A Time of Love and Tartan

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Bertie bit his lip once more. He wished that Olive would let him be; he wished that she would no longer taunt him with her knowing remarks; he wished she would drop her claim that he had once promised to marry her when they were both twenty.

  “I didn’t say that your mummy and daddy were liars, Olive,” he protested. “I never said that.”

  Olive glared at him. “You can be very insensitive, Bertie Pollock. You don’t care what effect what you say has on other people’s feelings.”

  “That’s right,” said Pansy. “That’s typical of boys. They act as if girls had no feelings at all.”

  Olive nodded. “The only reason I’m telling you this, Bertie, is to save you from being hurt. It’s far better for you to know that your mummy has gone off with somebody else and that they spend all their time in Aberdeen drinking and kissing and going to dances – it’s far better for you to know that.”

  “Exactly,” said Pansy.

  “My mummy said that she really worries about what will happen to you, Bertie,” Olive continued. “She said that your father is hopeless.” Olive paused. “I didn’t say that, Bertie – I’m just reporting what I heard. Nor did I say that your father’s a well-known wimp. I never said that personally – I’m just reporting.”

  Bertie remained silent.

  “Poor you, Bertie,” said Olive, putting an arm around his shoulders. “It’s going to be really tough for you because your dad will be no good at cooking . . . ”

  “Daddies never are,” said Pansy. “They’re really useless.”

  “So you’re probably not going to get enough food,” Olive continued. “But I want you to know that we’re here for you, Bertie – aren’t we, Pansy?”

  “We are,” said Pansy. “Whenever you need us, Bertie, we’ll be here.”

  Bertie continued to say nothing.

  “Well, I’d have thought that you might just bother to thank us, Bertie,” said Olive, withdrawing her arm. “There’s such a thing as gratitude, you know.”

  In a very small voice, Bertie said thank you, and his thanks were acknowledged by a gracious nod from Olive.

  So he knew, and, in fact had known for a long time, the way in which children know what nobody imagines they know. He knew that his mother liked Dr. Fairbairn; he knew that she seemed impatient and irritated by his father; he knew that his mother was unhappy and that she would be happier elsewhere. And so when Stuart started a long-winded explanation that evening about how it was sometimes the case that mothers and fathers were happier living in different houses, he simply nodded and said that he understood and that he was sure that Irene would be happier living in Aberdeen.

  Stuart tried to be as reassuring as possible. “She’ll come to see you quite a lot, Bertie. She’ll be down for weekends.”

  Bertie looked at his father. “Oh, Mummy shouldn’t bother, Daddy. I really wouldn’t want her to have to come all the way from Aberdeen. Couldn’t she just write a letter from time to time – not every month, say every other month?”

  Nicola, who was present in the background when this conversation was being had, caught Stuart’s eye. “I’ll be here all the time, Bertie,” she said. “I’m going to live in the spare room and look after you and Ulysses.”

  Bertie smiled. “I’m really happy about that, Granny,” he said. “And I hope Ulysses will stop throwing up so much.”

  “I’m sure he will,” said Nicola.

  “You’re being a very brave boy, Bertie,” said Stuart. He swallowed hard. He could not cry in front of his son, much as he wanted to, because this little boy was indeed the bravest, noblest, kindest little boy he could ever have wished to know – and I, he thought, I am his father.

  Bertie turned to Nicola. “Do you think you’ll be able to get me another kilt, Granny?” he asked.

  “But don’t you have one already, Bertie?” replied Nicola.

  “Mummy made my kilt into a cushion cover,” said Bertie. “She doesn’t like tartan and kilts and all those things.” Nor cub scouts, nor Swiss Army knives, nor pizza with five different toppings.

  Nicola gasped, but quickly regained her composure. “Tomorrow, Bertie,” she said. “We’ll go tomorrow when you get back from school. We’ll get you a new kilt.”

