The Bertie Project

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Can you believe it?” exploded the Chairman. “Twenty-five thousand Euros to translate one book into Gaelic. Why? How many people are waiting to read The History of Nudism in Western Europe in Gaelic? There was that chap in Stornoway, of course—he was a member for years…”

  “He’s no longer with us,” said the Secretary. “Hypothermia…”

  “Poor fellow,” said the Chairman. “But is there anybody else who will read it?”

  The Secretary shrugged. “Is that the point? How many Gaelic speakers are there in Aberdeenshire? And yet we spend an awful lot of money translating things in that part of the country.”

  “That involves making a political point. That’s to show the English that Scotland is different. And we’re using Scottish money for that—this is getting the Germans to pay for it, effectively. Should we use German money to show the English that Scotland is different? I’m not at all sure about that.”

  They both continued with their quiche, deep in resentment at the pushiness of Nudism Scotland in applying for these grants.

  “One possibility,” said the Chairman, “is for us to write to Brussels and tell them that Nudism Scotland has no right to speak on behalf of Scotland’s nudists. We could point out that we are the older body…”

  “And that we’re based in Edinburgh,” interjected the Secretary. “Those bureaucrats in Brussels understand about capitals. They’ll know that we’re the capital of Scotland. Nudism Scotland is using a Glasgow address, you know. Somewhere in Bearsden, I believe.”

  “The thought of it!” said the Chairman.

  “We could suggest that they are really Nudism Glasgow,” continued the Secretary.

  “Hah!” said the Chairman. “That would show them over in Brussels. Perhaps we could point out that it’s the equivalent of some group at Ostend claiming to speak for all Belgian nudists.”

  The Secretary smiled. “You’re right—they’d understand that. Mind you…” He was looking out of the window, as if remembering something. “Mind you, I remember my wife and I had a very enjoyable weekend over near Ostend some years ago. There’s a nudist colony in the dunes there—a lovely set-up. They had very comfortable little chalets and a wonderful sing-song round the camp-fire in the evening. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.”

  “It’s good to have memories like that,” said the Chairman. “The movement is quite strong over there, I believe. And they’re very welcoming. It’s a reminder of what the European ideal is all about, isn’t it? That instead of fighting with one another, we should simply…”

  The Secretary finished the sentence for him. “…simply take our clothes off together.”

  “Exactly,” said the Chairman.

  For a few moments they both reflected on these visions of social concord, but then the Chairman remembered the second matter that had been troubling him and he raised this with the Secretary when the latter came back from the self-service counter with two cups of Assam tea. Over this tea they now talked about something that was far more troubling than anything Nudism Scotland or the European Union could send their way.

  “It really is very vexing indeed,” said the Chairman.

  “Quite,” said the Secretary. “And what on earth are we going to do?”

  A Meeting in a Bistro

  It had been agreed between Stuart and Irene that on Saturdays Bertie would have at least some time with Stuart’s mother, Nicola, while Stuart looked after Ulysses. This gave Irene the opportunity either to have a long lie-in, or, as she had recently taken to doing, to go to the National Library of Scotland on George IV Bridge, where she was working on a short guide to the works of Melanie Klein. Stuart had encouraged her to embark on this project as he felt that the more energy she put into it, the less she would have for what she occasionally referred to as the Bertie Project, her name for the parental task of bringing up their seven-year-old son.

  He disliked that name almost as much as he disliked the project: why could Bertie not be left alone to grow up in the way that suited him? He was, after all, a particularly appealing little boy, free from any discernible character defects, obliging, gentle, and, most remarkably of all, utterly without guile. Unlike most small children, who can lie without the slightest element of self-reproach when they think it is in their interests to do so, Bertie was completely truthful. He described the world exactly as he saw it; he expressed in a completely open way the thoughts that went through his mind; if asked what he was doing or thinking he answered in a way that concealed nothing, held nothing back. Why, wondered Stuart, should such a self-evidently balanced and engaging boy be subjected to what could only be described as an unremitting programme of psychotherapy, yoga, and intense tutoring in everything from Italian conversazione to calculus?

