As he made his way back to Scotland Street after his unfortunate experience in Dundas Street – unfortunate in the sense of having been stranded so ignominiously and terrifyingly in the middle of the traffic, yet fortunate in the sense of having been rescued by a well-known politician who happened to be walking up the hill at the time – Bertie felt utterly despondent. He had not hatched many plans in his brief life – his mother did his planning for him – and this scheme, with which he had been so pleased, had not even got off the ground. As he walked home, fingering the piece of chalk which he had in his pocket and which he had planned to use to leave a message for his proposed collaborator, Paddy, he decided that perhaps it was useless to rebel. It seemed to him that his mother would always outsmart him, whatever he tried to do, and she also had that powerful ally in the person of Dr Fairbairn. It was hopeless, thought Bertie, to attempt to take control of his life in the face of two such calculating opponents. Like a prisoner-of-war, he should perhaps just keep his head down and wait for the moment of liberation to come. That would be when he was eighteen, when Bertie understood that one became an adult and could leave
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home and behave as one wished. Once one was eighteen, then one could abandon crushed strawberry– coloured dungarees if one wished and wear whatever one liked. Bertie could hardly wait, and there were only twelve years to go.
Bertie was thinking along these lines when he turned the corner into Drummond Place. As he did so, he heard a sound coming from his right, from the gardens in the middle of the square. It was a strange sound, something between a whistle and a hoot, and he wondered for a moment if it was some unusual bird that had lost its way and had settled in one of the trees.
Bertie stopped, and stared into the bushes. Again the sound came, and this time it was followed by a parting of the undergrowth. Revealed within, half crouching, half standing, was Paddy, the boy whom Bertie had hoped to see in Fettes Row.
“Bertie!” Paddy called. “Quick! Over here!”
Barely waiting to see if any cars were coming, but nonetheless being careful not to tread on any lines, Bertie ran across the pavement and over the road. In a moment he was through the half-open gate to the gardens. Paddy called out again, and held back the branches of the large bush under which he was hiding.
“Hello,” said Paddy, as Bertie joined him under the bush.
“This is my special observation post. You can come here any time you like. You can see everything that’s going on. And nobody can see you!”
“Great,” said Bertie.
“Yes,” said Paddy. “But don’t tell anybody. I don’t want anyone else coming in here.”
“Of course not,” said Bertie. “Just you and me. Like one of those Masonic lodges.”
Paddy looked puzzled. “Masonic lodges?”
“Yes,” explained Bertie. “That’s where men go – grown-up men. They get dressed up and go to these secret club houses.”
“How strange,” said Paddy. “What do they do there?”
“I’m not sure,” said Bertie. “They don’t let anybody else have a look. And there are no girls allowed.”
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“Good,” said Paddy. “Girls spoil things.”
Bertie thought about this for a moment. He did not know many girls – in fact the only girl he knew was that girl called Olive at school. She was rather nice, he thought, and he was not at all sure that she spoiled things. It was Olive who had helped him up after Tofu had pushed him over, and it was she who had comforted him with the thought that Tofu would eventually fade away through enforced veganism.
“There are some nice girls,” said Bertie. “There’s a girl called Olive . . .”
“Never heard of her,” said Paddy. “Anyway, let’s not talk about girls. Let’s talk about something else.”
Bertie saw his opportunity. “I’ve had a very good idea,” he said quickly. “I need your help for a plan that I’ve made. Are you allowed to go wherever you like?”
“Yes,” said Paddy. “I’m allowed to go anywhere, as long as I’m back by six. I’m completely free.”
“And what about your . . . your mother? Doesn’t she . . . ?”
It was so difficult for Bertie to say this, but it seemed so extraordinary to him, so impossible, that a boy could be free of his mother, that he needed to seek confirmation.
“My mother’s cool,” said Paddy, with a shrug. “She says that boys need to have fun. She likes to have fun herself. Everybody says that she’s full of fun.”
Bertie’s eyes widened. “And your dad? What about him?”
“He’s cool too,” said Paddy. “He takes me fishing in the Pentlands. I told you that, didn’t I? And he likes to drink too.
He has lots of fun.”
Bertie looked at Paddy with admiration, and envy. This is what it must be like to be eighteen, he thought. But there was no point wallowing in regret for what was not; there was a plan to be explained to Paddy, and over the next few minutes he told him exactly what he wanted him to do. Paddy listened intently and then nodded enthusiastically. “Piece of cake,” he said. “I’ll get the money for you and I’ll buy the blazer – and the tie. Then I’ll bring it down here and leave it under the bushes – in our place. You can pick it up any time. Easy.”
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“I’ll give you a present for doing all this,” said Bertie. “You can keep ten pounds.”
