Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [81]
168 Chapter title
51. On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened Bertie sat with his face pressed to the window, his father in the seat beside him, on the ten-o’clock train from Waverley Station. It had been a morning of excitement at a level quite unparalleled in his young life. It had begun with the walk up from Scotland Street with Stuart, during which they had seen two mounted policemen riding their horses down Dundas Street; one of the policemen had waved to Bertie, and he had waved back. And then they had arrived at Waverley Station itself, nestling in its hollow with the buildings of the Old Town towering above it, flags fluttering in the morning breeze; all of this was perfect background for a soaring of spirits. In the booking hall, they had stood together in the ticket queue and Bertie had heard his father utter those potent words: “One and a half tickets to Glasgow,” and had realised that he was the half that was going to Glasgow, and back; oh happy, happy prospect!
Bertie had thrilled at the sound of the conductor’s whistle, which had set the train off on its journey, and almost immediately they had entered the tunnel under the National Gallery of Scotland, and were out again so soon, with the Castle Rock soaring above the track, before another tunnel enveloped them in its darkness. After a couple of minutes, they emerged from this tunnel into a station.
“Is this Glasgow?” Bertie asked, rising from his seat. Stuart laughed. “Haymarket, Bertie. We’re still in Edinburgh. Glasgow’s forty-five minutes away.”
Bertie sank back into his seat, delighted at the prolongation of the journey. Forty-five minutes seemed like a wonderfully long time to him – more or less the length of time he spent in a session with Dr Fairbairn, and those sessions lasted forever, he thought. With nose pressed to the window glass he watched the great shape of a stadium draw near, and he tapped his father’s shoulder and pointed.
“Murrayfield,” said Stuart. “That’s the rugby stadium.”
Bertie stared in wonder. Although he had decided that rugby On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened
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was perhaps not for him – a conclusion which he had reached after that unfortunate experience at Watson’s when Jock, his false friend, had kicked him in the ribs – he would still like to watch Scotland play rugby against the All Blacks, or even England. That would be a thrilling thing to do, and perhaps he would find himself sitting next to Mr Gavin Hastings and would be able to listen to his view of the game they were watching. That would be a fine thing to do, Bertie thought.
“Have you ever been there, Daddy?” he asked. “Did you ever go to Murrayfield?”
Stuart nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I used to go there when I was a student. I went with . . .” He paused, and then continued. “I went there with the boys, I suppose.”
Bertie looked puzzled. “Small boys? Boys like me?”
Stuart smiled. “No, not boys like you. Friends of mine. I used to call them the boys. We used to go to see rugby matches and we would also go to pubs.”
“To get drunk?” asked Bertie politely.
On the other side of the compartment a woman overheard this question and smiled. She had noticed this small boy in his dungarees and had been amused by his excitement over the trip. Stuart caught the woman’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “Not really, Bertie. Well . . . well, maybe some of the boys had a little bit too much to drink. But usually they didn’t.”
Bertie digested this answer. He was intrigued by the thought that his father had had another life altogether different from the one which he led in Scotland Street. “What was it like before you met Mummy?” he asked suddenly. “Was it fun?”
Stuart looked at his son, and then out of the window. They were now leaving the outer suburbs of Edinburgh and the fields and hills were all about them. An expanse of earth, ploughed in readiness for the winter crop, rich earth, shot past on one side of the track. A crow flew up from a tree, and was left behind. Stuart looked back at Bertie.
“It was fun,” he said quietly. “Yes. I had