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We’re doing some drawing and I know you’re good at that!”
Bertie sat down and sank his head in his hands. He was aware of the interest of his fellow pupils – of Tofu’s stare, of Olive’s more discreet, and concerned, glance. They would have noticed his rugby boots, he thought, or heard them at least, as the studs had made a loud clicking noise on the floor. They would also be laughing at his dungarees, of course, once they had finished laughing at his boots.
After a few minutes, he became aware of Miss Harmony crouching beside his table. She had bent down and was whispering in his ear: “We were very worried, Bertie. That funny note you sent me – that was very odd, you know.”
Bertie looked up at her. She was smiling, and had placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered.
“I won’t show it to anybody. I’m on your side, you know.”
Bertie stared fixedly at the table surface. He had not expected this. He had thought there would be recriminations and a summons to the office. He had not expected sympathy.
“You see,” went on Miss Harmony, quietly so that even the neighbouring tables could not hear, “this school is based on love and respect. We love one another and look after one another.
So we all love you, Bertie, because you are one of us. And if there is anything wrong, then you can tell us about it, and we will try to help – because we love you.”
“My mother . . .” Bertie began. But he did not know what to say, and so he stopped. And as he stopped, he felt the pressure of Miss Harmony’s hand tighten upon his shoulder.
“I know,” she said. “Sometimes mothers make it difficult for their boys. They don’t mean to, you know. The trick is not to let it worry you.”
“She makes me wear dungarees,” said Bertie. “And I feel so silly.”
Miss Harmony nodded. “Would you like me to talk to her about that?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Bertie. “But she won’t listen.”
“Well, I can try,” said Miss Harmony. “There’s no harm in trying.” She paused, and looked down at Bertie’s boots. “We 146
have some spare shoes in a cupboard downstairs,” she said.
“Should we go and have a look for a pair that fits you?”
They left the classroom together and went downstairs, Bertie hobbling now from the pain in his chafed ankles. “Poor Bertie,”
said Miss Harmony. “Here – take my arm. Lean on me.”
There was a pair of shiny brown shoes in the cupboard that fitted Bertie exactly, and once he was thus clad he began to feel somewhat more cheerful. He looked up at Miss Harmony and smiled.
“I’m sorry I wrote you that letter,” he said. “I haven’t got an infectious disease, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I didn’t think for one moment that you had. The important thing is that you should be happy. And you’ve said sorry to me, which is very important.” She paused.
“You will be happy here, you know, Bertie. It’s a very happy school.”
Bertie thought for a moment. She was right. He did feel happier here than in the din and rush of Watson’s, with all those hundreds of boys and girls with names he would never remember. Rugby was not for him, he decided, and it was a good thing that there was no rugby at Steiner’s. It was fine for Mr Gavin Hastings to play it, he thought, but he, Bertie, would find something else to do. Even learning Italian was better than rugby.
Later that day, as he waited for his mother at the school gate, Tofu came up to him and asked him where he had found those boots. “Great boots,” he said.
“Would you like them?” said Bertie nonchalantly. “You can have them if you like.”
Tofu accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Bertie,” he said. “You’re a real pal.”
“And would you like me to bring a ham sandwich in tomorrow?” asked Bertie.
“Yes, yes,” said Tofu quickly. “Two, even. If you can spare them.”
“Fine,” said Bertie.
Tofu slapped him on the back in a friendly manner and went on his way.
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Bertie watched him walk away and thought about the events of the day. There had been several discoveries. One was that rugby was a rough game and another was that Jock was a false friend. But there were other things to reflect upon. Tofu was no longer a threat – and could even become a friend. And he suspected, too, that he might be happy at this nice school, which was a good place – even if it had been his mother’s choice. After all, there were some things which she might just get right.
If Bertie’s problem was with his mother, Irene – and that would seem to be the case – then Matthew’s problem was with his father, Gordon. Irene and Gordon would not have seen eye to eye on anything very much, but, in their own ways, they had each succeeded in bringing unhappiness into the lives of their offspring. So, while Bertie was trapped by a mother who was relentlessly ambitious for him, Matthew was aware that his father nursed no ambitions for him whatsoever. Gordon had decided that his son was a failure, and had come to accept this. The gallery in which he had set him up was not intended to be anything but a sinecure, a place to sit during the day
