Bertie looked about him. He usually found shops rather boring, but this one, he decided, was fairly interesting. He looked at a rack of dinner suits, reaching out to feel the velvet, and behind that – what was that? – a row of kilt jackets in green tweed with buttons made of horn. Then Bertie saw a sign pointing into the next room, and stopped.
Glancing over his shoulder at his mother, Bertie made his way over to the few steps that led down into the next room. He moved forward slowly, and peered in the direction indicated by the sign. Yes, there they were! A whole row of Watson’s plum-coloured blazers, in all the sizes. Bertie approached the rack. He reached out to touch the sleeve of one of the blazers – one that would be about his size – and then, in a sudden rush of excitement, he slipped it off its hanger and began to put it on. He could hardly believe that he was doing this, and his breath came to him in short, excited gasps.
There was a full-length mirror nearby and Bertie turned sideways-on to get a glimpse of how he looked. He saw the reflection of the badge, that wonderful crest, and he smelled the new-wool smell of the fabric. It was a perfect fit, just perfect, and he looked so good in it – just like a real Watson’s boy. And it was while he was standing there, looking at himself in the mirror, that Bertie’s idea came to him. It was an idea that was quite simple, when one came to think of it, but of immense significance for Bertie. It was a bold plan, an astonishing plan, but there was no reason why it would not work. All one had to do was to be brave.
And then, from behind him, so unexpected as to make him start, a voice: “Well, young man. Well?”
87
Bertie looked up at the man who was standing behind him. It was one of the assistants, smartly dressed in a dark suit. He was peering at Bertie through half-moon glasses and his expression was bemused.
“Well, young man,” he said again. “Is that a good fit, do you think?”
Bertie glanced in the mirror again. “Yes,” he said nervously.
“I was just trying it on. I wasn’t going to steal it.”
The man laughed. “I didn’t for one moment think you were going to steal it,” he said. “Good heavens, no. I assumed that you were trying it on for size. And you say that it fits?”
Bertie unbuttoned the blazer and began to take it off. “It fits very well,” he said. “It’s very nice.”
“It’s a good brand, that one,” said the man, taking the blazer from Bertie and dusting it down before replacing it on the rack.
“Tell me, do you enjoy Watson’s?”
Bertie looked down at the floor. “I don’t go there,” he said sheepishly.
The man raised an eyebrow. “You don’t go there? But you were trying on the blazer . . .”
“I’d like to go there,” said Bertie. “I thought that I would see what it was like to wear a Watson’s blazer.”
The man adjusted his glasses. “I see,” he said. “Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. Where do you go to school?”
“Steiner’s,” said Bertie.
“A very good school,” said the man. “You’re lucky. We hear very good reports of it.”
“I know,” said Bertie. “It is very nice. But there’s no rugby . . .”
The man nodded. “I suppose if one wants rugby then one would need to find somewhere else. Are you very keen?”
Bertie nodded enthusiastically. “Very,” he said. “I’ve never had the chance to play, but I’d love to.” He paused. “Does Mr Hastings come in here?” he asked.
The man nodded. “Quite often. Do you know him?”
88
Bertie hesitated for a moment before replying. “Yes,” he said.
“I know him.”
He did not know why he said this. It was something to do with wanting to be something that he was not; something to do with wish-fulfilment; something to do with freedom.
“I’ll tell him about you next time he comes in,” said the man.
“What’s your name?”
Bertie hesitated again, and then replied: “Jock.”
“Well, Jock. Perhaps you’d better go over there to see your mother. Look, she must be wondering where you are.”
Bertie saw Irene picking up a sock and scrutinising it. She caught his eye and beckoned him over. The man came with him.
“Can I advise you on those?” he asked. “Are they for Jock?”
Bertie froze. Then, leaning forward very quickly, he snatched the sock from his mother.
“I like this sock,” he blustered. “I like it very much.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Irene. “That sock is Daddy’s size.
You need something much smaller.”
