The World According to Bertie

Bertie said nothing. Long experience of his mother – all six years of it – had taught him that there was no point in arguing.

He looked at Ulysses, who had now woken up and had opened his eyes. The baby was staring at Bertie with that steady, intense stare that only babies can manage. Bertie looked back at his little brother. Poor little boy, he thought. Just you wait. Just you wait until she starts on you. Mozart. Yoga. Melanie Klein . . .

Ulysses’s gaze drifted away from Bertie and up towards Irene.

Immediately, he began to cry.

“He’s hungry,” said Irene. And with that she loosened the sling and began to unbutton her blouse.

“Can’t he wait, Mummy?” whispered Bertie. “Please let him wait.”

“Babies can’t,” said Irene, now exposing her breast. “Here, darling. Mummy’s ready.”

Bertie froze. He dared not look across the aisle to where that boy was sitting, but then he snatched a quick glance and saw the boy staring at the scene, his face full of disgust. Bertie looked away quickly. I want to die, he thought suddenly. I just don’t want to be here.

Ulysses was making guzzling sounds, and then burped.

24. Angus Meets the Expert on Mistake-Making Angus Lordie, of course, did not yet know of his apparent good fortune. Had he known, his mood might have lifted, but then again it might not: Cyril was still detained, and life without Cyril was proving hard.

Cyril had been a constant presence in his life for the last six years. When he was working in his studio, Cyril would be there, lying in the basket provided for him in a corner, watching Angus with half an eye, ready to respond to the slightest sign that it was time for a walk. And when he went down to the Cumberland Bar to sit at his usual table and pass the time in conversation, Cyril would accompany him, lying under the table, guarding the small dish of beer which was his ration for the night. Cyril did not disagree with anything that Angus said or did; Cyril would wait for hours for the slightest acknowledgement of his presence by his master, wagging his tail with undisguised enthusiasm whenever his name was uttered. Cyril never complained, never indicated that he wanted things to be otherwise than they were as disposed by Angus. And now that Cyril was gone, there was a great yawning void in Angus Lordie’s life.

Ever since Cyril’s arrest, on suspicion of biting, Angus had done his utmost for him. He had immediately contacted his lawyer, who had been extremely supportive.

“We’ll get him out,” the lawyer had said. “They need proof that he’s the one who did the biting. And I don’t see what proof they have.”

“Find an advocate,” said Angus. “Get the best. I don’t care what it costs.”

The lawyer nodded. “If that’s what you want.”

It was, and now Angus was preparing for a consultation with the advocate who had been engaged to represent Cyril. They were to meet that morning, in the premises of the Faculty of Advocates, to discuss the case and the strategy that would be adopted. As Angus trudged up the Mound to attend this meeting, his mind was full of foreboding. He had seen an item in The Angus Meets the Expert on Mistake-Making 79

Scotsman that morning about a sheepdog that had been ordered to be destroyed after it had herded a group of Japanese tourists into the waters of Loch Lomond. Would a similar order be made in respect of Cyril? Could dogs effectively be executed these days? Surely that was too cruel a punishment, even if a dog had bitten somebody. And that sheepdog was just doing what it thought was its duty.

He walked across Parliament Square, past the front of St Giles’, the High Kirk, that scene of so many of Edinburgh’s dramas. The streets here were steeped in history: here traitors, criminals, simple heretics had been dragged on their last journey; here the Edinburgh mob had howled its protests against its masters; here Charles Edward Stuart himself had ridden past in his vain attempt at the regaining of a kingdom; here Hume had walked with his friends. And now here was he in his private misery, going to the seat of justice to plead for the life of a dog whom he loved, who was his friend.

He walked into Parliament Hall and watched as lawyers strolled up and down the hall, deep in conversation with one another, going over their pleadings, strategies, possible settle-ments. He was early for the consultation – he had at least half an hour in hand – and he decided to sit down on a bench at the side. He looked up at the high hammer-beam roof with its great arches of Scandinavian oak and at the portraits which surrounded the hall; such dignity, such grandeur, and yet behind it all were the ordinary, stubborn facts of human existence – grinding labour, power, vanity. We dressed our affairs in splendour, but they remained at root grubby little mixtures of hope and tragedy and failure; while round about the foundations of this human world ran the dogs, enthusiasts all, pursuing their own doggy lives in the shadow of their masters, free, but only until they collided with human aims. And then the dogs were smacked or locked up, or, if they overstepped a mark they knew nothing about, given a sharp little injection that put an end to it all for them.

He was still looking up at the ceiling when he became aware of the fact that somebody had sat down on the bench beside 80

Angus Meets the Expert on Mistake-Making him. Angus glanced at his neighbour – a man a bit younger than himself, wearing a suit and tie, and looking at that moment at his wristwatch.

Angus decided to strike up a conversation; anything was better than thinking about Cyril and durance vile. “You’re giving evidence?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m a so-called expert.” The other man laughed.

“Actually, I suppose I am an expert – it’s just that I never call myself that. I’m a psychologist, you see. I specialise in how people do things, in particular how they make mistakes.”

Angus was interested. “So what’s going on today?”

“Oh, it’s the usual thing,” said the psychologist. “Somebody made a mistake over something. They’ve called me to give evidence on how the mistake was made. They want to find out who’s responsible. That’s what they do up here.”

“Whose fault?”

The psychologist smiled. “Well, yes. But what these people,”