Love Over Scotland

He told everybody that he was born in Ireland, whereas he wasn’t.

He was an Englishman. Then he said that he went off to sea as a sixteen-year-old or whatever age it was, and sailed a boat with a friend. Such nonsense, Bertie! And it’s significant – isn’t it? –

that he then wrote all those novels about that ridiculous Jack Aubrey sailing off with Dr Maturin, or whatever he was called.

Writers just play out their fantasies in their books. They are often very unstable, tricky people, Bertie. Writers are usually very bad at real life and feel that they have to create imaginary lives to make up for it. And that was a bad case of it.”

Bertie stared at his mother. She spoils things, he thought. All she ever does is spoil things.

Irene stared back at Bertie. It was important that he should understand, she thought. There was no reason why a bright child like Bertie should not understand that all was not necessarily as it seemed. It was also important that he should be able to see male posturing for what it was.

“Men often do that sort of thing,” she continued. “You won’t have heard of him, Bertie, but there was another case in which a writer pretended to be somebody else. There was a man called Grey Owl, who lived in Canada. He pretended to be a North American Indian and he wrote all sorts of books about living in the forests. And he wore Red Indian outfits, too – feathers and the like. He must have looked so ridiculous, silly man! He wrote all these books which were about the customs of the Ojibwe Indians and the like, but all the time he was really an Englishman called Archie Belaney, or something like that!” She paused. “But this is taking us rather far away from The Sound of Music, Bertie.”

Bertie was silent. He had not started this conversation, and it was not his fault that they were now talking about Grey Owl.

He sounded rather a nice man to Bertie. And why should he not dress up in feathers and live in the forests if that was what he wanted to do? It was typical of his mother to try to spoil Grey Owl’s fun.

64. Lederhosen

The conversation between Bertie and his mother on the subject of The Sound of Music had taken place as they walked down Scotland Street on their way home from school. The earlier part of the day had been unusually warm for autumn – indeed, the entire month had been more like late summer, with clear, sunny days that could be distinguished from June or July only by their diminishing length. Now, however, as they made their way up the stair that led to their second-floor flat at 44 Scotland Street, they both felt the chill that had crept into the afternoon.

“We must get your Shetland sweater out,” said Irene, as she extracted her key from her pocket. “It’s lovely and warm, and now that the weather is beginning to turn . . .” She stopped. The subject of clothing had made her think of possible costumes for the play. Maria, of course, had made the children wear clothes made out of curtain material, and that meant it would be simple enough for the mothers of the children playing those parts to run something up. Mind you, she thought, some of them probably already have clothes made out of curtains . . . She smiled.

There was one of the mothers – who was it? Merlin’s mother, was it not? – who wore the most peculiar clothing herself. She had a shapeless, tent-like dress made out of macrame that she had clearly run up herself, and yet she was so proud of it! She had no idea how ridiculous she looked, thought Irene, and of course that strange son of hers insisted on wearing a rainbow-coloured coat that his mother had obviously made out of . . .

where on Earth had she got the material? It looked like one of those flags that they flew outside gay bars. Perhaps the silly woman had seized upon it at a gay jumble sale somewhere. What an idea! That boy, Merlin, must be so embarrassed by his mother, thought Irene. Some mothers, she reflected, are very insensitive.

She turned to Bertie as they entered the flat. “Bertie,” she said, “we must fix up a costume for you for the play. Did Miss Harmony say what you should wear?”

Bertie stood quite still. The whole business of the play was enough of a minefield without his mother getting further 200 Lederhosen

involved. He would have to avert this, he thought.

He started to explain. “We aren’t using costumes at the moment, Mummy,” he said. “Miss Harmony says that we are just going to read through the play. I don’t think you need bother about a costume.”

“But I must,” said Irene. “They always expect the mummies to make costumes. So I’ll make you one, Bertie.”

Bertie sighed. But then it occurred to him that Captain von Trapp probably wore a rather smart naval uniform. He would like to have such a uniform, with brass buttons down the front and one of those caps with an anchor on it.

“That’s a good idea, Mummy,” he said. “Why not start making it now, so that it’s ready for when I need to take it to school?”

Irene was receptive to the suggestion. “Would you like me to do that?” she asked. “Well, why not? Daddy’s not coming back until a bit later, so we have plenty of time. Now then, let me think. Yes, I know what I’ll do.”

“A Captain’s outfit,” said Bertie brightly. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”

“Oh no,” said Irene. “None of that. You know that I’m none too keen on uniforms. I think that it should be something Austrian. Yes, Captain von Trapp should wear something quin-tessentially Austrian.”

Bertie was quiet. He was trying to remember what he had seen in a book he had which showed national dress of the world.

What did the Austrians wear?

Irene answered Bertie’s unspoken question. “Lederhosen, Bertie! That’s what Captain von Trapp would wear.”

Bertie’s voice was small. “Lederhosen, Mummy?”

“Yes,” said Irene. “Lederhosen, Bertie, are worn by people in southern Germany and in Austria. They’re trousers that go up the front like this – a bit like dungarees, come to think of it –

but they have short legs so that your knees show. And they’re made of leather, of course. That’s why they’re