The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [9]
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