Leonie looked thoughtful. “How about…Well, why don’t you invite that girl through there? What’s her name again?”
“You mean Pat?”
“Yes. Pat. Let’s invite her too. You said that she had had a bit of trouble. An Italian restaurant would cheer her up.”
Matthew looked out of the kitchen towards Pat’s room. Her door was closed. “I’m not sure,” he began. “She may not…”
“Just ask her,” Leonie interrupted. “She may be keen to come.”
Matthew felt that something odd was going on. A simple invitation to dinner, extended to Leonie, had been expanded to include her friend, Babs, and now was about to embrace Pat as well. Why was Leonie keen for Pat, whom she had barely met, to be included? Perhaps she was just being friendly, in the way in which Australians often are. Besides, they were, he remembered, inclusive people.
61. Beside the Canal
Cyril trotted along the canal, his head held high into the wind, his tail swinging jauntily behind him. On that section of the towpath, between the aqueduct and the turn-off for Colinton Village, there was nobody about, and the only sign of life was a family of eider ducks moving in and out of the reeds. Cyril stopped briefly to inspect the ducks, giving a low, warning bark. It would have been a fine thing to eat a duck, he thought; to sink his teeth into those soft breast-feathers and shake the annoying bird out of its complacency. But there was no time for that now. Scores like that could be settled once he had found Angus again, for that is what he yearned for, with all his heart. He had to find Angus.
After a few minutes, the path narrowed and now he felt hard stone beneath his feet. He slowed down and advanced cautiously. There were railings to his left, like the railings he knew in Drummond Place, but through these he could make out an emptiness, a falling away, a current of cool air; and on the air there was the smell of water, different from the smell of the canal, a fresher, sharper smell. He stood still for a moment, his nose twitching. This was something he recognised, something he remembered from a past which now survived only in scraps of memory. This was a smell that he had encountered on the Hebridean island where he had started his life, the scent of running water, of burns that had flowed through peat. And the river carried other things on it, which were familiar; traces of sheep, of lanolin from their wool, and the acrid odour of rats that had scurried over stones.
He continued on his journey. The river had not helped; it had been too powerful, too evocative, and the distant smells that had been drawing him on were even fainter now. But they still lay somewhere ahead of him, layered into a hundred other smells, and he knew that this was the direction in which he should go.
A short distance further along, Cyril came upon a group of boys. There were three of them standing by the edge of the canal, under the shelter of a footbridge, fishing rods extended out over the water, the lines dropping optimistically into the unruffled surface. Cyril liked boys for several reasons. He liked the way they smelled, which was always a little bit off, like a bone that had been left out on the grass for a day or two. Then he liked them because they were always prepared to play with dogs.
The boys looked at Cyril.
“Here’s a dug,” said Eck, a small boy with a slightly pointed head.
“What’s he doing?” asked Eck’s older brother, Jimmy. “Is he running away, do you think?”
“No,” said Bob. “There are some dugs just wander aboot. They dinnae belong to anybody. They’re just dugs.”
“I’ve always wanted a dug,” said Eck. “But my dad says I cannae have one until I’m sixteen.”
“You’ll never be sixteen,” said Bob. “You’re too wee. And that pointy heid of yours too. All the lassies will have a good laugh, so they will.”
The boys looked at Cyril, who sat down and wagged his tail encouragingly. He half-expected them to throw something for him, but they seemed unwilling to do this, and after a few minutes he decided that it was time to move on. He took a step forward, licked one of the boys on the hand, and continued with his journey.
There were more people now. A runner, panting with effort, came towards him and Cyril moved obediently to the side to let him past. Then a woman walking a small dog that cowered as Cyril approached. Cyril ignored the other dog; he had picked up that scent again, slightly stronger now, even if still distant. He began to move more quickly, ignoring the distractions that now crowded in upon him. He paid no attention to a practice scull that shot past him, the two rowers pulling at the oars in well-rehearsed harmony. He paid no attention to the swan that hissed at him from the water’s edge, its eyes and beak turned towards him in hostility.
