The Bertie Project

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Bertie was silent. “Sorry, Mummy.”

  Irene bent down and kissed the top of his head. “That’s all right, Bertie. Just don’t do it again, please. And here’s another thing, don’t mention that you and I met Dr. Fairbairn. Let’s just keep that as our little secret.”

  “And only tell Daddy?” asked Bertie. “It could be secret to everyone else, but not to Daddy.”

  Irene drew a deep breath. “No, Bertie. Let’s not get Daddy involved in this. Daddy doesn’t need to know about Dr. Fairbairn. He’s nothing to do with Daddy.”

  Bertie looked down at the floor. “Whatever you say, Mummy.”

  “Well, that’s what I say. So let’s just get on with our day. In an hour or so you’ll be going to Granny—with Ulysses, so let’s just get little Ulysses ready. What colour of sweater should we dress him in today? What do you think, Bertie?”

  “White,” said Bertie. “Or maybe white and yellow.”

  “White and yellow? Why those colours, Bertie?”

  “So that it won’t show when he’s sick.”

  Ulysses was dressed and in due course he and Bertie were taken round to Nicola’s flat by Stuart, Irene preferring to minimise contact with her mother-in-law. Bertie was relieved that Stuart made no enquiry as to what they had done that morning. Had he been asked, he would have had to answer truthfully and he sensed that Dr. Fairbairn was not somebody his father wanted to talk about. It would be far simpler, Bertie felt, for the psychotherapist to stay in Aberdeen until such time, of course, as he was committed to Carstairs. Perhaps they could take Ulysses to visit him once he was there; perhaps they had a padded visitors’ room where they could have tea together, with nurses ready to seize Dr. Fairbairn should he start to talk about dreams. Ulysses, of course, would not understand, but Bertie would explain it all to him once he learned English. And that did not seem to be happening too quickly; perhaps Ulysses was a Gaelic-speaking baby and some of the sounds he had been making were really Gaelic. Bertie had worked out that if there were roughly fifty-seven thousand speakers of Gaelic in Scotland out of a total population of just over five million, then the chance of a baby being Gaelic-speaking was one in eighty-seven. It may be unlikely that Ulysses was Gaelic-speaking, but it was, he thought, at least possible.

  Nicola gave them her usual warm welcome. “How fortunate I am to have them both this afternoon,” she said to Stuart as she opened the door of her Northumberland Street flat.

  “Well,” said Stuart, “I hope it won’t be too much.”

  “I’m sure Bertie will help me,” said Nicola, smiling at her grandson.

  “Of course I shall, Granny,” said Bertie. “And I don’t think Ulysses will be difficult. He only screams and is sick when Mummy tries to pick him up. He’s fine with other people.”

  Nicola glanced at Stuart, who did not react.

  “Well, here we all are,” she said once Stuart had left. “Perhaps we can start off with a little sleep for Ulysses. Look, his little eyes are closing—it’s certainly rest time for him.”

  With Ulysses off to his rest, Nicola and Bertie settled down to a game of Monopoly. Bertie enjoyed this game, which Irene did not allow him to play on the grounds that it encouraged a rentier outlook.

  “So,” said Nicola, as she dealt out the crisp notes that made up each player’s capital, “what did we do this morning, Bertie?”

  Bertie hesitated. He never lied and he did not want to start by lying to his grandmother. If he were to do that, then he would rapidly become like Tofu, or Olive, or indeed Pansy, all of whom lied without compunction.

  “We went to Glass & Thompson,” he said. “You know the place, Granny? That place on the corner of Dundas Street?”

  “Oh, I know it, Bertie. How nice. You and Mummy and wee Ulysses?”

  “Yes.” He was not going to tell any untruths, but he would not volunteer information.

  Then came the question he had been dreading. “And who did you see there, Bertie?”

  Bertie swallowed hard. “We saw a friend of Mummy’s,” he said, hoping that this answer would end his grandmother’s questioning.

  “Oh?” said Nicola. “And what was her name?”

  Bertie fixed his eyes on the Monopoly board. “It wasn’t a her, Granny. It was a him.”

  Nicola picked up the dice shaker. “Really, Bertie? Who was it then?”