  Stuart rubbed his hands together. “Just in time,” he said. “Because the day after that is Saturday, isn’t it, and Scotland will be playing rugby against New Zealand at Murrayfield. And we’re going to go – you, me, and, if you’d like to invite him, your pal, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson.”

  Bertie replied that he would like that very much.

  “Will Scotland win, Daddy?” he asked.

  Stuart hesitated, but only for a split second. Then he replied, “Bound to, Bertie.

  The Existential Happiness of 13−0.

  Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was delivered to the Pollock flat in Scotland Street wearing his Macpherson tartan kilt with a blue sweater into which the word SCITLAND had been carefully stitched.

  Bertie noticed the error immediately and raised it with Ranald. “I don’t think you spell Scotland like that,” he said. “I think there’s an O after the C rather than an I.”

  Ranald seemed unconcerned. “It was knitted in China,” he said. “My mummy says that sometimes they spell things wrong in China.”

  Bertie nodded. “My dad says Chinese goods are rubbish,” he said, but then added quickly, “Except for sweaters. He says that Chinese sweaters are really good.”

  Ranald seemed pleased. “I like your kilt, Bertie.”

  Bertie acknowledged the compliment. His new kilt, purchased for him that morning by his grandmother, was having its inaugural outing – and what better occasion for that than the end-of-season rugby match between New Zealand and Scotland, to be played on the hallowed turf of Murrayfield Stadium? It would be a very important match, Stuart explained, as Scotland had never beaten the all-powerful New Zealanders. There came a time, though, when David overcame Goliath, and so all hope of a victory should not be abandoned.

  It was a short bus ride to Murrayfield. Walking the rest of the way, they mingled with a growing stream of people heading for the stadium. Here and there along the road, the bagpipes of some optimistic busker skirled through the bright afternoon air. The crowd was good-natured, as rugby crowds invariably are, and numerous Saltires reminded those present of the fact that this was a national occasion – a time for pride and courage in the face of almost certain defeat.

  Stuart had prepared the boys for disappointment. “I think we’re going to win,” he said as they made their way towards the ground’s entrance, “but we must remember that these New Zealanders are mighty men. They’re a very strong opposition.”

  “But we’re strong too, aren’t we, Daddy?” asked Bertie.

  “Sort of,” said Stuart. He did not go into it, but he knew it was a question of selective breeding. In the past, all Scottish rugby players of any note came from the Borders and were the sons of farmers and grain merchants selected by both nature and nurture to push and shove against one another on muddy fields and to hurl themselves against similarly built opponents – all in pursuit of a curiously shaped leather ball. The eugenics that had produced such sturdy young men now seemed no longer to be practised, and Borders farmers were not paying the same attention to build and strength in their selection of a wife. The results were now felt on the rugby pitch.

  Once inside the stadium and seated in their allotted places, Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson could scarcely contain their excitement. When a pipe band marched onto the pitch, they watched in awe, and when at last the Scottish team came out, running courageously through the tunnel from the dressing rooms, both Ranald and Bertie cheered at the top of their lungs. Now came the solemn moment of the singing of “Flower of Scotland,” that stirring evocation of national spirit in the face of devious English machinations. That the song referred to the fourteenth century was neither here nor there: for many the fourteenth century was but yesterday, and the New Zealanders
should bear that in mind.

  New Zealand responded, as they always do, with their haka, the Maori challenge with all its curious gestures – the rolling of eyes, the sticking out of tongues, and the general presentation of a less than welcoming demeanour.

  “The haka’s jolly rude, isn’t it, Daddy?” observed Bertie.

  Stuart smiled. “I think it’s just superficial, Bertie,” he said. “I’m sure the New Zealanders are quite sensitive underneath.”

  The whistle blew and the game began. Scotland, having won the toss, kicked off and thundered after the ball, which was caught by a tree-sized New Zealander. He was immediately jumped upon by a knot of large Scotsmen. When the hapless New Zealander failed to give up the ball, the referee’s whistle went and a penalty was awarded to Scotland. This was an opportunity for the Scottish scrum-half to kick the ball neatly over the posts. 3−0 to Scotland. A further penalty, awarded against New Zealand for general attitude, took the score to 6−0 to Scotland by half-time.

