The Importance of Being Seven

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘Not in a great number of places,’ admitted Angus. ‘But then we are a Protestant country. Or were.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with religion,’ said Antonia. ‘It’s to do with beauty. It’s to do with the fact that there are people here who beautify their public space – even their roadsides. And what do we do? We destroy our landscapes, render them ugly with great pylons, with giant metal windmills.’

  Angus agreed. ‘Yes, you’re right. We’re insensitive to beauty – for the most part. But that’s why we’ve been coming to Italy for years. We come to get in touch with beauty. To have our souls restored.’

  Domenica listened to this exchange. There was nothing wrong with Antonia, she decided. She was affected by the change in surroundings, but so was she, and so was Angus. It would be odd if they had come to Italy and felt exactly the same as they felt in Scotland. What would be the point of travel if one felt exactly the same once one reached one’s destination?

  They continued the journey. As they approached Florence the traffic became more intense, even though they had avoided the main highways and followed, as far as possible, quieter back roads. At last they reached a place where, in a small piazza on the edge of an industrial area, they were able to leave the car. A taxi then took them on the final leg of the journey into the centre of the city.

  ‘The Ponte Vecchio,’ Antonia suddenly screamed. ‘Look!’

  The taxi driver swerved, alarmed by the sudden shouting.

  ‘You must excuse my friend here,’ said Domenica in Italian. ‘She is Scottish, you see. Scottish people are prone to sudden outbursts.’

  The taxi driver nodded. ‘That is well known,’ he said. ‘Normally it is connected with football, I believe.’

  ‘Not in this case,’ said Domenica. ‘Architecture.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Antonia.

  ‘Nothing important,’ answered Domenica. ‘But look over there – we can ask him to drop us there. The Uffizi is just round the corner, I think.’

  They alighted from the taxi and made their way to the point where a queue was forming outside the ticket office of the Uffizi.

  ‘We must prepare for a long wait,’ said Domenica. ‘Angus, I suggest that you take Antonia to a café and get a coffee. I shall keep our place in the queue and then I can nip off for coffee when you return.’

  Angus and Antonia walked off. Domenica, standing in the line of people that already snaked out of the sheltering loggia, looked at her fellow art lovers. She amused herself for a while speculating on the nationality of those about her. There was an American couple, neatly turned out but laden with equipment: water bottles, umbrellas, waterproof ponchos, folding stools, and so on. They would be comfortable, thought Domenica; which was what she had always felt lay at the heart of the American dream – comfort. And there was nothing wrong with that; after all, a civilisation that sought discomfort would be peculiar indeed.

  And in front of that American couple was a small group of Germans, each immersed in a guidebook. Seriousness of purpose, thought Domenica, and again she thought that there was nothing wrong with that; Europe needed German gravitas.

  Behind them, a gaggle of Italian teenagers, preening themselves, fiddling with mobile phones, texting each other although they were only a few yards apart; the need to be part of a group, she thought; to be reassured. Which was how we all felt at sixteen; and still did, of course, but in a rather different way.

  74. In Proper Boots

  Back in Scotland, Stuart and Bertie swept along the Biggar Road as it skirted the slopes of the Pentlands. ‘Do you think there are any fish in the loch, Daddy?’ Bertie asked.

  ‘Certainly, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Trout. Large trout.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll catch them then,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I think that’s highly likely,’ said Stuart. ‘Especially if you …’ and here he lowered his voice, ‘especially if you use a worm, Bertie.’

  ‘But I thought we had to use flies,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Not if you’re under seven, Bertie. You can use worms if you’re under seven. And I got hold of some. Big, fat, juicy worms. Trout can’t resist them, Bertie.’

  They were now approaching the turn-off to the Flotterstone Inn, and Stuart slowed the car down. ‘Flotterstone,’ he said. ‘This is where we park the car and start to walk.’

  They parked under a tree a couple of hundred yards from the inn. Stuart extracted the rods and the fishing bag from the back, and they both set off, Bertie holding on to his father’s free hand, his chest out, his head held high. As they made their way up the reservoir road, the crows flew up in strident protest from the bordering fields.

