310 Bertie’s Dream
Bertie eventually drifted off to sleep and during the course of the night had a dream. In this dream, which he remembered vividly upon waking, he found himself walking in a field of grass, alone to begin with, but first joined by a spotted dog, which trotted content-edly at his heels, and then by a friend. And this friend was Tofu, who walked beside him, his hand resting on Bertie’s shoulder in comfortable companionship. Bertie felt proud to have a friend, even if it was only Tofu, and to have a dog, too, added to his pleasure.
Above them was a high sky of freedom, unsullied by clouds.
Then suddenly the spotted dog ran away. It scampered off into the undergrowth and Bertie called out to it, but it did not come back. He felt bereft now that the dog had gone and he turned to Tofu for reassurance, but Tofu himself had skipped off, disappearing into a thicket at the edge of the field. Bertie called after him, just as he had called after the dog, but a wind had arisen, and it swallowed his words.
Now he was alone, but only for a short time, for his mother suddenly appeared round the corner of a path and she rushed towards him and lifted him up, smothering him with caresses.
Bertie squirmed, trying to escape, but could not; his mother was too powerful; she was like the wind, a gale, an irresistible tide; she could not be vanquished. She held him in her grip, which was a strong one, and prevented him from moving.
But at last she put him down, and Bertie looked up at her and saw something which made his heart turn cold. Irene had a baby in her arms, and she held this baby out to Bertie, saying:
“Look, Bertie! Look at this baby!”
Bertie stared at the baby and thought: Now I have a brother.
“Yes,” said Irene. “You have a brother, Bertie!”
Bertie did not know what to say. He stood quite still while Irene held the baby up to allow it to gaze down on Bertie, which it did with a smile, like one of those babies one sees in pre-Raphaelite paintings, slightly sinister babies. Then Irene turned.
To her side there was a piano and a piano stool, and she put the baby down on the stool. The baby reached out and began to play the piano, its tiny, chubby fingers dancing across the keyboard with great skill.
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Bertie watched. He was fascinated by the baby’s ability to play the piano. My mother has forced him to learn the piano, he thought. And he is only six months old!
He looked more closely at the baby, who had reached a difficult passage in the music and was frowning with concentration.
Then the baby stopped, and turned towards Bertie and smiled.
And Bertie saw that the baby was wearing a baby suit made of the same blue linen as that worn by Dr Fairbairn.
That was Bertie’s dream.
95. The Wind Makes the Trains Sound Faint When he awoke the next morning, Bertie was initially unwilling to open his eyes. He had gone to sleep in a room which had miraculously turned white; now he feared that it would have changed colour again overnight, back to the pink that he so disliked. But it had not, of course, and he was able to gaze, wide-eyed, at his new colour-scheme and confirm that it was true.
After he had dressed, Bertie went through to the kitchen, from which he heard the strains of an aria from The Magic Flute issuing forth.
“Good morning, Bertie,” said Irene. “Do you know what they’re singing about on the radio?”
“Catching birds,” said Bertie. “Isn’t that the man who catches birds?”
“Yes,” said Irene. “Papageno. Do you know, I briefly considered calling you that when you were born? But then I decided that Bertie sounded better.”
Bertie felt weak. It would have been impossible to live down a name like that, and he felt immensely relieved at his narrow escape. But if she had been thinking of calling him Papageno, then what would she have called that baby in the dream?
Irene looked at him. “Your father and I had a discussion last night,” she said. “We talked a little bit about you.”
Bertie looked at his mother impassively. She was always talking 312 The Wind Makes the Trains Sound Faint about him, although it was perhaps a bit unusual for his father to do so too. He reached for his porridge bowl and poured in the milk.
“Yes,” continued Irene. “We talked about you and we thought that you might like to change things a bit.”
Bertie looked up from his porridge. “Really, Mummy?” He thought quickly. Perhaps this was his chance.
“Could I go and live in a hotel, Mummy?” he asked. “There’s one round the corner in Northumberland Street. I’ve seen it. I could go and live there. You could come and see me now and then.”
Irene smiled. “What nonsense, Bertie!” she said.
Bertie looked back at his porridge. The milk was the sea and the lumps of porridge were tiny islands. And his spoon, placed carefully down on the surface of the milk, was a little boat.
Perhaps he could go to sea. Perhaps he could sign on as a cabin boy in the Navy and make the captain’s tea. Bertie had read one of the Patrick O’Brian books and he made it sound so much fun, although the parts where the ships did battle were rather frightening. However, it wouldn’t be like that these days, he thought, now that the European Union had stopped British ships firing upon Spanish or French ships. Perhaps they just met at sea these days and exchanged new European regulations.
“Yes,” went on Irene. “We’ve been thinking, your father and I, that maybe you should do more of the things you really want to do. Would you like that, Bertie?”
Bertie smiled at his mother. “Very much,” he said. He was pleased, but still rather doubtful. He was not sure whether his mother really understood what he wanted to do. Would he be let off yoga today?
“So, Bertie,” said Irene, “I thought that although today is Saturday, and we normally have double yoga on a Saturday, we might skip it .”
“Oh thank you!” shouted Bertie. “Thank you, Mummy!”
“And instead,” continued Irene, “we shall . . .”
Bertie’s face fell as he wondered what the alternative would be. Double Italian? Or perhaps the floatarium?
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“We shall get Daddy,” said Irene, “we shall get Daddy to take you up to the Princes Street Gardens. You can climb that bit underneath the castle there and look down on the trains. Would you like that, Bertie?”
Bertie let out a whoop of delight. “I’d love that, Mummy. We could see the trains leaving for Glasgow!”
Irene smiled. “An unusual pleasure, in my view,” she mused.
“But there we are. Chacun à son goût. ”
Bertie finished his porridge quickly and then returned to his room to put on a sweater. It was a warm day for the time of the year, but by wearing a sweater he could cover the top part of his dungarees and people would not necessarily think that he was wearing them. From a distance, and if they did not look too closely, they might even think that he was wearing nothing more unusual than red jeans. That is what he hoped for, anyway.
Stuart emerged shortly after Bertie had got himself ready.
After a quick breakfast, with Bertie champing at the bit to be out, they left the flat and Scotland Street and began to walk up the hill towards Princes Street. It was a fine morning and when they reached Princes Street the flags on the flagpoles were fluttering proudly in a strong breeze from the west.