  There were no tries in the first half, but in the second half there was a scrum five metres from the Scottish line. With a huge effort the Scots forwards kept the scrum firm and the ball emerged in the hands of the scrum-half. He kicked the ball soundly, hoping to put it out of play, but ended up kicking it up the field. The left winger chased after it and it bounced into his hands. He then kicked it across to the right winger, a kick that was beautifully timed and placed. With the ball in his possession, the winger raced towards the line, neatly side-stepping past his opposite number. As the stadium erupted in a roar of applause, the Scottish player surged across the line and touched down. Bertie and Ranald leapt to their feet, waving their arms in sheer delight. And they did that again when the try was effortlessly converted by the same player who had kicked that first penalty. 13−0 to Scotland; and that was where the score was when the final whistle brought the game to a close.

  The defeated New Zealanders, a dispirited, diminished band of men, stood despondent on the pitch. The noble Scotsmen, generous in victory, shook hands with them and offered them such condolences as good sportsmen accord to those they have vanquished.

  Bertie turned to Ranald and said, “We did it, Ranald! We did it!”

  Ranald nodded. Behind the SCITLAND on his sweater, his heart, like Bertie’s, was full. In the following few minutes, while they waited their turn to leave the stadium, another small boy who had been sitting nearby, offered to show Bertie and Ranald how to paint a Saltire on their faces. This offer was gratefully received, and soon the two friends had the familiar blue flag displayed in grease-paint from brow to chin.

  It was a time of great pride for Bertie. He was at a rugby match, with his father and his greatest friend, the loyal Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. Scotland had won – and won convincingly; the New Zealand haka, with all its threats and hollow gestures, had met its match in clear-eyed, firm rugby played with Presbyterian rectitude and according to the principles of the Scottish Enlightenment.

  They walked all the way back, spurning buses to savour the bonhomie of the dispersing victorious crowd. As they passed Haymarket Station, Bertie muttered something that his father did not quite hear.

  “Did you say something, Bertie?” Stuart enquired.

  Bertie looked up at his father, and slipped his hand into his. “I’m very happy,” he replied. “That’s what I said.”

  For What Is Not, and Cannot Be

  By the time that Stuart arrived back in Scotland Street along with his two Saltire-faced charges, a celebration of Scotland’s victory had already begun in Angus Lordie’s flat. The sounds of this party – a hubbub of conversation drifting down the common stair – could be heard the moment Stuart opened the front door.

  This was remarked upon by Bertie. “Mr. Lordie has friends in, Daddy,” he said. “He’s probably celebrating the result.”

  “My dad will also be having a party tonight,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “He always gets drunk when Scotland wins.”

  “That’s all right, Ranald,” said Bertie. “You can stay with us tonight if your dad’s too drunk to collect you.”

  “Thanks, Bertie,” said Ranald. “He will be, I think.”

  As they approached Angus and Domenica’s landing, they saw that the front door of the flat was open. Angus, standing in the hall, glimpsed them and came to the doorway. “Just in time,” he said, reaching out to shake Stuart’s hand. Then, looking down at Bertie and Ranald, he said, “And who do we have behind these splendid Saltires? Young Bertie and Young Ranald, I believe. How patriotic you boys look – and how appropriate for such a day as this.”

  “We were there, Mr. Lordie,” said Bertie. “We saw Scotland beat New Zealand.”

  “Well, you’ll remember that for the rest of your lives, boys – largely because the possibility of its recurrence is slight.” He turned to Stuart. “You’re the statistician, Stuart, how would you work out the probability of that?”

  Stuart laughed. “I’m taking a rest from statistics, you know.”

  “Of course,” said Angus. “You told me. But look, the party’s just beginning – please come in. I can probably find some Irn Bru for the boys and a dram for yourself.”

