Espresso Tales (24 page)

65. Stuart Intervenes

When Stuart returned that evening from his office in the Scottish Executive (which Irene, provocatively, referred to as “the wee government”), he found Bertie in his bedroom, sitting at the end of his bed, greeting copiously. Dropping his briefcase, he rushed forward to his son and put an arm around the boy's shoulder.

An inquiry soon revealed the reason for Bertie's state of distress.

“I've been invited to a party,” Bertie sobbed. “It's my friend Tofu's party.”

Stuart was puzzled. “But why cry over that?” he asked. “Surely that's a nice thing–to be invited to a party?”

“Mummy says I can't go,” said Bertie. “She says that there'll be smoking and drinking.”

Stuart's eyes widened. “At Tofu's party? What age is this Tofu? Twenty-four?”

Bertie shook his head. “He's six at the moment,” he said. “But he'll be seven soon.”

“Then surely there won't be any drinking and smoking,” he said. “Do you think that Mummy has got things mixed up?”

Bertie thought for a moment. His mother certainly did have everything mixed up, in his view, but not necessarily in relation to the party. It was more a case of her
Weltanschauung
being mixed up (in Bertie's view).

“It's going to be a bowling party, Daddy,” Bertie explained, his voice still thick with tears. “At a place called Fountainbridge. She says that there will be people there who will be drinking and smoking.”

Stuart hugged his son. “And you want to go to it, Bertie?”

Bertie nodded miserably. “Olive says that it won't be any fun, but that's just because she hasn't been invited. She wants to spoil it for me.”

Stuart reflected on this. He did not know Olive, but he thought the type sounded familiar. Some girls took pleasure in spoiling it for boys. He could remember that. And it continued…

“I'll speak to Mummy,” he said. “We'll fix it up for you. I'm sure that Mummy's just trying to be helpful, Bertie. Mummy loves you, you know, Bertie.” And he thought:
she loves you too much,
but he did not say that.

He gave Bertie a final pat on the shoulder, rose to his feet and went through to the kitchen, where Irene was chopping vegetables.

“Bertie's in a state,” he said. “I've just been talking to him through there. Poor wee boy. He was crying his eyes out.”

Irene looked up from her vegetables. “I had to put my foot down, I'm afraid,” she said. “I tried explaining things to him, but he wouldn't listen. He'll get over it.”

“I don't think so,” said Stuart quietly.

“You don't think what?” asked Irene.

“I don't think he'll get over this sort of thing all that easily,” he said. “He had his heart set on going to that party, you know.”

Irene put down her knife and looked Stuart in the eye. “You know what this so-called party consists of? Let me tell you. It's not a sit down round the table and have cake party. Oh no. It's a bowling alley, for God's sake! Some tawdry, smoke-filled den down in Gorgie or wherever! That's what it is.”

“It's a perfectly clean and respectable bowling place,” said Stuart. “I know it. I went to the opening of the whole complex, as it happens. The Minister was invited and a number of us went along.”

“These places start off like that and then go downhill,” said Irene quickly. “But that's not really the point. The point is that he would miss yoga and a saxophone lesson. He already missed yoga when you took him off on that jaunt to Glasgow.”

Stuart struggled to control his anger. “That jaunt, as you call it, was the highlight of his little life. He loved it! He loved the train. He loved Glasgow. He loved the Burrell.”

“And those dubious characters you bumped into?” asked Irene. “Oh yes, I heard all about that, you know. Bertie told me about Fatty O'Something, or whatever he was called.”

“Lard O'Connor,” Stuart said. “What about him? He was very helpful. Just because he's not middle-class…”

Irene, eyes bright with anger, interrupted him. “Middle-class!” she screamed. “Who are you calling middle-class? Me? Is that it? Middle-class? Me?”

“Calm down,” said Stuart. “Nobody would call you middle-class to your face.”

He had not meant to add the words “to your face”, but they somehow came out.

