Espresso Tales (7 page)

16. Bertie Goes to School Eventually

Irene would have liked to have driven Bertie to his first day at the Steiner School, but there was the issue of the location of their car and she was obliged to begin as she intended to continue–by catching the 23 bus as it laboured up the hill from Canonmills.

“It would be nice to be able to run Bertie to school,” she had remarked to Stuart the previous evening, “but not knowing exactly where the car is makes it somewhat difficult, would you not agree?”

“Don't look at me,” said Stuart. “You were the last to use it. You parked it. You find it.”

Irene pursed her lips. “Excuse me,” she said. “I very rarely use that car, and I certainly was not the last one to drive it. You drove it when you went through to Glasgow for that meeting a couple of months ago. Remember? It was that meeting when you bumped into that person who used to live next to your parents in Dunoon. I distinctly remember your telling me that. And that was the last time the car was used. So you parked it–not me.”

Stuart was silent. Irene glanced at him with satisfaction. “Try to remember the journey back,” she said. “You would have come in on the Corstorphine Road, would you not, and driven back through Murrayfield? Did you turn off at the West End? Did you come along Queen Street? Try to remember.”

Stuart remained silent, looking up at the ceiling. Then he looked down at the floor.

“Well?” pressed Irene. “Did you come back that way?”

Stuart turned to her. “I came back by train,” he said quietly. “I remember it because I saw the Minister on the train, eating a banana muffin, and he said hello to me and I was impressed that he had remembered me. I remember thinking how nice it was of him to make the effort. He sees so many civil servants.”

“Yes, yes,” said Irene. “The Minister. Banana muffins. But the car. What about the car?”

“Are you sure that I drove there?” asked Stuart weakly, although he knew the answer even as he asked the question. Irene would remember exactly; she always did.

For a few moments there was complete silence. Then Irene spoke. “I saw you get into it,” she said. “You waved goodbye and drove off. So what does this mean?”

When Stuart replied his voice was barely audible. “Then it's still in Glasgow,” he said. He waved a hand in a westerly direction. “Somewhere over there.”

Irene's tone was icy. “You mean that you have left the car–our car–in Glasgow? That it's been there for several months? And you completely forgot about it?”

“So it would appear,” said Stuart. He sounded wretched. He was in awe of Irene, and he hated to be the object of her scorn. “I must have caught the train without thinking.”

“Well, that's just fine, then,” said Irene. “That's the end of our car. It'll be stripped bare by now. Or stolen.”

Stuart attempted to defend himself. “I'm sure that I parked it legally,” he said. “Which means that it's probably still there. Perhaps the battery will be flat, but that may be all.”

Irene failed to respond to his optimism. “When you say it will still be there,” she said evenly, “what exactly do you mean by there? Where precisely is there?”

“Glasgow,” said Stuart.

“Where in Glasgow? Glasgow's a big city.”

“Near the Dumbarton Road,” said Stuart. “Somewhere…somewhere there. That's where my meeting was. Just off the Dumbarton Road.”

“Well, I suggest that you go and find it as soon as possible,” said Irene, adding: “If you can.”

Stuart nodded miserably. He would go through to Glasgow next weekend, by train, and take a taxi out to the Dumbarton Road. He had a vague recollection of where he might have parked, in a quiet cul-de-sac, and there was no reason why the car should not still be there. People left their cars for months at the roadside, and the cars survived. It was different, of course, if one had a fashionable or tempting car, like the car that Domenica Macdonald drove–that sort of car would be bound to attract the attention of joy-riders or vandals–but their car, an old Volvo estate, would be unlikely to catch anybody's eye.

And then it occurred to him that when he made the trip over to Glasgow, he would take Bertie with him. He would take him away from whatever classes Irene had planned for him–Saturday was saxophone in the morning, if he remembered correctly, and junior life-drawing in the afternoon–and he would take him with him on the train. Bertie would love that. He had hardly ever been on a train before, Stuart realised, and yet that was exactly the sort of thing that a father should do with his son. He felt a momentary pang. I've been a bad father, he thought. I've left the fathering to Irene. I've failed my son.

No more was said about the car that evening and the next morning Irene was too busy getting Bertie ready for school to talk to Stuart about cars, or anything else. She had awoken Bertie early and dressed him in his best OshKosh dungarees.

“Such smart dungarees,” said Irene.

