Bertie took the box, his small hands shaking as he unwrapped it.
“It’s a doll,” he said, his voice so small as to be almost inaudible.
“Not a doll, carissimo,” said Irene. “It’s a play figure.”
Bertie took the doll out of the box. She had long blonde hair and a sort of jumpsuit in green. Around her waist was a thick belt from which tiny spanners were hanging. He looked at the box and read: This is Jo, our gender-neutral friend. Jo can do all sorts of things! Watch her fix that jeep (not supplied)! Watch her carry out mountain rescues! Watch her care for others! There’s nothing that Jo cannot do!
“You see,” said Irene. “Jo can have all sorts of adventures, helping people. Isn’t that nice, Bertie?”
Bertie nodded. “Thank you, Mummy.”
He was thinking of where he could hide Jo so that nobody should see her. He was thinking about how he could cut her hair off so that she might just pass for a boy doll, like Ken.
“You can take her to school today if you like, Bertie,” said Irene.
He looked at his father, who was standing motionless at the end of the bed.
29. Today’s News
Although Bertie had planned to say nothing about his birthday at school that day, the matter was brought up in a daily slot in the class timetable, Today’s News. This was an opportunity for any member of the class to report on events of significance. Pansy, for example, had entertained the class the previous day with an account of her mother’s purchase of a Maltese terrier, and the day before that Larch had reported on his victory at his boxing class. Boxing was not a sport appreciated at the Steiner School, and the teacher had listened in pained silence as Larch described the bloody nose that he had inflicted upon his opponent.
“There was blood everywhere,” Larch had said. “On his face. On his shirt. Tons of blood.”
“Gross!” exclaimed Olive. “You’re disgusting!”
“You shut your face, Olive,” warned Larch.
Their new teacher, Mr. Cowie, had intervened. “We’ll have none of that language, please, Larch. And I feel that Olive does have a point, even if her criticism was somewhat personal. I don’t think boxing sounds a very nice sport, quite frankly.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Pansy. “Olive’s right.”
Tofu came in on Larch’s side. “Boxing builds character,” he said. “That’s what it’s meant to do, isn’t it, Larch? It also teaches you to look after yourself, so that if anybody comes up to you in the street and pushes you around you can break their nose.”
“Yes,” said Larch. “That’s why I do it. And there are lots of girls doing it now. There are three in my group at the sports centre.”
“Those are really sad girls,” pronounced Olive.
Pansy agreed. “Nobody will marry girls like that,” she said. “They’re destined for lives of disappointment, Mr. Cowie. Just like you. It’s really sad.”
The discussion had proved inconclusive, and the topic had been abandoned. Now, however, a far less controversial matter was being mooted.
“There’s some very important news today,” announced Mr. Cowie. “Today, girls and boys, is Bertie’s birthday! Bertie Pollock is seven, and I suggest that we all give him a round of applause! All together now, clap clap!”
The class clapped, and Bertie looked down at the floor in embarrassment.
“Bertie,” said Mr. Cowie, “perhaps you’d like to say a few words.”
Bertie looked at the teacher. “I haven’t really got much to say, Mr. Cowie. I’m just seven—that’s all.”
The teacher smiled. “Perhaps you’d tell us what it feels like to have a birthday. Do you feel any different, do you think, or is it pretty much the same? What difference does a birthday make, Bertie?”
The class looked at Bertie expectantly. “I don’t think I feel all that different,” he said. “But I think it’s better to be seven than to be six.”
“Now that’s very interesting, Bertie,” said the teacher. “Tell me: why is it better to be seven than to be six?”
Bertie thought. “I think you feel a bit bigger inside,” he said. “I think it sounds a bit more important to be seven than to be six.”
The teacher nodded. “Very interesting, Bertie. Do you think that people will listen to you a bit more now that you’re seven?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “I think they will.”
“You’re probably right,” said the teacher. “But tell us now, Bertie: did you get any presents this morning?”
Bertie froze. It was exactly the question that he had hoped would be avoided. For a moment he toyed with the idea of saying no, but he was a truthful child and he did not feel that he could lie. If he started to lie, he would be putting himself on the same level as Larch or Tofu, both of whom lied with enthusiasm, and at every opportunity. He would not do that.
