The Importance of Being Seven

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Bertie looked puzzled. ‘What sort of thing, Mummy?’

  ‘Oh, all this business of kilts and the like,’ said Irene. ‘It’s sentimental nonsense. If you go to the real heart of Scotland, Bertie, to the factories where people make things, then you don’t see kilts, I assure you.’

  Bertie was intrigued. He was conscious of the fact that he was Scottish, but he was not quite sure what that meant. Did it merely mean that he had been born in Scotland – did that make you Scottish? Or was it something else? And as for these factories, they sounded intriguing, but where were they? ‘Where are these factories, Mummy? Have you ever been to them?’

  Irene did not answer for a moment. ‘They’re in Glasgow, Bertie. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that dressing up in kilts hardly solves the problems of the day, does it? Anybody can put on a kilt, but that changes nothing, does it?’

  Bertie wanted to say, maybe they feel better in a kilt, but something in his mother’s expression told him that this would not be helpful. He would wear a kilt when he was eighteen, he decided. His mother would not be able to stop him then, and anyway, he would be living in Glasgow by then. He would move to Glasgow on the day after his eighteenth birthday. He would stay in Edinburgh on the actual birthday, to lull his mother into a false sense of security, but on the very next day he would move to Glasgow. He would learn how to speak Glaswegian – he would buy a book to help him do that – and he would only come back to Edinburgh once a year, or once every other year perhaps. That all lay ahead.

  Uniforms were anathema to Irene, but her objections to the cub scouts went deeper than that. These had not been expressed to Bertie – other than in a rather vague, disapproving way – but had been articulated very clearly to Stuart.

  ‘Your insistence that Bertie should be allowed to continue with this scouting nonsense is really very unhelpful,’ she had said to her husband. ‘You know my feelings on the matter, and yet you went and told him that it was all right. Well, it’s not all right, Stuart. It really isn’t.’

  Stuart looked out of the window. The matter had been raised in the kitchen, where he and Irene were sitting with a glass of wine while they waited for a pot of potatoes to boil. Bertie was in his room, practising his saxophone.

  ‘But he loves it,’ said Stuart. ‘You’ve seen his face when he gets ready on Fridays. He obviously has a whale of a time.’

  Stuart continued to gaze out of the window. In the evening sky above the city, the sun had touched a bank of high cumulus with reddish-gold; behind that, the thin white line of a jet’s vapour trail, heading west, high over Scotland. Stuart imagined the people in the jet, in their tube of metal, hurtling through the attenuated air at thirty thousand feet. He imagined the pilots, sitting in front of their glowing instruments, thinking the thoughts that pilots think. What a fine career it must be; one would see one’s wife so infrequently – three days out of seven, perhaps. Or if one were on long-haul duty, perhaps even a whole week might go past before one saw her. That was if one was a man, he corrected himself quickly. There were women pilots, of course, and they would see their husbands – or their partners, Stuart again corrected himself – equally infrequently. Indeed, if two pilots married, or entered into a civil partnership – Stuart corrected himself yet again – then they might never see one another at all. It would all be a question of rotas and their adjustment; and surely the airlines would be sympathetic to a request to arrange duties in such a way that one never had to see one’s wife. Surely they would understand …

  ‘Stuart? Are you with me here? Or are you in one of your dissociative states?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  ‘I was saying that it’s a matter of real regret that you interfered over this scouting issue.’

  Stuart frowned. ‘Interfered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her. When I’m fifty, he thought, I’m going to go and live in Glasgow. By myself. On my fiftieth birthday. On the very day.

  23. The Insouciance of Tofu

  That Friday evening, Bertie was ready for cub scouts at least half an hour before he was due to travel up to Holy Corner on the 23 bus. They were going to play games that evening; Akela had promised that, and Bertie was excited. He would have liked to play games more often, perhaps even at home, but it seemed that there was little time for such things, what with yoga sessions in Stockbridge, his psychotherapy with Dr St Clair, Italian conversazione with his mother, and his saxophone lessons with Mr Morrison. He had asked his mother whether he could give up at least some of these things, but she had been unwilling.

  ‘But you love all the things that Mummy plans for you, Bertie!’ she replied. ‘All of them. You have such fun, and you’ll thank me, Bertie, when you’re a big boy. You’ll thank Mummy for making … helping you to do all these things.’