  “It’s a person called Dr. Fairbairn. He’s a psychotherapist. He keeps asking people about their dreams.”

  Nicola shook the dice, but did not spill them on the board. The rattle was like a drum-roll that precedes a theatrical revelation.

  “Dr. Fairbairn?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “And you know something, Granny—Ulysses looks just like him. And you should have seen Ulysses when he saw him—he went…” He searched for the right word. “He went ballistic, Granny. He really liked him.”

  The rattle of the dice grew louder. “Did he, Bertie?”

  “Yes. And I think he started to talk. I’m not absolutely sure, but I think he did.”

  “Oh yes, Bertie? And what did Ulysses say?”

  Bertie told her.

  Extreme Sports

  Bruce had not been seen in the Cumberland Bar for a few weeks, having spent most of his spare time with Clare, who had different haunts. She, however, had gone to London for a couple of days to meet up with friends from Western Australia, leaving Bruce to his own devices. At a loose end, Bruce had drifted down the hill from his flat in Abercromby Place and found himself in the bar a few minutes before Matthew arrived. Matthew was due to meet Angus Lordie, whom he had not seen since his defenestration; he himself had not been in the Cumberland for some time because of domestic pressures following the storming out of their two Danish au pairs. Elspeth was coping, but only just, and Matthew was trying to get home before four each afternoon in order to make it easier for his wife.

  Elspeth was understanding. “You have to have a bit of a life yourself,” she said. “When did you last go to the Cumberland?”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Matthew. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  But she was insistent. “Go on Friday evening. Treat yourself. I’ll come in and collect you at eight. I’ve got Mrs. Macildownie coming that evening—she’ll look after the boys.”

  He had accepted, and after closing the gallery at six had walked down the hill to the bar on the corner of Dundonald Street and Cumberland Street; he had agreed to meet Angus at six thirty.

  Bruce greeted him effusively. “So, Matthew,” he enthused. “Where have you been?”

  Matthew stared at Bruce. There was something different about him, but it took him a few moments to work out what it was. Then it dawned on him. Bruce had become a hipster.

  “Bruce,” he said. “You’ve…you’ve signed up to hipsterdom.”

  Bruce frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Your gear. Those jeans.”

  Bruce grinned—in a slightly forced way.

  “Change of style, Matt,” he said.

  “Can you walk in those?” Matthew asked, pointing to the jeans.

  “Ha, ha!” said Bruce.

  “I wouldn’t bend over,” continued Matthew. “Not if I were you. Something might give.”

  Bruce ignored this. “So where have you been?”

  Matthew explained about the departure of the two Danes. “They were becoming increasingly difficult,” he said. “Especially Birgitte. She had a real attitude problem.”

  Bruce laughed. “Tell me about it. I’ve known Danish girls before. They have major issues.”

  Matthew sighed. “I rather liked them to begin with, but then…somehow it changed.”

  Bruce shook his head. “Hopeless.”

  Matthew remembered about Clare. “I hear you’ve got a new…”

  “A new main squeeze,” said Bruce, smiling. “Yes. She’s an Aussie.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Matthew. “And I gather she’s…quite a girl.”

  Bru
ce winked at him. “You can say that again, Mattie. Still, can’t complain.”

  Matthew smiled. Bruce was so predictable. And he spoke in clichés—ancient clichés, for the most part. Did anybody still refer to their partners as main squeezes?

  “Is it true she’s into extreme sports?”

  Bruce nodded. “She’s a great skier. Off-piste, of course. She’s going to take me heli-skiing in Canada next winter. You go to places nobody’s ever skied before. None of your Whistler stuff—this is serious Rockies.”

  Matthew was a cautious skier. He had skied at Aviemore and once or twice in France, but the idea of heli-skiing in the Rockies struck him as highly risky.

  “We’re going up to Skye soon,” said Bruce. “We’re going to be doing some para-mountain-biking. It’s the latest thing, apparently.”

  “Para-mountain-biking?”

  “Yes. You have a mountain bike and it’s fitted with a sort of flexible wing device—like a hang-glider wing. When you ride downhill you can launch yourself as if you’re launching a hang-glider.”