  They saw sheep, and a small herd of cows that gazed ruminatively at them as they passed. They saw the wind send a flurry of teased-out cirrostratus across the otherwise empty blue sky, moving high over the summit of Turnhouse Hill and on towards Scald Law further to the west. Stuart stood still for a moment, watching the movement of the cloud, and thought of how it looked just like those pictures of clouds streaming past the high ridges of Everest; and thought, too, of how those high things drew people to them, lowly, earth-bound creatures that we were.

  ‘Would you like to climb up there one day, Bertie?’ he asked, pointing up at the line of hills. ‘It’s not difficult, you know. We could hike up there quite easily and then go all the way on to Nine Mile Burn.’

  ‘In proper boots?’ asked Bertie.

  Stuart smiled. ‘Yes, I could get you some proper boots. They make them in your size, Bertie.’ He realised, though, as he made the promise, that he did not know what size of shoe his son took. Bertie was his son and he did not know that, and he felt a sudden, sharp tug of shame.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ said Bertie. ‘That would be very nice.’

  They walked on in silence. They had reached the point now where the ground rose up to meet the wall of Glencorse Reservoir. Bertie was tiring, Stuart thought, and he offered to give him a ride on his shoulders. But Bertie declined, thanking his father politely. He could walk faster, he explained, and they were almost there, were they not?

  ‘You’re a sport, Bertie,’ said Stuart.

  Bertie savoured the compliment. He was not sure what a sport was. If it was somebody who was good at sport, then it was kind of his father to say it, but he did not think that it was really true. He had not had the chance to play sports – not real sports, like rugby – and he was not sure whether he would be any good. The school, though, had recently broken with its tradition and formed a rugby team. Bertie now told his father about this.

  ‘We have a Steiner’s rugby team now, Daddy,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Stuart. ‘That’s interesting, Bertie.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘I’m not in it. You have to be twelve. They played Watson’s the other day.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Stuart. ‘And who won, Bertie?’

  ‘Watson’s,’ said Bertie. ‘It was 84–0 at the end. Actually, they stopped it early for some reason.’

  Stuart suppressed a smile. ‘Bad luck, Bertie. But I’m sure that they’ll do better next time.’ He paused. ‘What do you think went wrong, Bertie?’

  Bertie thought for a moment. ‘I think it’s because our team was told that they should share the ball, Daddy. So they did. They shared.’

  Stuart looked at Bertie in astonishment. ‘That’s not the way that rugby’s normally played, Bertie. If you share the ball in rugby then … well, it doesn’t work, Bertie.’

  ‘But we have to share, don’t we, Daddy?’

  ‘Not in rugby, Bertie. You’re meant to try and get the ball away from other people.’

  ‘But isn’t that selfish, Daddy?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Bertie. But some of these games are a bit selfish. It’s in the rules, so to speak.’

  ‘So we lost because we shared the ball,’ said Bertie, reflectively. ‘And maybe also because they were mostly girls in our team.’

  Stuart bit his lip. ‘I see,’
he said. ‘Oh well, Bertie. There we are. At least everybody had fun. That’s the important thing.’

  Now they had reached the reservoir – a long, L-shaped loch that stretched back into the fold of a glen. There was a small island not far from the shore – an island covered with pines on the edge of which various water birds were poised. On a small stony beach beside the road, three green-painted rowing boats had been drawn up; it was one of these that Stuart had hired for the afternoon.

  Soon they were out in the middle of the loch. Stuart shipped the oars and picked up the rods. He had a fly on the end of his line, but at the end of Bertie’s he now fixed a float and a hook. Then, reaching into the pocket of his Barbour jacket, he took out a small plastic bag. Several large, succulent worms twisted about in a handful of damp soil. One of these was threaded onto the hook and the rod was passed to Bertie.

  ‘There you are, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Tight lines!’