  Stuart looked at his watch. It was an automatic response – one motivated by anxiety – but then, in a moment of sudden realisation, he remembered that he was free. He could go to parties if he wished; he could take Bertie and Ranald with him; he had no need to report to anyone. Nicola would already have put Ulysses to bed and had said that she was not proposing to go anywhere. He really was free.

  He looked down at Bertie. “Would you boys like that?” he asked.

  Bertie nodded vigorously. “Yes, please.”

  They followed Angus into the kitchen, where most people seemed to have drifted. There, grouped around the table, perched on the window seat, astride kitchen stools, were the friends and neighbours who made up this charmed circle. Matthew and Elspeth were there, released from the triplets by the offer of James, their new au pair, to babysit while they went off to the match. They had brought the Duke of Johannesburg with them, as Matthew had met him at Murrayfield and had suggested that Angus and Domenica would not mind if he came along with them to Scotland Street. There was James Holloway, whom Bertie and Ranald had last seen at Abbotsford when they had discovered the long-lost spurtle of Mary Queen of Scots. There was Big Lou, by herself, and Pat with a young man she had met in the Elephant House (not Bruce).

  And there, to Stuart’s surprise, was Antonia Collie, Domenica’s former neighbour, who had been rescued from Stendhal Syndrome in Italy and then looked after by a convent of nuns in Tuscany. And she was with that remarkable nun who had come back to Scotland with her, Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiore di Montagna, whose social success in Edinburgh, Glasgow and Perth had been reported almost monthly in Scottish Field and Edinburgh Life.

  There was much to talk about. Stuart engaged Antonia in a brief conversation about the new flat she had bought in Dundonald Street before Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiore di Montagna interrupted with a long description of her recent outing to the Skye Ball. After this, Big Lou took him aside and told him that she had heard about Irene and Aberdeen and while she was sorry, she thought that he would be just fine. “If you’re ever lonely, just give me a ring,” she said, with what Stuart thought might be a wink, but he was not sure. And suddenly he thought: Big Lou . . . Sometimes the people for whom we are really destined escape our attention: they may be there in full view, but unnoticed because we take them for granted. But then he thought: no. Big Lou was more of a sister, and he was not sure that he was ready for anybody else. Then he noticed a set of eyes upon him, and these were those of Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiore di Montagna. No. Definitely no.

  On the other side of the room, Domenica came to where Angus was standing and whispered, “You must read one of your poems, Angus. You always do.”

  James Holloway overheard. “Yes,” he urged. “We would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  Angus hesita
ted. “Very well,” he said at last. Then people, sensing the moment, fell silent; sentences left hanging in the air; heads turning in anticipation towards their host.

  “This is a poem that I wrote a few months ago,” Angus announced. “I wrote it when Domenica and I went to Mull. If you’ll allow me, Domenica . . . ”

  Domenica looked at him and smiled. She remembered the poem; it was personal, but they were among friends. She inclined her head in acceptance.

  Angus glanced at those around him and then, from memory, so that he might look at the woman he loved so much while he recited, he started his poem.

  “On Clouds over Mull,” he began. “A Love Song.”

  White the shifting veils of rain

  That fall like tears, like tears, so white,

  And soft upon your cheek, my dear,

  So soft and wet upon your cheek;

  And Mull stands guard against

  The green sea, stands guard

  Against the green sea.

  And if our hearts will have to weep,

  As all hearts will, and ours must do,

  Then we shall shed on this soft isle,

  These human tears, like tears of rain

  That fall so soft upon the land

  So gentle in their quiet regret

  For what is not, and cannot be,

  For what is not, and cannot be.

  He stopped. Nobody spoke. Bertie looked at Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, who was eating a piece of shortbread. Stuart looked out of the window; Cyril looked at his master, thinking thoughts that in their canine profundity none would be able to fathom. Domenica looked at Angus, and he looked back at her.

  The End