Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [118]
Irene looked down at her son. She had been so immersed in her thoughts that she had forgotten Bertie was with her. But there he was, in his dungarees, smiling with that appealing smile of his. What an odd little boy he was! So talented, what with his Italian and his saxophone, but still encountering such difficulties in the object relations context.
“Yes, thank you, Bertie,” she replied. “I just had a very important thought. You know how some thoughts are so important they make you go ‘oh!’? I had that sort of thought.”
“A moment of insight, you mean?” Bertie said.
Irene looked at him. She was occasionally surprised by Bertie’s vocabulary, but it made her proud, too. All of this he got from me, she said to herself. All of it. Bertie is my creation.
“Yes,” she said. “You could call it a moment of insight. I just 248 Cyril’s Moment of Glory
had an insight there into what happened a little while ago in Dr Fairbairn’s room. You won’t know, but Dr Fairbairn and I had a tiny argument. Nothing serious, of course.”
Bertie pretended to be surprised. “A wee stooshie?” he asked. Irene frowned. “I’m not sure if I’d call it a stooshie, and I’m not sure if I want you using words like that, Bertie.”
“Is it a rude word, Mummy?” asked Bertie. “Is it like . . .”
“It’s not rude,” said Irene. “It’s more, how shall I put it, it’s more vernacular, shall we say? It’s Scots.”
“Is Scots rude?” persisted Bertie.
“No,” said Irene. “Scots isn’t exactly rude. It’s just that we don’t use a lot of it in Edinburgh.”
Bertie said nothing. An idea had come to him. He would start talking Scots! That would annoy his mother. That would show her that although she could force him to wear pink dungarees she could not control his tongue! Ha! That would show her.
“Anyway,” said Irene, “we must get home. You have a saxophone lesson in half an hour, I believe, and you must do your homework before then.”
“Aye,” said Bertie quietly. “Nae time for onything else.”
“What was that, Bertie?” asked Irene. “Did you say something?”
“I didnae,” said Bertie.
“What?”
“No spikkin,” muttered Bertie.
“Really, you are a very strange little boy sometimes,” said Irene, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. “Muttering to yourself like that.”
Continuing down the street, they were now directly outside Big Lou’s coffee bar. They reached it just as Matthew and Angus Lordie came up the steps to the pavement, their coffee conversation having been brought to an end by the sudden prolonged howling of Cyril. The canine angst which had produced this outburst had presumably resolved itself as quickly as it had come into existence, as Cyril now seemed quite cheerful and wagged his tail enthusiastically at the sight of Bertie. Cyril liked boys; he liked the way they smelled – just a little bit off; and he liked Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff 249
the way they jumped around. Boys and dogs are natural allies, thought Cyril.
When he saw Bertie, Cyril rushed forward and sat down on the pavement in front of him, offering him a paw to shake.
“Bonnie dug,” Bertie said, taking the paw, and crouching down to Cyril’s level. “Guid dug.”
Cyril moved forward to lick Bertie’s face enthusiastically, making Bertie squeal with delight.
“Bertie!” shouted Irene. “Get away from that smelly creature!
Don’t let him lick you!” And then, turning to Cyril, she leant forward and shouted at him: “Bad, smelly dog! Shoo! Shoo!”
As a dog, Cyril did not have a large vocabulary. But there are some words all dogs understand. They know what “walk” means. They know what “good dog” means, and “fetch”. And Cyril knew, too, what “smelly” meant, and he bitterly resented it. He had seen this tall woman before, walking in Drummond Place, and he did not like her. And now she was calling him both bad and smelly. It was just too much!
Irene’s ankles came into focus. They were close, and exposed. He hadn’t started this, she had. No dog, not even the most heroic, could resist. He lunged forward, opened his jaws, his gold tooth catching the light, glinting wickedly, and then he bit Irene