‘I know how you must feel,’ said Domenica, as she went into Angus Lordie’s kitchen. ‘I lost a dog as a child. I felt bereft, quite bereft.’
Angus stared at her. ‘Cyril is still with us,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said Domenica quickly. ‘And I’m sure that it will all work out perfectly well in the end.’
Angus sighed. ‘I wish I thought the same,’ he said. ‘The problem is that once a dog is deemed to be dangerous, then they have the power to order . . .’ He did not complete his sentence, but left it hanging there. He had been told by the police that there was a possibility that Cyril would be destroyed if it were established that he was responsible for the rash of bitings that had been reported in the area.
‘But it won’t come to that,’ said Domenica briskly. ‘They need evidence before they can order a dog to be put down. They can’t do that unless they’re certain that Cyril is dangerous. He’s your property, for heaven’s sake! They can’t destroy your property on the basis of rumour, or wild allegations.’ She paused, ladling spoons of coffee into the cafetière. ‘You’d better start at the beginning, Angus. How did this all start?’
Angus sat down at the scrubbed pine table which dominated his kitchen. ‘Maybe you hadn’t heard about it,’ he said, ‘but there have been a number of incidents in this part of town over the last few weeks. A child was bitten by a dog on the way to school about ten days ago – nothing serious, just a nip, but enough to break the skin. The child gave a rather vague account of what happened, apparently. You know how children are – they don’t make very good witnesses. But he did say that the dog came bounding out of a lower basement in Dundonald Street, gave him a nip on the ankles, and then ran off into the Drummond Square Gardens.’
Domenica switched on the kettle. She glanced at the kitchen surfaces around her and sniffed. Angus Lordie’s kitchen was cleaner than many bachelor kitchens, but only just. It could do with a good scrub, she thought; but this was not the time.
‘And then?’ she said.
‘Then,’ Angus went on, ‘then there was another incident. A few days later, a man reported that he had been getting out of his car in Northumberland Street and he was given quite a bite on his ankle by a dog that then ran away in the direction of Nelson Street. The dog ripped the leg of his suit, apparently, and he reported the matter to the police so that he could claim insurance.’
‘The culture of complaint,’ muttered Domenica.
‘I beg your pardon?’
She turned to Angus. ‘I said: the culture of complaint. We live in a culture of complaint because everyone is always looking for things to complain about. It’s all tied in with the desire to blame others for misfortunes and to get some form of compensation into the bargain. I speak as an anthropologist, of course – just an observation.’
‘But I would have thought that it’s entirely reasonable to complain about being bitten,’ said Angus. ‘As long as you complained about the right dog.’
‘Oh, it’s reasonable enough,’ said Domenica. ‘It’s just that these things have to be kept in proportion. One can complain about things without looking for compensation. That’s the difference. In what we fondly call the old days, if one was nipped by a dog then one accepted that this was the sort of thing that happened from time to time. You might try to give the dog a walloping, to even things up a bit, and you might expect the owner to be contrite and apologise, but you didn’t necessarily think of getting any money out of it.’
Angus thought about this, but only for a very short time. He was not interested in Domenica’s observations on social trends, and he felt irritated that she should move so quickly from the point of the discussion. ‘That may be so,’ he said. ‘All of that may be so, but the point is that Cyril is not that dog. Cyril would never do anything like that.’
Domenica was silent. This was simply not true. Cyril had bitten Bertie’s mother in broad daylight, in Dundas Street, not all that long ago. Domenica had heard about the incident, and although she was pleased that on that occasion Cyril had been so discerning in his choice of victim, he could hardly claim to have an unblemished record. It was, she thought, entirely possible that Cyril was not innocent, but she did not think it politic to raise that possibility now.
‘But how did they identify Cyril?’ she asked.
‘They had an identity parade,’ said Angus. ‘They lined up a group of dogs in Gayfield Square police station and they asked the Northumberland Street man to identify the dog which had bitten him. He picked out Cyril.’
