The Importance of Being Seven (32 page)

They continued to fish. Bertie was bitterly disappointed by the loss of the trout, even though Stuart did his best to comfort him. Fishermen lost fish, he explained – one was not a proper fisherman unless one lost a fish. And they would have released the fish back into the water anyway, and so it did not make much difference, did it? Bertie thought about this. He would have liked to have at least touched it, but yes, he supposed that he would only have had it for a minute or so more had he landed it properly.

They rowed out into the middle of the loch. Stuart showed Bertie how to cast a fly and gave him his rod to try it out. Bertie was not very good at first, but after a while he became a little bit better. Then he returned to using a worm, but although there were what seemed to be nibbles, these could equally well have been the action of the wind on the water, causing the float to bob suspiciously.

They had started fishing late, and they did not break for lunch until well after three. Stuart beached the boat on the far side of
the loch and he and Bertie pulled it up onto the shore. Then they sat down on the heather and while Stuart ate a sandwich, Bertie tackled his packets of crisps and several chocolate bars. It was heaven for him – pure heaven – to be sitting with his father, eating this wonderful, forbidden food, having almost caught a fish, and not having to think about psychotherapy, yoga, or Italian lessons.

‘Couldn’t we live out here?’ asked Bertie, as he opened his second chocolate bar. ‘We could buy a tent and pitch it over there by those gorse bushes. We could catch fish for our tea. It would be jolly nice, Daddy.’

Stuart smiled indulgently. ‘A good idea, Bertie, but not all that practical, I’m afraid. I don’t think Mummy would like living in a tent.’

Bertie had not envisaged her being invited, but was too polite to say so. ‘Perhaps Mummy might be more comfortable in Scotland Street,’ he said. ‘We could go and visit her from time to time. And Ulysses. We could visit him too.’

Stuart said nothing. He lay back on the heather, his hands under the back of his head, staring up at the sky.

‘It would be such fun, Daddy,’ said Bertie. ‘Just you and me.’

‘Mmm,’ said Stuart. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think we could leave Mummy all on her own – or all on her own except for Ulysses. It wouldn’t be very kind, would it?’

‘No,’ said Bertie. ‘Maybe not. But it’s nice to think about it. As a sort of wish.’

Stuart steered the conversation into safer waters. ‘If I could give you three wishes, Bertie,’ he said, ‘what would they be?’

Bertie thought. ‘For lots of chocolate,’ he said. ‘Lots of chocolate – enough for me and all my friends for at least ten years.’

‘Very nice,’ said Stuart. ‘And the second wish?’

‘For Olive to go and live in Glasgow,’ said Bertie. ‘And, if I can have this as part of the second wish, for Tofu to stop spitting at people and telling fibs.’

‘I see,’ said Stuart. ‘And the third?’

‘To be seven,’ said Bertie quietly.

Stuart said nothing for a few moments. Then he broke the silence.
‘Seven, Bertie? But you will be seven in due course. You don’t have to waste a wish on things that are going to happen anyway.’

‘But I want it to happen now,’ said Bertie. ‘If I wait, it seems that I’ll never be seven. It always seems a very long way away.’

Stuart reflected on this. ‘It can’t be long now,’ he said. ‘You’ll be seven in November.’

‘But that’s ages away,’ said Bertie. ‘I want to be seven now, Daddy. That’s why I wished for it.’

Stuart tried another tack. ‘Do you think things will be different when you’re seven?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘People will treat me with …’

‘Yes, Bertie?’

‘With more respect,’ said Bertie in a rush. ‘They won’t push me around quite so much.’

‘Are you pushed around at the moment, Bertie?’

Bertie did not hesitate. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘By …’ Stuart was about to say ‘By whom?’, but he stopped himself in time. ‘Oh well, Bertie. Seven will come along, sure enough. Let’s carry on fishing. You never know your luck. And the fish don’t know that you’re only six.’

They pushed the boat back out and started fishing again. Stuart caught a trout this time and immediately handed the rod to Bertie. ‘You land it, Bertie. This can be your fish.’

Bertie began to reel in, but the line soon slackened off and he gave the rod back to his father. ‘Got away,’ he said. ‘Again.’

At five o’clock, Stuart decided that it was time to stop. He rowed the boat back to the point from which they had set off. Then, once the boat was safely secured, they set off back towards the car park at Flotterstone.

‘I think I know a short cut,’ said Stuart, pointing to a path that led off to their right. ‘Let’s go this way, Bertie.’

They branched off, Stuart taking the lead as they followed the rough path that made its way sharply down a bank. At the bottom the path traversed a burn by means of a small wooden footbridge. They used this to cross, and then followed the path as it turned this way and that through a thicket of gnarled Scots pines.

‘Are you sure about this path?’ asked Bertie.

‘Of course,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s a really good short cut. You’ll see, Bertie.’

The continued on their way. The weather had changed, now, and an unseasonal haar rolled in from the sea. This cast a mantle of white over everything, reducing visibility so that they could see very little beyond the next tree.

‘I think we might be lost,’ said Bertie. ‘Do you know where we are, Daddy?’

‘Have faith in your father, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Any moment now we’ll find ourselves at Flotterstone.’

But they did not. They now found themselves gaining ground, and the path seemed to be changing direction.

‘Shouldn’t we turn back?’ asked Bertie. ‘Wouldn’t that be safer?’

‘You should never turn back, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘What did Harry Lauder say? Keep right on to the end of the road. That’s what he said, Bertie.’

‘But Mr Lauder was probably on the right road in the first place,’ said Bertie. ‘It’s all right to keep right on to the end of the road if you’re on the right road. Otherwise, it isn’t.’

