The Unbearable Lightness of Scones: A 44 Scotland Street Novel

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Stuart smirked. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘It seems to me that Bertie might just be right there. Why should women be allowed to have single-sex set-ups while men are not? Look at all those women’s clubs - book groups and so on. And yet if men try to have such things they’re frowned upon, to say the least. Or made illegal, courtesy of Brussels.’

  Irene looked at her watch. ‘There isn’t time to go into all that,’ she said. ‘And besides, you’re wrong, Stuart. Women-only organisations are purely defensive. They’re a refuge from the oppression of men.’

  Bertie watched closely. If anybody was oppressed, he thought, it was his father. And for a few moments, he experienced a feeling of utter bleakness. He had been looking forward to the cubs, to the excitement that it promised, and now it seemed to him that the cubs would be just like everything else; there would be no freedom there, particularly if Olive were to be there, as she had threatened.

  ‘I know that you and Tofu have got something planned,’ she had said a few days previously. ‘I can tell, Bertie. You’re planning something, aren’t you? And you think I don’t know what it is!’

  ‘We’re not,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Oh yes you are!’ Olive had said, wagging her finger under Bertie’s nose. ‘You should tell me, Bertie! You mustn’t keep secrets from your girlfriend.’

  Bertie had looked about him, anxious lest anybody should have overheard. ‘I’m not your boyfriend, Olive,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much, anyway. But I haven’t got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ said Olive. ‘Me. I’m your girlfriend. Everybody knows that.’

  Bertie took a deep breath. ‘But what if I don’t want you to be?’ he asked. ‘Surely you have to ask somebody to be your girlfriend.’

  Olive’s response was quick. ‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘You’re living in the past, Bertie Pollock. It’s nothing to do with boys these days - whether or not they have a girlfriend is nothing to do with them.’ She paused. ‘Now, let me see. What are you and Tofu planning, I wonder? Is it something to do with . . . Yes, that’s it, I think. Is it something to do with . . . cubs?’

  Bertie struggled to keep his composure, but failed.

  ‘Ah-hah!’ crowed Olive. ‘So I’m right! Well, that’s very interesting, Bertie! Because I’ve been thinking of joining too. Isn’t that nice, Bertie? We can all be cubs together.’

  53. Be Prepared, Be Very Prepared

  It was indeed the 23 bus that eventually took Stuart and the two boys up the Mound and in the direction of Holy Corner. Stuart had tried to locate the car, but had failed, and had been unwilling to seek Irene’s help just yet. It was possible that she had been the last to use it, and knew where it was parked, but it was more likely, he admitted to himself, that he had been its most recent driver.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bertie,’ he said. ‘I have no idea where the car is. We shall have to use the 23 bus after all.’

  Bertie had accepted the situation gracefully. ‘That’s all right, Daddy. I know the 23 bus. The important thing is to get there. It doesn’t matter how you do it.’

  He felt disappointed, though. Tofu, who had come back with him from school in order that they might go off to cubs together, was usually rather disparaging about everything that Bertie possessed, but their car, Bertie knew, although somewhat old, was considerably more impressive than Tofu’s own family car. Tofu’s father had converted his car to run on olive oil, and this meant that it was considerably slower than the Pollocks’ Volvo, which still ran on petrol. But Bertie’s pride was saved - to an extent - when Tofu revealed that he had only a few scraps of uniform. In that respect, at least, Bertie was in a much stronger position.

  ‘You don’t really need a uniform,’ Tofu said carelessly, eyeing Bertie’s attire. ‘Uniforms are silly.’

  ‘Then why are you wearing that cap?’ Bertie asked. ‘It says cubs across the front, doesn’t it? That’s a uniform.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Tofu. ‘And what’s that thing round your neck?’

  ‘That’s the scarf,’ said Bertie. ‘And this thing here is a woggle.’

  ‘Woggles are stupid,’ said Tofu, peering at the small leather ring through which Bertie’s cub scarf had been threaded.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bertie, adding, ‘I’ve got another one, you know. My dad bought me two, just in case I should lose one.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to borrow the other one, Tofu? Then we can make you a scarf out of a handkerchief.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tofu immediately. ‘Go and get it, Bertie.’

