The Importance of Being Seven

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘Tofu’s dad’s too weak to do anything any more,’ Olive whispered to Bertie. ‘He’s a vegan, you see.’

  Bertie looked anxiously at Tofu, who fortunately had not heard.

  ‘It’s true,’ Olive continued sotto voce. ‘Have you seen him when he comes to collect Tofu at the school gate? The only reason why Tofu’s still alive is that he steals so many sandwiches at school. Otherwise he’d be just like his dad. Just about dead.’

  ‘My mummy says that Tofu’s dad is fine,’ pointed out Bertie. ‘She said he’s very healthy.’

  Olive looked pityingly at Bertie. ‘You shouldn’t believe what adults say, Bertie. I’m surprised that you don’t know that already. Most adults lie. It’s a well-known fact.’

  This conversation had been cut short by Miss Maclaren Hope. ‘This is very interesting, Tofu. Old motorcycles are intricate pieces of machinery and this wheel shows us just how beautifully they were made. It’s very heavy, though, so do be careful when you roll it about. And what does this tell us, boys and girls?’

  ‘You need two of them,’ said Hiawatha. ‘One’s no good.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Miss Maclaren Hope. ‘That is undoubtedly true. Motorcycles have two wheels and cars have … How many wheels do cars have, boys and girls?’

  So the session continued. And now it was Bertie’s turn, and he was having difficulty in thinking of what he could bring to Show and Tell. Tofu’s wheel had been a great success, as had the crystal radio. Bertie’s problem was that he felt that there was nothing of interest in his house. There were no machines and the books, which mostly belonged to his mother, were mainly by Melanie Klein. Bertie did not want to bring any of those in. Nor did he feel that he could bring in his contraband Scouting for Boys by Baden-Powell. That book was too precious, and he feared that it might be confiscated on the grounds that it advocated the carrying of knives. So what was there left to bring?

  Then it occurred to him. Ulysses. He could bring his baby brother. Why not? There was lot that could be said about Ulysses.

  37. Political Crisis

  Untoward incidents are often the result of a series of misunderstandings. In this case, the first misunderstanding arose out of a remark that Bertie dropped into a conversation with his mother while he was accompanying her along Cumberland Street on a walk to Stockbridge. Would it be possible, he asked, for him to take Ulysses to school one day to show him to everybody there? Irene, who was conducting a conversation on her mobile phone at the time – she was talking to the organiser of Bertie’s yoga classes – only listened to Bertie with half an ear, if that, and replied that of course it would be all right. Ulysses always travelled with her on the 23 bus when she went to collect Bertie in the afternoon, and she assumed that Bertie had in mind her arriving slightly early and taking the baby in to be introduced.

  Bertie had not meant that. He had envisaged taking Ulysses in by himself. His brother could then be looked after in the classroom until it was time to go home. This would give him a feeling for the Steiner School, he thought, and would provide more than enough for Bertie to talk about in the Show and Tell.

  He then asked: ‘May I take him in myself, Mummy?’

  And Irene, who was now not listening at all, replied: ‘Of course, Bertie, of course.’

  It was in this way that the whole unfortunate series of events was set on course. There was no real fault on either side: Bertie thought that he had been given permission to take Ulysses to school, and Irene thought that she had merely promised that she would one day take him for a brief visit to the classroom. And there the misunderstanding might have remained, had it not been for a further bit of confusion, this time involving Stuart.

  On most mornings it was Irene who went with Bertie on the 23 bus. Every couple of weeks, though, Stuart would arrange to go to work later and would accompany Bertie on the bus, thus allowing Irene the luxury of a long lie-in. Ulysses was a sound sleeper – in the mornings – and so it was not uncommon on such days for Irene to be able to lie in bed until well after ten. And this is what she thought would happen on the morning in question.

  Stuart was first out of bed. ‘I’ll take you to school today,’ he said to Bertie when he went into his son’s bedroom to waken him. He had then gone back to the kitchen, and it was there that he received an urgent call from his immediate superior in the government office in which he worked as a senior statistician. An embarrassing report had just been published in the morning papers revealing that slightly under 19 per cent of Scottish children were illiterate when they left primary school at the age of twelve. This was particularly embarrassing in a country that made much of its educational tradition.

