There was one of the mothers – who was it? Merlin’s mother, was it not? – who wore the most peculiar clothing herself. She had a shapeless, tent-like dress made out of macramé that she had clearly run up herself, and yet she was so proud of it! She had no idea how ridiculous she looked, thought Irene, and of course that strange son of hers insisted on wearing a rainbow-coloured coat that his mother had obviously made out of . . .
where on Earth had she got the material? It looked like one of those flags that they flew outside gay bars. Perhaps the silly woman had seized upon it at a gay jumble sale somewhere. What an idea! That boy, Merlin, must be so embarrassed by his mother, thought Irene. Some mothers, she reflected, are very insensitive.
She turned to Bertie as they entered the flat. “Bertie,” she said, “we must fix up a costume for you for the play. Did Miss Harmony say what you should wear?”
Bertie stood quite still. The whole business of the play was enough of a minefield without his mother getting further 200 Lederhosen
involved. He would have to avert this, he thought.
He started to explain. “We aren’t using costumes at the moment, Mummy,” he said. “Miss Harmony says that we are just going to read through the play. I don’t think you need bother about a costume.”
“But I must,” said Irene. “They always expect the mummies to make costumes. So I’ll make you one, Bertie.”
Bertie sighed. But then it occurred to him that Captain von Trapp probably wore a rather smart naval uniform. He would like to have such a uniform, with brass buttons down the front and one of those caps with an anchor on it.
“That’s a good idea, Mummy,” he said. “Why not start making it now, so that it’s ready for when I need to take it to school?”
Irene was receptive to the suggestion. “Would you like me to do that?” she asked. “Well, why not? Daddy’s not coming back until a bit later, so we have plenty of time. Now then, let me think. Yes, I know what I’ll do.”
“A Captain’s outfit,” said Bertie brightly. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”
“Oh no,” said Irene. “None of that. You know that I’m none too keen on uniforms. I think that it should be something Austrian. Yes, Captain von Trapp should wear something quin-tessentially Austrian.”
Bertie was quiet. He was trying to remember what he had seen in a book he had which showed national dress of the world.
What did the Austrians wear?
Irene answered Bertie’s unspoken question. “Lederhosen, Bertie! That’s what Captain von Trapp would wear.”
Bertie’s voice was small. “Lederhosen, Mummy?”
“Yes,” said Irene. “Lederhosen, Bertie, are worn by people in southern Germany and in Austria. They’re trousers that go up the front like this – a bit like dungarees, come to think of it –
but they have short legs so that your knees show. And they’re made of leather, of course. That’s why they’re called Lederhosen.”
Bertie said nothing. His only hope, he thought, of averting this humiliation was an absence of leather. But again it was as Lederhosen 201
if Irene had anticipated his thoughts. “Leather is a problem, of course,” she said. “I have no idea where one would buy it, and it would probably be terribly expensive.”
“Oh dear,” said Bertie quickly. “But thank you, anyway, Mummy.”
“However,” said Irene. “Mummy has had an idea. Yet another one. You know that old chair which Daddy has? The one I’ve been meaning to get re-covered one of these days? The one where he sits and reads the paper?”
Bertie knew the old leather chair, but did not have the time to say so, as the doorbell sounded. Muttering something about not expecting anybody, Irene crossed the hallway and opened the door. A heavily-built man, out of breath from the effort of walking up the stairs, stood on the landing.
“Mrs Pollock?”
Irene nodded. She did not recognise the man, and she did not like the way that his glance shot into the hall behind her.
Stewart had told her to use the chain when opening the door, but she never did. Perhaps . . .
“Bertie!” the man suddenly exclaimed. “So there you are, son!”
Irene gave a start as Bertie suddenly materialised from behind her. “Mr O’Connor!” he said.
The mention of the name made Irene freeze. So this was that man from Glasgow, Fatty O’Connor, or whatever he called himself. She looked at him coldly. “I suppose this is something to do with our car?” she said.
Lard O’Connor smiled at her. He was not easily intimidated, and he did not want to talk to her anyway. It was Stewie he was looking for. “I’d like to talk to your man,” he said flatly. “And aye, it’s about your motor.”
“Well he’s not here,” said Irene, beginning to close the door.
“You’ll have to come back some other day. Very sorry.”
Lard O’Connor glanced at Bertie. “You keeping well, son?”
he asked. “Good. Well tell your Da that our man Gerry left something behind by mistake in the car. He’d like to have a wee look for it.”
202 Reunited
“But you can pick that up from the police, Mr O’Connor,”
said Bertie. “They found something in the car, you see.”
Lard O’Connor took a step backwards. “Oh jings!” he said quietly.
65. Reunited
That evening, Angus Lordie went to the Cumberland Bar, as he did once or twice a week; but today there was no anticipation on his part of a couple of hours spent in pleasant company, conversing and catching up on the day’s news. Rather there was a heart which was still numbed by loss. Cyril always accompanied him to the bar and was a popular canine figure there. Seated under a table, the dog would wait patiently until a dish of beer was placed before him, to be lapped at in contentment. Then Cyril would rest his head on the ground and sleep for a while before waking up and looking around the room with interest.
It was a reassuring routine for both man and dog, but now it was over. Cyril was lost; he was stolen; he was, quite possibly, no more.
Angus sat alone at his table, teetering on the edge of self-pity. And then he fell in, closed his eyes, and gave himself over to thoughts of how pointless his life was. Here he was, fifty-ish, solitary, barely recognised as an artist, and then only by those who were themselves fifty-ish and unrecognised for anything very much. When had he last had a show? Two years ago, at least; and even then the paintings had hung on the walls unsold until Domenica – bless her – had out of loyalty bought one.
Tom Wilson – bless him, too – had invited him to submit something for his small-scale Christmas show, and Angus, grateful for the invitation but worried that he had nothing small to offer, had simply cut a small portion out of the middle of one of his canvases and framed that. And later, when Angus had dropped in at the Open Eye Gallery to see the show and look at what others had submitted, he had noticed a couple standing in front
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of his painting, peering at it. They had not noticed Angus, which was as well, for he knew them slightly – Humphrey and Jill Holmes – and he had heard Humphrey turn to Jill and say:
“That’s funny! I could swear that this is part of a larger painting.
Don’t you get that feeling?” And Angus had slipped out of the gallery in shame and had even contemplated withdrawing his painting, but had not done so. It would come back to him later on, he feared, unsold, and in this he had been proved right.
So now he sat in the Cumberland Bar and reflected on how bad was the hand of cards dealt him. If I died tomorrow, he asked himself, who would notice, or care? Now that Domenica had gone, there were few people he could drop in on; few people who were close friends. The people he knew in the Cumberland Bar went there to drink, not to see him, and if he were not there, they would carry on drinking just the same. Oh, life was dreadful, he told himself, just dreadful. And the words came back to him, the words of a song he had picked up in the Student Union bar, all those years ago, the bowdlerised words of a song sung at Irish wakes and which expressed so clearly what he now felt: Let’s not have a sniffle, boys,