  Matthew was puzzled. “But the bike…”

  “It’s strapped to you—so you can use it to land again and ride off.”

  Matthew was wide-eyed. “Have you done it before?”

  “No,” said Bruce.

  “And Clare? Has she done it?”

  “Not as such,” said Bruce. “But she’s got a video of it and she’s going to get somebody to show us. Then it’s off to the Cuillins for us.”

  He ordered a beer.

  “And tell me, Matt,” he said. “Are you getting somebody to replace the Danish girls?”

  “I hope so,” said Matthew. “We’re going to go to an au pair agency. They fix you up. There are lots of Spanish girls looking for jobs these days. Jobs are pretty tight in Spain.”

  “A consequence of the new German Empire,” said Bruce.

  “I’m keen to learn Spanish,” Matthew continued. “If we get a Spaniard, then she can give me Spanish conversation lessons.”

  Bruce looked thoughtful. “It’s just occurred to me,” he said. “Clare is looking for something. She doesn’t have a job at the moment.”

  “Do you think she’d like to help Elspeth?”

  “I don’t see why not. She was complaining about not having enough to do.” He paused. “She wouldn’t need to be paid a lot—she gets money from her old man in Australia each month. He’s loaded.”

  Matthew was cautious. “Has she had experience with children?”

  Bruce answered without hesitation. “Yes. In fact, she was training to be a physical education teacher and then she moved on to something else.”

  “What happened?”

  Bruce was vague. “Oh, she just moved on.”

  It was at this point that Angus Lordie came in with Cyril. News of his defenestration had spread, and there was a cheer from many in the bar when he entered. Angus acknowledged the compliment with a small bow. Cyril barked.

  Bruce bought Angus a whisky and signalled to the barman to pour a dish of non-alcoholic beer for Cyril.

  “Well, Angus,” said Matthew. “That was a narrow escape, I gather.”

  Angus nodded. “I never thought I’d be defenestrated,” he said. “But who would? I imagine that everybody who’s ever been defenestrated must think that it could never happen to him.”

  “Well, wrong,” said Bruce. “You think accidents are for other people? Wrong! They’re for you as well.”

  Matthew thought of para-mountain-biking. There must be at least some risk attached to that. How many para-mountain-bikers made it to the bottom? he wondered. Did Bruce know the answer? Did anybody?

  Angus raised his glass to Bruce. “Sláinte,” he said.

  “Chin-chin,” said Bruce. And to Angus, he said, “Happy landings!”

  Angus glanced at Matthew. “You know, I had the most extraordinary dreams when I was out for the count. I thought I was at my own funeral at St. John’s on Princes Street. I heard my eulogy, I heard the pipes playing Mist-covered Mountains. I saw Cyril sitting outside, looking dejected.”

  Matthew said nothing.

  “Mist-covered Mountains,” said Bruce. “Jeez, I love that tune. It gets me here—right here, every time.” He pointed to his chest.

  “It’s left me feeling different,” said Angus. “About everything.” He hesitated. “Well not absolutely everything. But I’ve changed my views on conceptual art. On the Turner Prize, for instance.”

  “And the Venice Biennale?” asked Matthew.

  “Yes,” said Angus. “That too.”

  “And?” asked Matthew.

  “I’m in favour of the whole thing,” said Angus. “It’s as if scales have fallen from my eyes.”

  Wrong, thought Matthew. It’s you who’s fallen. You fell from a window, not scales from your eyes.

  “Are you telling me,” Matthew asked. “Are you telling me that you approve of all that pretentious banality?”

  “It’s not banal,” said Angus. “It’s exciting. It’s challenging. And a great deal of it’s happening right here in Scotland. New, ground-breaking stuff.”

  And with that, Matthew realised how profound was the damage his friend had suffered.

  Among the Watsonians

  “Today’s a very important day,” announced Bertie to Irene as their bus, the 23, bound ultimately for Morningside, laboured up the Mound. As a concession to Bertie, Irene had agreed that they could sit on the top deck, where they were afforded a view of Princes Street Gardens, of the Castle, and, to the north, of the New Town’s eccentric skyline—a vista of spikes and crenellations and the distant hills of Fife.