There was a bridge, and traffic. Cyril stuck to the path that led under the bridge. He saw trees up ahead, great towering trees in autumnal colours, and behind them the sky that Cyril saw as just another place, a blue place that was always there, far away, never reached.
He turned his nose into the wind. It was stronger now, the smell that he had been following. It was somewhere close, he thought, and he slowed to walking pace.
A long boat, the restaurant boat Zazou, was tied up at the edge of the canal, opposite the boating shed. Cyril saw the ramp that came down from the deck. He sniffed. There was a strong odour of food, of meat; and there was that familiar smell, the one that he had smelled in Valvona & Crolla that day–when was it? He had no idea whether it was a long time ago, for dogs have no sense of past time, but he had smelled it in that place. The smell of sun-dried tomatoes.
He began to make his way up the ramp onto the boat, stopping at the top, on the edge of the deck. Below him was the entry into a cabin in which there were tables and chairs. A group of four people sat at one of these tables. There was food before them, and glasses, and they were talking and laughing. Cyril jumped down and landed in front of the open door. As he did so, the people at the table stopped talking and turned to stare at him.
“Would you believe it?” said a man at the far side of the table. “That dog’s got a gold tooth.”
“You’re right,” said a woman beside him. “What an extraordinary sight.”
A second man, who was sitting closest to the door, leaned forward to peer at Cyril.
“A gold tooth, did you say?” He stretched out a hand towards Cyril and clicked his fingers. “Come closer, boy.”
Cyril advanced slowly into the galley. As he did so, the man who had called him leaned further forward and patted his head gently.
“I know who you are,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen you in the Cumberland Bar, haven’t I? You’re Cyril, aren’t you? Angus Lordie’s dog. That’s who you are.”
62. Humiliation for Tofu
In Bertie’s classroom at the Steiner School, the talk was almost entirely of the forthcoming production of The Sound of Music. Miss Harmony’s casting decisions had not won universal approval; indeed, no choice of hers could possibly have secured that, given the fact that each of the girls wished to play the part of Maria and a good number of the boys had their heart set on being Captain von Trapp. The decision that Skye should be Maria at least forestalled an outcome that, by common consent, would have been disastrous–the casting of Olive in the principal role. Bertie’s nomination as Captain von Trapp was, by contrast, approved of by the girls, who were generally relieved that the part had not gone to Tofu; among the girls, only Olive was hostile to this choice. Although she admired Bertie and considered herself to be his girlfriend (in spite of Bertie’s vigorous denials of any such understanding), it was a bitter pill to swallow to see Bertie so favoured and herself relegated to a yet undisclosed minor role–possibly in the chorus of nuns. A better outcome, of course, would have been for her to be Liesl, the teenage girl who had a dalliance with Rolf, the telegram-delivery boy. That was a role she could have played with conviction and flair, but it had, for some inexplicable reason, been given to Pansy of all people. No boy, whether or not he delivered telegrams, would ever think of falling for Pansy, thought Olive. This was another example, in her view,
of Miss Harmony’s bad judgment. It was a good thing, she reflected, that Miss Harmony had become a teacher rather than a film director. Her career as a director would have been an utter failure, Olive imagined, and full of miscastings.
The one respect in which Olive felt that Miss Harmony had made a wise choice was the casting of Larch as a Nazi. That suited his personality very well, she thought, and she openly said as much.
“I’m glad that Larch is playing a Nazi,” said Olive loudly. “He’ll do that so well.”
Miss Harmony looked at her severely. “Now, Olive, what do you mean by that, may I ask?”
The other children were silent. All eyes were now on Olive.
“Well,” she said, “that’s what he’s like, isn’t he? He’s always threatening to hit people. And we all hate him. Even he knows that.”
Miss Harmony pursed her lips. “Olive,” she said, “Larch is a boy. Boys have different needs from girls. They sometimes need to assert themselves. We must be patient. Larch will learn in the fullness of time to control his aggressive urges, won’t you Larch?”
