Bertie looked at his father. He would defend Glasgow, he hoped, in the face of this attack.
“They have their problems,” Stuart conceded. “But not everybody’s like that.”
“Close enough,” said Irene. “But let’s not think too much of Glasgow. It’s time for some Italian, Bertie, especially if tomorrow is going to be so disrupted by your little trip.”
Bertie complied, and busied himself with a page of his Italian grammar. His heart was not in it, though, and he could think only of what lay ahead of him. The Glasgow train! He would get a window seat, he hoped, and watch the countryside flashing past. He would see the signals and hear the squeal of the brakes as they neared a station. And then there would be Glasgow itself, which he thought sounded very exciting, with all its noise and germs. They would find their car and he would help his father to get it started. And perhaps on the way back, he might be able to do some fishing with his father, if they went anywhere near the Pentlands. There was always a chance of that.
167
Bertie reflected on his lot. He felt much happier with his life now. He had settled in to Steiner’s, and he found that he liked it. He had made a tentative friendship with Tofu, and now he was being taken to Glasgow by his father. If this good fortune continued, then he would be able to put up with all the other things that made his life so trying: his psychotherapy with Dr Fairbairn, and, of course, his mother. He had only another twelve years of his mother, he thought, which might be just bearable.
Unless, of course, they went over to Glasgow, his father and he, and stayed there . . .
168
It had been a morning of excitement at a level quite unparalleled in his young life. It had begun with the walk up from Scotland Street with Stuart, during which they had seen two mounted policemen riding their horses down Dundas Street; one of the policemen had waved to Bertie, and he had waved back. And then they had arrived at Waverley Station itself, nestling in its hollow with the buildings of the Old Town towering above it, flags fluttering in the morning breeze; all of this was perfect background for a soaring of spirits. In the booking hall, they had stood together in the ticket queue and Bertie had heard his father utter those potent words: “One and a half tickets to Glasgow,” and had realised that he was the half that was going to Glasgow, and back; oh happy, happy prospect!
Bertie had thrilled at the sound of the conductor’s whistle, which had set the train off on its journey, and almost immediately they had entered the tunnel under the National Gallery of Scotland, and were out again so soon, with the Castle Rock soaring above the track, before another tunnel enveloped them in its darkness. After a couple of minutes, they emerged from this tunnel into a station.
“Is this Glasgow?” Bertie asked, rising from his seat.
Stuart laughed. “Haymarket, Bertie. We’re still in Edinburgh.
Glasgow’s forty-five minutes away.”
Bertie sank back into his seat, delighted at the prolongation of the journey. Forty-five minutes seemed like a wonderfully long time to him – more or less the length of time he spent in a session with Dr Fairbairn, and those sessions lasted forever, he thought. With nose pressed to the window glass he watched the great shape of a stadium draw near, and he tapped his father’s shoulder and pointed.
“Murrayfield,” said Stuart. “That’s the rugby stadium.”
Bertie stared in wonder. Although he had decided that rugby
was perhaps not for him – a conclusion which he had reached after that unfortunate experience at Watson’s when Jock, his false friend, had kicked him in the ribs – he would still like to watch Scotland play rugby against the All Blacks, or even England. That would be a thrilling thing to do, and perhaps he would find himself sitting next to Mr Gavin Hastings and would be able to listen to his view of the game they were watching. That would be a fine thing to do, Bertie thought.
“Have you ever been there, Daddy?” he asked. “Did you ever go to Murrayfield?”
Stuart nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I used to go there when I was a student. I went with . . .” He paused, and then continued. “I went there with the boys, I suppose.”
Bertie looked puzzled. “Small boys? Boys like me?”
Stuart smiled. “No, not boys like you. Friends of mine. I used to call them the boys. We used to go to see rugby matches and we would also go to pubs.”
“To get drunk?” asked Bertie politely.
On the other side of the compartment a woman overheard this question and smiled. She had noticed this small boy in his dungarees and had been amused by his excitement over the trip.
Stuart caught the woman’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “Not really, Bertie. Well . . . well, maybe some of the boys had a little bit too much to drink. But usually they didn’t.”
Bertie digested this answer. He was intrigued by the thought that his father had had another life altogether different from the one which he led in Scotland Street. “What was it like before you met Mummy?” he asked suddenly. “Was it fun?”
Stuart looked at his son, and then out of the window. They were now leaving the outer suburbs of Edinburgh and the fields and hills were all about them. An expanse of earth, ploughed in readiness for the winter crop, rich earth, shot past on one side of the track. A crow flew up from a tree, and was left behind.
Stuart looked back at Bertie.
“It was fun,” he said quietly. “Yes. I had a lot of fun.” He paused. “And you’ll have fun too, Bertie. I’m sure you will.”
Bertie said nothing for a few moments. He was pulling at a 170