Notwithstanding his son’s qualification of the otherwise sound advice of the late Harry Lauder, Stuart insisted that he and Bertie continue along the path they were on. They were now gaining height – another reason, thought Bertie, why they should turn back; this path, he felt, was leading them further into an unknown part of the Pentlands from which they might well not extricate themselves before darkness. And the light, as it was, was already fading, what with the haar, which had blotted out all sight of the sun, and the hour of day.

‘Is there a mountain rescue team in the Pentlands?’ asked Bertie.

‘Mountain rescue, Bertie? No, I doubt very much if there are any of those people around here. This isn’t the Cairngorms, you know. You find them up in the Cairngorms or places like Glencoe, not the Pentlands.’

Bertie absorbed this information in silence. It did not help his state of mind to think that there was no chance of rescue from what was becoming an increasingly worrying situation. Presumably people lost their way in the Pentlands, and presumably there were people who slipped and sprained their ankle and could not make their way home on their own. Who looked after them? He wondered whether it was the First Morningside Cub Scout Pack. It would certainly give them something to do if they were to be put in charge of the Pentlands, although it would be very dispiriting to be rescued by Olive, he thought. Or Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, for that matter; that would be far worse, as Ranald’s legs looked so thin and spindly and would hardly inspire the victim of a mountaineering accident with any confidence.

The haar was now becoming very thick indeed.

‘What if the path goes over the edge of a cliff, Daddy?’ asked Bertie, his voice seeming to echo in the swirling mist.

‘Highly unlikely, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Paths don’t go over cliffs; they follow the contours of the hill. That’s what we’re doing right now, and any moment now we shall find ourselves on the A702. Then we shall simply walk back to Flotterstone, retrieve our car, and travel home to Edinburgh. Have courage, Bertie.’

Bertie swallowed. Having gained height, they were now losing it again, but the vegetation around them had changed. Heather had given way to pasture, and there was a drystane dyke looming up through the white porridge of the haar.

‘We’ll follow this dyke,’ said Stuart. ‘Dykes always go somewhere, Bertie – that’s a tip for you to remember. I shouldn’t be surprised if this dyke doesn’t lead to a farm somewhere. And farms always have tracks that take you to public roads. So we’ll be fine – you mark my words.’

They walked on. The haar was lifting slightly now, and ghostly trees began to make themselves visible. And then, as they
surmounted a small knowe, they saw lights in the middle distance. A few yards later and the lights were shown to be coming from a farmhouse, to the rear of which was a small cluster of trees and a steading.

‘There you are, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Right on cue: a farmhouse. We can ask directions there – not that I think we’re really lost.’

They approached the farmhouse, a comfortable-looking building with white harling and blue-painted doors and window frames. Stuart went up to the front door and knocked loudly. Inside the porch a light was switched on and there was the sound of an inner door being opened. A woman appeared, dusting her hands on a white apron tied around her waist.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Stuart. ‘But I think that we’re a bit lost. We’re trying to get to Flotterstone.’

The woman smiled. ‘Well, you’re very lost, if you ask me. Flotterstone is way over that way – behind the hill.’

‘Ah,’ said Stuart. ‘I see.’

The woman looked past Stuart. ‘And there’s your wee boy. My, he looks a bit bedraggled. I think you should come away in and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

Stuart thanked her, and he and Bertie went inside, removing their boots and leaving them in the front porch alongside a collection of well-used farming footwear.

‘I have a son about your age,’ said the woman to Bertie. ‘He’s called Andy. We call him Wee Andy because his father’s called Andy too. What’s your name?’

‘Bertie. I’m Bertie Pollock.’

‘Now that’s a fine name,’ said the woman. ‘I know some Pollocks. They farm over at Muckle Buggie. You’re not related to them, are you?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘We’re Scotland Street,’ he said.

‘I’m sure that’s very nice,’ said the woman. ‘Muckle Buggie is a sheep farm over near Symington. They’ve been there for a long time. Always Pollocks.’

‘Ah,’ said Stuart.

They went through to the kitchen. There, seated at the table, drawing on
a piece of paper, was a boy of about Bertie’s size. The boy stood up when the visitors came in and smiled broadly.

‘Andy, this is …’

‘Stuart, and my son, Bertie.’

The boy nodded to Bertie, and gave him an encouraging smile. Bertie smiled back.

‘Andy,’ said the woman, ‘while I put the kettle on, you take Bertie up to your room and show him your things.’

Andy walked round the table and indicated to Bertie that he should follow him out of the kitchen. Bertie did so, and the boy led him along a narrow corridor to a staircase at the end.

‘My room’s in the attic,’ he said. ‘Nobody goes up there, just me and my brither, who’s in the room beside me. He’s twelve. He goes to Merchiston. That’s a school in Edinburgh – just for boys.’

Bertie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it.’ Olive couldn’t go there, he thought.

‘I’m going there next year,’ said the boy. ‘I’m going to get my brither’s old uniform. And his rugby boots. You play rugby, Bertie?’

Bertie swallowed hard. ‘Not yet.’

‘I think you’ll be good at it,’ said Andy.

Bertie beamed with pleasure. It was such a kind thing for anybody to say. He liked this boy.

They went into Andy’s room and Bertie drew in his breath. There, on the wall above Andy’s bed, was a stag’s head, the antlers reaching out almost into the centre of the room – or so it seemed.

‘That fella comes from Morvern,’ said Andy. ‘My Uncle Jimmy
got him. He says he’ll take me stalking when I’m bigger. When I’m eight, he says.’

Bertie looked around the room. There was a display case with a stuffed grouse, a small woodwork bench and a large box of Meccano.

‘Would you like to see my penknives?’ asked Andy.

Bertie’s eye widened. Penknives, in the plural. He nodded wordlessly.