Domenica listened in astonishment. ‘But that’s absurd,’ she exclaimed. ‘Were the dogs in the line-up all the same breed? Because if they weren’t, it would be quite ridiculous.’
For a few moments, Angus was silent. Then he said: ‘I never thought of that.’
7. Bertie’s Friendships
While Domenica listened to Angus recount the traumatic experiences endured by his dog, Cyril, Bertie Pollock stared out of his bedroom window. Bertie’s view was of Scotland Street itself, sloping sharply to the old marshalling yards down below, now a playground, which Bertie had been forbidden by his mother to enter.
‘It’s not so much the devices themselves,’ Irene had said to her husband, Stuart. ‘It’s not the so-called swings, it’s the attitudes to which Bertie will be exposed down there.’
Stuart looked at her blankly. He had no idea why she should call the swings ‘so-called’; surely swings were either swings or they were not. There was nothing complicated about swings, as far as he could make out; they went backwards and forwards – that was all they did. And what attitudes would Bertie be exposed to in the playground?
Irene saw Stuart’s look of puzzlement, and sighed. ‘It’s the roughness, Stuart,’ she said. ‘Surely you’ve seen it yourself. All that aggressive play that goes on. And there’s another thing: have you noticed the rigid segregation which the children down there impose on themselves? Have you noticed how the boys play with the boys and the girls play with the girls? Have you seen it?’
Stuart thought for a moment. Now that Irene mentioned it, it certainly seemed to be true. There were always little knots of boys and girls all playing within the group; one did not see boys and girls playing together. Irene was right. But, he thought, surely this was natural.
‘When I was a boy,’ he began, ‘we used to have a gang. It was boys only. But the girls had their own gang. I think everybody was happy enough with the arrangement. My gang was called . . .’
Irene silenced him with her stare. ‘I think the less said about your boyhood, Stuart, the better. Things have moved on, you know.’
‘But have boys moved on?’ It was a bold question, and Stuart’s voice faltered as he asked it.
‘Yes,’ said Irene firmly. ‘Boys have moved on. The problem is that certain men have failed to move on.’ She fixed him with a piercing stare as she made this remark, and Stuart shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I don’t think we should argue,’ he said. ‘You know that I’m fundamentally in sympathy with the idea of bringing up boys to be more sensitive.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Irene.
‘But there’s no reason why Bertie shouldn’t play with other boys from time to time,’ Stuart said. ‘And I don’t mean that he should play in an exclusive sense. I think that boys can be encouraged to play inclusively, but with other boys, if you see what I . . .’ He trailed off. Irene was staring at him again.
Irene was thinking of Bertie’s friends. She had met several of the boys in his class, and she had to confess that she was not impressed. Tofu, for instance, was a thoroughly unpleasant little boy, as far as she could make out. There had been that unfortunate incident when Bertie had exchanged his dungarees for Tofu’s jeans, which was bad enough, but when one added to it the fact that this transaction had taken place at a bowling alley in Fountainbridge – of all places – Tofu’s influence hardly appeared benign.
Then there was Hiawatha, whom Irene had come across at
several school functions. There was something off about that boy, Irene thought. She had asked Bertie about it, and he had replied that Hiawatha was known for never changing his socks and that this explained the smell.
‘We get used to it, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Sometimes Miss Harmony opens the window, which helps. But we don’t really mind too much.’
And there were other boys in the class who seemed equally questionable as suitable companions for Bertie. Merlin was decidedly unusual, even by the standards of Stockbridge, where he lived. Irene had met his mother at a parents’ evening and had found it very difficult to sustain a conversation with somebody who insisted on bringing the discussion back at every opportunity to crystals and their curative properties. If Bertie were to spend too much time with Merlin, then there would be a danger that he would start thinking in an irrational way, and that would be disastrous. No, Merlin was to be discouraged.
