The World According to Bertie

poem on the death of Freud fitted Bertie’s situation. He had written there of the child “unlucky in his little State,” of the hearth from which freedom was excluded; such powerful lines to express both the liberating power of Freudian insights, but also to describe the plight of a child. Of course, Auden had believed in Freud then, had imagined that the problem of human wickedness was a problem for psychology, a belief which he had later abandoned when he had come to recognise that evil could be something other than that. On balance, Domenica thought that she agreed here with the younger rather than the older Auden. What tyrant has had a happy childhood?

When they rose from the table to go through for coffee, Angus came up to Domenica and took her hand briefly. It was an unusual gesture for him, and Domenica looked down, almost in surprise, at his hand upon hers, and he, embarrassed, let go of her.

“I wanted to thank you for the apple tart,” he said. “You know I like it.”

“That is why I chose it,” she said.

“Well, thank you,” he said.

“You heard Bertie playing back then?” she asked. “I believe it was ‘Mood Indigo.’”

Angus nodded. “It was.” He paused for a moment. “He’ll be all right, that wee boy. He’ll be all right.”

Domenica hesitated before she replied. But yes, she thought he would be, and this comforted her. As they entered the drawing room, she turned to Angus and whispered to him: “You will say something, won’t you? They’ll be expecting it, you know. You always have a poem for these occasions.”

Angus glanced at his fellow guests. “Are you sure they want to hear from me?”

342 Not an Ending – More an Adjournment Domenica was sure, and a few minutes later, when everybody was settled with their coffee, she announced to her guests that Angus had a poem to read.

“Not exactly to read,” he said.

“But it is there, isn’t it?” pressed Domenica. And she thought, as she spoke, perhaps I would get used to canine company after all. Yes, why not?

Angus put down his cup and moved to the window. There was still a glow of light in the sky, which was high, and empty, the faintest of blues now, washed out. Then he turned round, and he saw then that every guest, every one present, was a friend, and that he cherished them. So the words came to him, and he said:

Dear friends, we are the inhabitants Of a city which can be loved, as any place may be, In so many different and particular ways; But who amongst us can predict

For which reasons, and along which fault lines, Will the heart of each of us

Be broken? I cannot, for I am moved

By so many different and unexpected things: by our sky, Which at each moment may change its mood at whim With clouds in such a hurry to be somewhere else; By our lingering haars, by our eccentric skyline, All crags and spires and angular promises, By the way we feel in Scotland, yes, simply that; These are the things that break my heart In a way for which I am never quite prepared –

The surprises of a love affair that lasts a lifetime.

But what breaks the heart the most, I think, Is the knowledge that what we have

We all must lose; I don’t much care for denial, But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word On which even the strongest can stumble, I am not above pretending

Not an Ending – More an Adjournment 343

That the party continues elsewhere,

With a guest list that’s mostly the same, And every bit as satisfactory;

That what we think are ends are really adjournments, An entr’acte, an interval, not real goodbyes; And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.