  In Stuart’s view, little boys needed room to grow up at their own pace and in their own way. That is not to say that they did not need guidance and discipline—of course they needed that—but there had to be space for the green shoots of the emerging personality to grow. Bertie did not have that, but Stuart had been unable to insist on its provision. He was not a coward, but he was, to a very great extent, in awe of the exceptionally powerful and domineering woman he had married. It was all very well for people to think that he should stand up to Irene, but he was the one who was married to her; he was the one who had to live with her enthusiasms and disapprovals. And that was far from easy.

  On that particular Saturday—the Saturday on which Angus Lordie was discharged from the Royal Infirmary following his defenestration—Irene had announced that she would not be going to the National Library and that she would therefore look after the children until lunchtime, after which Stuart and Nicola would take over. Stuart had planned his day accordingly, but had suddenly changed his mind and declared, to his mother rather than Irene, that he had other plans and would she mind taking both Bertie and Ulysses for the entire afternoon?

  Nicola had immediately suspected that Stuart’s plans involved a meeting with his lover. This would have bothered some mothers, but not her: as far as she was concerned she was only too delighted to facilitate his affair. “By all means, my dear,” she said. “And don’t bother to hurry back from…from wherever you’re going—I’ll be delighted to look after the children for as long as you want me to.”

  “You’re so kind, Mother,” Stuart had replied. “It’s just that there are various things I need to attend to and Saturday afternoon’s a good time to tackle them.”

  Nicola tried to keep a straight face. “Of course, dear. Nothing like a Saturday afternoon for…”

  Stuart shot her a glance, which she fielded with equanimity. “For catching up,” she finished.

  Bertie, of course, accepted the situation with his usual stoicism. “Do you think we could go to the Botanic Gardens this morning?” he said. “We’ve been studying cactuses in class and I thought it would be nice to see all those cactuses in the greenhouse there—you know the one.”

  “Some other time,” said Irene. “I was planning to go to Glass & Thompson for a cup of coffee. That’ll be a nice outing for you and Ulysses. You can have one of those foamy cappuccinos with no coffee. And Ulysses can lick your spoon. He’ll love the outing.”

  Bertie said nothing. He understood that it was futile to argue with his mother, although he knew that Ulysses would definitely not enjoy the outing. He would be sick, as he always was, whenever he went on any expedition with his mother.

  “When we come back, can I watch some football on the television?”

  Irene pursed her lips. “No.”

  “I just thought I’d ask,” muttered Bertie.

  “Well that’s your answer, Bertie. We have far better things to do with our time than watch football, carissimo. You could do a painting, for instance, to take with you to your grandmother later on. You could read that little Italian book I bought for you, La famosa invasione degli orsi in Sicilia. There’s so much to do, Bertie.”

  They set off, although their departure was delayed by the
need to give Ulysses a complete change of clothing. This was necessary, as the infant had been copiously sick when Irene had picked him up to tell him they were going on an outing. Once this was done, though, they set off, with Bertie pushing Ulysses in his pushchair, walking confidently ahead of his mother.

  Bertie noticed that his mother seemed distracted as they approached Glass & Thompson. He had asked her a question that she appeared not to hear at all, and when he remarked that he thought that Ulysses might like an ice cream, the retort that he might have expected in usual circumstances simply did not materialise.

  The bistro was quiet; there were a couple of people at the table near the door and several more in the small snug to the side. But then Bertie noticed the man sitting at one of the tables at the back, and he caught his breath.

  “Look Mummy,” he whispered. “There’s Dr. Fairbairn.”

  Irene gave the impression of being surprised. “Dr. Fairbairn? Well, well, Bertie, there’s a thing.”

  Bertie pointed to a table nearby. “Shall we sit down here, Mummy? Then we won’t need to disturb Dr. Fairbairn.”

  Irene laughed. “Oh, come now, Bertie! It would be very rude for us to sit at another table. Poor Dr. Fairbairn—he’d think we were avoiding him.”

  Which is precisely what Bertie wanted to do. In his view Dr. Fairbairn was a dangerous madman who, if he had not already been admitted to Carstairs State Hospital, would certainly be going there shortly. Did his mother know the risk she was running in sitting at the same table as such a person? Did she have the slightest understanding of just how unstable the famous psychotherapist was? Clearly not, thought Bertie.