That left that very unpleasant boy whom she had seen hanging about the school gates waiting for his father to collect him. What was his name? Larch. That was it. Irene had heard from Bertie that Larch liked arm-wrestling and that nobody dared win because he was known to hit anybody who beat him at anything.
‘I’m surprised that Miss Harmony lets him behave like that,’ said Irene. ‘It’s a very well-run school, and I know they don’t tolerate that sort of behaviour.’
‘I don’t think that Miss Harmony knows,’ said Bertie. ‘You see, Mummy, there are two different worlds. There’s the grown-up world, and then there’s the world down below, where boys and girls live. I don’t think grown-ups really know what’s happening down in our world.’
‘Nonsense, Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘We know perfectly well what’s going on. And I’m sure that Miss Harmony knows exactly what Larch gets up to.’
Bertie said nothing, but he was sure that Irene had no idea of anything that happened at school. And he was equally sure that Miss Harmony knew nothing of Larch’s violent tendencies, and all his lies too. That was the trouble with Miss Harmony, and with most grown-ups, Bertie thought. Grown-ups simply did not understand how children lied. Bertie did not lie – he told the truth – but all the others lied. Tofu lied all the time, about just about everything. Merlin made up stories about some of the things he had at home – a crystal that was capable of killing cats if you pointed it at their eyes; that was one of the lies he had told Bertie. Then, when it came to Hiawatha, he was probably lying too, if only they could make out what he was saying. There were just so many lies.
‘I think you should spend more time with Olive,’ said Irene. ‘She’s a very nice girl, and I know that you like her.’
Bertie shook his head. ‘I don’t like Olive, Mummy. I hate her.’
‘Now, Bertie!’ scolded Irene. ‘That’s simply not true.’
Bertie sighed. When he told the truth, as he had just done, he was accused of lying. But if he lied, and said that he liked Olive, his mother would nod her approval. The world, he thought, was a very confusing place.
8. Mutuality Bonding
Bertie mused on this as he looked out over Scotland Street. Life was very dull, he thought, but would undoubtedly improve when he turned eighteen and could leave home to go and live somewhere far away and exotic – Glasgow, perhaps; his friend Lard O’Connor had more or less promised him a job over there, and it would be fun to live in Glasgow and go with Lard to the Burrell Collection and places like that. But that was day-dreaming, and Bertie knew that he had another twelve years of his mother before he could get away. Twelve years! Twelve achingly slow years – a whole lifetime, it seemed to Bertie.
Yes, life was difficult, and it was becoming all the more difficult now that Irene had had her new baby. Bertie had suggested that they could perhaps have it adopted, but this suggestion had not been taken seriously.
‘But, Bertie, what a funny thing to say!’ Irene had said, looking anxiously about the maternity ward in which Bertie, visiting his mother, had made the suggestion.
‘But they need babies for adoption, Mummy,’ Bertie had said. ‘I was reading about it in the newspaper. They said that there weren’t enough babies to go round. I thought that maybe we could share our baby with somebody else. You always said it was good to share.’
Irene smiled weakly. ‘And of course it is. But there are some things you don’t share, Bertie, and a baby is one of them.’
It was not that Bertie disliked Ulysses, as his mother had insisted on naming his new baby brother. When Irene had first announced her pregnancy to Bertie, he had been pleased at the thought of having a brother or sister. This was not because he wanted the company, but mainly because he thought that the presence of a baby would distract his mother’s attention. Bertie did not dislike his mother; he merely wished that she would leave him alone and not make him do all the things that he was forced to do. If she was busy looking after a baby, then perhaps she would not have the time to take him to psychotherapy, or to yoga. Perhaps the baby would need psychotherapy and could go to Dr Fairbairn instead of Bertie. It was an entertaining thought; Bertie imagined the baby lying in his pram while Dr Fairbairn leaned over him and asked him questions. It would not matter at all if the baby could say nothing in reply; Bertie doubted very much if Dr Fairbairn paid any attention to anything said to him by anybody. Yoga would be more difficult, at least until the baby was a few months old. There were some very young children at Bertie’s yoga class in Stockbridge – one of them just one year old. Perhaps they could try putting the baby into yoga positions by propping it up with cushions; he could suggest this to his mother and see what she thought.