“Maybe,” he muttered.
“Maybe?” said Mr. Cowie. “Does that mean yes or no? Surely you received some presents this morning, Bertie?”
Bertie bit his lip. “My baby brother Ulysses gave me something,” he said.
“He’s really only your half-brother,” said Olive in a loud stage-whisper.
Mr. Cowie looked at Olive with disapproval.
“It’s true,” she said.
“It isn’t,” said Bertie. “You’ve got no right, Olive …”
“But it’s true,” retorted Olive. “My mummy said that Ulysses looks exactly like your old psychotherapist, Bertie. That stupid psychotherapist who ran away to Aberdeen. My mummy says that everyone knows that your mummy got the psychotherapist to help her make Ulysses. Everyone, Bertie. That means all of Edinburgh, and probably one or two people in Glasgow too. I think it was in the newspapers.”
Bertie stared at Olive with outrage. “You mustn’t say things like that, Olive,” he began.
He did not finish. “Olive!” snapped Mr. Cowie. “That’s very rude. And it’s unkind. You mustn’t say things like that.” He paused. “Don’t pay any attention to her, Bertie. Now tell us, what did Ulysses give you?”
“He gave me a Junior UN Peacekeeping Kit,” said Bertie.
“How very nice!” enthused Mr. Cowie.
“What?” snorted Tofu scornfully. “A UN Peacekeeping Kit? That’s rubbish, Bertie. The UN’s just rubbish.”
“The UN is not rubbish, Tofu,” said Mr. Cowie. “The UN is a great organisation—our only hope really. But let’s not get bogged down in such matters—tell me, Bertie, what did you get from your parents? They must have given you a present.”
Bertie was aware that all eyes were on him. He looked out of the window. If only a hurricane would suddenly brew up; if only there were to be a major earthquake, or a bolt of lightning. If only something were to happen to distract attention from this awkward situation.
No natural disaster obliged.
“Well, Bertie?” pressed Mr. Cowie. “I’m sure they gave you something nice. What was it?”
He spoke so quietly they almost failed to hear him. “An action figure,” he said.
“Cool!” said Larch. “One of those superheroes?”
Bertie wondered whether Jo could by any stretch of the imagination be called a superhero.
“Maybe,” he said.
Tofu was looking at him strangely, as if trying to make sense of something.
“I think Bertie’s fibbing,” he said. “I think it was something else. His mum’s really weird, you know. I bet she gave him a doll. Was it a doll, Bertie?”
Bertie stood quite still.
“I think that’s quite enough,” said Mr. Cowie. “Thank you very much, Bertie, for sharing all that with us. And happy birthday from all of us!”
There were echoed calls of happy birthday from the various corners of the room. But Bertie did not really hear those; what he heard was the laughter of Tofu and Larch. What he heard was Tofu whispering to Larch. “Poor Bertie,” he said. “A doll! Imagine getting a doll when you’re a boy! How gay is that?”
/> 30. A Walk with Father
Stuart could tell that something was wrong. He had come home early from work so that he could be there waiting for Bertie when he returned from school on his birthday. He had no particular plans in mind, but he thought that he and Bertie might go off on some sort of outing together. It was a Wednesday, and Bertie normally went to Italian and saxophone classes on that day, but Stuart felt that these could be missed on a special day such as this. Now, as he saw Bertie come into the flat with his mother and Ulysses, he immediately saw that Bertie looked crestfallen.
“Well, well,” said Stuart breezily. “I bet you didn’t expect to see me home so early!”
Bertie, whose eyes had been fixed on the floor, looked up at his father. “No,” he said flatly. “Hello.”
Irene took off her scarf and tossed it over a chair-back. “Bertie’s only got ten minutes or so before he’ll need to leave for Italian,” she said. “You’ll have to hurry up and change, Bertie.”
Stuart frowned. “But it’s Bertie’s birthday,” he protested. “You don’t do Italian on your birthday.”
Irene turned to stare at him. “Of course you do. What’s wrong with doing Italian on your birthday?”
