotland Street it was not the anthro-pology of electricity that formed the basis of the conversation between Domenica Macdonald and Nicola Tavares de Lumiares (formerly Pollock, and now on the verge of returning to Pollock); rather it was the mundane parish-pump chat that people so relish: the prospects of a popular tennis player at Wimbledon, the relative merits of the Cameo and Dominion cinemas, and the attractions of the sausages made by the local butcher, Mr. Crombie. It was a wide agenda, but at the end of half an hour a great deal of progress had been made in addressing the issues raised: the tennis match was a foregone conclusion, they agreed; the Dominion Cinema was still superior to the Cameo, although both were exceptionally good; and when it came to sausages there was nobody to rival Mr. Crombie in Edinburgh, or possibly the whole of Scotland. With these subjects out of the way, Domenica suggested that they walk to the National Gallery of Modern Art for the exhibition entitled Scottish Treasures: Paintings at the Heart of Scotland. She had received an invitation to the private viewing, which would be at the unusually early hour of five in the evening.

  “I’ve had an invitation,” she said, “as a Friend of the Gallery and Angus had his own—ex officio as a trustee of the Scottish Artists’ Benevolent Fund. Mine says, Domenica Macdonald and Partner…” She paused. “Two observations there, I think, Nicola. Firstly, I’m officially Dr. Domenica Macdonald—not that I make a great thing about my PhD. But if somebody has a PhD and you don’t use the title that could mean that…”

  “That you cast doubts on their PhD?”

  “Yes, or that you think that they’re showing off. Which they may not be doing at all.”

  “What about all those other titles?” said Nicola. “Monsignor. Very Reverend. Provost. Dean. Professor. Sir. The Right Honourable. The ordinary Honourable. Sister. Matron…”

  Domenica laughed. “Grand Pooh-Bah. Yes, it’s Ruritanian, isn’t it? But they may serve a purpose—especially the last two you mentioned.”

  “Sister and Matron?”

  Domenica said that both were, in her view, titles of particular honour. “I have the greatest possible respect for nurses,” she said. “That is, for nurses who sit by your side and wipe your brow or give you water to drink—that sort of nurse. They’re the real heroines. And if they’ve reached sister status, then that’s a great title to give them. Sister. Wonderful—richly deserved. And it says so much in moral terms. I am your sister—I am with you. I’m here to be your sister in your time of need.”

  “And matron?”

  “We need to bring her back,” said Domenica. “I was talking to Big Lou the other day and she said she had had somebody in her coffee bar—a doctor—who was making that point. He said that a hospital without matron was like a ship without a captain.”

  “I agree,” said Nicola. “My father had a friend, a doctor, who used to run the Victoria Infirmary over in Glasgow. He ran it with a wonderful matron. He looked after the medical side, and she looked after the nursing. They would never have tolerated—not for one second—the sort of neglect that we’ve heard goes on these days in hospitals. Patients lying on trolleys for hours. Patients in dirty beds and so on. And he did the hospital rounds with his dog, would you believe it?”

  “I can.”

  “The dog went everywhere with him when he went around the wards. The only place it wasn’t allowed to go was into theatre—it had to sit outside the door and wait for him to come out.”

  “And the patients loved it?”

  “Of course they loved it,” said Nicola. “It cheered them up. It helped them get better. As did matron. The sight of her starched uniform was a complete tonic.”

  “We need these figures,” reflected Domenica. “We need bank managers who dress like bank managers and give you a cup of tea while discussing your overdraft. We need dentists who wear blue jackets buttoned up at the front. We need head-waiters in white jackets. We need people who occupy roles and wear clothing to prove it. It’s a form of social reassurance. It represents order, and we need order. We don’t need chaos and confusion. In short, we need civilisation, and if you chip away at any of its pillars—in the name of informality or whatever—you also weaken the underpinnings. At the end of the day you have what Hobbes warned us about—the opposite of civilisation.”

