The Importance of Being Seven

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The haar was now becoming very thick indeed.

  ‘What if the path goes over the edge of a cliff, Daddy?’ asked Bertie, his voice seeming to echo in the swirling mist.

  ‘Highly unlikely, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Paths don’t go over cliffs; they follow the contours of the hill. That’s what we’re doing right now, and any moment now we shall find ourselves on the A702. Then we shall simply walk back to Flotterstone, retrieve our car, and travel home to Edinburgh. Have courage, Bertie.’

  Bertie swallowed. Having gained height, they were now losing it again, but the vegetation around them had changed. Heather had given way to pasture, and there was a drystane dyke looming up through the white porridge of the haar.

  ‘We’ll follow this dyke,’ said Stuart. ‘Dykes always go somewhere, Bertie – that’s a tip for you to remember. I shouldn’t be surprised if this dyke doesn’t lead to a farm somewhere. And farms always have tracks that take you to public roads. So we’ll be fine – you mark my words.’

  They walked on. The haar was lifting slightly now, and ghostly trees began to make themselves visible. And then, as they surmounted a small knowe, they saw lights in the middle distance. A few yards later and the lights were shown to be coming from a farmhouse, to the rear of which was a small cluster of trees and a steading.

  ‘There you are, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Right on cue: a farmhouse. We can ask directions there – not that I think we’re really lost.’

  They approached the farmhouse, a comfortable-looking building with white harling and blue-painted doors and window frames. Stuart went up to the front door and knocked loudly. Inside the porch a light was switched on and there was the sound of an inner door being opened. A woman appeared, dusting her hands on a white apron tied around her waist.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Stuart. ‘But I think that we’re a bit lost. We’re trying to get to Flotterstone.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Well, you’re very lost, if you ask me. Flotterstone is way over that way – behind the hill.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Stuart. ‘I see.’

  The woman looked past Stuart. ‘And there’s your wee boy. My, he looks a bit bedraggled. I think you should come away in and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  Stuart thanked her, and he and Bertie went inside, removing their boots and leaving them in the front porch alongside a collection of well-used farming footwear.

  ‘I have a son about your age,’ said the woman to Bertie. ‘He’s called Andy. We call him Wee Andy because his father’s called Andy too. What’s your name?’

  ‘Bertie. I’m Bertie Pollock.’

  ‘Now that’s a fine name,’ said the woman. ‘I know some Pollocks. They farm over at Muckle Buggie. You’re not related to them, are you?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘We’re Scotland Street,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure that’s very nice,’ said the woman. ‘Muckle Buggie is a sheep farm over near Symington. They’ve been there for a long time. Always Pollocks.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Stuart.

  They went through to the kitchen. There, seated at the table, drawing on a piece of paper, was a boy of about Bertie’s size. The boy stood up when the visitors came in and smiled broadly.

  ‘Andy, this is …’

  ‘Stuart, and my son, Bertie.’

  The boy nodded to Bertie, and gave him an encouraging smile. Bertie smiled back.

  ‘Andy,’ said the woman, ‘while I put the kettle on, you take Bertie up to your room and show him your things.’

  Andy walked round the table and indicated to Bertie that he should follow him out of the kitchen. Bertie did so, and the boy led him along a narrow corridor to a staircase at the end.

  ‘My room’s in the attic,’ he said. ‘Nobody goes up there, just me and my brither, who’s in the room beside me. He’s twelve. He goes to Merchiston. That’s a school in Edinburgh – just for boys.’

  Bertie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it.’ Olive couldn’t go there, he thought.

  ‘I’m going there next year,’ said the boy. ‘I’m going to get my brither’s old uniform. And his rugby boots. You play rugby, Bertie?’

  Bertie swallowed hard. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I think you’ll be good at it,’ said Andy.

  Bertie beamed with pleasure. It was such a kind thing for anybody to say. He liked this boy.