  Shortly afterwards, Stuart shepherded the two boys along Scotland Street to catch the 23 bus as it lumbered up Dundas Street. The boys’ pride in their uniform was very evident, even if in Tofu’s case the uniform was eccentric and incomplete. And Stuart himself felt a certain flush of pride to be taking two boys off on such an expedition. When you are six, he thought, the world must be a grand place; and when you are thirty-six, as he was, it has shrunk so much; has become a place of worries and limitations and dismaying statistics. What was the point? What was the point of serving out the years, going to the office every morning and returning in the evening, and then going back into the office in the morning? Where was the enjoyment, the excitement in that?

  These thoughts passed through his mind as they waited for the bus to stop, and continued as it began to make its way up Dundas Street. By the time they reached Princes Street, though, Stuart’s chain of thought had moved on to broader topics: it was all very well to wonder where one was going personally, but where was the whole country going? He looked up at the Castle as the bus began its journey up the Mound. The Castle was a work of man, but it seemed to grow out of the very rock, to be an extension of this exposed part of Scotland’s spine. Above it the Union flag fluttered in the breeze; there were those who would change that, would hoist a different flag in its place, just as there were those who would defend the place of the current flag. How strange, thought Stuart, that we invest these symbols with such potency; how strange that people should be prepared to die for their flags, for territory that they might sometimes never even see. What really counts, he thought, is how we live - and yet that, perhaps, is why we care about flags.

  Stuart looked at Bertie, who sat, nose pressed to the window of the bus, pointing some sight out to Tofu. He assumed that this evening the boys would be inducted and make their promise. He had spoken to Bertie about that, and his son had listened carefully as he explained the elements of the promise.

  ‘You have to say, “I promise to do my best; to do my duty to God and the Queen,”’ said Stuart.

  ‘I know,’ said Bertie. ‘I’ve read about that, and I will do my best, Daddy. To God and the Queen. To both of them.’

  ‘That’s good, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘And then there’s the cub scout law. That says that you must think of others first and do a good turn for somebody every day.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Bertie. He was not sure what good deeds would be expected of him, but he supposed that they would be something to do with Ulysses. Ulysses seemed to require a great deal of attention, and there were always tasks that had to be performed to keep him happy.

  And now, as they reached Holy Corner and the bus stop at which they were to alight, Bertie felt a great wave of anxiety come over him. He would shortly have to make the first public promise of his life, the very first, and it would be based on a lie. The cub scouts were for those of eight and above and he was only six. He was about to enlist under false pretences and take an oath that he was not even entitled to take.

  As they approached the Episcopal church hall, Bertie tugged at his father’s sleeve.

  ‘What is it, Bertie?’ enquired Stuart.

  ‘I don’t think I want to join after all,’ Bertie whispered. ‘I don’t think it’s such a good idea any more.’

  Stuart bent down and put his arm about his son. ‘Come on, Bertie,’ he said. ‘You’ll have tremendous fun.’

  ‘Yes, don’t be such a wimp,’ said Tofu.r />
  Stuart scowled at Tofu. ‘Bertie is not a wimp, Tofu, if you don’t mind. And I won’t have such language.’

  Tofu was defensive. ‘I was only saying what other people say,’ he protested.

  ‘And why should people call Bertie a wimp?’ asked Stuart.

  ‘It’s not him, Mr Pollock,’ said Tofu politely. ‘It’s not him they call a wimp. It’s you.’

  54. Badge of Honour

  Bertie and Tofu arrived at the cubs at six o’clock. Rosemary Gold, the cub leader, the Akela, as she was known, introduced herself to Stuart and greeted the two boys warmly. Stuart withdrew, after saying goodbye to Bertie and promising to be back in an hour’s time.

  ‘And you are?’ Akela said to Bertie once Stuart had gone.

  ‘Bertie Pollock.’

  Akela smiled encouragingly. ‘And how old are you, Bertie?’

  Bertie looked up at the ceiling. His heart was hammering within him and his mouth felt quite dry. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, at the moment I’m . . .’ He was going to say eight, qualified by the formula he had prepared, but he did not have time to speak.