Bertie looked doubtful. “Do other boys wear them?” he asked.

“Dungarees? Of course they do,” Irene reassured him. “Go down to Stockbridge and see all those boys in dungarees.”

“But theirs aren't pink.”

“Nor are yours, Bertie,” scolded Irene. “These are crushed strawberry. They are not pink.” She looked at her watch. “And we don't have the time to sit around and talk about dungarees. Look at the time. You're going to have to get used to being in time for school. It's not like…”

She was about to say “nursery school”, but stopped herself. In time, Bertie would forget about nursery school and the ignominy of his suspension. His psychotherapy would help–she knew that–but ultimately it was time, simple, old-fashioned time that was the healer.

They ate a quick breakfast and set off for Dundas Street. Irene noticed that Bertie avoided treading on the lines in the pavement, and sighed. There were definite signs of neurosis there, she thought; Dr Fairbairn must be informed. As she thought this, she pictured Dr Fairbairn in his consulting room, wearing that rather natty jacket that he liked to wear. He was such a sympathetic man, and so attuned to the feelings of others, just as one could expect. It would be wonderful to be married to a man like that, rather than to a statistician in the Scottish Executive. She glanced down at Bertie, as if afraid that he might read her disloyal thoughts, and he looked up at her.

“It's all right, Mummy,” he said quietly. “I know what you're thinking.”

17. Down Among the Innocents

Sitting at his new desk, with his name printed out in large letters in front of him, Bertie stared at his new classmates. There were fifteen of them, eight boys and seven girls, none of whom he knew. He at least had the advantage over them; he could read the names of all the others, whereas most of them could not. He looked at the placards: Luke, Marcus, Merlin, Tofu, Larch, Christoph, Hiawatha and Kim (boys); and Jocasta, Angel, Lakshmi, Skye, Pansy, Jade and Olive (girls).

He looked in vain for Jock, the boy he had met at his interview and whom he wanted so much to be his friend, but there was no sign of him. So he had gone to Watson's, Bertie concluded; it was just as I thought. Jock would be at Watson's that very morning, playing rugby perhaps, rather than sitting in a circle with Tofu and the rest.

There was a short talk from Miss Harmony, the teacher, a tall woman with an encouraging smile, who explained what fun going to school was. They would learn so much, she said, and enjoy themselves in the process. There would be music, too, and they would shortly start on the recorder.

“It's like a whistle,” said the teacher. “You blow it and–
peep
–out comes some music. Such fun!”

“And very well suited to early music,” said Bertie brightly.

There was a silence, and the teacher spun round. “What was that, Bertie? Did you say something,
Liebling
?”

“I said that the recorder is very well suited to playing Renaissance music,” he said. “Italian music, for example.
The Lamento di Tristan.
That sort of thing.”

“She said it goes
peep,
” said Tofu, looking accusingly at Bertie. “Or does it go
poop?
Hah!”

All the children thought this was extremely funny, and laughed loudly. Tofu smiled modestly.

The teacher sighed. “We don't laugh at things like that,” she said softly. “We must learn that such things just aren't funny. Tofu, darling, remember that we're quite grown-up now. And you, Bertie, what an interesting thing to say. Can you play the recorder already?”

“A bit,” said Bertie. “The fingering isn't all that hard. It's easier than playing the saxophone.”

“Sexophone?” said Tofu, smiling at the resultant giggles.

The teacher glared at him. “Bertie said ‘saxophone', Tofu. Perhaps you did not hear him correctly.” She turned to Bertie. “And do you play the saxophone, Bertie?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “But I don't have it with me.”

“No,” said the teacher. “So I see. Well, I'm sure that we shall all have the chance to hear you playing the saxophone some time soon. The saxophone, boys and girls, was invented by a man called Arthur Sax, a Frenchman. He made many beautiful brass instruments.”

“Adolf Sax,” corrected Bertie politely. “And he was Belgian.”

The teacher looked at Bertie, and then at Tofu, who had started to tickle the girl sitting next to him.

“Tofu, dear,” she said firmly. “Girls don't like being tickled.”

“Oh don't they?” said Tofu. “I know lots of girls who like being tickled. They like it a lot.”

The teacher was silent. It was time for some diversion, she felt. She crossed the room to the cupboard and opened the door. The children watched closely as she took out a pile of old copies of the
Guardian
and handed a folded copy to each child.

