Espresso Tales (34 page)

94. Bertie's Dream

That night, Bertie was reluctant to switch off his bedside lamp, so happy was he just to gaze at his newly-painted walls. He was still convinced that the transformation of his room had been achieved through some form of supernatural intervention, although he was not sure what precise form this had taken. One possibility was that the room had been painted by angels, as Bertie had recently read an account of the activity of angels which stressed that the heavenly beings frequently undertook good deeds by stealth. But ultimately it did not matter in the least who, or what agency, had effected the change in his colour scheme; the important thing was that he no longer lived in a pink room, but in a white one.

After he had been lying on his bed for half an hour or so, gazing dreamily at the walls, his parents came through to say goodnight to him, as they always did. His father was first to appear, looking shocked and dazed, and then, after he had gone, his mother, whose eyes and cheeks struck Bertie as being puffy and red.

“Are you all right, Mummy?” asked Bertie. “You haven't been crying, have you?”

Irene bent down and kissed Bertie on his brow. “No, Bertie,
carissimo
. Not crying. Just re-evaluating.”

“Good-night, then,” said Bertie, snuggling down into his bed.

“
Buona notte,
Bertie,” said Irene. She reached out to turn off his light and stood at his bedside for a few moments, wistfully, looking down at her young son. Then she turned away and left the room, leaving the door very slightly ajar to allow in the small chink of light that Bertie liked to have at night, against the greater darkness.

Bertie closed his eyes and thought of what he might do now that he had a white room. He might invite Tofu round some afternoon and give him bacon sandwiches to eat in the room. There was always plenty of bacon in their fridge and Tofu wouldn't mind too much if it were to be uncooked. And then he might even invite Olive. He wondered about her. He had felt very wounded when she had accused him of wishing lockjaw upon her, but he thought that it was now time for both of them to move on. He would forgive her for spreading rumours that she was his girlfriend (he had even heard that she had told people that they were actually engaged and that there would be a notice to that effect in the school magazine quite soon). And if he forgave her for that, then she should surely forgive him for the misunderstanding over lockjaw.

Lockjaw, of course, was not the only threat. Bertie had also heard about the dangers of cutting the skin between one's thumb and forefinger. That, he was told, induced immediate blood-poisoning, unless, of course, one had ready access to a frog, in which case the rubbing of the frog on the wound was a quick and effective treatment. Merlin, the boy in his class who was consulted on all physical matters, had reliably informed them that there was a special tank at the New Royal Infirmary where frogs were bred for this precise purpose, along with leeches, which, he explained, doctors used to treat patients whom they particularly disliked. Olive, Tofu said, would definitely have a leech attached to her if she were for any reason to be admitted to the Royal Infirmary.

Bertie eventually drifted off to sleep and during the course of the night had a dream. In this dream, which he remembered vividly upon waking, he found himself walking in a field of grass, alone to begin with, but first joined by a spotted dog, which trotted contentedly at his heels, and then by a friend. And this friend was Tofu, who walked beside him, his hand resting on Bertie's shoulder in comfortable companionship. Bertie felt proud to have a friend, even if it was only Tofu, and to have a dog, too, added to his pleasure. Above them was a high sky of freedom, unsullied by clouds.

Then suddenly the spotted dog ran away. It scampered off into the undergrowth and Bertie called out to it, but it did not come back. He felt bereft now that the dog had gone and he turned to Tofu for reassurance, but Tofu himself had skipped off, disappearing into a thicket at the edge of the field. Bertie called after him, just as he had called after the dog, but a wind had arisen, and it swallowed his words.

Now he was alone, but only for a short time, for his mother suddenly appeared round the corner of a path and she rushed towards him and lifted him up, smothering him with caresses. Bertie squirmed, trying to escape, but could not; his mother was too powerful; she was like the wind, a gale, an irresistible tide; she could not be vanquished. She held him in her grip, which was a strong one, and prevented him from moving.

But at last she put him down, and Bertie looked up at her and saw something which made his heart turn cold. Irene had a baby in her arms, and she held this baby out to Bertie, saying: “Look, Bertie! Look at this baby!”

Bertie stared at the baby and thought: Now I have a brother.

“Yes,” said Irene. “You have a brother, Bertie!”

Bertie did not know what to say. He stood quite still while Irene held the baby up to allow it to gaze down on Bertie, which it did with a smile, like one of those babies one sees in pre-Raphaelite paintings, slightly sinister babies. Then Irene turned. To her side there was a piano and a piano stool, and she put the baby down on the stool. The baby reached out and began to play the piano, its tiny, chubby fingers dancing across the keyboard with great skill.

Bertie watched. He was fascinated by the baby's ability to play the piano. My mother has forced him to learn the piano, he thought. And he is only six months old!

He looked more closely at the baby, who had reached a difficult passage in the music and was frowning with concentration. Then the baby stopped, and turned towards Bertie and smiled. And Bertie saw that the baby was wearing a baby suit made of the same blue linen as that worn by Dr Fairbairn.