Bertie’s hopes, though, that he would be left more to his own devices were soon to be dashed on the immovable, rock-like determination of Irene to ensure that her two sons – Bertie and baby Ulysses – should undergo a process of what she called ‘mutuality bonding’. This programme had two objectives. One was that the arrival of the baby should be part of Bertie’s education in understanding the whole process of child-nurture, something which girls and women understood but which, in Irene’s view, often escaped boys and men. The other objective was that the relationship which grew up between the two boys would be one in which there was a full measure of reciprocity. Bertie would come to know the baby’s needs, just as the baby, in the fullness of time, would come to know Bertie’s needs.
The first of these objectives – that Bertie should be brought up to understand what it was to look after a baby – meant that right from the beginning he would have to shoulder many of the tasks which went with having a baby. Bertie would be fully instructed in the whole business of feeding the baby, and had already been shown how to operate a breast pump so that he could help his mother to express milk for the baby should breastfeeding become uncomfortable, which Irene thought likely.
‘The trouble is this, carissimo,’ said Irene. ‘When you were a little baby yourself – and remember, that’s just six short years ago– yes, six! – you tended to be a little – how shall we put it? – guzzly, and you bit Mummy a little hard, making Mummy feel a bit tender. You don’t remember that, do you?’
Bertie looked away, appalled; the sheer embarrassment of the situation was more than he could bear.
‘Well, you did,’ went on Irene. ‘So now Mummy has bought this special pump, and you can help to put it on Mummy and get the milk out for baby when he comes along. That will be such fun. It will be just like milking a cow.’
Bertie looked at his mother in horror. ‘Do I have to, Mummy?’
‘Now then, Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘It’s all part of looking after your new little brother. You don’t want to let him down, do you?’
‘I’ll play with him,’ promised Bertie. ‘I really will. I’ll show him my construction set. I’ll play the saxophone for him and let him touch the keys. I can do all of that, Mummy.’
Irene smiled. ‘All in good time, Bertie. Tiny babies can’t do that sort of thing to begin with. Most of the things you’ll be doing will be very ordinary baby things, such
as changing him.’
Bertie was very quiet. He looked at his mother, and then looked away. ‘Changing him?’ he said in a very small voice.
‘Yes,’ said Irene. ‘Babies need a lot of changing. They can’t ask to go to the bathroom!’
Bertie cringed. He hated it when his mother talked about such things, and now a whole new vista of dread opened up before him. The thought was just too terrible.
‘Will I have to, Mummy . . . ?’ He left the sentence unfinished; this was even worse, he thought, than the breast pump.
‘Of course you will, Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘These things are very natural! When you were a baby, Bertie, I remember . . .’
But Bertie was not there to listen. He had run out of the kitchen and into his room; his room, which had been painted pink by his mother, then white by his father, and then pink again by his mother.
9. Mags
Big Lou always opened her coffee bar at eight o’clock in the morning. There was no real reason for her to do this, as there weren’t very many customers who wandered in before ten, or sometimes even later. But for Big Lou, the habit of starting early, ingrained in her from her childhood in Arbroath, resisted any change. It seemed to her the height of slothfulness to start the morning at ten o’clock – a good five hours after most cows had been milked – and it was decadence itself to start at eleven, the hour when Matthew occasionally opened the gallery.
‘Half the day’s gone by the time you unlock your door,’ she had reproached Matthew. ‘Eleven o’clock! What if the whole country started at eleven o’clock? What then? Would folk lie in their beds until ten? Would they?’
‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘Most people will start much earlier than that. Nine o’clock seems reasonable to me.’