158 The Statistical Lady Is Not for Smiling at Very well, but what exactly was Western Europe anyway? If one took Turkey into account, and Turkey was almost in Western Europe – particularly if one overlooked the fact that most of it was in Asia and perhaps somewhat far to the east – did it change the picture? Might Glasgow not be compared with Istanbul, and, if one did that, how did the comparison look? Still bad, alas: the Turks did not eat so many fats and sweet things, and they were really rather good about consuming their greens. So were there not other places somewhere, anywhere, where everybody smoked like chimneys, drank to excess, and fried everything . . . ? No, not really.
Stuart smiled as he negotiated the corner at the end of Waterloo Place and began to walk towards Picardy Place. As a statistician, he thought, I’m a messenger; that’s what I do. And, like all messengers, some people would prefer to shoot me.
He looked down the street at the people walking towards him, young, old, in-between. After that day’s meeting, it was taking some time for him to move back from the professional to the personal. Here, approaching him, was a sixty-year-old woman, with two point four children, twenty-three years to go, with a weekly income of . . . and so on. Now there were carbon footprints to consider, too, and that was fun. This woman was walking, but had probably taken a bus. She did not go on holiday to distant destinations, Spain at the most, and so she used little aviation fuel. Her carbon footprint was probably not too bad, particularly by comparison with . . . with those who went to international conferences on carbon footprints. The thought amused him, and he smiled again.
“You laughing at me, son?”
The woman had stopped in front of him.
Stuart was startled. “What? Laughing at you? No, not at all.”
“Because I dinnae like being laughed at,” said the woman, shaking a finger at him.
“Of course not.”
She gave him a scowl and then moved on. Chastened, Stuart The Statistical Lady Is Not for Smiling at 159
continued his walk. The trouble with allowing one’s thoughts to wander was that people might misunderstand. So he put statistics out of his mind and began to think of what lay ahead of him. Bertie had to be taken to his saxophone lesson, and he would do that, as Irene had her hands full with Ulysses. That suited Stuart rather well, as he found that the late afternoon was a difficult time for Ulysses, who tended to girn until he had his bath and his evening feed. Stuart had rather forgotten Bertie’s infancy, what it was like, and the presence of a young baby in the flat was proving trying. At least going off to the lesson would give him the chance to get out with Bertie, which he wanted to do more often.
They had once gone through to Glasgow together on the train and that had been such a success, or at least the journey itself had been. The meeting in Glasgow with that dreadful Lard O’Connor had been a bit of a nightmare, Stuart recalled, but they had emerged unscathed, and Irene and Bertie’s subsequent encounter with Lard, when he had shown up unannounced in Scotland Street, had been mercifully brief. It was important that Bertie should know that such people as Lard O’Connor and his henchmen existed, that he should not think that the whole world was like Edinburgh. There were people who did assume that, and who were rudely surprised when they travelled furth of the city; going to London, for example, could be a terrible shock for people from Edinburgh.
Stuart wanted to spend more time with Bertie and – the awkward thought came unbidden – less time with Irene. That was a terrible thought, and he suppressed it immediately.
He loved and admired Irene, even if she was sometimes a bit outspoken in her convictions. Then another awkward thought intruded: if he wanted to spend less time with Irene, Bertie probably wanted exactly the same thing. But should I, a father, he asked himself, try to save my son from his mother? Was there a general answer to that, he wondered, an answer for all fathers and all sons, or did it depend on the mother?
48. He Wanted So Much to Be the Average Boy
“Ask Lewis Morrison when he thinks Bertie will be ready for his Grade Eight exam,” said Irene, as Stuart helped Bertie into his coat.
“But he’s just done his Grade Seven,” Stuart pointed out.
“Two months ago.” He looked down at Bertie and patted him on the shoulder. “And we got a distinction, didn’t we, my boy?”
“The sight reading was a very easy piece,” said Bertie modestly.
“Even Ulysses could have played it. If his fingers were long enough.”
“There you are,” said Irene. “Bertie’s obviously ready for the next hurdle.”
Bertie listened to this solemnly, but said nothing. He did not mind doing music exams, which for the most part he found very easy, but he wished that he had slightly fewer of them. He had thought that Grade Eight of the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music was the highest examination available, and he had been dismayed when Irene had pointed out that it was possible to do examinations beyond that – in particular the Licentiate. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to fail Grade Eight deliberately and continue to fail it at every resitting. But he had tried that technique with his audition for the Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra and had only succeeded in getting himself accepted into the orchestra immediately. He looked up at his father. “Why all these hurdles, Daddy?” he whispered.
“What was that, Bertie?” his father asked.
Bertie glanced at Irene. She was watching him.
“He said he enjoys hurdles,” said Irene. “So just ask Lewis for the details – set pieces and all the rest. Then Bertie can get cracking.”
“People who do Grade Eight are usually much older,” said Bertie. “Sixteen, at least.”
Irene reached forward and ruffled his hair fondly. “But you’re exceptional, Bertie,” she said. “You’re very lucky. I don’t wish to swell your little head, Bertie, but you are not the average boy.”
He Wanted So Much to Be the Average Boy 161
Bertie swallowed hard. He wanted so much to be the average boy, but he knew that this would forever be beyond his reach.
The average boy, he knew, had the average mother, and his mother was not that.
They left the flat with the issue of Grade Eight unresolved.
As they went downstairs, Bertie asked his father if they were going to go to the lesson by bus or car. Bertie loved going in their car and rarely had the chance to do so, as Irene believed in using the bus whenever possible.
“You’d like to go in the car, wouldn’t you?” said Stuart.
Bertie nodded his head vigorously.
“Well, in that case,” said Stuart, “let’s go in the car, Bertie!
And then afterwards – after your lesson – we could take a spin out into the Pentlands, perhaps, or down to Musselburgh. Would you like that?”
Bertie squealed with pleasure. “Yes, Daddy,” he said. “Or we could drive round Arthur’s Seat, all the way round.”
“That’s another possibility,” said Stuart. “The whole world –
or at least that bit of it within twenty miles or so of Edinburgh –
is our oyster, Bertie. We can go wherever we like!”
Bertie, who was holding his father’s hand as they walked downstairs, gave the hand a squeeze of encouragement.
“Thank you, Daddy! Thank you so much!”