  Ulysses Reacts

  Dr. Hugo Fairbairn, now also known as Professor Hugo Fairbairn, having been translated to a chair in Aberdeen, was the author of that classic of child psychotherapy, Shattered to Pieces: Ego Dissolution in a Three-Year-Old Tyrant. His reputation was based not only on that book, but on a slew of frequently cited papers, including his major essay on one of his patients, Wee Fraser. This patient, years later, had head-butted the psychotherapist on a bus destined for Burdiehouse and was roundly chastised in return. This altercation was not mentioned in the paper, but Dr. Fairbairn had never got over it; it was, he confessed, his rucksack of guilt. All of us carry such a rucksack; all that differs is the contents.

  For more than two years, Dr. Fairbairn had been Bertie’s psychotherapist, seeing him each Saturday for an hour. Bertie did not enjoy these visits to Dr. Fairbairn’s consulting rooms in Queen Street and saw no reason for their continuation. His mother, however, was an exponent of what she called preventative psychotherapy and believed that it would be easier for Bertie to negotiate his way through the shoals of adolescence if he had been set on the right course at an earlier age. She also frankly enjoyed seeing Dr. Fairbairn, and often used up half of Bertie’s hour in talking about herself while Bertie paged through old copies of Scottish Field in the waiting room. There was much to entertain Bertie in Scottish Field; it gave a picture of a life that he would love to have been able to lead: a life of parties and walks in hills, of Highland games and salmon fishing; of vintage racing cars and pedigree dogs; it was all there, tantalisingly out of reach and, what was more, thoroughly disapproved of by his mother.

  Dr. Fairbairn’s departure for Aberdeen had been somewhat sudden. It occurred shortly before the birth of Ulysses and was as welcomed by Bertie as it was viewed with dismay by his mother. Bertie had hoped that this would be an end to psychotherapy, but all that happened was that he was taken on by the therapist who acquired Dr. Fairbairn’s practice—a younger therapist, from Melbourne. Dr. Sinclair had initially proposed that Bertie be discharged, as he could find no evidence of psychopathology of any sort, but this had been strongly resisted by Irene, and the sessions had continued.

  Now as they joined Dr. Fairbairn at his table in Glass & Thompson, Bertie’s heart sank. Would he have to sit there in public view and tell Dr. Fairbairn all about his latest dreams? That, he thought, was the only subject that Dr. Fairbairn enjoyed talking about, and Bertie could not imagine that living in Aberdeen would have changed anything for the psychotherapist. Presumably they had dreams in Aberdeen, thought Bertie, although they would be much more down-to-earth dreams, and certainly less wasteful than the sort of dreams people had in Edinburgh.

  Dr. Fairbairn smiled at Bertie as he sat down. “So, Bertie, this is a very pleasant surprise for me,” he said. “My goodness, you’ve grown—you’re quite the young man now, I see.”

  “Thank you,” said Bertie. “I hope that you’re enjoying Aberdeen, Dr. Fairbairn.”

  “Oh, I am, Bertie,” said Dr. Fairbairn. “It’s a very good place to live.”

  “Are there many people needing psychotherapy up there, Dr. Fairbairn?” asked Bertie.

  Dr. Fairbairn laughed. “One or two, Bertie. Same as here, I suspect.” He turned to Ulysses. “And here’s young Ulysses.” He glanced at Irene; and Bertie noticed that his mother suddenly looked abashed.

  “Ulysses doesn’t speak English yet,” said Bertie. “I think he understands some words, but he can’t use them. Mostly, he screams.”

  “He has a very good grasp of the situation,” said Irene. “I suspect he’s gifted. We’ll find out, no doubt.”

  Ulysses glanced at his mother and then immediately looked away. His gaze fell on Dr. Fairbairn and the effect was instantaneous. Breaking into a broad smile, Ulysses threw open his arms in a gesture of delight and acceptance. At the same time, he started to coo—a sound that was clearly expressive of the most profound pleasure.