That was Bertie's dream.

95. The Wind Makes the Trains Sound Faint

When he awoke the next morning, Bertie was initially unwilling to open his eyes. He had gone to sleep in a room which had miraculously turned white; now he feared that it would have changed colour again overnight, back to the pink that he so disliked. But it had not, of course, and he was able to gaze, wide-eyed, at his new colour-scheme and confirm that it was true.

After he had dressed, Bertie went through to the kitchen, from which he heard the strains of an aria from
The Magic Flute
issuing forth.

“Good morning, Bertie,” said Irene. “Do you know what they're singing about on the radio?”

“Catching birds,” said Bertie. “Isn't that the man who catches birds?”

“Yes,” said Irene. “Papageno. Do you know, I briefly considered calling you that when you were born? But then I decided that Bertie sounded better.”

Bertie felt weak. It would have been impossible to live down a name like that, and he felt immensely relieved at his narrow escape. But if she had been thinking of calling him Papageno, then what would she have called that baby in the dream?

Irene looked at him. “Your father and I had a discussion last night,” she said. “We talked a little bit about you.”

Bertie looked at his mother impassively. She was always talking about him, although it was perhaps a bit unusual for his father to do so too. He reached for his porridge bowl and poured in the milk.

“Yes,” continued Irene. “We talked about you and we thought that you might like to change things a bit.”

Bertie looked up from his porridge. “Really, Mummy?” He thought quickly. Perhaps this was his chance.

“Could I go and live in a hotel, Mummy?” he asked. “There's one round the corner in Northumberland Street. I've seen it. I could go and live there. You could come and see me now and then.”

Irene smiled. “What nonsense, Bertie!” she said.

Bertie looked back at his porridge. The milk was the sea and the lumps of porridge were tiny islands. And his spoon, placed carefully down on the surface of the milk, was a little boat. Perhaps he could go to sea. Perhaps he could sign on as a cabin boy in the Navy and make the captain's tea. Bertie had read one of the Patrick O'Brian books and he made it sound so much fun, although the parts where the ships did battle were rather frightening. However, it wouldn't be like that these days, he thought, now that the European Union had stopped British ships firing upon Spanish or French ships. Perhaps they just met at sea these days and exchanged new European regulations.

“Yes,” went on Irene. “We've been thinking, your father and I, that maybe you should do more of the things you really want to do. Would you like that, Bertie?”

Bertie smiled at his mother. “Very much,” he said. He was pleased, but still rather doubtful. He was not sure whether his mother really understood what he wanted to do. Would he be let off yoga today?

“So, Bertie,” said Irene, “I thought that although today is Saturday, and we normally have double yoga on a Saturday, we might skip it.”

“Oh thank you!” shouted Bertie. “Thank you, Mummy!”

“And instead,” continued Irene, “we shall…”

Bertie's face fell as he wondered what the alternative would be. Double Italian? Or perhaps the floatarium?

“We shall get Daddy,” said Irene, “we shall get Daddy to take you up to the Princes Street Gardens. You can climb that bit underneath the castle there and look down on the trains. Would you like that, Bertie?”

Bertie let out a whoop of delight. “I'd love that, Mummy. We could see the trains leaving for Glasgow!”

Irene smiled. “An unusual pleasure, in my view,” she mused. “But there we are.
Chacun à son goût.
”

Bertie finished his porridge quickly and then returned to his room to put on a sweater. It was a warm day for the time of the year, but by wearing a sweater he could cover the top part of his dungarees and people would not necessarily think that he was wearing them. From a distance, and if they did not look too closely, they might even think that he was wearing nothing more unusual than red jeans. That is what he hoped for, anyway.

Stuart emerged shortly after Bertie had got himself ready. After a quick breakfast, with Bertie champing at the bit to be out, they left the flat and Scotland Street and began to walk up the hill towards Princes Street. It was a fine morning and when they reached Princes Street the flags on the flagpoles were fluttering proudly in a strong breeze from the west.

“It makes you proud, doesn't it, Bertie?” said Stuart. “Look at the wonderful scene. The flags. The Castle. The statues. Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish, to be part of all this?”

“Aye, it does that, Faither,” said Bertie.

They crossed the road and made their way into the Gardens. Then, crossing the railway line on the narrow pedestrian bridge, they headed for the steep path that led up the lower slopes of the Castle Rock. After a short climb, they found a place to sit, half on rock, half on grass, and from there they watched the trains run through the cutting down below. As they passed, some of the trains sounded their whistles, and the sound drifted up to them, and the sound, to Bertie at least, meant the freedom of the wider world, the freedom of which he was now, at last, being offered a glimpse. And he was happy, even when the wind swallowed up the sound of the whistles and made the train sounds seem faint and far away.

“I had a very strange dream last night, Daddy,” said Bertie suddenly.

“Oh yes, Bertie. And what was that?”

“I dreamed that Mummy had a new baby,” said Bertie. “And the baby was dressed in blue linen, which is what Dr Fairbairn wears. It was very funny. A little blue linen baby suit.”

