Love Over Scotland (7 page)

17. Anguish

“Why were you shouting out ‘Spottiswoode’?” asked Wolf, as he opened the door of Pat’s room.

Pat looked at him with what she hoped was a blank expression.

“Spottiswoode?” she said.

Wolf nodded, allowing a fringe of hair to fall briefly across his brow. This was soon tossed back. “I heard you out in the hall. You shouted out ‘Spottiswoode’. Twice.”

Pat clenched her teeth. Rapidly she rehearsed a number of possibilities. She could deny it, of course, and suggest that he had experienced an auditory hallucination. She was, after all, a psychiatrist’s daughter and she had heard her father talk about auditory hallucinations. He had treated a patient, she recalled, who complained that the roses in his garden recited Burns to him. That had seemed so strange to her at the time, but here she was shouting out Spottiswoode in her distress.

No, she would not resort to denial; that would only convince him that there was something odd about her, and he would be put off. That would be the worst possible outcome.

“Spottiswoode?” she said. “Did I?”

Wolf nodded again. “Yes,” he said. “Spottiswoode. Very loudly. Spottiswoode.”

Pat laughed, airily (she hoped). “Oh, Spottiswoode! Of course.”

Wolf smiled. “Well?”

“Well, why not?” said Pat. She looked about the room and made a gesture with her hands. “I was just thinking–here I am in Spottiswoode Street at last. You know, I’ve always wanted to live in Spottiswoode Street, and now I do. I was just so happy, I shouted out Spottiswoode, I suppose.”

Her explanation tailed off. She saw his eyes widen slightly, and with a sinking heart she realised that this meant that he did not believe her. Desperate now, she thought, I must do something to change the subject in a radical way.

She looked at her watch. “Look at the time!” she muttered. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to have a bath.”

She turned round and began to unbutton her top. Wolf did nothing. Turning her head slightly, she saw him staring at her, a bemused expression on his face. She stopped the unbuttoning.

“So you don’t have to have a bath after all?” said Wolf.

“No,” she said lamely. “I forgot. I don’t.”

Wolf smiled at her, his teeth white against his lips. “Oh well,” he said. “I’d better be going. So long.”

“So long.”

He closed the door, and Pat sat down on her bed. She felt confused and raw; unhappy too. And in her unhappiness, as ever, she retrieved her mobile from her bag and pressed the button which would connect her immediately with her father.

He answered, as he always did, in the calm tones that she had always found so reassuring. He inquired where she was and asked her how she was settling in, and then there was a brief silence before she spoke again.

“Can you tell me something, Dad?” she asked. “Why do we utter words that don’t mean anything?”

Dr MacGregor laughed. “Perhaps you should ask a politician that. They’re the experts in the uttering of the meaningless.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I’m talking about when you murmur a word to yourself. A name perhaps. The name of a place.” She did not say the name of a street, of course.

There was a moment’s silence at the other end. Dr MacGregor realised that this was not theoretical inquiry; doctors were never asked theoretical questions. They were asked questions about things that were happening to real people, usually to the questioner.

“Why?” he asked gently. “Have you found yourself doing this?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “I suppose I have.”

“It’s nothing too worrying,” said Dr MacGregor. “It’s usually an expression of agony. Something worries you, something haunts you, and you give verbal expression to your anguish. And what you say may have nothing to do with what you feel. It may be the name of somebody you know, it may be a totally meaningless word.”

“Such as…such as Spottiswoode?”

“Yes. Spottiswoode would do.” Dr MacGregor paused. So that was what his daughter had uttered. Well, Spottiswoode was as good as anything. “You’re unhappy about something, aren’t you? That’s why you gave a cry of anguish. It’s a perfectly normal response, you know. Lots of people do it. They don’t admit it, but they do it. People don’t admit things, you see, Pat.”

“They don’t?”