  Bertie tossed the float and line into the water. The hook, weighted by its worm, sank down into the peaty water below, down into brown depths. Then, almost immediately, the float bobbed up and down before sinking sharply beneath the surface of the water. Bertie saw what was happening, and shouted out in excitement. Then he began to reel in, just as his father had taught him before they left Scotland Street.

  Up through the water came a large trout; a flash of silver; a dart of light; the fulfilment of a small boy’s dream. Soon it was on the surface, or just beneath it, and its tail twisted and hit the water with a splash. Bertie jerked the rod up, bringing the fish up into the air.

  ‘Careful,’ shouted Stuart as Bertie lowered the rod again. But it was too late; the sudden movement relieved the line of its strain and the fish was off the hook.

  ‘I really caught it, Daddy,’ he said, his voice faltering. ‘I really caught a fish, didn’t I?’

  Stuart put an arm round his son. ‘Yes, you caught it, Bertie.’

  ‘It was big, wasn’t it, Daddy?’

  Stuart nodded. He saw the tears in Bertie’s eyes and his heart went out to him. You poor little boy, he thought. You poor little boy.

  75. The Haar Rolls In

  They continued to fish. Bertie was bitterly disappointed by the loss of the trout, even though Stuart did his best to comfort him. Fishermen lost fish, he explained – one was not a proper fisherman unless one lost a fish. And they would have released the fish back into the water anyway, and so it did not make much difference, did it? Bertie thought about this. He would have liked to have at least touched it, but yes, he supposed that he would only have had it for a minute or so more had he landed it properly.

  They rowed out into the middle of the loch. Stuart showed Bertie how to cast a fly and gave him his rod to try it out. Bertie was not very good at first, but after a while he became a little bit better. Then he returned to using a worm, but although there were what seemed to be nibbles, these could equally well have been the action of the wind on the water, causing the float to bob suspiciously.

  They had started fishing late, and they did not break for lunch until well after three. Stuart beached the boat on the far side of the loch and he and Bertie pulled it up onto the shore. Then they sat down on the heather and while Stuart ate a sandwich, Bertie tackled his packets of crisps and several chocolate bars. It was heaven for him – pure heaven – to be sitting with his father, eating this wonderful, forbidden food, having almost caught a fish, and not having to think about psychotherapy, yoga, or Italian lessons.

  ‘Couldn’t we live out here?’ asked Bertie, as he opened his second chocolate bar. ‘We could buy a tent and pitch it over there by those gorse bushes. We could catch fish for our tea. It would be jolly nice, Daddy.’

  Stuart smiled indulgently. ‘A good idea, Bertie, but not all that practical, I’m afraid. I don’t think Mummy would like living in a tent.’

  Bertie had not envisaged her being invited, but was too polite to say so. ‘Perhaps Mummy might be more comfortable in Scotland Street,’ he said. ‘We could go and visit her from time to time. And Ulysses. We could visit him too.’

  Stuart said nothing. He lay back on the heather, his hands under the back of his head, staring up at the sky.

  ‘It would be such fun, Daddy,’ said Bertie. ‘Just you and me.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Stuart. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think we could leave Mummy all on her own – or all on her own except for Ulysses. It wouldn’t be very kind, would it?’

  ‘No,’ said Bertie. ‘Maybe not. But it’s nice to think about it. As a sort of wish.’

  Stuart steered the conversation into safer waters. ‘If I could give you three wishes, Bertie,’ he said, ‘what would they be?’

  Bertie thought. ‘For lots of chocolate,’ he said. ‘Lots of chocolate – enough for me and all my friends for at least ten years.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Stuart. ‘And the second wish?’

  ‘For Olive to go and live in Glasgow,’ said Bertie. ‘And, if I can have this as part of the second wish, for Tofu to stop spitting at people and telling fibs.’

  ‘I see,’ said Stuart. ‘And the third?’

  ‘To be seven,’ said Bertie quietly.

  Stuart said nothing for a few moments. Then he broke the silence. ‘Seven, Bertie? But you will be seven in due course. You don’t have to waste a wish on things that are going to happen anyway.’