Stuart made a gesture of despair. “But birthdays are all about fun! They’re about doing the things you normally don’t do.”
Irene sniffed. “Are you suggesting Italian can’t be fun?”
Stuart shook his head. “I’m not saying that. Or, hold on, maybe I am. Maybe I am saying that Italian is no fun on your birthday.”
Hearing a sentiment with which he could thoroughly agree, Bertie looked hopefully at his father.
“Stuart,” warned Irene. “Why don’t you go back to the office? Bertie and I have our plans for this afternoon, and Italian is one of them, thank you very much, or grazie tante, should I say.”
“Ma … ma,” began Bertie. “Ma, non mi piace parlare italiano. Preferisco giocare che parlare italiano.” (But I don’t like speaking Italian. I prefer to play rather than to speak Italian.)
Irene glared at Stuart. “You see?” she said. “You’ve upset Bertie.”
“Me?” stuttered Stuart. “I’ve upset Bertie? I beg your pardon, but …”
Irene signalled to him to follow her through to the kitchen, but Stuart stood his ground. “I think you should go and get ready, Bertie. We’re going for an outing. And, as a special treat, Mr. Lordie has lent us Cyril for the afternoon. He says we can collect him from upstairs when we’re ready.”
Irene stopped in her tracks. “That dog …”
But she did not finish, as Stuart had already ushered Bertie through the door into the boy’s bedroom and closed it behind him. A few minutes later, he and Bertie emerged and made their way purposefully through the hall. “We’ll be a couple of hours,” shouted out Stuart. “Maybe three or four. We might pick up something to eat afterwards. Fish and chips, or something like that. So don’t bother to make any supper for us.”
They were gone before Irene had time to remonstrate further. Once outside, they went quickly upstairs and knocked on Angus and Domenica’s front door. This door now had a neatly inscribed brass sign that read: Macdonald-Lordie.
Angus let them in. “Cyril’s waiting,” he said. “He’s delighted to be asked. Positively overjoyed at the thought of going out with Bertie.”
Hearing their voices, Cyril bounded into the hall, carrying his lead in his mouth. When he saw Bertie, he opened his mouth to utter a bark of joy, dropping the lead in the process. Bertie bent down and allowed Cyril to lick his face exuberantly.
“It’s his way of saying happy birthday,” said Angus. He paused. “I haven’t given you a present yet, have I, Bertie?”
Bertie shook his head. “But you don’t have to, Mr. Lordie,” he said.
“Well, I feel I’d like to,” said Angus, reaching into his pocket to extract a five pound note. “Here we are, Bertie. A Royal Bank of Scotland five pound note, no less.”
Bertie’s face broke into a broad grin as he received the present. The value of money is subjective, depending on age. At the age of one, one multiplies the actual sum by 145,000, making one pound seem like 145,000 pounds to a one-year-old. At seven—Bertie’s age—the multiplier is 24, so that five pounds seems like 120 pounds. At the age of twenty-four, five pounds is five pounds; at forty-five it is divided by five, so that it seems like one pound and one pound seems like twenty pence. (All figures courtesy of Scottish Government Advice Leaflet: Handling your Money.)
They said goodbye to Angus and went out into Scotland Street.
“Where are we going?” Bertie asked his father.
Stuart shrugged. “Out, in the first instance. Then it’s up to us, Bertie. I thought we might walk down to Stockbridge and get an ice cream. Then perhaps we could go for a walk along the Water of Leith and throw stones into the river. We haven’t done that for a long time, have we?”
Bertie consulted his memory. “I don’t think we’ve ever done it, Daddy,” he said. “But I’d really love to throw stones into the Water of Leith.”
Stuart looked down at his son. “I used to be able to skip stones, Bertie. Do you know what that is? You throw a stone along the surface of a loch and it bounces on the surface.”
“You’d think stones would sink, wouldn’t you, Daddy?”
“Yes,” said Stuart.
They walked on.
“Daddy?” said Bertie hesitantly.
“Yes, Bertie?”
“You know that present I got this morning. You know that … that play figure.”
Stuart winced. “Mummy chose that for you, Bertie.”