“Now you'll know what this is,” she said.

A forest of hands shot up. “It's the
Guardian,
” the innocents cried out.

“Well done,” she said. “And can anybody name another newspaper for me?”

There was complete silence. The children looked at one another in puzzlement. Then Bertie spoke. There were plenty of other newspapers, and he had read a number of them. There was the
Scotsman
and the
Herald
and a newspaper called the
Daily Telegraph.

“The
Daily Telegraph
,” he said.

The teacher looked at him. “Perhaps,” she said. Then, turning to the class in general she gave them their instructions. They were to fold the
Guardian
up, she said, and then they were to try to cut out the shape of a man. Then, when they unfolded it, they would have lots of little men, all joined together in a chain.

Picking up a copy herself, she demonstrated the folding and the cutting. “There,” she said, holding up the result. “Look at that long line of little men, all holding hands.”

“Gays,” said Tofu.

The teacher put down her paper cut-out. “Tofu, dear, if you wouldn't mind just going and standing outside the door for five minutes. And while you're there, you can think about the things that you say.”

“Shall I hit him for you?” asked Larch, a burly boy with a very short hair-cut.

“No,” said the teacher quickly, and then, under her breath so that nobody might hear, she muttered: “Not just yet.”

When the time came for the morning interval, Bertie went out into the playground by himself. He was aware of the fact that he alone was wearing dungarees and he smarted with embarrassment. Tofu, for example, had electric sneakers that sent out small pulses of light each time he took a step, and even Merlin, who was wearing obviously home-made sandals and a rainbow-coloured jacket, at least had normal trousers. Bertie felt miserable: everybody else seemed to have made a friend already, or even more than one friend. Tofu had a knot of four or five others around him, even including somebody from one of the classes above. Bertie had nobody, so when Tofu came up to him a few minutes later, he had nobody to defend him.

“Dungarees!” the other boy said contemptuously. “Or are they pyjamas?”

“It's not my fault,” said Bertie. “It's my mother.”

Tofu looked at him and sneered. “Dungarees are good for falling over in,” he said suddenly. “Like this.” And with that he gave Bertie a push, causing him to fall to the ground. There was laughter, and Tofu walked off.

Bertie picked himself up off the ground and dusted his dungarees. There was a large brown patch on one of the knees. As he attended to this, he became aware of the fact that a girl was standing beside him. It was Olive.

“Poor Bertie,” she said. “It's not your fault that you look so silly. It really isn't. And that Tofu is a horrid boy. Everybody knows he's horrid.” She paused. “But I suppose we should feel sorry for him.”

“Why?” asked Bertie. “Why should we feel sorry for him?”

“Because he doesn't have a mummy,” explained Olive. “She was a vegan and she starved to death. My dad told me all about it.”

Bertie was horrified. “And what about his daddy?” he asked. “Has he got a daddy?”

“Yes,” said Olive. “But he's a vegan too, so he won't last long either.”

“And Tofu himself?” whispered Bertie.

“He's very hungry,” Olive replied. “We were at nursery together, and I saw him stealing ham sandwiches from the others' lunch boxes. Yes, he's very hungry. In fact, he's not going to last too long himself. So cheer up, Bertie! Cheer up!”

18. On the Way Home

For the first few days, they went home early. Irene was there at the school gate, in good time, along with all the other parents, waiting for the children to be released. She looked about her, seeing whether she recognised anybody: she knew that the parents of the other children would see a lot of one another over the years ahead, and she was interested to find out what they were like. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, although there was one woman whom she had met somewhere or other and who nodded in her direction. Where had it been? Yoga? The floatarium? Edinburgh was like that; there were so many familiar faces but they were often difficult to place exactly.

Her gaze moved discreetly over the other parental faces. They were much as she expected; ordinary, reasonable people, just like herself. Irene felt comfortable.

“Warm, isn't it?” said a voice just behind her.

She turned and looked at the speaker. He was a tall man, with a rather thin face, and dark hair swept back over his head. He was wearing a pair of bottle-green slacks and a thin, denim jacket.

“I'm Barnabas Miller,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I'm Tofu's father. And you're…”

“Bertie's mother,” said Irene. And then, laughing, she added: “I have a name as well, I suppose. Irene Pollock.”

Barnabas nodded. “No doubt we'll all meet at the parents' evenings,” he said. “They're very good with that sort of occasion. This is a very happy school.”