  Bertie did not think that he would, but his natural politeness prevented him from saying it. He also knew that there was no point in arguing. His mother was so sure of everything; other people’s parents, Bertie had noticed, seemed to be less certain about things. Hiawatha, for example, had told him that his parents could make their minds up about nothing, and were even uncertain as to whether or not to get up in the morning. ‘Sometimes my mother lies in bed all day,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, Bertie, but it’s true. She doesn’t get up. She lies there all day, drinking cups of tea and smoking. Not ordinary tobacco. Some health stuff she likes.’

  Bertie thought for a moment. He was glad that he was not Hiawatha – who had other problems – but he wondered if his own mother could be persuaded to stay in bed longer. If she did, then he could perhaps go outside and see if there were any boys to play with in Drummond Square Gardens. He had seen a group of boys there once, throwing sticks at each other, and had longed to join them. But his mother had forbidden him, and he had only been able to look on wistfully.

  If Bertie had his way, the first thing he would have got rid of was yoga. The class that he attended, Yoga for Tots, had, to begin with, an insulting name. Bertie was not the oldest member of this class – there were one or two children coming up to their eighth birthday – but he still felt that it was inappropriate for him to be attending something that professed itself to be for tots.

  ‘I fully understand, Bertie,’ said his mother. ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Naidu about the name, but she says that it’s not intended to be insulting. The purpose of calling it Yoga for Tots is to demonstrate that you’re never too young to begin yoga. She said that we are all children, anyway, in the eyes of Krishna. And I can see what she means, can’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Bertie. He had heard Mrs Naidu refer to Krishna from time to time, but he had never found out exactly who he was. Now, when he asked his mother, she was uncharacteristically vague. ‘Krishna’s a concept, Bertie. Not a real person. Religious people often give names to feelings they have about things. Mummy, as you know, rather sides with Professor Dawkins on these things. But there we are. I’m sure that Mrs Naidu knows in her own head what she’s talking about.’

  Bertie had left the matter at that; perhaps Professor Dawkins was a concept too, and Melanie Klein as well. He decided to try a different tack. ‘Anyway, Mummy, I think that some people in the class are too young. What about that little boy who got himself all tied up in a knot and nobody knew how to untie him? He was only three, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That was an unfortunate incident,’ said Irene. ‘But it was exceptional.’

  ‘Is he dead, do you think?’ asked Bertie.

  Irene laughed. ‘Oh, Bertie, don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’s not dead. He would have been perfectly all right. He just got a bit stuck. We can all get a bit stuck now and then.’

  And it was the same with psychotherapy. Bertie had suggested to his mother that he might give up his weekly psychotherapy session with Dr St Clair. ‘It would save a lot of money,’ he pointed out. ‘And just think, Mummy, we could go to Valvona & Crolla and spend it. Or you could sp
end it all yourself – I wouldn’t mind.’

  Irene laughed. ‘But that’s not the point, Bertie. It’s not the money – it’s the benefit that you’re getting from seeing nice Dr St Clair. He’s helping you a lot, you know. He’s helping to make sure that you make the right decisions. He’s helping you to understand things – to grow up without neuroses. That’s what that’s all about, Bertie.’ She paused. ‘And you’re a lucky little boy to have this opportunity. There are quite a few young people who could do with the help of somebody like Dr St Clair but who aren’t getting it.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Well, Tofu, for one. There’s a young man who needs a bit of help to control his aggressive urges.’

  Bertie had to agree; not that he could say it. He did not think, though, that Dr St Clair would be a match for Tofu, who was robustly defiant of any authority, the one quality of his that Bertie secretly admired, of course. If Bertie had been Tofu, then his mother would not be able to push him around quite so much, he thought. Tofu would never agree to go to yoga and would resolutely refuse to play the saxophone or to speak Italian. The saxophone he derided by making a vulgar noise by putting the back of his hand to his mouth and blowing loudly.

  ‘That’s what you sound like on the saxophone, Bertie,’ he crowed. ‘Recognise the sound?’ And when the subject of Italian had come up, ‘Macaroni,’ was what he said, adding, ‘Spaghetti! Hah!’