  ‘But I want it to happen now,’ said Bertie. ‘If I wait, it seems that I’ll never be seven. It always seems a very long way away.’

  Stuart reflected on this. ‘It can’t be long now,’ he said. ‘You’ll be seven in November.’

  ‘But that’s ages away,’ said Bertie. ‘I want to be seven now, Daddy. That’s why I wished for it.’

  Stuart tried another tack. ‘Do you think things will be different when you’re seven?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘People will treat me with …’

  ‘Yes, Bertie?’

  ‘With more respect,’ said Bertie in a rush. ‘They won’t push me around quite so much.’

  ‘Are you pushed around at the moment, Bertie?’

  Bertie did not hesitate. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘By …’ Stuart was about to say ‘By whom?’, but he stopped himself in time. ‘Oh well, Bertie. Seven will come along, sure enough. Let’s carry on fishing. You never know your luck. And the fish don’t know that you’re only six.’

  They pushed the boat back out and started fishing again. Stuart caught a trout this time and immediately handed the rod to Bertie. ‘You land it, Bertie. This can be your fish.’

  Bertie began to reel in, but the line soon slackened off and he gave the rod back to his father. ‘Got away,’ he said. ‘Again.’

  At five o’clock, Stuart decided that it was time to stop. He rowed the boat back to the point from which they had set off. Then, once the boat was safely secured, they set off back towards the car park at Flotterstone.

  ‘I think I know a short cut,’ said Stuart, pointing to a path that led off to their right. ‘Let’s go this way, Bertie.’

  They branched off, Stuart taking the lead as they followed the rough path that made its way sharply down a bank. At the bottom the path traversed a burn by means of a small wooden footbridge. They used this to cross, and then followed the path as it turned this way and that through a thicket of gnarled Scots pines.

  ‘Are you sure about this path?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Of course,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s a really good short cut. You’ll see, Bertie.’

  The continued on their way. The weather had changed, now, and an unseasonal haar rolled in from the sea. This cast a mantle of white over everything, reducing visibility so that they could see very little beyond the next tree.

  ‘I think we might be lost,’ said Bertie. ‘Do you know where we are, Daddy?’

  ‘Have faith in your father, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Any moment now we’ll find ourselves at Flotterstone.’

  But they did not. They now found themselves g
aining ground, and the path seemed to be changing direction.

  ‘Shouldn’t we turn back?’ asked Bertie. ‘Wouldn’t that be safer?’

  ‘You should never turn back, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘What did Harry Lauder say? Keep right on to the end of the road. That’s what he said, Bertie.’

  ‘But Mr Lauder was probably on the right road in the first place,’ said Bertie. ‘It’s all right to keep right on to the end of the road if you’re on the right road. Otherwise, it isn’t.’

  76. A Real Boy’s Room

  Notwithstanding his son’s qualification of the otherwise sound advice of the late Harry Lauder, Stuart insisted that he and Bertie continue along the path they were on. They were now gaining height – another reason, thought Bertie, why they should turn back; this path, he felt, was leading them further into an unknown part of the Pentlands from which they might well not extricate themselves before darkness. And the light, as it was, was already fading, what with the haar, which had blotted out all sight of the sun, and the hour of day.

  ‘Is there a mountain rescue team in the Pentlands?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Mountain rescue, Bertie? No, I doubt very much if there are any of those people around here. This isn’t the Cairngorms, you know. You find them up in the Cairngorms or places like Glencoe, not the Pentlands.’

  Bertie absorbed this information in silence. It did not help his state of mind to think that there was no chance of rescue from what was becoming an increasingly worrying situation. Presumably people lost their way in the Pentlands, and presumably there were people who slipped and sprained their ankle and could not make their way home on their own. Who looked after them? He wondered whether it was the First Morningside Cub Scout Pack. It would certainly give them something to do if they were to be put in charge of the Pentlands, although it would be very dispiriting to be rescued by Olive, he thought. Or Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, for that matter; that would be far worse, as Ranald’s legs looked so thin and spindly and would hardly inspire the victim of a mountaineering accident with any confidence.