“Oh,” shouted Irene. “So that's it. So you think I'm middle-class, do you? Well, that's very nice, isn't it? I spend all my time, all my energy, on raising Bertie to be an integrated citizen, to make sure that he understands all about inclusiveness, and has the right attitudes, and then you come along and describe the whole enterprise as middle-class. Thanks for your support, Stuart!”

Stuart sighed. “Look, I'm sorry,” he said. “Let's not have a blazing row over this. The whole point is this: you have to give Bertie a bit more space, a bit more room to be himself, to be a little boy. And one way of doing that is to allow him to have his own social life. So let's allow him to go to this party. Let's allow him to go bowling. He'll have a whale of a time.”

“No,” said Irene. “We must be consistent parents. We can't say one thing one moment and another thing the next. Melanie Klein…”

She did not finish. “He's going,” said Stuart. “That's it. He's going. And I'm going to go and tell him that.”

“You'll do no such thing,” said Irene, turning back to her vegetables.

She reached for a carrot and chopped it with her knife. Stuart could not help but think how symbolic this was. But the time had come to act, and he did. He remembered that conversation he had had with Bertie on the train, that moment when they had been so close and where he had vowed to be a better father. He would be that father, and he would be that father now. Not at some time in the future. Now.

He moved to the kitchen door. Irene reached for another carrot and chopped it smartly with her knife.

“Bertie,” shouted Stuart through the open door. “You can stop crying now. You're going bowling, my boy. The party's on!”

66. Tofu's Party

Stuart dropped Bertie off at the bowling alley, delivering him into the care and control of Tofu's father, Barnabas Miller.

“Well, well!” said Barnabas. “This is going to be fun, isn't it, Bertie? Have you ever bowled before? I'm sure you'll be good at it.”

“I hope so,” said Bertie. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr Miller.”

“Tofu's suggestion,” said Barnabas. “And my goodness, we're going to have fun, aren't we, Tofu?”

“Yes, Daddy,” said Tofu.

“And I've brought some nice things for you to eat,” said Barnabas, patting a bag slung over his shoulder.

A few minutes later, Hiawatha and Merlin arrived and then the four boys, together with Barnabas, made their way through the large glass-fronted building towards the bowling alley.

“Have you brought my presents?” Tofu asked his guests as they walked along.

Bertie's hand shot to his mouth. “Oh, Tofu, I'm very sorry. I meant to, but I forgot. I'll try and give it to you at school next week.”

“Me too,” said Hiawatha.

“And me as well,” said Merlin. “And I'll only be able to give you three pounds, Tofu. I haven't got any more than that.”

“You'd better not forget,” said Tofu crossly. “Or else…”

He left the threat unfinished. They were now at the bowling alley and Barnabas led them to the lane which had been booked for them.

“I'll show you boys how it's done,” he said, picking up one of the heavy balls. “You take a few paces to build up some impetus and then you let go.”

The ball careered down the lane and collided with the skittles with a very creditable crash. The boys danced in their excitement. For Bertie, in particular, this was the most thrilling of moments. To send a ball off down a wooden lane like that to knock things over was the most splendid fulfilment of everything that a boy would wish to do. Noise. Action. Excitement. Destruction. As Melanie Klein would have pointed out…

After a half hour or so of bowling, they took a short break. The boys sat down and Tofu's father opened the bag that he had brought with him.

“Carrots,” he said. “And delicious bean sprouts! Here we are.”

The boys reluctantly took the proffered snacks and nibbled on them disconsolately.

“Have you got any money on you?” Tofu whispered to Bertie.

“Two pounds,” said Bertie. “I keep it in my pocket for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency,” said Tofu. “Look over there. See that? That's where they sell hot-dogs. Can you smell them?”

“Yes,” said Bertie, sniffing the air.

“Well,” said Tofu, “if you buy me a hot-dog, I'll give you something in return.”

“Such as?” asked Bertie.

Tofu looked at his friend. “You see those pink dungarees of yours…”

“Crushed strawberry,” corrected Bertie.