  Stuart was used to awkward statistics, and he knew how uncomfortable politicians felt about them. On rare occasions there was nothing that could be done, and the statistics had to be left as they were, but usually it was possible to find some other contrary statistic that made things look better from the political point of view.

  Thus, although it might well be true that 19 per cent of twelve-year-olds could not read, the shock involved in this brute fact could be mitigated, perhaps, by discovering a statistic that revealed that they had far fewer dental fillings than was the case, say, thirty years ago, before the age of fluoridation. This statistic could then be fed to the press to gain immediate time. Later, a further statistic, to the effect that the ability of the age group in question to use a computer had improved considerably. The fact that most twelve-year-olds used computers exclusively to play shoot-’em-up games might not even be raised at all, and, if it was, public attention may well have shifted anyway.

  ‘You’d better get down here this instant,’ said Stuart’s boss. ‘The journalists are braying like dogs, and the Heid Bummer is wanting some good figures pronto, if not prontissimo.’ This was the way senior civil servants spoke; the Heid Bummer, also known affectionately as the High Heid Yin, was the First Minister of Scotland, a popular politician known for his nimble footwork. If he was distressed to find that almost one fifth of Scottish children were illiterate, then his distress would be taken very seriously by the civil servants who surrounded him. What they really needed to find, of course, was a statistic that revealed that in England even more than one fifth of twelve-year-olds could not read; that would take the heat off and provide considerable political satisfaction. But this did not appear to be the case: twelve-year-olds in England, it appeared, all had their noses buried in Joyce, Beckett and Gerard Manley Hopkins.

  ‘The government’s sunk,’ said Stuart’s boss. ‘Our only hope is that the general population will be too illiterate to read this report anyway. But get here right now, Stuart, and see what you can do.’

  It was in the face of this call that Stuart quite forgot that he was due to take Bertie into school. So when Bertie went into the kitchen, there was no sign of his father. His mother, he knew, was asleep, and he did not want to wake her up. Irene valued her long lie-ins, and Bertie felt that it would not be helpful to disturb her. So he made his own breakfast, put the dirty plate in the dishwasher, and wrote a note to be left on the kitchen table.

  Dear Mummy,

  Daddy has gone to the office. I think he has forgotten that he was going to take me to school. So I’ll go by myself – I promise you I won’t cross the road except with the green man. I’ll take Ulysses too as it’s my turn for Show and Tell and Miss Maclaren Hope will be really pleased to see him. She can sing him a Gaelic lullaby if he gets tired and starts to girn.

  Lots of love, Bertie.

  38. Show and Tell

  Ulysses was delighted to wake up and find Bertie looking over the edge of his cot. He cooed with delight as his brother lifted him out of bed and set him carefully on the changing table. Bertie was quite familiar with the routine, as he had observed and helped with every step; so Ulysses was soon dry and comfortable and Bertie began to rummage in the cupboard for suitable clothes for him. He quickly dismissed the small dungarees that his mother favoured, and found, to his great d
elight, a completely unused baby’s sailor suit at the back of a drawer. This had been a present to Ulysses from Stuart’s cousin in Troon, but had been consigned to oblivion by Irene, who had remarked that she thought there were quite enough uniforms in this world without babies being dressed in sailor suits.

  With Ulysses in his sailor suit, Bertie sponged his face, combed his few wisps of hair, and carried him to his pushchair. He would give him something to eat in the bus, he thought – a piece of cake, perhaps, and the yellow plastic cup from which he liked to drink milk. But for now everything was ready, and all he had to do was slip out of the flat without waking his mother.

  Ulysses continued to beam, especially when he realised that Irene did not appear to be coming. That caused him to chuckle with pleasure and to clap his little hands together.

  ‘Shh, Ulysses,’ said Bertie. ‘Mummy loves her lie-ins. We mustn’t wake her.’