  Irene was attending to Ulysses, who was struggling to free himself from her grip, and she only half-heard what Bertie said.

  “A what sort of day, Bertie?”

  “An important day, Mummy,” repeated Bertie. “We’re going to hear about the school play. We’re going to hear what Miss Campbell has chosen for us.”

  “Oh yes,” said Irene. “And what are the possibilities, Bertie?”

  “She says it will probably be Shakespeare.”

  Irene rolled her eyes. “How very contemporary,” she muttered.

  “I’d like to do The Merchant of Venice, Mummy. Have you heard of that one?”

  “I have, Bertie. And I suppose it has some sort of message for us in view of the banking crisis, but I do wish they’d choose something with bite.”

  Bertie asked his mother what she would prefer, and she waved a hand airily. “There are plenty of plays you might attempt, Bertie. There’s a play about the unequal division of wealth in Scotland—The Cheviot, the Stag, and the Black, Black Oil. That speaks to inequality. I’m sure that they could do a simplified version for children.” She paused for a moment. “That’s just one; there are many other socially engaged plays.”

  Bertie looked out of the window. He was hoping for something with a bit of excitement in it. He had heard, for instance, of Peter Pan, and he rather liked the plot. He would have liked to be Captain Hook if at all possible, although he imagined that Tofu would try to get that role. He could be Peter Pan himself, of course, or one of the Lost Boys. And there was a dog in the play, too, a large sheepdog called Nana. He would love to be in a play with a dog. Perhaps Angus Lordie’s dog Cyril might audition for that role.

  “Have you heard of Peter Pan, Mummy?” he asked.

  Irene gave a dismissive snort. “Sentimental nonsense,” she said. “The product of an infantile imagination, Bertie. Barrie himself clearly never grew up.”

  “But it has pirates in it,” said Bertie. “And a crocodile.”

  “Highly unlikely, Bertie,” said Irene.

  Bertie looked out of the window again. Edinburgh seemed so safe, and it was precisely this that may have lulled his mother into an unrealistic view of the world; there were pirates and crocodiles; they may not be juxtaposed, but there was no doubt about their existence.

  Bertie waved goodbye to his mother at the school gate. U
nlike most children, Bertie was not embarrassed by his parents, and he tolerated even his mother’s more extreme tendencies. This was a product partly of his good nature and partly of the realisation that other people’s parents were objectively far more embarrassing than his. Tofu’s father, for instance, a well-known figure in Scottish vegan circles, drove his son to school in a car that had been converted to run on olive oil, with the result that it belched olive-scented exhaust fumes as it stuttered its way up Spylaw Road. He also wore strange clothes, most of which were made from hemp and dyed with turmeric and other natural substances. Tofu was in denial of these paternal characteristics and resorted to the simple expedient of spitting on anybody who made any reference to them.

  Olive’s mother was arguably even worse. She wore a Che Guevara T-shirt, the same T-shirt she had possessed since her student days, and only changed it to don another faded garment bearing a photograph of Mao Tse-tung. That was a matter of some awkwardness for Olive, but any embarrassment she felt paled in comparison with that felt by her friend Pansy, whose father never appeared at any school function in anything but his kilt and a white-horsehair sporran and whose mother, who bore a strong resemblance to the late Marilyn Monroe, habitually wore a pink shift dress with slits up the side.

  Just a block or so away was George Watson’s College. Physical proximity, though, could not disguise the gulf that existed between the Steiner and Watson’s parents. The Steiner parents often walked their children to school, or accompanied them on self-propelled scooters, whereas the Watson’s parents drove their children to school and later collected them in Range Rovers, many of which were identical in colour. This had consequences in that it was only too easy for the parents to get into the wrong Range Rover once they had retrieved their offspring and then drive off quite unaware of the mistake they had made. Of course, this did not matter too much, as the other parents would simply climb into what they imagined was their Range Rover and indeed might never discover what had happened. It was widely known in Edinburgh that there were at least twelve Range Rovers in the hands of the wrong Watsonian parents, and one Range Rover in particular had been driven by no fewer than five sets of parents before anybody discovered the mistake.