“No, they don’t. And that’s very sad, isn’t it? We’re all weak, human creatures, with all those foibles and troubles which make us human, and we all–or most of us–feel that we have to be strong and brave and in command of ourselves. But we can’t be. The people with the strong, brave exteriors are just as weak and vulnerable as the rest of us. And of course they never admit to their childish practices, their moments of weakness or absurdity, and then the rest of us think that’s how it should be. But it isn’t, Pat. It isn’t.

“And here is another thing, Pat. When you find yourself doing something like this–something which appears to have no meaning–remember that it might just be plain old superstitious behaviour. A lot of the things we do are superstitious. And although we don’t know it, we do them because we think that our actions will protect us from things getting even worse.”

Pat was intrigued. For the time being, she had forgotten about her misery and about Spottiswoode and its attendant embarrassments. It was so like her father to understand so completely. And it was so like him, too, to make it that much easier.

“Of course,” went on Dr MacGregor, “this will all be about a boy, won’t it?”

She drew in her breath. He always knew; he always knew.

“Yes, it is.”

“In that case,” he said, “your options are very clear, you know. You find out whether it’s going to work out, or you forget him. If he’s unattainable, or not interested in you, then you simply have to forget him. Forget he exists. Tell yourself that he’s really nothing to you.”

Their conversation continued for a few minutes after that. Then Pat went to the window and looked out. Wolf is nothing to me, she said to herself. Wolf is nothing to me.

She heard a noise outside the closed door, and she spun round. The thought occurred to her that she had said–actually articulated the words Wolf is nothing to me–rather than merely thinking them. She could not be sure. And if that was Wolf outside, then he would have heard her.

But it was not Wolf. It was Tessie.

18. Fibs

Irene had taken Stuart to task for suggesting in front of Bertie that they should report the theft of their car without mentioning their suspicions that the car was already a stolen car, passed on by the Glasgow businessman, Lard O’Connor. Her squeamishness, though, did not preclude her from reporting the matter herself; she had been shocked by the idea that Bertie might hear of the planned concealment rather than that Stuart should propose such a thing in the first place.

“It’s not really a deception,” she said to Stuart, once Bertie was out of earshot. “All we are doing is reporting the theft of a car which has a certain number plate. It makes no difference that the car in question is not the original vehicle which had that number. That’s all there is to it.”

Stuart was not sure that it was so simple. In his view, the difference between their positions was that while Irene was happy to employ half-truths, he was happy to achieve the same end by simple misstatement. The end result was the same–as far as he could see. But he felt disinclined to argue the point with Irene, who inevitably won any such debate between them. So he agreed with her that she should make the report to the police, and should do so at the Gayfield Square Police Station, which was only ten minutes’ walk from Scotland Street, at the very eastern edge of the New Town.

Bertie was very keen to accompany his mother. He had never been in a police station, he pointed out, and this was the only chance he would have.

“Anyway, I can help you, Mummy,” he said. “I can provide corroboration of what you say.”

Irene glanced at her son. She was aware that Bertie had a wide vocabulary, but she had not heard him refer to “corroboration” before. It was very interesting; one day she would have to attempt to measure the extent of his vocabulary. She had seen a kit which enabled one to do just that: one asked the meaning of certain words and then extrapolated from the results. Extrapolation, she thought. Would Bertie know what extrapolation meant?

She decided to indulge Bertie. “Very well, Bertie,” she said. “You can come to the police station with me. I don’t think that there’s much to be seen there, quite frankly. Police stations are rather boring places, I understand.”

Bertie looked puzzled. “Then why do people like to read about them, if they’re so boring?”

Irene laughed. “I suppose that’s because the people who write about them–people like that Ian Rankin–have no idea what a real police station is like!”

“So they just make it up?” asked Bertie. “Does Mr Rankin just make everything up?”

“He has a very active imagination,” said Irene. “He makes Edinburgh sound very exciting, with all those bodies and so on. But that’s not at all what real life’s like. Real life is what we do, Bertie. Real life is you and me. Valvona and Crolla. That sort of thing.”

Bertie thought for a moment. “Poor Mr Rankin,” he said after a while. “It’s sad that he has to make things up. Do you think he’s unhappy, Mummy? Do you think that having to tell so many fibs makes him unhappy?”