Larch did not hear the question. He was wondering when the first opportunity to hit Olive would arise.
“He needs to get in touch with his feminine side,” said Pansy suddenly. “My mother says that this helps boys.”
Miss Harmony nodded her agreement. Larch was indeed a problem, but for the moment there were further decisions to be made. The role of the Mother Superior, a comparatively important part, had to be allocated, and this, she feared, would provide further cause for disappointment.
“Lakshmi,” she said suddenly, “you shall be the Mother Superior. I’m sure that you will do that very well.”
“No, she won’t,” said Olive. “Lakshmi is a Hindu, Miss Harmony. The Mother Superior is a Roman Catholic.”
Miss Harmony sighed. “The fact that dear Lakshmi is a Hindu is neither here nor there, Olive,” she said. “The whole point of acting is that you pretend to be something you’re not. That’s what acting is all about.”
Olive was not to be so easily defeated. “But why are you getting girls to play the girls, and boys to play the boys? Why don’t you make Larch or Tofu be nuns?”
Miss Harmony looked at Tofu. It was very tempting. Making him a nun would certainly help him to get in touch with his feminine side. What a good idea. “Thank you, Olive,” she said quietly. “That’s a most constructive suggestion. We do have rather a lot of nuns, of course, but there certainly are one or two other roles that might be suitable for Tofu. There’s Baroness Schroeder. You may remember, children, that Captain von Trapp was engaged to a baroness when he first met Maria. Normally, when you are engaged to somebody that means you’re going to marry that person. But an engagement also gives you time to change your mind if you need to. So it sometimes happens that an engaged person meets somebody more suitable and decides to marry him or her. That’s what happened to Captain von Trapp. He realised that he preferred Maria to the Baroness and so he married Maria in the end. It was destined to be, boys and girls.”
Miss Harmony stopped. It was very romantic, she thought. She herself would love to meet somebody like Captain von Trapp, who would sweep her off her feet and marry her. But were there any such men in Edinburgh? Or, indeed, in Salzburg? Somehow she thought not.
She looked at the children. “So we need a Baroness Schroeder.” There was silence before she continued. Then: “And Tofu, dear, I think you could perhaps play that role.”
This was a bombshell, and its target, without doubt, was Tofu. “You see, boys and girls,” Miss Harmony went on, “there’s a long tradition of male actors playing female roles. In Shakespeare’s day, you know, all the parts were played by men and boys. So it’s nothing at all unusual for Tofu to be playing the Baroness Schroeder. I’m sure he will do it very well, won’t you, Tofu?”
Tofu opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
“Good,” said Miss Harmony, breezily. “So that’s settled then. Now, boys and girls, we must get on with some other work. We shall start rehearsing the play tomorrow. There’s no need to get costumes organised just yet. We’ll start with a read-through.”
Bertie felt acutely uncomfortable. He was not at all sure about being Captain von Trapp and he had his doubts about the read-through. Did Miss Harmony expect them actually to read their parts? Olive, he knew, was unable to read yet, as were Larch and Hiawatha. That was a problem. And then there was the question of Tofu’s playing the Baroness Schroeder. Somehow, he found it difficult to see that. It was true, perhaps, that some boys had their feminine side, but he did not think that Tofu was one of them.
63. Irene Spoils Things
When Irene heard that Bertie had been cast as Captain von Trapp, her initial scorn at the choice of the play was replaced by enthusiasm. She had always thought that Bertie had acting ability, and this pleased her, as did any sign of talent in her son–and there were many such signs, and always had been. She herself had little time for actors and actresses, whom she regarded as brittle personalities with a tendency to both narcissism and egoism, and she would certainly not want Bertie to think of a stage career. But it was, she felt, only right that his talent in this direction should have been spotted and that he should have been given such a major part.
“I am very happy indeed, Bertie,” she said as they walked down Scotland Street on the way back from school. “Not only did you do so well at that audition for the orchestra, but now here you are being given the lead role in the school play! Truly, your little cup doth run over, Bertie!”
