farming techniques which . . .”
“During pregnancy,” Nurse Forbes interrupted, her voice raised, “during pregnancy, mother should eat a healthy, balanced diet. She should not – and I repeat not – take non-medicinal supplements, herbal remedies and the like. These may be harmful to both mother and baby. And we do not want baby to be harmed, do we?”
Irene was silent. This would be risible, if it were not so insulting. Here was this . . . this bureaucrat, in her ridiculous uniform, telling me – me – what I should and should not take.
And what did she know about slippery elm? Nothing. Nothing at all.
This woman, this ridiculous Nurse Forbes was the state. She was the local, immediate face of the state, presuming – yes presuming – to lecture me as if I were some sixteen-year-old first-time mother who subsisted on a diet of fish and chips.
Absurd! They glared at one another.
For her part, Nurse Forbes thought: this woman thinks that she is superior to me, she really does. Nothing I say to her is going to make any difference. But I must be tolerant. There is no point in alienating people, even somebody like this. It’s tempting, but it’s just not professional. So, count to ten, and take it from there.
“Well, we can return to this issue some other time,” Nurse Forbes said quietly. “There is some literature I can pass on to you. But, in the meantime, have you discussed delivery matters with doctor?”
“I have reached a decision on that,” Irene replied. “I would like a home delivery, of course. I would like my son, Bertie, to play a part in the delivery of his little brother or sister. I would like him to be the one to welcome the baby to the world.”
Nurse Forbes sat quite still. She spoke quietly, as if in shock.
“You’re proposing that Bertie should actually . . .”
Irene laughed. “Oh, not by himself, of course! With the midwife. Bertie could help to bring the baby . . .”
“But I am the midwife,” said Nurse Forbes. “And I forbid it.
Birth would be a very, very traumatic experience for a little boy.
And, I’m sorry to have to say this, it would be completely inap-266
propriate for a son to attend to his mother in this way. Any boy would be deeply, deeply embarrassed to do this. No, I forbid it.”
“Melanie Klein . . .”
“I don’t care who your MSP is. I forbid it!”
Angus Lordie went with Cyril down the steps that led into Big Lou’s coffee house, the very steps down which the late Dr C.M.
Grieve, or Hugh MacDiarmid, had tripped and fallen all those years ago when visiting what was then a bookshop. The steps were still perilous, and Angus had once almost fallen; now he was careful to avoid the place where the railings largely disappeared and the step which was cambered in the wrong direction. These snares negotiated, he pushed open the door of the coffee bar and entered the dimly-lit interior, Cyril walking obediently at his heels.
Big Lou was standing in her accustomed position behind the bar, a book open in front of her. She looked up as Angus came in and nodded in his direction. Angus greeted her and walked up to the bar with Cyril.
“I must say, Big Lou,” he began, “I must say that you’re looking more than usually attractive this morning.”
Big Lou glanced up from her book. “I’m looking the same as I always do,” she said. “No different.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “Is that smell your dog?”
“My goodness,” said Angus. “That’s no way to refer to a regular customer! Cyril pays good money here, same as anybody else. And he licks the plates clean, which is more than can be said of most of your clients.”
“Malodorous beastie,” said Big Lou.
Angus smiled. “Now, now, Lou. Cyril may have the occasional personal hygiene issue, but that’s absolutely normal for dogs. They may be smellier creatures than the opposition, that is, than cats. But they are infinitely more intelligent and agreeable in every respect. You should understand that, coming from
Arbroath. You have working dogs up there, don’t you?”
“There are some,” said Lou. She closed her book and slipped it under the counter. “The usual?”
“If you don’t mind. And a dish of warm milk for Cyril, please, with just a dash of espresso in his. Not too much. Just a dash.”
Angus made his way over to his table, sat down, and opened the newspaper. The news, he noticed, was uniformly grim, with seemingly endless vistas of conflict opening up in every corner of the world. It was always thus, he reflected: the struggle for resources, the struggle for space, the struggle for primacy. And as we grew in numbers, remorselessly straining the earth’s capacity to sustain us, so the levels of conflict rose.
“Bad news, Cyril,” he said. “Look at this, boy. Bad news for us; bad news for dogs. We’re in it together, I’m afraid.”
Big Lou now came across with a cup of coffee for Angus and a dish of milk for Cyril. She laid the dish down on the ground, near Cyril’s snout, and he looked up at her with moist, appreciative eyes. Then she put the coffee in front of Angus.
“Lou . . .” Angus had noticed her strained expression and reached out to hold her forearm. “Lou? Are you . . .”