  They went into Andy’s room and Bertie drew in his breath. There, on the wall above Andy’s bed, was a stag’s head, the antlers reaching out almost into the centre of the room – or so it seemed.

  ‘That fella comes from Morvern,’ said Andy. ‘My Uncle Jimmy got him. He says he’ll take me stalking when I’m bigger. When I’m eight, he says.’

  Bertie looked around the room. There was a display case with a stuffed grouse, a small woodwork bench and a large box of Meccano.

  ‘Would you like to see my penknives?’ asked Andy.

  Bertie’s eye widened. Penknives, in the plural. He nodded wordlessly.

  77. Bertie’s Dream

  ‘This penknife,’ said Andy proudly, ‘is specially set up for catching mushrooms.’

  ‘I don’t think you catch mushrooms,’ said Bertie. ‘You find them.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Andy. ‘Same difference, though. You see this bit here? That’s the brush for brushing the dirt off the mushroom once you’ve caught … found it. And this blade here is for cutting the mushroom in half. See?’

  Bertie took the proffered penknife and examined it. ‘It’s made in Italy,’ he said, pointing to the inscription. ‘See? It says Italia.’

  Andy nodded. ‘You speak Italian?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit,’ said Bertie.

  ‘You must be jolly clever, Bertie,’ said Andy. ‘I only speak English.’

  Bertie acknowledged the compliment. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Italian is very easy. I could teach you, if you like.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Andy. ‘I could learn Italian and we could make a fort.’

  He extracted another penknife from the drawer beside his bed. ‘And this one here is a really good Swiss Army penknife,’ he said. ‘The Swiss Army is famous for only fighting with penknives. They don’t use guns, you know.’

  ‘I’ve heard that,’ said Bertie.

  ‘And here’s another Swiss Army penknife,’ Andy continued. ‘It’s a bit smaller, but it’s still really useful. This blade here is for cutting bits of wood. And you see here? That’s a set of scissors.’ He paused. ‘Would you like it, Bertie? You can have it, if you like. I’ve got that bigger one – you can have this one.’

  Bertie’s heart gave a leap. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I want you to have it. You’re my friend, you see. So I want you to have it.’

  Bertie took the knife from Andy. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re my best friend now, you know. My very best friend.’

  Andy nodded. ‘Same here.’

  They shook hands. It was a solemn gesture, cementing the new friendship, and it seemed to Bertie then that his entire life had changed. He slipped the penknife into his pocket, relishing the smooth feel of its casing and its solid, reassuring weight. He was about to say something more, to thank Andy again for the gift, when they heard Andy’s mother calling from down below.

  ‘That’s my mum,’ said Andy. ‘She’s calling us.’

  They went downstairs. The farmer’s wife had laid two cups on the kitchen table, alongside a plate of scones. Two glasses stood beside the cups and at their side was a large bottle of orange-coloured liquid.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Andy. ‘Irn-Bru, Bertie.’

  Bertie was puzzled. ‘Iron what?’

  Andy looked at him in astonishment. ‘Don’t you know what Irn-Bru is?’

  Bertie shook his head. ‘We don’t have things like that,’ he said.

  ‘Irn-Bru is really good for you,’ said Andy, reaching for the bottle. ‘I’ll pour you a glass. You’ll see.’

  Bertie looked at his father. Stuart smiled. ‘Tr
y it, Bertie. I think you’ll like it.’

  Andy poured a glass of the fizzy orange liquid and passed it to Bertie. ‘It’s made of girders, Bertie. It makes you really strong.’

  Bertie took a sip, swallowing tentatively and then gulping the drink down. He had never tasted anything like this before, and he loved it. Andy filled his glass again. ‘You can burp if you like, Bertie. You’re allowed to burp when you drink Irn-Bru.’

  Bertie burped.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Andy, finishing his glass, and then burping too.

  A few minutes later, Andy’s father came in. He shook hands with Stuart and listened to the account of their walk through the haar. ‘I’ll run you back in the Land Rover,’ he said. ‘After our tea.’