Irene reached down and patted Bertie on the head. It was a gesture which Bertie particularly disliked, and he dodged to avoid her hand. “Dear Bertie,” she said. “Don’t you worry about Ian Rankin! He’ll be fine. I don’t think he knows that he’s making things up, I really don’t. I think he probably believes it’s all true.” She paused. “But anyway, Bertie, let’s not concern ourselves too much about all that. If we’re going to Gayfield Square, then we should leave now. And then, afterwards, we can go and buy sun-dried tomatoes at Valvona and Crolla. Would you like that?”

Bertie said that he would, and a few minutes later they were making their way up Scotland Street to the Drummond Place corner. Irene walked slowly, while Bertie skipped ahead of her. Every so often he would turn round and run back to join his mother, before detaching himself from her again. She noticed that when he skipped, he kept his gaze carefully on the pavement in front of him. And his gait, too, was controlled, as if he was taking care to avoid putting his feet…It was that old business with the bears and the lines again, she thought, with irritation. It really was most vexing that Bertie, who appeared to know what corroboration was, who was able to speak Italian with such fluency, and who could reel off all the main scales, major and minor, should believe that if he put his foot on a line in the pavement, bears would materialise and eat him. She had no idea where he got such notions from. She had never encouraged magical thinking in her son; she had always pointed out that darkness was just the absence of light, not cover for all sorts of ghosts and bogles; she had never encouraged any of that nonsense, and yet here he was being irrational. Of course, he got it from other children; she was sure of that. There was even now a whole world of childish belief–lore and language–that survived the most determined rationalistic attempts to tame it. And those belief structures still seemed able to lay a claim to the juvenile mind, sending it off down ridiculous avenues of fantasy.

She called out to Bertie, who had skipped ahead and was just about to turn the corner. Hearing his mother’s voice, Bertie stopped, turned round, and then began to run back to her.

“I want to talk to you, Bertie,” said Irene. “We can talk as we walk along.”

Bertie looked crestfallen. He had planned to keep some distance between himself and his mother, in case anybody should think that he belonged to her. Now this would be impossible. He sighed. What did she want to talk about? She would ask him questions, he was sure of that, and she would give him a lecture about bears. He would listen, of course, but if she was going to try to get him to tread on any lines, then the answer would be no. Bertie knew what happened if you trod on lines. Of course he understood that there was no question of bears; bears were just a metaphor for disaster, that’s all they were. But try to explain that to an adult–just try.

19. Leerie, Leerie, Licht the Lamps

Irene looked down at Bertie as they walked slowly round the north-eastern sweep of Drummond Place.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Bertie,” she said. “You know how Mummy is, don’t you, with her intellectual curiosity? Silly Mummy! But Mummy does like to know what’s going on in her little boy’s head, that’s all.”

“I don’t mind,” Bertie muttered, crossing his fingers as he spoke. It was well known that if you crossed your fingers, you could lie with impunity. Would his mother cross her fingers in the police station? he wondered. Perhaps he would suggest it to her closer to the time.

“I’ve been wondering where you get your ideas from,” Irene began. “I know that you get a lot of things from Daddy or from me.” (Mostly me, she thought. Thank heavens.) “And you learn a lot from your teacher at the Steiner School, of course. But you must also pick up some things from the other children. You do, don’t you?”

Bertie shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said. He thought of the other children he knew: Tofu, Hiawatha, Olive. He was not sure if he learned much from any of them. Tofu knew virtually nothing, as far as Bertie could ascertain. Hiawatha hardly ever said anything, and anyway he spoke with a curious accent that very few people could understand. And as for Olive, she was always imparting information to others, but it was almost always quite wrong. Bertie had been shocked to discover that Olive thought Glasgow was in Ireland. And she held this view although she had actually been there–“Well, it seemed like it was in Ireland,” she had said in her own defence. And then she had said that a tiger was a cross between a lion and a zebra and had stuck to this position even after Bertie had pointed out that lions ate zebras and would therefore never get to know one another well enough to have offspring. Olive had simply stared at him and said: “What’s that got to do with it?” And so they had left the subject where it stood.