Bertie nodded. “I knew that. What I wanted to ask is this. Can I throw it away? Can I throw it into the Water of Leith?”
Stuart stopped. “Are you sure you want to do that, Bertie?”
Bertie nodded. “They made fun of me at school today because I got a … a doll for my birthday. Tofu and Larch laughed at me. They said …”
Stuart bent down to embrace his son. “Listen, Bertie, we’ll throw that awful doll away. Shall I go back and fetch it? Yes? All right, you stay here with Cyril and I’ll run back.”
Bertie watched his father turn on his heels and walk swiftly down Scotland Street. A few minutes later Stuart returned with a plain brown paper bag in his hand.
“Mission accomplished,” he said to Bertie. “So let’s walk straight down to the Water of Leith.”
“All right,” said Bertie, breaking into a quick walk. “Presto. That means fast in Italian, Daddy.”
31. Spontaneous Combustion
Bertie and his father made their way along Cumberland Street in the direction of Stockbridge and the Water of Leith. Cyril, whose encounter with the animal welfare inspector outside the Cumberland Bar had fortunately come to nothing, pulled on his lead with all the eagerness of a dog confident that whatever the purpose of their trip may be—and human purposes are frequently opaque to the canine mind—a challenging range of scents awaited classification. Some of these would be familiar—the human scents that ran like ley-lines along the pavements, or the irritating, provocative scent of cats drifting down from walls and other places of feline safety—while others would require a pause and reflection. Cyril had all the time in the world for the evaluation of scents, but he knew that the same did not apply to humans, who seemed puzzlingly indifferent to the world of the nose. A walk, in the canine view, should be a compromise between these two opposing visions, but usually proceeded at the pace dictated by humans. Boys, Cyril noticed, seemed more receptive to the idea of stopping every few yards to allow dogs to deal with scents, but even Bertie tired of constantly interrupting the walk to permit further olfactory investigation.
“Well, this is fun, isn’t it, Bertie?” said Stuart as they reached the top of St. Stephen Street.
Bertie nodded. “I like going for walks, Daddy,” he said. “Just you and me and …” He hesitated. He was a loyal boy, and he knew that he should include Ulysses and Irene, but som
ehow …
Stuart saved the moment. “Yes, Bertie,” he said. “Just you and me. And Cyril, of course—when he’s available.”
Bertie reached up and took his father’s hand. “Maybe we could go camping one day, Daddy. You and I could have a big tent and we’d get a small tent for Cyril.”
“Good idea,” said Stuart.
“Could we go camping in Glasgow?” asked Bertie.
Stuart smiled. “Glasgow? You’re rather fond of Glasgow, aren’t you, Bertie?”
“Yes,” replied Bertie; Glasgow was freedom to him. “Remember when we went to Glasgow to get the car? Remember how we went to Mr. O’Connor’s house?”
Stuart smiled again. “I remember that well, Bertie. He was quite a man, was Mr. O’Connor.”
“I’m sorry that he died,” said Bertie.
“Yes, it’s a great pity,” agreed Stuart.
“What did he do for a living, Daddy? Did he work for the Scottish Government, like you?”
Stuart tried to look serious. “Not quite, Bertie. I think Lard O’Connor bought and sold things. Or maybe just sold them—I’m not sure if he did much buying.”
“And his friend, Gerry, helped him in the business?”
Stuart said that he thought this was so. Gerry, he imagined, was an enforcer, and would undoubtedly have been able to offer his talents elsewhere.
“Gerry will be missing him,” said Bertie.
“He’ll probably be all right,” said Stuart. “These fellows are quite tough, you know, Bertie. They bounce back. Glasgow’s a bit different from Edinburgh, you see. Gerry will be all right.”
Bertie thought about this for a moment, and decided that this was enough about Glasgow and Mr. O’Connor. There was something else he wanted to ask his father.
“I was reading something, Daddy,” he said.
Stuart looked at him enquiringly. Bertie’s reading habits were extraordinary.
“You like your reading, don’t you, Bertie? What was it this time?”
“There was a magazine in the 23 bus,” Bertie said. “Somebody had left it there.”
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