  Andy looked at his father. ‘Couldn’t Bertie stay the night?’ he asked. ‘He could go home tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s up to Bertie’s dad,’ said the farmer. ‘It’s all right with us.’

  Bertie looked anxiously at Stuart, willing him to agree.

  ‘Well,’ said Stuart. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  They all drove in the Land Rover to take Stuart back to the car park at Flotterstone. Then they returned to the farm and the two boys were given a large meal of sandwiches, spaghetti bolognese, custard, ice cream and Irn-Bru. The meal was eaten in quiet contentment; Bertie sat and looked at his new friend, who smiled back at him. Then they were given half an hour of play before bedtime.

  ‘Do you have psychotherapy?’ Bertie asked Andy.

  Andy shook his head. ‘We mostly have cattle,’ he said.

  Bertie nodded. ‘Yoga? Do you have to do yoga?’

  Andy thought for a moment. ‘I like strawberry-flavoured best.’

  When the time came for bed, Bertie was lent a spare pair of his friend’s pyjamas and given the top bunk of Andy’s bunk bed. With the light switched off, the two boys continued to talk in the dark. There was so much to say: Andy told Bertie about a ghost who lived in the steading and had been a pirate before he was shot by a cannonball. Bertie told Andy about the fish that he had almost caught that afternoon, and how it was great and silver and powerful. Andy then told Bertie about how his brother had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. Bertie told Andy about the time he had seen a car reverse into a lamppost.

  Bertie’s happiness was complete. He had been vouchsafed a glimpse of what life might be; a life of freedom, of adventure, of penknives, of Irn-Bru. It all seemed too good to be true, and in his heart he knew that it was not true. The next day he would return to Scotland Street and the spell would be broken. There would be more psychotherapy, more yoga, more Italian conversazione with his mother.

  He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. And dreamed that he was walking along a path in the Pentlands, with a friend beside him, a warm presence; and that warm presence was a boy called Andy. And Andy reached out and gave him a penknife, and he thanked him, and they both started to run – it was so easy, so easy, as it is easy to run in a dream – and before them was a glen with waterfalls and caves, and a loch, blue and silver, on which a pirate ship was under sail. And there was sunlight, and glasses of Irn-Bru in which that sunlight was caught, liquid, golden, forgiving.

  78. An Incident in a Café

  While Domenica joined the queue for admission to the Uffizi Gallery, Angus accompanied Antonia in the search for a suitable café in which to have a cup of coffee and, if possible, a light breakfast. They had not eaten before they left the villa, and both now felt growing pangs of hunger.

  ‘I know it’s not what one normally has for breakfast,’ said Angus, ‘but I could do with a slice of pizza. Thin. Very tomatoey. And perhaps just a hint of anchovy on the top. That, and lashings of coffee.’

  ‘Entirely understandable,’ said Antonia. ‘What is being on holiday but allowing yourself to do that which you do not do at home? I shall join you in a pizza. Oh my, this place is so beautiful. Look at that. Just look at it. An entirely ordinary street, but so beautiful. So very beautiful.’

  Angus glanced at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Italy is like that. The most humble corners are … how shall we put it? Rich in aesthetic possibilities.’

  ‘And the men and women!’ Antonia continued. ‘Look at them. So handsome. We are surrounded by people who could have walked out of a Renaissance painting, don’t you think? Botticelli could have placed them in one of his paintings – he really could.’

  Angus looked again at Antonia. It was understandable to be struck by the glories of Italy – animate and inanimate – but she was rather labouring the point, he felt. But that was what Italy did, he thought; and that was why people had come to Italy for hundreds of years – since the invention of the notion of the journey of the spirit – they had come here for precisely this. Antonia was merely articulating what people must feel.

  They did not have far to walk before they found a small café that looked suitable. It was in a largely residential side street, tucked between a carpenter’s studio in the window of which a couple of freshly made, ornate coffins were stacked, and a laundry. A rather dirty plate-glass window revealed an interior shelved high on either side, the shelves stacked with biscuits, bottles of wine and olive oil, packets of coloured pasta. At the far end was a counter behind which a high pizza oven could be seen.