  “Look,” cried Bertie. “Look at Ulysses, Mummy! Look how he likes Dr. Fairbairn!”

  Irene fixed her gaze on the floor; Dr. Fairbairn, flushing deep red, inserted a finger into the collar of his shirt to loosen it.

  Ulysses at this point was still strapped into his pushchair. Stepping forward, Bertie released him from his restraining harness, picked him up and passed him over to Dr. Fairbairn. Squealing with delight, Ulysses waved his arms about and kicked his legs, clearly desperate to embrace the psychotherapist.

  “You see!” crowed Bertie. “You see how much he likes you, Dr. Fairbairn. Look at him! Just look at him!”

  “Well…” began Dr. Fairbairn.

  “Normally, he’s sick when Mummy picks him up,” he said. “But he’s not being sick all over you, Dr. Fairbairn. He really likes you.”

  Ulysses was trying to kiss Dr. Fairbairn, and eventually succeeded. Then he wound his small arms firmly round the psychotherapist’s neck and held on tightly.

  “He doesn’t want to let you go,” said Bertie. “Do you see that, Mummy? Ulysses wants to hold on to Dr. Fairbairn.”

  Irene made a non-committal sound. Then, turning to Bertie, she said, “I don’t think we should let Ulysses monopolise Dr. Fairbairn, Bertie. I think you should put him back in his pushchair.”

  “But he’s so happy with Dr. Fairbairn,” said Bertie. “It would be unkind to take him away.”

  “Bertie,” warned Irene. “You heard what I said.”

  Bertie sighed, and started to prise Ulysses away from the now very embarrassed psychotherapist. This was the signal for Ulysses to protest at the top of his voice and to tighten his vice-like grip on Dr. Fairbairn’s neck.

  “You know something,” said Bertie as he tried again to detach Ulysses. “I think that the reason why Ulysses likes Dr. Fairbairn so much is because he looks so much like him—and even a little baby like Ulysses can see it.”

  This remark brought a gasp from Dr. Fairbairn and a furious, hostile look from Irene.

  “Bertie, Ulysses does not look like Dr. Fairbairn,” she scolded. “You really mustn’t say such ridiculous things.”

  “But he does, Mummy. He really does.”

  He turned to Dr. Fairbairn. “Did you see his ears, Dr. Fairbairn? Don’t you think they look like yours?”

  “Bertie!” Irene hissed.

  “I don’t think so, Bertie,” said Dr. Fairbairn. “I real
ly don’t, you know.”

  Ulysses had quietened down now, and was sitting in his pushchair staring intently at Dr. Fairbairn.

  “Da…” he said. “Da…”

  “Ulysses is trying to say something,” said Bertie. “What do you think it is?”

  “Bertie,” said Irene, her voice steely. “You know very well that Ulysses can’t talk yet. He merely makes noises. Noises like da, which doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “I know, Mummy,” said Bertie. “But he has to start some time, and maybe he’s started now. Maybe his first word is going to be dada. A lot of babies begin that way, I’m told.”

  What Ulysses Almost Said

  Bertie could not understand why his mother should be so cross with him. As they made their way back home, she said barely a word, and by the time they climbed the stairs at No. 44 Scotland Street her displeasure was showing in her stiffness and coldness.

  “I’m so sorry, Mummy,” he began. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I’m sorry for it anyway.”

  Irene bit her lip. “Bertie, I’ve told you a hundred times—if not more—that you should never, ever comment on how a baby looks. It’s not for the sake of the baby’s feelings—it’s for the mummy’s sake.”

  “But why should you be upset if I say that Ulysses looks like Dr. Fairbairn? Can’t people just look like other people? Tofu says that Larch looks like that Australian film actor—you know the one…”

  “I certainly don’t know any Australian film actors,” snapped Irene.

  “Well, he does, and he doesn’t get angry with people who say it. Why should people worry about their photograph going in the paper—unless it’s taken when they’re doing something rude?”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” said Irene. “You’re really going to have to follow the rules here, Bertie—and the rules say: don’t talk about how babies look; it just isn’t worth it. Do you understand, Bertie?”