44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [77]
Making his excuses, Bruce left the small knot of guests around the table and made his way to the cloakroom. There, as he had expected, was Todd’s black Crombie coat with its velvet collar. Bruce crossed the room quickly, extracting the underpants from his sporran as he did so. Then, fumbling in the folds of the coat, he slipped the pants into the right-hand pocket. Bertie Begins Therapy
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“Did you enjoy yourself?”
It was Todd, standing at the door.
“That’s my coat,” said Todd. “Yours is over there, isn’t it?”
Bruce laughed nervously. “I must have had too much to drink,”
he said. “So it is!”
He moved over towards his coat and took it off the hook. Then he turned and looked at Todd, who was watching him suspiciously. As he put on his coat, he felt Todd’s eyes remain on him. It was very disconcerting. Bruce was used to being looked at – in an admiring way – but this was different. 61. Bertie Begins Therapy
For Irene Pollock, the mother of that most talented five-yearold, Bertie, the decision to seek advice from the Scottish Institute of Human Relations was an entirely appropriate response to a trying set of circumstances. Bertie’s sudden outburst at the Floatarium – when he had so unexpectedly declared his opposition to speaking Italian and learning the saxophone – had been only the first sign of a worryingly rebellious attitude. Although it was difficult to put a finger on any particular incident or comment (other than his extraordinary behaviour at the Floatarium, which followed hard on the heels of the graffiti incident) there was no doubt that he was less co-operative than he used to be. An indication of this attitude was his subtle abandonment of the first names which he had been encouraged to use when addressing his parents; Irene and Stuart had come so naturally to him, and seemed so right; now it was Mummy and Daddy –terms which were acceptable when used by Irene or Stuart themselves, but which seemed disturbingly hierarchical – even reactionary – when uttered by Bertie.
And then there had been a shift in attitude towards his room. One afternoon she had gone into his room – which she called 162
Bertie Begins Therapy
his space –to discover Bertie standing in the middle of his rug, staring disconsolately at the walls. He had not said anything at first, but she had formed the distinct impression that he was thinking about the colour – a reassuring pink – and might even have been imagining the walls in another colour.
“You’re very lucky to have a space like this,” said Irene, pre-emptively. “You really are.”
Bertie looked at her briefly, almost in reproach, and had then turned away. “Other boys have different spaces,” he said. “They have trains and things.”
“Other boys are not as lucky as you are,” Irene countered.
“Other boys are forced into moulds, you know. Forced to play football, for example. Horrid things like that. Do you understand what I mean? We’re giving you something very different, Bertie. We’re giving you the gift of freedom from gender roles.”
“Trains are free,” muttered Bertie.
Irene struggled to contain her frustration. It was not easy, but she succeeded. “Are they?” she asked gently. “Why are trains free, Bertie? Why do you say that?”
Bertie sighed. “Trains go out into the night. Remember Mr Auden’s poem, Mummy, the one you read to me once. This is the night mail crossing the border/ Bringing the cheque and the postal order.”
Irene nodded. She had given him W.H. Auden rather than A.A. Milne in the belief that the insights of Auden would be infinitely better for him than middle-class juvenile nonsense about being halfway up the stairs or changing the guard at Buckingham Palace and all the rest.
“I could read you more Auden, if you like,” she said. “There’s that