The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [96]
‘There, there, Bertie,’ said his father. ‘I’m sure that everything will turn out well in the end.’
Irene shook her head. ‘It’ll do no good your telling Bertie that, Stuart,’ she said. ‘It won’t. You know it. I know it. It won’t.’
63. Panforte for Bertie and a Shock for Stuart
In the delicious caverns of Valvona & Crolla, Mary Contini, author of Dear Olivia, was busy adjusting jars of truffle oil on a shelf when the Pollock family entered. She turned round and saw Irene, and for a moment her heart sank. She knew Irene slightly, and their relationship had not been easy. Irene had strong views on olive oil and was only too ready to share these with the staff of the delicatessen, even when, as was often the case, she was on shaky ground. Mary listened patiently and refrained from correcting or contradicting Irene, but it was not easy. And that poor little boy of hers, she thought. And the husband! Look at him. There’s a hearth from which freedom has been excluded, if ever there was one. And now there was another baby, who would no doubt have to face the same awful battle that poor little Bertie had faced. Poor child!
Irene smiled at Mary. She had read her books and enjoyed them, but it did remind her that she herself could have written a number of books, and that these books would undoubtedly have been very successful; indeed, they would have been seminal books. But she had not actually got round to doing this yet, although it was, she felt, merely a question of time. The books would certainly come, and she would handle the resulting success very much better than many authors did. Of that she was certain.
‘Can we get some Panforte di Siena, Mummy?’ asked Bertie. ‘I know where they keep it.’
‘Very well, Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘But not a large one. Just one of those small ones. In Italy, boys eat small pieces of Panforte di Siena.’
Bertie led his mother to the shelf where the panforte was stacked, resplendent in its box with its Renaissance picture. He picked up a small box and showed it to his mother, who nodded her approval. Then they all went on to the sun-dried tomato section and, after that, to the counter where the salami and cold meats were served.
Once their purchases were complete, Stuart looked at his watch. ‘I think I’m going to walk over to the Fruitmarket Gallery,’ he said.
Irene agreed to this. She would go home with Bertie, she said: he had saxophone practice to do in view of his impending examination. Bertie was not pleased by this, but his mind was now on the panforte, and he was wondering if he could persuade his mother to allow him to eat it all in one sitting. This was unlikely, he thought, but he could always try. Irene believed in rationing pleasures, and Bertie was never allowed more than a small square of chocolate or a spoonful or so of ice cream. And some pleasures – such as Irn-Bru – were completely banned; it was only when Stuart was in charge that they slipped through the protective net.
Irene and Bertie walked back together. It was a fine morning, and Drummond Place was filled with light. In Scotland Street, they saw Domenica walking up the opposite side of the road, and she waved cheerfully to them. Bertie returned the wave.
‘Poor woman,’ said Irene quietly.
Bertie said nothing. He did not understand why his mother should call Domenica poor woman; it seemed to him that Domenica was quite contented with life, as well she might be, he thought, with her large, custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz. But then Bertie realised that his mother had views on just about all the neighbours, with whom there was, in her view, always something wrong.
Inside the flat, Bertie was allowed to eat half the panforte, with