  Bertie had tried to put hah! at the end of his sentences, as Tofu did, but he found that it did not sound quite the same in his mouth; there was none of the insouciance that Tofu managed so easily and with such apparently effortless insolence. It did not do to say ‘Yes, Mummy, hah!’ – the hah lost all its effect, somehow.

  Tofu was a member of Bertie’s cub scout pack too, as was his arch-enemy, Olive. And that was difficult. Indeed, Tofu had already spoken to Bertie about that evening’s meeting.

  ‘There’s going to be trouble, Bertie,’ he said. ‘I can feel it coming.’ Then he added, ‘Hah!’

  24. Some Sophisticated Colours

  They were marshalled in their sixes – the red six, the violet six, the ochre six, and so on. Not many cub scout packs had an ochre six or even a violet six – at least not many outside Edinburgh; most packs went in for primary colours for their six names, but this was Edinburgh, after all, and Morningside too, and more sophisticated colours were permissible. Bertie was in the red six, along with Tofu, Olive, and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, a small boy with spindly legs, who stood in awe of Tofu and, to a slightly lesser extent, of Olive.

  ‘We’re going to have a lot of fun this evening,’ said Rosemary Gold, clapping her hands to get everybody’s attention. ‘And we have two new members. Yes, two!’

  She turned to a boy and a girl standing awkwardly beside her. ‘This is Fergus,’ she said, pointing to the boy. ‘And this is Chloë. Fergus will be in the ochre six, and Chloë will be in the reds. Isn’t that nice now?’

  Tofu, standing beside Bertie, let out a groan, followed by a mumbled comment.

  ‘Did you say something, Tofu?’ asked Mrs Gold. ‘Did I hear you say welcome? That’s what I heard, I’m sure.’

  Olive raised her hand. ‘He didn’t, Akela,’ she said. ‘He made a noise like this. Then he said: “Not another girl!” That’s what he said.’

  Tofu glowered at Olive before turning to face the cub mistress. His face, like his flat denial, was filled with the innocence of the falsely accused. ‘I didn’t say anything,’ he protested. ‘Did I, Bertie?’

  Olive looked at Bertie. ‘You tell her, Bertie,’ she whispered. ‘And don’t lie. You know what happens if you lie. Your pants go on fire.’

  Bertie swallowed hard. Unlike Olive, who enjoyed denouncing wrongdoing, he did not like to inform. But nor did he like to lie. It was not that he feared the consequences threatened by Olive – that was an empty threat, as Bertie had heard Tofu lie regularly and had never seen him engulfed in flames below the belt. When he had pointed this out to Olive, though, she had dismissed his objection with the observation that Tofu wore special flame-proof pants – that was well known. ‘They call them fibbers’ trousers,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘They’re more expensive, but they stop your pants going on fire when you lie. Tofu’s father buys them on the internet because he knows that Tofu can’t wear ordinary pants because of all the fibs he tells. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Bertie – he’s meant to be your friend.’

  ‘We don’t need to involve Bertie in this, Tofu,’ said Rosemary Gold. ‘All I have to say is this – Chloë is very welcome, and we’re all thrilled to have her in the pack, aren’t we, Tofu?’

  Tofu looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, Akela.’

  ‘He’s crossing his fingers,’ shouted Olive. ‘I saw him, Akela! He crossed his fingers when he said that. That means he doesn’t mean what he says.’

  Rosemary Gold chose, quite wisely, to ignore this. For his part, Bertie tried to be helpful. ‘She can stand next to me, Akela,’ he offered.

  ‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ said Mrs Gold, pushing Chloë towards her new six. ‘You’ll be very happy in the reds, Chloë. Bertie, at least, is a very kind boy.’

  The new recruits now integrated, it was time for the evening’s business to begin in earnest. ‘Does anybody know what this is?’ said Rosemary Gold, holding up a round metal object.

  ‘A compass,’ called out Bertie.

  Mrs Gold nodded. ‘Indeed it is. And what does a compass do? Does anybody know?’

  Bertie, of course, knew, but did not wish to claim all the limelight. So he was silent.

  ‘It tells us something, doesn’t it?’ prompted Rosemary Gold. ‘What does it tell us, boys and girls?’

