The World According to Bertie

“Well, at least Australia’s got the room,” said Angus.

Domenica agreed. “Yes, but it’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Rather like the Bolivians and their navy.”

“No sea?”

“Not anymore. And the tragedy is that they really want a navy, the Bolivians, poor dears. They’ve got a lake, of course, and they keep a few patrol boats on that and on the rivers, but what they want is a pukka navy . . . like the one we used to have before . . . Anyway, Navy Day in Bolivia is the big day, and everybody gives money for the cause. And they have numerous admirals, just like we have now. No ships, alas, but bags of admirals. And then there was the Mongolian navy, of course. They only had one boat and seven sailors, only one of whom could swim!”

“Interesting,” Angus began. “But . . .”

“But the point is this: the Uruguayans, to their credit, let the Bolivians keep a real ship in Montevideo. It’s rather like the Australians allowing Singapore to keep its air force in Darwin or wherever it is. So kind.”

“There’s not enough kindness in the world,” said Angus.

With that the subject changed, and now Angus remembered it as he went over in his mind possible themes for what he hoped would be his masterpiece. Kindness, he thought – there’s a subject with which a great painting might properly engage! But how might one portray kindness? There were those Peaceable Kingdom paintings, of course, in which all animal creation stood quietly together – the wolf with the lamb, the lion with the zebra, and so on. But that was not kindness, that was harmony, which was a different thing. Angus wanted to paint something which spoke to that distinct human quality of kindness that, when experienced, was so moving, so reassuring, like balm on a wound, like a gentle hand, helping, tender. That was what he wanted to paint, because he knew that that was what we all wanted to see.

91. Angus Opens His Front Door to . . . Trouble Angus Lordie was still thinking of kindness, and of the great painting he would execute in order to portray that theme, when the doorbell sounded. Cyril, half-asleep on a rug on the other side of the room, lifted his head and looked at his master. He knew he should bark, but what was the point? Whoever it was on the other side of the door would not be deterred by his barking, and if he continued, and barked more loudly, God (as Cyril thought of Angus) would simply get annoyed with him.

So he glanced towards the door, growled briefly, and then lowered his head again.

Angus looked at his watch. It was just before ten in the morning, and he was still seated at the kitchen table, the detritus of his breakfast on the plate before him: a few crumbs of toast, a small piece of bacon rind, a pot of marmalade. He was dressed, of course, but had not yet shaved, and he felt unprepared for company.

He rose to his feet, crossed the hall and opened the front door.

“Mr Lordie?”

There was something familiar about the face of the woman who stood on his doorstep, but he could not place her. There were new neighbours several doors down; was she one of them?

No. The Cumberland Bar? No, she was the wrong type. Perhaps she was collecting for the Lifeboats; they had plenty of women like that who raised money for the Lifeboats – so much, in fact, that the Lifeboats were in danger of positively sinking under all their money.

He nodded. “Yes.”

The woman’s lips were pursed in disapproval. Surely I can go unshaven in my own house, thought Angus. Surely . . .

“You may not recall our meeting some time ago,” she said.

“It was in the gardens. At night.”

Angus smiled. “Of course. Of course.” He had no recollection of meeting her, but she was one of the neighbours, he 310 Angus Opens His Front Door to . . . Trouble assumed. There would be some issue with the shared gardens; keys or benches or children breaking branches of the rhodo-dendrons.

“Good,” said the woman. “So you’ll remember that your dog

. . . your dog paid attention to my own dog. You’ll remember that, then.”

It came back. Of course! This was the owner of the bitch whom Cyril had met in the gardens. It had been most embarrassing, but it was hardly his fault – nor Cyril’s, for that matter.

One could not expect dogs to observe the niceties in these matters when a female dog was in an intriguing condition. Surely this woman . . .

“And now,” said the woman, staring at Angus, “and now my own dog is experiencing the consequences of your dog’s . . . your dog’s assault.”

Angus stared back at her. Cyril had not assaulted the other dog. They had got on famously, in fact, and this woman must know that.

“But I don’t think that my dog . . .” Angus began, to be cut short by the woman, who sighed impatiently.

“My dog is now pregnant,” said the woman. “And your dog is responsible for it. There are six, the vet says.”

“Six?”

“Six puppies, Mr Lordie. Yes, the vet has performed an ultra-sound examination of Pearly, my dog, and has found six puppies.”

Angus swallowed. “Well, well. That really is . . .”

“Most unfortunate,” snapped the woman. “That’s what it is. There are six puppies for whom I cannot be responsible.

I live in a small flat and I cannot keep seven dogs. Which means that you are going to have to shoulder your responsibilities.”

For a few moments, Angus said nothing. He did not doubt that the puppies were there, and that Cyril was the