“No, I’m not mistaken,” said Tofu. “Bertie hates Olive.
Everybody knows that. It’s because she’s so bossy.”
Olive spun round and glared at Tofu. “Bertie doesn’t hate me,” she said. “Otherwise, why would he invite me to his house?
Answer me that, Tofu!”
Bertie opened his mouth to say something, but Miss Harmony, 114 Miss Harmony Has a Word in Bertie’s Ear sensing complications, immediately changed the subject, and the class resumed its reading exercise. But later, when everybody was involved in private work, she bent down and whispered in Bertie’s ear. “Is it true, Bertie? Did you invite Olive to play?”
“No,” whispered Bertie. “I didn’t, Miss Harmony. It’s my mother. She invited her. I don’t want to play with Olive, I really don’t. I want to play with other boys. I want to have fun.”
Miss Harmony slipped her arm over his shoulder. “I’m sure that you must have some fun, Bertie. I’m sure you do.”
“Not really, Miss Harmony,” said Bertie. “You see my mother thinks . . .” He broke off. He was not sure what his mother thought. It was all too complicated.
The teacher crouched beside him. Bertie could smell the scent that she used, the scent that he had always liked. It was lavender, he thought, or something like that. In his mind it was the smell of kindness.
“Bertie,” whispered Miss Harmony. “Sometimes mummies make it hard for their boys. They don’t mean to do it, but they do. And the boy feels that the world is all wrong, that nothing works the way he wants it to work. And he looks around and sees other people having fun and he wonders whether he’ll ever have any fun himself. Well, Bertie, the truth of the matter is that things tend to work out all right. Boys in that position eventually get a little bit of freedom and are able to do the things they really want to do. That happens, you know. But the important thing is that you should try to remember that Mummy is doing what she thinks is her best for you. So if you can just grin and bear it for a while, that’s probably best.”
Bertie listened attentively. This was a teacher speaking; this was the voice of ultimate authority. And what was that voice saying to him? It was hard to decide.
“So just try to be nice to Olive,” went on Miss Harmony.
“Try to look at things from her point of view.”
“She wants to play house,” whispered Bertie. “I don’t want to do that.”
Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House 115
Miss Harmony smiled. “Girls love playing house.” And she thought: genetics – the bane of nonsexist theories of child-rearing. Stubborn, inescapable genetics.
Bertie was silent. Miss Harmony stayed with him for a moment longer, but she was now beginning to attract curious stares from Tofu and Olive, and so she gave him a final pat on the shoulder and straightened up.
“Do try to pay attention to your own work, Tofu,” she said.
“It’s always best that way. And you, Olive, should do so too.”
Bertie kept his eyes down on his desk. He had been encouraged by what Miss Harmony had said to him – a bit – and he would make the effort to be civil to Olive. And he was cheered, too, by the prospect of liberation that the teacher had held out to him. She must have met people like his mother before, and boys like him too, and if she had seen things go well for them, then perhaps there was a chance for him. But the way ahead seemed so long, so cluttered with yoga and psychotherapy and Italian conversazioni, that it was as much as he could do to believe in any future at all, any prospect of happiness.
“You’ll enjoy playing house,” said Olive to Bertie as they travelled back on the bus with Irene. “I’ll be the mummy and you, Bertie . . .” She paused for a moment. “And you will be the mummy’s boyfriend.”
35. Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House
“Now, where would you two like to play?” asked Irene as she unlocked the door to the Pollock flat in 44 Scotland Street.
“In the bedroom, please,” said Olive confidently. “We’re going to play house, Mrs Pollock, and that’s the best place.”
Bertie caught his breath. He had been hoping to keep Olive out of his bedroom, because if she saw it she could hardly fail to notice that it was painted pink. And that, he feared, would give her a potent bit of information which she 116 Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House would undoubtedly use as a bargaining chip. All she would have to do would be to threaten to reveal to Tofu and the other boys at school that his room was pink unless he complied with whatever schemes she had in mind. It would be a hopeless situation, thought Bertie; he would be completely in her power and unable to stand up for himself, which, he suspected, was exactly what Olive had in mind.
“If you don’t mind,” said Bertie, “we could play in the sitting room. There are some very comfortable chairs there, and it will be just right for playing house in. Don’t you agree, Mummy?”
He looked imploringly at his mother, willing her to agree with him.
“I don’t think so,” said Irene. “House is best played in bedrooms. And I’m planning to write some letters in the sitting room. You won’t want me interfering with your game of house, will you, Olive?”
“No, thank you,” said Olive. “Although you could always be the granny.”
Irene glanced at Olive. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see.”
“You could pretend to be the granny who has to stay in bed, and we could feed you soup from a cup,” Olive went on. “And you could pretend to forget everything we said to you.”
“I don’t think so, Olive,” said Irene coldly. “But thank you anyway. You two just go off and play in Bertie’s room. At half past four, I’ll make you some juice and scones. I’ll be putting Ulysses down for a sleep shortly and he will be ready to wake up then.”
“He’s a very nice baby, Mrs Pollock,” said Olive. “My mummy says that you’re lucky to have him.”
Irene smiled. “Well, thank you, Olive,” she said. “We’re all very lucky to have Ulysses come into our lives.”
“Yes,” Olive continued. “Mummy said that she thought you were too old to have another baby. She said that wonders will never cease.”
Irene was silent for a few moments. “I think that you should go and play now,” she said, tight-lipped. “Off you go!”
Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House 117
“Where’s your room, Bertie?” asked Olive. “Can you show me the way, please?”
Bertie cast his eyes about in desperation. There seemed to be no escape, or was there?
“It’s at the end of this corridor,” he said, pointing in the direction of the dining room. “That’s the door over there.”
Olive walked over to the door and opened it. She looked inside, at the table and chairs, and the small bureau where Stuart sometimes did the work that he brought home with him. “Is this it?” she asked. “Is this your room, Bertie?”
Bertie nodded.
“Where’s your bed?” asked Olive. “Don’t tell me you sleep on the table.”
Bertie gave a forced laugh. “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t sleep on the table. I sleep over there, in that corner. We have some cushions and a sleeping bag. We put them over there each night before I go to bed. It’s healthier, you see.”
“So you don’t even have a proper bed?” asked Olive.
“No,” said Bertie. “But that’s quite common these days. Didn’t you know that?”
Olive did not wish to appear uninformed, and so she nodded in a superior way. “You don’t have to tell me that,” she said. “I know about these things.” She paused, looking around at the sparsely furnished room. “But where do you keep your clothes?”
Bertie glanced at the sideboard. “In those drawers over there,”