The man indicated to a drawer. “We have a good selection of boys’ socks here,” he said. “We should be able to find something suitable for Jock.”
Irene looked puzzled. “For Jock?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the man, pointing to Bertie.
Again Bertie acted quickly. “He said for sock,” he said to his mother. “Sock, not Jock.”
The man smiled. “Does Jock need socks or not?” he asked patiently.
“I have no idea,” said Irene. “I would, however, like socks for Bertie here, if you have something suitable.”
The man looked at Bertie. “I thought you said your name was Jock,” he said.
Irene frowned, and looked down at Bertie. “Did you, Bertie?
Why did you say you were called Jock?”
Bertie looked down at the floor. “It was a mistake,” he said.
Irene turned to the man. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Young boys can be very fanciful.”
“No matter,” said the man. “Perhaps he’d like to be called
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Jock. I remember wanting to be called Joe when I was a little boy. I wrote the name Joe in all my books.”
Irene appeared to lose interest in this conversation and returned to the subject of socks. Bertie, feeling miserable, stood by while the adults talked. The blazer had been wonderful; such a smart garment, and it fitted him so well. His plan depended on that blazer, but it would not be easy to get hold of it. When he had tried it on, he had looked at the price ticket and had made a mental note of what it cost. It was a lot of money, of course, but Bertie had been prudent. Every birthday, when he had received a present from his aunt in Jedburgh, he had put the money into his savings account at the bank. This sum now stood at over one hundred and eighty pounds, and it would easily cover the cost of the blazer. But how would he be able to buy it? He was never allowed to come into town on his own, and his mother would surely notice it if, on their next visit to George Street, Bertie darted into Aitken and Niven and came out with a large parcel. No, he would have to get somebody else to draw the money from his account and then go up to George Street and buy it for him. But who?
On the way back down the hill, Bertie was deep in thought, as was Irene. She was wondering why Bertie should have chosen to call himself Jock. It was such a strange thing to do, and she would have to report it to Dr Fairbairn in advance of Bertie’s next psychotherapy session. The thought occurred to her that Bertie was possibly suffering from a dissociative condition in which multiple personalities were beginning to manifest their presence. Jock could be one of these personae. She looked down at Bertie, who was staring at the pavement as he walked along.
Was he avoiding the lines again? she wondered.
Bertie looked up and smiled, as if he had suddenly worked out the answer to a recalcitrant problem. And indeed he had.
He had remembered the boy round the corner, Paddy, the one who lived on Fettes Row and who went fishing in the Pentlands.
He was allowed to walk around the streets in freedom with his friends. Bertie would ask him. He would give him his card and ask him to withdraw the money from the bank machine. Then 90
Paddy could go up to George Street, buy the blazer for Bertie, and deliver it in secret.
Irene noticed Bertie’s expression and frowned. “What are you thinking about, Bertie, dear?” she asked.
And Bertie gave that answer with which all parents are so wearily familiar. “Nothing,” he said.
At the end of work that day, Matthew had asked Pat whether she would be interested in going to a film at the Film Theatre in Lothian Road.
“The crowd’s going,” he said.
Pat had heard of the crowd, and was vaguely interested in meeting them. The fact that the invitation was from Matthew was potentially problematic, as there was no possibility of a romantic association between them and she did not want to encourage any false hopes on his part. And yet there was no reason to avoid all social contact with him, particularly if there were to be other people there. So she agreed.
“What’s the film?” she asked.
“Something Italian,” Matthew said. “Do you like Italian films?”
“It depends,” said Pat. “I like Fellini.”
“This might be by Fellini,” said Matthew. “But it might not.”
“Or Pasolini,” added Pat.
Matthew nodded vaguely. “I think I’ve seen some of his films too,” he said. “But I forget the names of directors.”
They made arrangements to meet at the Film Theatre itself and then, after helping Matthew to close the gallery, Pat made her way back to Scotland Street to get ready for the evening.
She let herself in at the bottom of the stairs and began the climb up to the top floor. As she turned the corner on the first landing, she heard a voice drifting down from above her.
“So it’s you.”