  Getting Ulysses down the stairs in the pushchair was not easy, and there was a dreadful moment when Bertie thought that he would lose control, but that passed, and soon they were out on Scotland Street, walking confidently up to Drummond Place. At the top of the street they turned right and made their way in the direction of Dundas Street and the 23 bus. Bertie felt extremely adult and responsible as he pushed his brother along, and if one or two heads turned in surprise at the sight of a small boy in evident charge of an even smaller one, his manifest self-assurance made them conclude that all was well.

  Once they had boarded the bus, the magnitude of the adventure on which he had embarked came home to Bertie. Not only was this the first time he had been on a bus by himself, which was in itself a major milestone, but also it was the first time that he had been in sole charge of Ulysses.

  ‘I hope that you’re going to be good,’ whispered Bertie, as he balanced Ulysses on his knee. ‘And you mustn’t be sick, understand?’

  Ulysses seemed to grasp the gravity of the request, as he stared solemnly at his older brother and began to nod his head in apparent agreement.

  ‘Good,’ said Bertie. ‘Good boy.’

  The bus journey was uneventful. Ulysses, entirely content with Bertie’s company, gurgled appreciatively each time the bus turned a corner, but regurgitated nothing. And when they came to the stop at which Bertie normally alighted, Bertie managed to carry both Ulysses and his pushchair with no difficulty at all. From there, the walk along Merchiston Crescent and Spylaw Road was simplicity itself, and in no time at all they reached the school.

  Miss Maclaren Hope was out of the classroom when Bertie entered with Ulysses.

  ‘What have you got there, Bertie?’ asked Olive suspiciously. ‘Have you brought a doll? Boys shouldn’t play with dolls, you know.’

  ‘It’s my little brother,’ said Bertie. ‘He’s called Ulysses.’

  ‘Good!’ shouted Pansy. ‘A real live baby. Can I have a go with him, Bertie?’

  Olive was quick to take command of the situation. ‘No,’ she said peremptorily. ‘I’ll take him. Give him here, Bertie.’

  Bertie handed Ulysses over gently. ‘Keep him the right way up, please,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like going upside down.’

  ‘I know how to hold a baby,’ snapped Olive. ‘I’ve held hundreds of babies. They really like me.’

  ‘That’s because they can’t see very far,’ said Tofu, who had appeared from the back and was peering at Ulysses.

  Olive ignored this taunt, and busied herself with tickling Ulysses under the chin. ‘I like his sailor suit,’ she said. ‘And his nose is really cute, Bertie. You should be proud of his nose.’

  ‘I am,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I’m a bit worried about what Miss Maclaren Hope is going to say,’ went on Olive. ‘I think that we should hide him in case she says that he’s not allowed.’

  ‘Yes, hide him,’ agreed Pansy. ‘Then we can take him out at playtime.’

  ‘He’s not a toy,’ said Bertie mildly. ‘It might be better to …’

  ‘No, Pansy’s right,’ said Olive. ‘We should make a little bed for him in the cupboard.’

  Bertie tried to point out that Ulysses might not like being put in a cupboard, but was quickly overruled by the girls, who had now taken complete control of their young visitor.

  The cupboard had been opened and several jerseys laid down to form a makeshift bed when Miss Maclaren Hope came back into the room. In the silence that followed, Bertie looked at Olive, who quickly handed Ulysses back to him.

  ‘I’ve brought my little brother in for Show and Tell,’ he explained. ‘He won’t be any trouble, Miss Hope. He’s very nice.’

  ‘What a sweet little boy,’ said the astonished teacher. ‘But …’

  ‘He looks like my last psychotherapist,’ said Bertie. ‘Especially his ears.’

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting, Bertie, but where’s your mummy? Is she here as well?’

  Bertie explained that his mother was having a lie-in. And so Daddy was somewhere in the school? No, he was not; he had to go into the office. And so … ‘I think that we’d better make a phone call,’ said Miss Maclaren Hope. ‘And if you don’t mind, Bertie, I’ll hold little Ulysses for the time being.’

  Bertie and Miss Maclaren Hope left the room and made their way to the office. ‘Mummy said I could bring him,’ explained Bertie. ‘I asked her.’