Bertie looked at his mother. Everything she said, it seemed to him, was opaque or just wrong. He had told her that he did not want to be in the Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra, and for a very good reason, too. Bertie was six and everyone else would be at least thirteen. Why could his mother not understand that this would be a source of acute embarrassment for him? Why did she want him to do so many things, when all he wanted to do was to be allowed to play with other boys? And now here she was assuming that he was pleased to be Captain von Trapp in The Sound of Music, when all that this would do would be to bring down upon his head the undying hostility of Tofu, who believed the role to be his by right.
“Of course,” went on Irene, “The Sound of Music is not the play I would personally choose, but there we are, the choice is made, and we must support Miss Harmony, mustn’t we, Bertie? And, as it happens, Miss Harmony has made a very good choice in giving you the lead role. As long as you don’t actually believe in anything in the play, that will be fine.”
Bertie frowned. He was not sure of his mother’s point. Miss Harmony had told the class that The Sound of Music was based on a real story; that there had been a Captain von Trapp and a Maria and all the rest. Now here was his mother saying that none of it should be believed. It was all very puzzling.
“I thought it was a true story, Mummy,” said Bertie. “Miss Harmony said that the von Trapp family lived in America after they escaped from Austria. She said that they used to give concerts…”
“Oh yes,” said Irene dismissively. “That’s certainly so. But what I mean when I say that you shouldn’t believe in it is that you should be able to see that the story is utterly meretricious, Bertie. The Sound of Music is all about patriarchy and the subservient role of women. It’s a ghastly bit of romanticism. That’s all that Mummy meant.”
Bertie looked down at the pavement. He was not sure what meretricious meant, but it did not sound good. Melanie Klein, he assumed, would not have approved of The Sound of Music.
“I see that you’re puzzled, Bertie,” said Irene. “So let me explain. Captain von Trapp is an old-fashioned autocrat. That’s a new word for you, Bertie! He was very strict with his family. He blew a whistle and made them line up in order of height.”
“But maybe that was because he had been a sailor,” interrupted Bertie. “Sailors love whistles. Daddy told me that. He says that Mr O’Brian…”
Irene raised an admonitory finger. “We can lea
ve Patrick O’Brian out of this,” she said. “I know that Daddy likes to read his books. Silly Daddy. Patrick O’Brian appeals to men because he makes them think that they can escape from their responsibilities by going to sea. That is what the Navy is all about. And Mr O’Brian told a lot of fibs about himself, you know, Bertie. He told everybody that he was born in Ireland, whereas he wasn’t. He was an Englishman. Then he said that he went off to sea as a sixteen-year-old or whatever age it was, and sailed a boat with a friend. Such nonsense, Bertie! And it’s significant–isn’t it?–that he then wrote all those novels about that ridiculous Jack Aubrey sailing off with Dr Maturin, or whatever he was called. Writers just play out their fantasies in their books. They are often very unstable, tricky people, Bertie. Writers are usually very bad at real life and feel that they have to create imaginary lives to make up for it. And that was a bad case of it.”
Bertie stared at his mother. She spoils things, he thought. All she ever does is spoil things.
Irene stared back at Bertie. It was important that he should understand, she thought. There was no reason why a bright child like Bertie should not understand that all was not necessarily as it seemed. It was also important that he should be able to see male posturing for what it was.
“Men often do that sort of thing,” she continued. “You won’t have heard of him, Bertie, but there was another case in which a writer pretended to be somebody else. There was a man called Grey Owl, who lived in Canada. He pretended to be a North American Indian and he wrote all sorts of books about living in the forests. And he wore Red Indian outfits, too–feathers and the like. He must have looked so ridiculous, silly man! He wrote all these books which were about the customs of the Ojibwe Indians and the like, but all the time he was really an Englishman called Archie Belaney, or something like that!” She paused. “But this is taking us rather far away from The Sound of Music, Bertie.”
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