“Whatever,” said Tofu. “I know you don't like them. I'll swap you my jeans for your stupid dungarees if you buy me a hot-dog. I've got plenty of other jeans at home.”

“Would you?” asked Bertie.

“Yes,” said Tofu. He glanced at his father and lowered his voice still further. “Here's the plan. We say that we need to go to the bathroom. You go and get the hot-dog. Then you bring it to me in the bathroom and I give you my jeans in exchange for your stupid dungarees. How about that?”

Bertie thought for a moment. It seemed to him to be an unfair bargain–weighted in his favour–but it was irresistible. He had always wanted a pair of jeans and now here was an opportunity to acquire such a garment, at virtually no cost, and all within the next few minutes. It seemed to him to be a stroke of quite extraordinary good fortune.

“All right,” he said.

“Good,” said Tofu. “Now have you got everything straight? Good. Then let's synchronise our watches.” He looked down at his wristwatch. “The big hand's on…”

Bertie interrupted him. “I haven't got a watch,” he said. It was a further humiliation, but he was accustomed to humiliations and generally took them in his stride.

“Oh,” said Tofu. “Well, let's set off anyway.”

Tofu informed his father that they needed to go to the bathroom, and off the two of them went. After a few paces, Bertie deviated, and ran across to the counter where hot-dogs were being sold. Ordering a large one, he paid for it and squeezed a lavish helping of tomato sauce onto the top of the frankfurter. Then, his precious warm cargo wrapped up, he ran off to make contact with Tofu.

They completed the transaction beside a washbasin. Tofu quickly removed his jeans and slipped into the crushed-strawberry dungarees vacated by Bertie. And Bertie, his breath coming in short bursts from the sheer excitement of it, donned the jeans handed to him by Tofu. Both garments were a perfect fit on their new owners. Then, the exchange completed, Tofu wolfed down the hot-dog, licking every last drop of tomato sauce off his fingers. Then he belched with satisfaction.

“Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “That was really good. Now let's get back to my dad.”

“Won't he notice that I'm wearing your jeans?” asked Bertie.

“Never,” said Tofu. “He doesn't care what I wear. He never notices. He's too busy thinking about nuts and carrots.”

They rejoined the bowling group and enjoyed a further half hour of intensive bowling. Bertie did not do badly for one who had never bowled before, coming second to Tofu. Merlin came last, but said that this was because he had a sore wrist and he would probably have come first had he been uninjured. Hiawatha said nothing about the result.

Bertie was fetched and taken home by Irene, who remained tight-lipped about the outing and did not ask her son how it had gone. Bertie, realising that his presence at the party was a defeat for her and a victory for his father, tactfully made no mention of how much fun he had had, and talked instead of a saxophone piece he was preparing for his next music examination. Then, when they were driving back down Lothian Road, Irene suddenly said to Bertie: “This is very strange. I thought we had five gears on our car. This gear-lever seems to have only four.”

Bertie felt a cold knot of fear within him. “Does it matter?” he asked. “Isn't four enough? Isn't it a bit selfish to want five?”

67. Bruce's Enterprise

Bruce took occupation of his newly-rented shop at nine o'clock on a Monday morning. His excitement over the move made him wake up at six, considerably earlier than he had been accustomed to waking up since the beginning of his enforced idleness.

He arose from his bed, opened the shutters, and looked out at the day. The sun was almost up, but not quite; autumn was round the corner and the days were starting to shorten. It was a good time of year to start a business, especially a wine dealership. He could expect a high volume of sales in November and December, as people stocked up for the frantic round of entertaining that marked the end of the year. Those were the months when people felt that they had to see their friends or somehow risk losing them. Nobody saw anybody in January and February, although Bruce thought by that time he would have built up a group of discerning customers who would appreciate his know-how and return for their normal requirements. So that would carry him through the dark months of the new year and then it would be spring, and time for large orders of New Zealand sparkling and light California whites!

He went through to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Is this the face of a surveyor, he asked himself, or is it the face of a wine merchant? Wine merchants were urbane, elegant, poised; all of which…well, false modesty aside, Bruce recognised all of those qualities in himself. He would fit the part admirably.

