That he could get from the wholesalers, although he would probably have to go and buy some of it himself from the growers. That would be fun, and he could take George along too, although . . .
perhaps not. George was slightly heavy-going – although very generous, it had to be admitted, and a most loyal friend – and a trip to Bordeaux would hardly be improved by his tagging along.
George suddenly smiled. “We could go and buy the wine together,” he said brightly. “You and me. We could fly to Bordeaux and then hire a car and drive round the vineyards, sampling the product. That would be great.”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “We might do that. Although we wouldn’t be able to leave the business too long, you know. Maybe it would be best to order from wholesalers.”
“You’re the expert,” said George.
Later, back in the flat, Bruce sat in his chair and contemplated what he had done. After George’s agreement, which had really been given remarkably promptly, it had occurred to him that he should perhaps have given his friend some time to mull over his proposal – perhaps a day or two. He also wondered whether it was quite right to spring the suggestion on him in the Cumberland Bar, in a social setting. But he quickly disposed of these objections. George was a responsible adult – even if a slightly malleable one – and he had given his agreement voluntarily. And the proposition itself was not a bad one. It was not as if he were asking him to invest in some highly speculative mining shares; quite the contrary. He was offering him a stake in a business, with stock, and premises, and, what was most important of all, expertise. There was no substitute for expertise; that was the real capital of a business and their venture would have it in abundance.
And then there was the question of the name. Anderson would have to come into it, of course, and Salter too, in recognition of the source of the capital. Anderson and Salter, Vintners. That sounded good. But Bruce had a better idea, and the mere thought 84
of it thrilled him: Anderson et Salter, Vinotheque. Brilliant!
thought Bruce. World beating!
While Bruce and George were having their meeting in the Cumberland Bar, during which they sealed the terms of their forthcoming partnership agreement, Bertie and his mother were in a George Street clothing shop. Bertie needed new socks, Irene had decided, as did Stuart. It was extraordinary how male socks migrated; virtually every wash produced a deficit of socks, but never of shirts or towels or indeed anything else. She had tried the expedient of securing each sock to its partner with a twist of thread, but this had simply resulted in the loss of two socks rather than one. It defied belief.
“Perhaps socks dissolve,” Bertie had suggested. “Or go down the plug hole.”
“Possibly,” said Irene. “But we must be rational, Bertie. These socks cannot disappear in the washing machine – they must get lost at some other stage in proceedings.”
“But then they’d turn up,” said Bertie. “And they don’t, do they?”
“We shall have to leave the issue for the time being,” Irene said firmly. “There is a rational explanation for everything, as you well know.”
“Except missing socks,” muttered Bertie.
Irene chose to ignore this last comment. One had to combat irrational, magical thinking in children, but there were times and places to do this, and this was neither. One also had to choose one’s issue, and the problem with missing socks was that the rational interpretation seemed quite inadequate. It was the sort of issue on which Arthur Koestler might have expressed a view, and perhaps had even done so, for all she knew.
Now, standing in a corner of Aitken and Niven in George Street, she surveyed the available socks. Stuart would get grey
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socks, as usual, as they seemed to suit him so well, while Bertie would get a couple of pairs of dark green ones – if they had them in his size. She picked up the socks and began to examine them. Bertie, seeing his mother occupied, drifted off. He had spied a rugby ball which was displayed on the top of a low cabinet. It had been signed by several players and behind it, on a stretch frame, was a rugby shirt.
Bertie’s gaze moved on from the rugby shirt. There was a framed photograph behind it, propped up against a stack of drawers in which various rugby garments were stored. He moved towards the photograph and stared more closely at it.
It was a photograph of a smiling man, and it was signed. Bertie read the signature: Gavin Hastings. He stood back and looked at the picture. He liked the look of Mr Hastings, who seemed to be gazing out at him in a kind way. It would be nice to know somebody like Mr Hastings, who might invite him to watch rugby with him or who might even toss a ball to him for him to catch. What fun it would be to play rugby with Mr Hastings.
Bertie turned away. His mother was still looking at socks, examining the labels in order to exclude any which contained nylon. It would take her a long time, thought Bertie; Irene was a slow shopper and liked to scrutinise everything very carefully before she bought it. This could have its difficulties. There had been more than one unseemly row with the local greengrocer 86
when he had asked her to stop squeezing the avocado pears to determine their ripeness. And the fishmonger had also objected when Irene had so shamelessly picked up his fish from the slab and smelled it very carefully, wrinkling her nose with disgust as she did so. Both of these occasions had embarrassed Bertie, in spite of his being used to her behaving in this fashion. It would be nice to have a normal mother, he had thought; but even normal mothers could be embarrassing to their children.