  “The opposite of civilisation…”

  “Yes, a society—if one can call it a society—in which the sense of what binds people together is absent. A society in which there is no community. A society in which we are strangers to one another, and unconcerned about the fate of those about us. A society that is selfish and greedy and doesn’t care about public goods. A society that doesn’t believe in public libraries or in helping the sick. A lonely place, a cave of ice, a soulless desert.”

  Domenica finished her warning before returning to the invitation she had received. “A second point,” she said. “Partner is confusing. A lot of people these days interpret that as being your bidie-in, but some don’t. Some think it’s just partner as in ‘friend’ or person who happens to accompany you to things, or dances with you: Take your partners for the Dashing White Sergeant.” She paused. “Of course all these Scottish dances are going to have to change. Gay Gordons is obviously not inclusive enough; that’ll have to change. When it comes to the Duke of Perth—elitist if ever there was an elitist name for a dance.”

  Nicola laughed.

  “Don’t laugh, Nicola,” warned Domenica. “Remember that we are surrounded by New Puritans these days. You’ll only have to apologise if you’re found laughing. Ms. Nicola Pollock deeply regrets laughing at an inappropriate comment passed by Ms. Domenica Macdonald and wishes to ensure people that she will not laugh at anything very much in the future.”

  Nicola made an effort to look contrite. “I’m going to miss tasteless jokes,” she said ruefully. “Once humour is sanitised, it becomes pretty dull, doesn’t it?”

  Domenica agreed. “We shall just have to remember them and laugh without any explanation of why we’re laughing. We shall have memory jokes—things that we once thought funny but can no longer admit to finding amusing. Like that one about the two Glaswegians, the Pope, and crème de menthe. How we all laughed.”

  “But nobody could take offence at that.”

  Domenica frowned. “If you come from Glasgow you might. It suggests that some Glaswegians drink too much.”

  “So we can’t tell that joke any more?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those Glaswegians who drink too much won’t like it.”

  “But what about Edinburgh? There must be plenty of people in Edinburgh who drink too much.”

  “There are,” conceded Domenica. “But somehow it’s not so funny.”

  Clare Talks to Bruce

  Clare Hodding was pleased that Bruce was paying such attention to her story.

  “You know something, Bruce?” she said, as they lay side-by-side on the sofa of her Newington flat. “Some men don’t listen to what you tell them. No, I’m not saying you’re one of them, but…”

  “Of course I’m not one of them,” interrupted Bruce. “I’m a new man, Clare baby: I always listen to women. I feel for women.”

  Clare glanced at him. �
�Don’t come the raw prawn with me, Bruce,” she said.

  Bruce smiled. “I’d never do that. Mind you, I do like your Aussie expressions. Raw prawn? That’s great. Very expressive. Any others?”

  Clare looked up at the ceiling. It made her sad to think of Australia, of home, of her friends, of the casual friendliness she missed so much; of the smell of the bush and the sound of the wind in the eucalyptus trees, like waves upon a shore.

  “Other expressions? Oh yes, there are plenty of those.”

  “Give me one.”

  She tried to remember. “Well, do you know what it means if you say somebody’s got kangaroos loose in the top paddock?”

  Bruce thought for a moment. “I’d say they were a sandwich short of the whole picnic,” he said.

  “More or less,” said Clare. “And what’s ‘to take a Pommie shower’?”

  Bruce shook his head. “No idea.”

  “To use deodorant,” said Clare.

  “Very unfair,” said Bruce.

  Clare laughed. “Slang always is, isn’t it?”

  Bruce wanted to get back to Clare’s story. “So you enjoyed being an air stewardess?”

  Clare corrected him. “Cabin attendant,” she said. “Yes, I did. It was great. I had some terrific runs: there was a period when I went to Bali a lot. We often had lay-overs in Bali—a day or two before going back to Perth or Brisbane.” She paused. “And LA. We went to LA quite a bit. I liked that. I went to Hollywood, you know. You can go there. It’s a bit tacky when you get close up, but you see some extraordinary things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I saw one of the stars once. I was in a coffee bar and this guy came in—all natural, same as anybody else—and ordered a latte. And everybody was looking at him—I swear the whole place stopped talking and stared at him.”

  “A celeb?” asked Bruce.

  “More than that—a star. An actual star.”