The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [52]
‘Bertie,’ whispered Miss Harmony. ‘Sometimes mummies make it hard for their boys. They don’t mean to do it, but they do. And the boy feels that the world is all wrong, that nothing works the way he wants it to work. And he looks around and sees other people having fun and he wonders whether he’ll ever have any fun himself. Well, Bertie, the truth of the matter is that things tend to work out all right. Boys in that position eventually get a little bit of freedom and are able to do the things they really want to do. That happens, you know. But the important thing is that you should try to remember that Mummy is doing what she thinks is her best for you. So if you can just grin and bear it for a while, that’s probably best.’
Bertie listened attentively. This was a teacher speaking; this was the voice of ultimate authority. And what was that voice saying to him? It was hard to decide.
‘So just try to be nice to Olive,’ went on Miss Harmony. ‘Try to look at things from her point of view.’
‘She wants to play house,’ whispered Bertie. ‘I don’t want to do that.’
Miss Harmony smiled. ‘Girls love playing house.’ And she thought: genetics – the bane of nonsexist theories of child-rearing. Stubborn, inescapable genetics.
Bertie was silent. Miss Harmony stayed with him for a moment longer, but she was now beginning to attract curious stares from Tofu and Olive, and so she gave him a final pat on the shoulder and straightened up.
‘Do try to pay attention to your own work, Tofu,’ she said. ‘It’s always best that way. And you, Olive, should do so too.’
Bertie kept his eyes down on his desk. He had been encouraged by what Miss Harmony had said to him – a bit – and he would make the effort to be civil to Olive. And he was cheered, too, by the prospect of liberation that the teacher had held out to him. She must have met people like his mother before, and boys like him too, and if she had seen things go well for them, then perhaps there was a chance for him. But the way ahead seemed so long, so cluttered with yoga and psychotherapy and Italian conversazioni, that it was as much as he could do to believe in any future at all, any prospect of happiness.
‘You’ll enjoy playing house,’ said Olive to Bertie as they travelled back on the bus with Irene. ‘I’ll be the mummy and you, Bertie . . .’ she paused for a moment. ‘And you will be the mummy’s boyfriend.’
35. Playing House
‘Now, where would you two like to play?’ asked Irene as she unlocked the door to the Pollock flat in 44 Scotland Street.
‘In the bedroom, please,’ said Olive confidently. ‘We’re going to play house, Mrs Pollock, and that’s the best place.’
Bertie caught his breath. He had been hoping to keep Olive out of his bedroom, because if she saw it she could hardly fail to notice that it was painted pink. And that, he feared, would give her a potent bit of information which she would undoubtedly use as a bargaining chip. All she would have to do would be to threaten to reveal to Tofu and the other boys at school that his room was pink unless he complied with whatever schemes she had in mind. It would be a hopeless situation, thought Bertie; he would be completely in her power and unable to stand up for himself, which, he suspected, was exactly what Olive had in mind.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Bertie, ‘we could play in the sitting room. There are some very comfortable chairs there, and it will be just right for playing house in. Don’t you agree, Mummy?’
He looked imploringly at his mother, willing her to agree with him.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Irene. ‘House is best played in bedrooms. And I’m planning to write some letters in the sitting room. You won’t want me interfering with your game of house, will you, Olive?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Olive. ‘Although you could always be the granny.’
Irene glanced at Olive. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘You could pretend to be the granny who has to stay in bed, and we could feed you soup