Big Lou looked at him with interest. “Maybe,” she said.
“So in this case,” Matthew went on, “Uncle A had a bit of time – maybe only a minute or so to think about it. Then he acted. Whereas Uncle B acted – or failed to act – spontaneously.”
Angus Lordie snorted dismissively. “Doesn’t work,” he said.
“They have had exactly the same amount of time to think about it. Uncle A thinks about it while he’s holding the boy’s head under the water. Uncle B thinks about it while he stands there and watches the poor boy drown. No difference, in my view.”
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Big Lou wanted to side with Matthew, but could not. “Yes,”
she conceded, a note of reluctance in her voice. “Angus is probably right – in this case. But you’re right, too, Matthew, when it comes to most of the things we do. There must be a difference between the things you do on a sudden urge and the things you do after you’ve thought about them for a long time.”
“So what do you think, Lou?” asked Angus. “Is there a difference between Uncle A and Uncle B as far as you’re concerned?
What did that book of yours say?”
“It hinted at an answer,” said Big Lou. “But mostly it just raised the question. Books don’t always give the answers, you know. Sometimes they just raise the questions.”
Angus smiled. “So nothing’s certain, then?”
“That’s right,” said Big Lou.
“Except death and taxes,” interjected Matthew. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“They don’t pay taxes in Italy,” observed Angus. “I knew a painter in Naples who never paid taxes – ever. Very good painter too.”
“What happened to him?” asked Matthew.
“He died,” said Angus.
33. Bertie Makes a Move
In the days that followed his visit to George Street with his mother, Bertie had been preoccupied with his plan. The purchase of the Watson’s blazer from Aitken and Niven was feasible only with the co-operation of the boy from round the corner.
Unfortunately, there was a difficulty with this as he was not sure exactly where this new friend lived. He had met him only on the one occasion and although the other boy had given him his name – he was called Paddy – he had not been specific as to where he lived. He had pointed in the direction of the far end of Fettes Row, which was just round the corner, when Bertie Makes a Move
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Bertie had asked him, but he had given no number.
Nor had he given Bertie his surname, which would have allowed the telephone directory to be consulted. So all that Bertie could do if he wanted to contact him was to wait in the street in the hope that he might appear.
And there was a difficulty with doing even that. Bertie was now allowed out alone in Scotland Street and Drummond Place, provided that he did not cross any busy roads and provided that he told Irene exactly where he was going. This allowed him to sit on the steps outside No 44 and watch people going in and out of their houses. It also allowed him to stand at the end of Scotland Street Lane in the hope of seeing one of the motorcycles that occasionally roared out of the vintage-motorcycle garage (out of bounds).
Bertie liked the motorcyclists, who sometimes waved or nodded to him. He would like to have a motorcycle like that, which he could ride to rugby matches, and he would do so, he thought, when he was bigger.
His mother would not like it, of course – she said that motorcycles were noisy things – worse than cars – and that if she were the Lord Provost of Edinburgh she would ban them from the streets. But even if he got hold of a motorcycle, she would still try to spoil it for him, thought Bertie. Motorcyclists wore leather outfits, sometimes with badges on them; she would force him to wear leather dungarees, he thought, and all the other motorcyclists would laugh at him.
If Paddy lived on Fettes Row, then he would have to go and seek him there. But again there were obstacles. Although one section of Fettes Row was accessible, the other section, where Paddy lived, lay beyond Dundas Street, and the crossing of Dundas Street was definitely forbidden.
Bertie wrestled with this. He could not tell his mother that he was going to the other side of Fettes Row because she would forbid him outright. And if he lied, which he did not want to do – for he was a truthful boy (apart from his habit of occasionally giving a false name) – then he would surely give himself away with his blushes. So he would have to 108 Bertie Makes a Move
develop a form of words which allowed for the crossing of Dundas Street.
“Can I go down to Royal Crescent?” he asked one afternoon.
Irene glanced up from the book she was reading, a new biography of Melanie Klein. For a moment she wondered how Melanie Klein would have answered had anybody asked her permission to go to Royal Crescent. It would have been too simple just to say yes. Perhaps she would have said: Why do you want to go to Royal Crescent?
“Why?” she said.
Bertie shrugged. “I want to play.”
Irene looked back at the book. The biographer had reached a point where Kleinian theories of play were on the point of being discussed at an important meeting in London. Melanie was anxious about the implications of a possible attack from Freudian loyalists who believed she had strayed too far from the fold. The pace of the account, with all its intrigue, was building up.
“That’s fine, Bertie. You play. And then maybe we can talk about how you played. Would that be all right? You could tell Mummy about your little games?”
Bertie pursed his lips. It was none of her business how he played. He wanted to play Chase the Dentist, but she said that it was too violent, and he could never find anybody to play it with him. But he did not want to argue about that now; bland acceptance was a better policy.
“And then I’ll go round to the end of the street and then come back,” he said.
Every word of the sentence had been rehearsed, and he delivered his line faultlessly. It was true, after all, and there was no need to feel ashamed or to blush over what he had said. Royal Crescent and Fettes Row were, strictly speaking, separate streets, but in a broad sense they were the same street, as Fettes Row was a continuation of Royal Crescent. And the section of Fettes Row which lay on the far side of Dundas Street could, of course, be described as the same street as the bit that lay on the near side. So he felt that it was quite reasonable for him to say that Bertie Makes a Move
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he was going to the end of the street, even if he knew that Irene might misinterpret what he said. A boy was not responsible for the misinterpretations of his mother, he thought. That was carrying things far too far.
Irene nodded. “Be careful,” she said. “And don’t be too long.”
She paused, and looked up again from her book. “And have you done your Italian today, Bertie?”
Bertie had taken the precaution of doing his Italian exercises to prevent their being used as a way of thwarting his plan.
“Si, si,” he said. “Ciao, Mama!”
“Ciao, ciao, bambino!” Irene muttered, and returned to her Melanie Klein. It was typical, she thought, that institutional forces should have sought to discredit truly innovative developments in the international psychoanalytical movement. It was absolutely typical.
For a moment she allowed her mind to wander. Dr Fairbairn had been something of a pioneer himself – a recent pioneer –
with his theory of the juvenile tantrum. But he must have encountered opposition to his theories when he first published his study of Wee Fraser.
Presumably there were those who were envious of his success, who wanted to bring him down because they hated the fact that he had done something. There were always people like that, she thought. They are unsettled by the good fortune, or the happiness, of others. They allowed envy, that most corrosive of human emotions, to prompt them to make sneering remarks.