  Bertie looked about him, and realised that he would have to speak. ‘It depends on what sort of compass it is,’ he ventured. ‘A magnetic compass tells us where north and south are.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rosemary Gold. ‘And I don’t think there are any other sorts, are there, Bertie?’

  ‘There’s a moral compass,’ said Bertie. ‘I haven’t seen one ever, but I’ve read about it in the newspaper. The Prime Minister says he’s got one.’

  Rosemary Gold suppressed a smile. ‘Well now, Bertie,’ she said. ‘I believe you’re right. But we’ve never really seen a picture of the Prime Minister’s moral compass, have we?’ She paused. ‘Perhaps it’s in Kirkcaldy. And I’m not sure if he’s the only one who’s got one. Maybe we’ve all got a moral compass tucked away inside us, you know.’ She looked at Tofu as she spoke – she could not help it; that was where her gaze went. ‘But enough of that, boys and girls! Let’s get on with our exciting little compass game. It’s called North by North-East.’

  The rules of the game were carefully explained. Everyone was to have a turn at holding the compass and then looking in a particular direction. They were then to identify one object that lay along that bearing. Then the compass was passed to another, a bearing would be called out, and the children had to rush in the direction of whatever object had been associated with that direction. The object would be touched, and the one who touched it first would have the opportunity to hold the compass when the next set of objects was identified.

  It was a thrilling game, played with exuberance. At the end of the session, when minor wounds had been dressed and Rosemary Gold had adjudicated on Olive’s complaint that Tofu had pulled her hair and spat at her in the rush to touch a chair at the end of the hall, the compass was put away and the children were all given a sealed envelope to take back to their parents.

  ‘This is a very important letter,’ explained Rosemary Gold. ‘It’s about an exciting thing that we’re planning for you and that I think you’re going to enjoy very much indeed! But we won’t talk about it just yet, as it’s often better to keep some things until nearer the time. It’s a bit like saving the best bit of cake until later.’

  The envelopes were handed out to the children and the meeting came to an end with the singing of a cub scout
song, ‘Always share the camp fire with the ones who are behind you’. Bertie glanced at his envelope as he sang. There was a label stuck on it which said, To the parent or guardian. Bertie looked up at the ceiling. It did not say which parent the letter was to be given to, which meant, he felt, that he had a choice. It would be safer, perhaps, to give it to his father, as he was more likely to say yes to whatever proposal the letter contained. But it would be even safer, he thought, to read the letter before he passed it on at all. There was nothing on the envelope to say that one could not open it before passing it on to the parent or guardian, and Bertie had once read somewhere that what was not forbidden was permissible. You can do what you like unless you can’t, he thought. It was the sort of thing that a moral compass would say, perhaps.

  25. 100 Things for a Boy to Do: Part 1

  Bertie was collected at the end of the cub scout meeting by his father and together they travelled back to Dundas Street on the top deck of the bus.

  ‘Another exciting evening, Bertie?’ asked Stuart.

  Bertie nodded.

  Stuart smiled encouragingly at his son. ‘And did anything happen?’

  This was the question that Bertie had been dreading. The usual answer of most children to such a question from a parent is that nothing happened – the lives of children, by self-report, are barren and empty, quite devoid of incident. Nothing happens, nobody says anything, and indeed nobody is present at any function they attend. By the same rule of infantile omertà, nothing is learned at school, where the resolute silence of the classroom is never punctuated by any observation on anything. By contrast, the telephone conversations of children – among themselves – reveal lives crowded with incident, with high drama and intrigue, with passions and plots.

  Bertie was not like this. He usually gave a reasonably full account of what happened, censoring only those lurid details that he thought would be an undue shock to parental ears, particularly those of his mother. Thus he had never told his mother about Tofu’s habit of spitting at others, nor of the small-scale numbers racket that his friend ran in the playground at school. Bertie felt outrage over that, because he knew that it was essentially criminal: Tofu more or less bullied everybody to put part of their pocket money into a pool, the winner taking the entire proceeds. All the participants had to pick a number between one and fifteen – there were fifteen members of Bertie’s class – and then Tofu would announce which number won that week. The problem, though, was that it was Tofu who picked the winning number, and he only revealed it after everybody had chosen their number.