Stuart looked at his son. Down below a train went past and sounded a warning whistle, audible for a moment, but then caught by the wind and carried away.

96. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part VII–Bridge at Blair Atholl

Ramsey Dunbarton looked at Betty with all the fondness that comes of over forty years of marriage. “I don't think that you're finding my memoirs interesting, Betty,” he said. “But don't worry, I'm not going to read much more.”

“But they
are
interesting,” protested Betty. “They're very interesting, Ramsey. It's just that it gets so warm here in the conservatory and I find myself drifting off from the heat. It's not you, Ramsey, my dear. You read on.”

“I'm only going to read two more excerpts,” said Ramsey, shuffling the papers of his manuscript. “And then I'm going to stop.”

“Read on, Macduff,” said Betty.

“Why do you call me Macduff?” asked Ramsey, sounding puzzled. “We have no Macduffs in the family as far as I know. No, hold on! I think we might, I think we just might! My mother's cousin, the one who came from Forres, married a man whom we used to call Uncle Lou, and I think that he had a brother-in-law who was a Macduff. Yes, I think he was! Well, there you are, Betty! Isn't Scotland a village!”

“Do carry on,” said Betty, closing her eyes. “I love the sound of your voice, Ramsey.”

“Now then,” said Ramsey, referring to his manuscript. “This happened about twenty years ago. I had a client, not Johnny Auchtermuchty, but somebody quite different, who had a large hotel in Perthshire. We acted for them in some Court of Session business that they had and I went up there one Saturday to have lunch with my client and to discuss the progress of the legal action down in Edinburgh. It was a very complicated case and I was not at all sure that the counsel we had instructed understood some of the finer points involved. I had suggested this to him–very politely, of course–and he had become quite shirty, implying that advocates generally knew more about the law than solicitors did, which is why they were advocates in the first place. I replied that I very much doubted this and to prove the point I asked him whether he could name, from the top of his head, a certain section of a statute to do with the sale of goods. He looked at me in a very rude way, I thought, and then he had the gall to tell me that the legislation to which I was referring had been repealed the previous year, and did I know that? It was not an amicable exchange.

“The client, though, was a very agreeable man, and it was a mark of his status in that part of Perthshire that just as we were finishing lunch at his house the telephone went and it was none other than the Duke of Atholl! Now deceased, sadly.

“The Duke was a very strong bridge player–international standard, in fact–and they were just about to have a game of bridge up at Blair Atholl and they needed a fourth player. The Duke wondered whether my host would care to play. Unfortunately he could not, as he had a further engagement that afternoon, but then he turned to me and asked me whether I would like to go up in his stead. Now, my bridge is not very strong, but I had played a bit with the Braids Bridge Club and of course it was a great honour to be invited to play with the Duke, and so I readily agreed.

“I went up to Blair Atholl more or less straightaway. A servant let me into the house and showed me up to the drawing room, where I met the Duke and two others, a man and a woman who were staying with him as his guests–people from London whose names I did not catch, but who seemed quite civil, for Londoners. Then we all sat down at the bridge table, with me partnering the Duke. He opened the bidding on that first hand with one heart, and I rapidly took him up to four hearts on the strength of my single ace. Unfortunately, we did not make it, the Duke very quietly saying that he thought it was perhaps a slightly bad split.

“The game continued, and I must say that I enjoyed it immensely, even if the Duke and I were three rubbers down at the end. He did not seem to mind this very much, and was a very considerate host. We had a cup of tea after the bridge and we talked for about half an hour before the Duke had to attend to some other matter and I took my leave.

“‘Do have a wander round, Dunbarton,'” the Duke said very kindly. “‘Take a walk up the brae if you wish.'”

“I decided to take him up on this invitation since it was such a pleasant late afternoon. There was a path which led up a small hill and I followed this, admiring the views of the Perthshire countryside. Then the most remarkable thing happened. I turned a corner and there before me, charging through the heather, was a group of armed men, all wearing kilts and carrying infantry rifles. I stopped in my tracks–the men had clearly not seen me–and then I rapidly turned round and ran back to the castle. Beating on the door, I demanded of the servant who came to answer that I had to see His Grace immediately, on a matter of the utmost urgency.

“I was taken to the drawing room again, where I found the Duke sitting with his two other guests, engaged in conversation.

“‘Your Grace!' I shouted. ‘Call the police immediately! There's a group of armed men making their way down the hillside!'

“The Duke did not seem at all surprised. In fact, he smiled.

“‘Oh them,' he said. ‘Don't you worry about them. That's my private army.'

“And then I remembered. Of course! The Duke of Atholl has the only private army allowed in the country. I should have thought about that before I panicked and raised the alarm, and so I left feeling somewhat sheepish. But the bridge had been enjoyable, and I reflected on the fact that it would probably be a long time before I would be invited to play bridge again with a duke. In fact, I never received a subsequent invitation, but I have in no sense resented that. Not in the slightest.”