“Yes,” said Irene. “No doubt we will.” She paused. “And Tofu–it was Tofu, wasn't it?–was he at nursery here?”

“Yes,” said Barnabas. “We took him out for a while–minor behavioural issues–and then he went back. He's a very expressive child. I looked after him at home while I was writing my book. My wife is often away. She lectures on diet.” (Note:
Olive was wrong, of course; Tofu's mother may have been thin, but she was still quick–in the old-fashioned sense of the word.
)

Irene was interested. “Your book? What do you write?”

“I've just had a new one come out,” said Barnabas. “
The Sorrow of the Nuts
. I don't imagine that you've read it.”

“Sorry,” said Irene. “What is it? Fiction?”

Barnabas shook his head. “No. It's a holistic nutrition book. It examines the proposition that nuts have energy fields–and some form of morphic resonance. You'll have heard of Rupert Sheldrake, I take it?”

Irene had, but only just. “The man who wrote
The New Science of Life?
”

“Yes,” said Barnabas. “He's the one who pointed out that there are resonant energy fields that contain biologically significant information. He proved it with the milk-top hypothesis.”

Irene frowned. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I did look at that book, ages ago, and I've forgotten…”

“No need to apologise,” said Barnabas. “Sheldrake reminds us that before the war birds had worked out how to peck away at the foil tops of milk bottles and drink the top of the milk on the doorstep. It took them some time to learn this, but eventually they did. Then along came the war and they stopped using those foil tops–metal had to be kept for other uses. And so several generations of birds never saw those milk tops. Then, after the war they were able to introduce those tops again and, lo and behold, the birds knew immediately what to do.”

“And Sheldrake says?”

“That the only way in which the birds could have picked up that knowledge would be if there had been some sort of energy field which contained that information for them. He calls it morphic resonance.”

Irene reflected on this. It was challenging stuff. “And your book?” she asked.

“It explores the possibility that nuts have feelings,” said Barnabas solemnly. “And it concludes that they do. Not feelings in the sense that we might use the term about ourselves, but feelings in the sense of some form of quasi-conscious response to the world.” He paused. “Not everyone would agree with me, of course. But it does have major dietary implications.”

“It means that eating nuts is cruel?” prompted Irene.

“Not exactly,” said Barnabas. “But it might be thought inconsiderate.”

“Do you eat them yourself?” asked Irene. “Not that I mean to be personal. I hope you don't mind my asking.”

“I'm in the process of giving them up,” said Barnabas. “After all, I feel that I should practise at least some of what I preach.”

Irene was about to say something when there was a sudden noise of shouting and laughing and the children streamed out of the building. When Bertie saw Irene, he seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, but then came forward to her.

“Well, Bertie,” asked Irene. “How was it? How was your first day of school? Did you learn anything?”

“I learned a little about life,” said Bertie.

“Good,” said Irene. “Now let's go home. We'll get the 23 from up the road.”

They walked back up Spylaw Road and on towards Bruntsfield. They were just in time for a 23 bus as it came up the road from Holy Corner.

“We shall sit on the top, Bertie,” said Irene. “We can look out and see what's happening on the pavement.”

They found seats and sat down on the upper deck. Bertie was silent as the bus started its journey back. He looked down at the dirt stain on the knee of his trousers, the stain caused by the assault perpetrated on him by the poor, doomed Tofu. Could Olive be right that he was starving to death? Were people allowed to starve to death these days, now that the Labour Party was in power? Surely not.

Irene was lost in her thoughts too. The bus had stopped near a bank cash machine, and she noticed a young man, blanket around his legs, sitting on the pavement right next to the machine. As people came to draw their money, he looked up at them and asked for change. The sight made her angry. He was able-bodied, was he not? He was young enough to work, or draw benefit if he could not: what right did he have to importune people in this way? People had the right to draw money, she felt, without being subjected to any pressure. And where were the police? Did they stand by and tolerate this? It appeared that they did.

She stopped herself. Should I be thinking like this? she wondered. Like what? She supplied her own answer: like a Conservative. The problem was that whenever the Conservatives made a policy statement these days she found herself agreeing with it. That was awkward, in her book, and she put the thought out of her mind. But then the thought occurred to her: perhaps I'm a Conservative leftist. That sounded much more respectable than being a leftist Conservative. But what exactly was the difference?