  ‘I’m eight,’ said Tofu. ‘And Bertie’s in my class. He’s eight too. We’re both eight. Eight.’

  Akela smiled again. ‘Very well, I think I get the message. And you are . . .’

  ‘Tofu,’ said Tofu. ‘T, O, F, U. It’s an Irish name.’

  Bertie looked at his friend. This was the first he had heard of this.

  ‘Irish? How interesting,’ said Akela. ‘It’s not a name I’m familiar with. Are your parents Irish then?’

  Tofu nodded.

  Bertie was still staring at his friend. ‘You never said your dad . . .’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you everything,’ Tofu whispered.

  ‘But your name isn’t Irish,’ persisted Bertie. ‘You’re named after that stuff that vegetarians eat. That white stuff. You’ve got the same name as that white stuff.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Tofu. ‘It’s Irish. It means . . . it means chieftain in Irish.’

  ‘Well, boys,’ said Akela. ‘If you go and sit over there, we’ll start once everyone has arrived. And there are still a few to turn up. Here’s somebody now. Another new member.’

  The two boys looked in the direction of the door.

  ‘It’s her,’ hissed Tofu.

  Bertie groaned. ‘I didn’t tell her,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you, Tofu. I didn’t tell her.’

  Olive came skipping across the room to where Akela was standing, followed by her mother, who, seeing Bertie, waved in friendly recognition. While Olive’s mother talked to Akela, Tofu and Bertie stared steadfastly at the floor.

  ‘She’s going to spoil it,’ said Bertie miserably.

  ‘Why doesn’t she join the brownies?’ Tofu asked. ‘She just wants to spoil our fun.’ He paused. ‘I hate her. I really hope that she gets struck by lightning sometime. I really do.’

  Bertie’s eyes widened. He did not think that this sort of talk was compatible with the cub promise. ‘I don’t think that’s very kind, Tofu,’ he said.

  ‘Not to kill her altogether,’ relented Tofu. ‘But maybe enough just to fuse her to the ground.’

  Olive’s mother now left, and Akela summoned the two boys over to her side. ‘Olive tells me that you already know her,’ she said. ‘It’s always better when people are friends at the beginning.’

  ‘She’s not my friend,’ mumbled Tofu. ‘And why doesn’t she join the brownies?’

  ‘What was that, Tofu?’ asked Akela.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tofu.

  ‘And Olive says that she’s been in the cubs before,’ Akela went on. ‘Which is a good thing, as we shall need to appoint some leaders. In the cubs we have somebody called a sixer. That person is the head cub of a six. You’ll all be in the red six, and Olive will be in charge.’

  This news was greeted with horrified silence by the two boys.

  ‘Well, that’s settled that,’ said Akela. ‘Now I’ll administer the cub promise. This is a very solemn moment, boys and girls. So all stand in a line and put up your right hands like this. This is the special scout salute that Baden-Powell invented. No, Tofu, the fingers face inwards rather than the way you’re doing it. That’s right. Now I’ll say the words of the promise and you say them after me.’

  There was no heart in it, no conviction; not now that Olive was there and had, in the space of a few minutes, been promoted above their heads. Bertie had a strong sense of justice, and this was now mortally offended. Olive did not deserve to be a sixer; the experience she claimed was completely imaginary - he was sure that she had never been a cub before. And how could Akela be fooled by Olive’s false claims? Why did she not ask Olive exactly what her experience had been and get her to show some proof of it?

  Now, with the promise administered and everybody duly enrolled, Akela began to tell the cubs about badges. There were many badges they could get, she explained: collecting, swimming, history, model-making, cooking, music; whole vistas of achievement opened up.

  ‘I’d like to get my cooking badge, Akela,’ said Olive. ‘And music too. And map-reading - I always read the maps in the car. I read the map all the way to Glasgow once, and back again.’

  ‘That’s not hard,’ said Tofu. ‘There’s only one road to Glasgow and it has signs all the way along. It says Glasgow this way. You can’t go wrong.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Olive read the map very nicely anyway,’ said Akela. ‘And what badge do you boys want to get? Bertie, what about you?’