He showered, glanced in the full-length mirror, lingering a little perhaps, and then applied copious quantities of after-shower body-cooler skin-reviver, and, of course, a slick of clove gel to his hair. Ready, he thought. No: I must remember the clothes. So he got dressed.

He left Scotland Street at ten to nine and set off jauntily in the direction of St Stephen Street, in a basement of which his new business premises awaited him. Scotland Street was coming to life. There was the man who ran the historic motorcycle garage in the lane; Bruce nodded to him and received a wave in return; there was Mr Stephen Horrobin looking out of his window; there was Iseabail Macleod setting off to her work on the Scottish dictionary; such an interesting street, thought Bruce, and now a wine merchant to add to the mix!

He walked down Cumberland Street and crossed St Vincent Street. His shop was at the Stockbridge end of St Stephen Street, near the Bailie Bar, tucked under an antique dealer's and a shop that sold paste jewellery. It was not quite as large as he would have liked it to be, but it was big enough, and there was always the possibility of opening up an old under-street cellar that might do for the storage of wine. The rent, though, was bearable, and flush with the agreed injection of funds from his friend George, Bruce was confident that he would have no difficulty in acquiring an impressive stock list. And he was confident that in time the shop would become a place of pilgrimage for the discerning Edinburgh wine-buyer. After all, he asked himself: is there much competition? There were certainly a few fuddy-duddy people here and there, but they were so middle-aged, and nowadays people want youth, vigour and good looks. All of which I have, thought Bruce; that, together with a knowledge of wine and a good palate.

The agent from the letting solicitors was waiting for him at the door. He was a serious-looking young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a slightly-worried expression. “Oh no,” Bruce said to himself. “Yawn, yawn.” They shook hands, the young man wrinkling his nose slightly at the cloves.

“Essence of cloves,” said Bruce. “Like it?”

They moved inside.

“You should find everything in order,” said the agent. “We had a slight leak in the sink in the back room, but the plumber came in and fixed that. Everything seems in good order. Lights. Look.” He moved to the switch and turned it on.

“Lumière!”
said Bruce.

The agent stared at him. “And I gather that you don't need to do much to the fittings.”

Bruce looked at the shelves. They were exactly the right size for the display of wine bottles.

“Perfect for bottles,” said Bruce, taking the keys from the young man. “And will I have the pleasure of selling you wine in the near future? I'll have an excellent range.”

“Thank you,” said the young man. “But I don't drink.”

“You could start,” said Bruce cheerfully. “Cut your teeth on something fairly light–a German white maybe. The sort of thing women go for.”

The young man pursed his lips. “No, thank you,” he said.

“You sure?” asked Bruce. “It'll loosen you up a bit. You know what I mean?”

“Have you everything you need?” asked the young man. “If you do, I'll be getting back to the office.”

He left, and Bruce shook his head. What a wimp! But even with such unpromising material he thought that he had made a fairly good impression with his sales pitch and he looked forward to being able to try his salesman skills on other customers.

He looked about the shop. All he had to do now was to give the place a bit of a dusting, order the stock, and arrange for the various bits and pieces to be installed. Then he would be in business! He looked at his watch. He could work until just before noon, when he was due to meet the wholesaler whom he had contacted. They were to meet in the Bailie, and they could go over the list there. The wholesaler, who was somebody Bruce had met once or twice at the rugby club, had promised to give him substantial discounts.

“I cut my margins to the bone when I deal with chaps from the club,” he had said. “You'll get the stuff virtually at cost.” Then he had lowered his voice.

“And I've got some cases of Petrus, would you believe? Don't spread it around, whatever you do, because everyone will want some and I can't satisfy everybody. But I can get you a few cases at an unbelievably good price. Honestly, you'll pass out when you hear the discount.”

Bruce had immediately gone to find out what Petrus was.

Then he had looked at the price. For a moment he thought he had misread the figures. But then he realised he had not: those noughts were meant to be there.