“Perhaps you’ll tell me some of the things you pick up from other children,” coaxed Irene. “Do you know any counting rhymes, for example?”

“Counting rhymes?” asked Bertie.

“Yes,” said Irene. “Here’s one that I remember. Shall I tell it to you?”

“If you must,” muttered Bertie.

“Very well,” said Irene. “Here we go:

Bake a pudding, bake a pie,

Send it up to Lord Mackay,

Lord Mackay’s not at home,

Send it to the man o’ the moon.

The man o’ the moon’s making shoes,

Tippence a pair,

Eery, ary, biscuit, Mary,

Pim, pam, pot.”

Bertie looked at his mother. Then he looked away again. In his astonishment, he had almost trodden on a line. He would have to be more careful in future.

“So,” said Irene jauntily. “Do you know anything like that?”

Bertie stopped and looked up at his mother. “I know some rhymes, Mummy. Is that what you want to know?”

“Yes,” said Irene. “You tell them to me, Bertie, and I’ll tell you if I knew them when I was a little girl. A lot of these things are very old, you know.”

“Postie, postie, number nine,” said Bertie suddenly. “Tore his breeks on a railway line!”

“Well!” exclaimed Irene. “Poor postie! I don’t believe I know that one, Bertie. How interesting!”

“Leerie, leerie, licht the lamps,” continued Bertie. “Lang legs and crookit shanks.”

“My goodness!” said Irene. “That’s remarkable. I suspect that’s a very old one. The leerie was the lamplighter, Bertie. We don’t have lamplighters any more, and yet there you are still using that rhyme in the playground. Isn’t that interesting, Bertie? It shows the persistence of these things.”

Bertie nodded. “Here’s another one, Mummy,” he said.

“There was an old man called Michael Finigin

He grew whiskers on his chinigin

The wind came up and blew them inigin

Poor old Michael Finigin, begin igin.”

Irene clapped her hands in delight. “Oh yes, Bertie! I remember that. And there’s more!

There was an old man called Michael Finigin

Climbed a tree and hurt his shin igin

Tore off several yards of skin igin

Poor old Michael Finigin, begin igin.”

Bertie frowned. “Poor Michael Finigin,” he said. “Nothing went right for him, did it, Mummy?”

“No,” said Irene. “A lot of these things are very cruel, Bertie? People laugh at cruelty, don’t they? We think that we don’t, but we do. Just listen to the jokes that people tell one another. They’re all about misfortune of one sort or another. And people seem to find misfortune funny.”

“And it wasn’t funny for Michael Finigin,” observed Bertie.

“No,” said Irene. “There are lots of people for whom it’s not funny. Not funny at all.”

They had now reached the end of London Street and were not far from the East New Town Nursery School, where Bertie had once been enrolled. Irene had said nothing about the nursery school on this trip, hoping that Bertie had forgotten all about the trauma of his earlier suspension. But she noticed now that he was looking nervously in the direction of the school, and she feared that painful memories were rising in his mind.

“You used to go to nursery school there, Bertie,” she said. “A long time ago. But we don’t have to think about that any more. We’ve moved on.”

Bertie looked down the road that led to the nursery school. He had been happy there, and he could never understand why they had suspended him. That woman, Miss MacFadzean, had encouraged them to express themselves, and that was all he had been doing. It was really rather unfair. He looked at his mother, and reached for her hand. Poor Mummy! he thought. She has such strange ideas in her head, but she really means well, in a funny sort of way. And here she was getting excited about a few peculiar old rhymes that he had seen in Iona and Peter Opie’s book
The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren
. Bertie had found a copy in the house and had read it from cover to cover. There was so much in it. It was a pity all of that had been forgotten–such a pity! Perhaps he would try to teach some of them to Olive, and she could pass them on to the other girls. There was no point trying to teach Tofu any folklore–no point at all.