  Miss Maclaren Hope pursed her lips. ‘Well, be that as it may, Bertie, I think though that Ulysses is just a tiny bit young to come to school. So we’ll just give Mummy a quick ring and see if she could come up and get him. Don’t you think that’s best?’

  Bertie did not. But he realised that this was not the point. It was such a pity for Ulysses, he thought: he was enjoying himself so much and now this. And when his mother arrived, he knew exactly what Ulysses would do: he would be sick. He would have to warn Miss Maclaren Hope about this, but it was difficult to know how to put it – it so often was.

  39. Which World Am I Living In?

  On the morning on which Bertie took Ulysses to school, Angus Lordie followed his normal routine of an early walk with Cyril round the Drummond Place Gardens, followed by a breakfast of coffee accompanied by two croissants. Living on his own, he felt no inhibitions about reading at table, alternating between a book, which he read on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and a newspaper or magazine on the other four days of the week. The newspaper was invariably the Scotsman, where he turned first to Duncan Macmillan’s art column – if it was a Macmillan day – or to Allan Massie, both of which writers he was in complete agreement with on all subjects. If it was a day for a magazine, then it would be the art review in the Burlington Magazine, where, in view of his impending trip to Italy, he was currently taking a particular interest in articles on Italian subjects. Thus a review of ‘Altarpieces and their Viewers in the Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni’ was read over a croissant and strawberry jam; and coffee, black and strong, was the perfect accompaniment to an article on newly discovered miniatures by Pacino di Bonaguida.

  After breakfast, Angus Lordie went through to his studio, followed by Cyril, who usually padded after him if he moved rooms, settling himself in an accustomed spot and watching his master for any signs of dog-related activity: the fetching of a lead would be a signal for immediate enthusiastic barking; the fetching of a dog bowl would bring an immediate wagging of the tail and the protrusion, over canine canines, of a ready-to-serve tongue. But while Angus was painting, Cyril knew that as little distraction as possible was wanted; this reminded Angus of the rule in the Savile Club in London where, on the members’ breakfast table, is displayed a sign saying Conversation Not Preferred. He had enjoyed an absurd exchange with Domenica on the subject.

  ‘Such wording is so polite,’ he remarked. ‘Yet it’s unambiguous: there is no prohibition of conversation, but to initiate it would be to go against the wishes of the committee, and that should, in civic society, be enough to inhibit.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Domenica. ‘But one can’t have polite requests
in all situations. What about parking regulations? Do you think that people would obey polite signs that simply requested them not to park?’

  Angus thought about this for a moment. ‘They might do so in Edinburgh, don’t you think? Can’t you just imagine it? We wouldn’t have signs saying No Parking, or Parking Prohibited; our signs would confine themselves to saying Parking Not Preferred. And should a driver ignore such a sign, then a traffic warden would place a small ticket on his or her windscreen. This would read: “This is rather inconsiderate of you. Please don’t park here, if you don’t mind awfully. Thank you.” ’

  Domenica stared at him. ‘Which world are you living in, Angus?’

  Angus looked rueful. ‘Not this one, I suppose. But don’t you think that there’s a point in having some idea of a better world? Don’t most people have something like that?’

  Domenica admitted that some did – Utopian socialists, for instance, who believed in the perfectibility of man if only we could establish economic justice and the conditions that went with that. ‘But they are so few these days,’ she said. ‘Most people now believe that the world is hopelessly flawed and that at the most we can tidy it up around the edges.’

  ‘And religious people?’ asked Angus. ‘Don’t most religions have an idea that the world can be made better – if only people would see the world from their point of view, which of course not everybody does.’

  ‘They do, I suppose,’ said Domenica. ‘And that swells the numbers of those who believe that we might have a better future. But …’

  Which world am I living in? The question haunted Angus. He was an artist and he believed that he had a vocation. He had to create – that is what he wanted to do, and he believed that the need he felt to do this was as important to him as food and drink. He could not envisage life without the ability to pick up a brush and put paint to canvas; it was not something he did because he earned his living in this way, or because it kept boredom at bay; he did it because that was the reason why he got out of bed each morning. He lived to paint.