  They went in and joined the small knot of people at the counter. The proprietor, wearing a dirty vest and a white chef’s cap, was engaged in loud conversation with some of his customers as he manipulated a large flat tray out of the oven. On this was a massive square of sizzling pizza, a square yard or more in extent, which he then proceeded to cut into manageable squares with a set of gardening shears. These squares were tipped onto pieces of grease-proof paper and handed out to the customers, including Angus and Antonia, together with a small glass of raw, red wine.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Angus, as he started upon the pizza.

  ‘Oh, I could die and go to heaven,’ said Antonia. ‘And look, he’s making coffee. We can have coffee after we have had this wine. Oh, this is so perfect, Angus. I could faint with excitement, I really could.’

  Angus frowned. ‘Not really, I hope.’

  Antonia sighed. ‘I’m overcome, Angus. I’m quite overcome.’

  He tried to sound matter-of-fact. Really, Antonia was gushing rather a lot. ‘It is fun, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I think Domenica should come here when we get back to the queue.’

  They finished the pizza and wine and signalled to the man in the vest for coffee.

  ‘I have never seen the Uffizi,’ said Antonia as they waited. ‘You know, I have been dreaming about it. Last night, for instance, I found myself there. It was a great revelation, and I am convinced that when I go in today I shall feel as if I have already visited it.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. And do you know, I am sure that I shall cry. I have been reading a book called Pictures and Tears. It’s all about how people can burst into tears when they are confronted with great art. They cry. Have you ever cried on seeing a painting, Angus?’

  Angus shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve been stirred, of course, but I don’t think I’ve cried.’

  ‘That is because we live in a time when artists have eschewed tears. Art today is a matter of intellect. Artists want us to engage intellectually with what they have to say. They do not want us to feel a sudden surge of emotion. How different it was …’ Antonia looked about her, and gestured in such a way as to embrace not only the café but all Florence. ‘How different it was in Renaissance times. The artists who walked on these very pavements wanted us to be uplifted, to experience intense emotion in our encounter with beauty. That’s what they wanted. Lippi, Ghirlandaio, Botticelli – they wanted us to cry, Angus.’

  Angus shifted from foot to foot. He wished that Domenica had been there; she would have been able to deal with this sort of thing from her neighbour. Was Antonia turning peculiar? Was this a normal reaction to Italy – to go on and on about beauty and art and crying? Was she drunk
? Some people had very little tolerance for alcohol, and it was possible that even this small glass could have had this effect on Antonia. He looked at his watch.

  ‘We mustn’t keep Domenica waiting,’ he said. ‘They could be opening the doors shortly.’

  Antonia gasped. ‘Opening the doors?’

  ‘Yes. The Uffizi should open soon.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘And we shall be inside too. Just think.’

  Angus sighed. ‘Really, Antonia,’ he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘You’re making a bit of a meal of it. It’s just a gallery. A very important one, of course, but just a gallery. You wouldn’t go on like this if you were paying a visit to the National Gallery on the Mound, would you? I’m sure you wouldn’t.’

  Her reaction to this mild rebuke took him completely by surprise. ‘Oh, Angus,’ she shrieked. ‘Don’t you realise? Don’t you understand what is about to happen? We are about to come face to face with the fons et origo of Beauty itself, laid out before us, and you talk as if it were an entirely quotidian outing to … to Bathgate!’

  Angus looked about him. ‘Please, Antonia, please don’t shout. People are looking at us.’

  ‘As well they might,’ Antonia retorted loudly. ‘They are looking and thinking: what a complete philistine that man is! What an insensitive brute! That’s what they’re thinking, Angus Lordie!’

  79. Unbearable Beauty

  ‘Listen,’ whispered Angus as he drew Domenica aside. ‘Antonia is behaving very, very strangely.’