Bertie’s Idea
when he had asked her to stop squeezing the avocado pears to determine their ripeness. And the fishmonger had also objected when Irene had so shamelessly picked up his fish from the slab and smelled it very carefully, wrinkling her nose with disgust as she did so. Both of these occasions had embarrassed Bertie, in spite of his being used to her behaving in this fashion. It would be nice to have a normal mother, he had thought; but even normal mothers could be embarrassing to their children.
Bertie looked about him. He usually found shops rather boring, but this one, he decided, was fairly interesting. He looked at a rack of dinner suits, reaching out to feel the velvet, and behind that – what was that? – a row of kilt jackets in green tweed with buttons made of horn. Then Bertie saw a sign pointing into the next room, and stopped. School blazers, it said.
Glancing over his shoulder at his mother, Bertie made his way over to the few steps that led down into the next room. He moved forward slowly, and peered in the direction indicated by the sign. Yes, there they were! A whole row of Watson’s plum-coloured blazers, in all the sizes. Bertie approached the rack. He reached out to touch the sleeve of one of the blazers – one that would be about his size – and then, in a sudden rush of excitement, he slipped it off its hanger and began to put it on. He could hardly believe that he was doing this, and his breath came to him in short, excited gasps.
There was a full-length mirror nearby and Bertie turned sideways-on to get a glimpse of how he looked. He saw the reflection of the badge, that wonderful crest, and he smelled the new-wool smell of the fabric. It was a perfect fit, just perfect, and he looked so good in it – just like a real Watson’s boy. And it was while he was standing there, looking at himself in the mirror, that Bertie’s idea came to him. It was an idea that was quite simple, when one came to think of it, but of immense significance for Bertie. It was a bold plan, an astonishing plan, but there was no reason why it would not work. All one had to do was to be brave.
And then, from behind him, so unexpected as to make him start, a voice: “Well, young man. Well?”
Chapter title
87
27. Socks
Bertie looked up at the man who was standing behind him. It was one of the assistants, smartly dressed in a dark suit. He was peering at Bertie through half-moon glasses and his expression was bemused.
“Well, young man,” he said again. “Is that a good fit, do you think?”
Bertie glanced in the mirror again. “Yes,” he said nervously.
“I was just trying it on. I wasn’t going to steal it.”
The man laughed. “I didn’t for one moment think you were going to steal it,” he said. “Good heavens, no. I assumed that you were trying it on for size. And you say that it fits?”
Bertie unbuttoned the blazer and began to take it off. “It fits very well,” he said. “It’s very nice.”
“It’s a good brand, that one,” said the man, taking the blazer from Bertie and dusting it down before replacing it on the rack.
“Tell me, do you enjoy Watson’s?”
Bertie looked down at the floor. “I don’t go there,” he said sheepishly.
The man raised an eyebrow. “You don’t go there? But you were trying on the blazer . . .”
“I’d like to go there,” said Bertie. “I thought that I would see what it was like to wear a Watson’s blazer.”
The man adjusted his glasses. “I see,” he said. “Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. Where do you go to school?”
“Steiner’s,” said Bertie.
“A very good school,” said the man. “You’re lucky. We hear very good reports of it.”
“I know,” said Bertie. “It is very nice. But there’s no rugby . . .”
The man nodded. “I suppose if one wants rugby then one would need to find somewhere else. Are you very keen?”
Bertie nodded enthusiastically. “Very,” he said. “I’ve never had the chance to play, but I’d love to.” He paused. “Does Mr Hastings come in here?” he asked.
The man nodded. “Quite often. Do you know him?”
88
Socks
Bertie hesitated for a moment before replying. “Yes,” he said.
“I know him.”
He did not know why he said this. It was something to do with wanting to be something that he was not; something to do with wish-fulfilment; something to do with freedom.
“I’ll tell him about you next time he comes in,” said the man.
“What’s your name?”
Bertie hesitated again, and then replied: “Jock.”
“Well, Jock. Perhaps you’d better go over there to see your mother. Look, she must be wondering where you are.”
Bertie saw Irene picking up a sock and scrutinising it. She caught his eye and beckoned him over. The man came with him.
“Can I advise you on those?” he asked. “Are they for Jock?”
Bertie froze. Then, leaning forward very quickly, he snatched the sock from his mother.
“I like this sock,” he blustered. “I like it very much.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Irene. “That sock is Daddy’s size.
You need something much smaller.”
The man indicated to a drawer. “We have a good selection of boys’ socks here,” he said. “We should be able to find something suitable for Jock.”
Irene looked puzzled. “For Jock?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the man, pointing to Bertie.
Again Bertie acted quickly. “He said for sock,” he said to his mother. “Sock, not Jock.”
The man smiled. “Does Jock need socks or not?” he asked patiently.
“I have no idea,” said Irene. “I would, however, like socks for Bertie here, if you have something suitable.”
The man looked at Bertie. “I thought you said your name was Jock,” he said.
Irene frowned, and looked down at Bertie. “Did you, Bertie?
Why did you say you were called Jock?”
Bertie looked down at the floor. “It was a mistake,” he said.
Irene turned to the man. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Young boys can be very fanciful.”
“No matter,” said the man. “Perhaps he’d like to be called Socks
89
Jock. I remember wanting to be called Joe when I was a little boy. I wrote the name Joe in all my books.”
Irene appeared to lose interest in this conversation and returned to the subject of socks. Bertie, feeling miserable, stood by while the adults talked. The blazer had been wonderful; such a smart garment, and it fitted him so well. His plan depended on that blazer, but it would not be easy to get hold of it. When he had tried it on, he had looked at the price ticket and had made a mental note of what it cost. It was a lot of money, of course, but Bertie had been prudent. Every birthday, when he had received a present from his aunt in Jedburgh, he had put the money into his savings account at the bank. This sum now stood at over one hundred and eighty pounds, and it would easily cover the cost of the blazer. But how would he be able to buy it? He was never allowed to come into town on his own, and his mother would surely notice it if, on their next visit to George Street, Bertie darted into Aitken and Niven and came out with a large parcel. No, he would have to get somebody else to draw the money from his account and then go up to George Street and buy it for him. But who?
On the way back down the hill, Bertie was deep in thought, as was Irene. She was wondering why Bertie should have chosen to call himself Jock. It was such a strange thing to do, and she would have to report it to Dr Fairbairn in advance of Bertie’s next psychotherapy session. The thought occurred to her that Bertie was possibly suffering from a dissociative condition in which multiple personalities were beginning to manifest their presence. Jock could be one of these personae. She looked down at Bertie, who was staring at the pavement as he walked along.