  Bertie looked up. ‘Mozart,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got a Mozart badge, I could do that, Akela.’

  Olive laughed. ‘Oh, Bertie, they don’t have that sort of thing in the cubs. Why don’t you do a cooking badge with me? I could teach him how to cook, Akela. Then we both could do the badge together.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Akela. ‘Would you like that, Bertie?’

  Bertie stared down at the floor. His hopes of the cubs were dashed beyond redemption now. He had wanted to learn how to do tracking and how to make a fire by rubbing two sticks together. He wanted to learn how to use a penknife and how to use a wrist watch and the sun to find south. He wanted to learn all that, but instead he was going to be cooking with Olive. Is this really why Mr Baden-Powell had invented scouting - so that boys could learn how to cook?

  ‘Well,’ pressed Akela. ‘Olive has made you a very kind offer there, Bertie? Would you like to take her up on it?’

  Bertie stared at the floor. He felt the tears burning in his eyes, hot tears of regret over the ending of his hopes. Tofu, noticing his friend’s distress, turned to Olive. ‘You see what you’ve done,’ he said. ‘You see!’

  Olive reacted with indignation. ‘It’s not my fault that Bertie’s homesick,’ she said. ‘He’s only six, after all.’

  55. Profile of a Talented Talent-Spotter

  Bruce’s first photographic session with Nick McNair had been a resounding success. When the photographer had got the shots he wanted, he immediately downloaded them onto his studio computer and invited Bruce to look at the results.

  ‘You know what I’d say, Bruce,’ he remarked, tapping at an image on the screen. ‘I’d say you’ve got it. There’s no other way of putting it. You’ve just got it.’

  Bruce leaned forward and stared at the image on the computer. This was one of the serious-looking poses, in which he was staring into the distance with a look of . . . well, how exactly would one describe his expression? One of determination? Confidence?

  ‘Well, I suppose it looks all right to me,’ he said. ‘I hope that the people in the agency . . .’

  ‘The people in the agency are going to love you, Bruce,’ interrupted Nick. ‘They can tell it when they see it.’

  Bruce shrugged. ‘Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘I know,’ exclaimed Nick. ‘Oh boy, is your profile going to be raised! You’ll be on that poster in the airport. You know the one that greets you as you
come down the steps at Edinburgh Airport? The one that says Welcome to Scotland? Well, it’s going to be you on that poster, Bruce. You - and underneath it’s going to say: The Face of Scotland. That’s the slogan. They’ve already approved that. Cost them two hundred thousand pounds.’

  Bruce whistled. ‘The poster? Two hundred thousand?’

  ‘No, not the poster,’ said Nick. ‘The slogan. The poster cost . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what the poster cost. It’s the words that cost two hundred thousand. Some guy in one of the agencies invented them. That’s what a slogan costs these days. These things aren’t cheap.’

  ‘But two hundred thousand . . .’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s what quality costs, Bruce.’

  Bruce was thinking. ‘And my face? The image?’

  There was a change in Nick’s manner. Turning away from the screen he faced Bruce. ‘We’ve got to talk about it,’ he said. ‘I was going to raise the issue with you tomorrow. But we may as well talk about it right now.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ said Bruce, suddenly wondering what was going to happen to the joint bank account he had set up with Julia. Would he have time tomorrow to draw something out of that - just his own money, of course - before she closed it down? She might be dim, he thought, but she had shown herself to be fairly astute when it suited her.

  Nick rose to his feet. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘we’re in this together. I take the snaps, and you jut the chin. I have a lot of overheads, you know. This place. Getting the shots out to the agency. Lunch with creative directors, and so on. That mounts up.’

  And my overheads? Bruce felt like saying. Personal grooming. The gym. That mounts up too.

  ‘Some of the talent get an agent,’ said Nick. ‘Personally, I don’t like working with agents, and I’m not sure how useful they are to the talent themselves. Twenty per cent for the local market; thirty per cent for overseas. So on, so forth. It all mounts up. And what does the talent get in the end? Far less than he would have got if he’d negotiated the deal directly.’