The World According to Bertie

At school that morning, it was not long before Olive had an opportunity to make her plans known.

“I’m going to Bertie’s house this afternoon,” she volunteered, adding, “by invitation.”

“How nice!” said Miss Harmony. “It is very encouraging, children, when we see you all getting on together so well. We are one big, happy family here, and it is good to see the girls playing nicely with the boys, and vice versa.”

Bertie said nothing.

“I don’t think Bertie wants her to go,” said Tofu. “Look at his face, Miss Harmony.”

Miss Harmony glanced at Bertie. “I’m sure that you’re mistaken, Tofu. Bertie is a very polite boy, unlike some boys.”

She tried not to look at Tofu when she said this, but her eyes just seemed to slide inexorably in his direction.

“No, I’m not mistaken,” said Tofu. “Bertie hates Olive.

Everybody knows that. It’s because she’s so bossy.”

Olive spun round and glared at Tofu. “Bertie doesn’t hate me,” she said. “Otherwise, why would he invite me to his house?

Answer me that, Tofu!”

Bertie opened his mouth to say something, but Miss Harmony, 114 Miss Harmony Has a Word in Bertie’s Ear sensing complications, immediately changed the subject, and the class resumed its reading exercise. But later, when everybody was involved in private work, she bent down and whispered in Bertie’s ear. “Is it true, Bertie? Did you invite Olive to play?”

“No,” whispered Bertie. “I didn’t, Miss Harmony. It’s my mother. She invited her. I don’t want to play with Olive, I really don’t. I want to play with other boys. I want to have fun.”

Miss Harmony slipped her arm over his shoulder. “I’m sure that you must have some fun, Bertie. I’m sure you do.”

“Not really, Miss Harmony,” said Bertie. “You see my mother thinks . . .” He broke off. He was not sure what his mother thought. It was all too complicated.

The teacher crouched beside him. Bertie could smell the scent that she used, the scent that he had always liked. It was lavender, he thought, or something like that. In his mind it was the smell of kindness.

“Bertie,” whispered Miss Harmony. “Sometimes mummies make it hard for their boys. They don’t mean to do it, but they do. And the boy feels that the world is all wrong, that nothing works the way he wants it to work. And he looks around and sees other people having fun and he wonders whether he’ll ever have any fun himself. Well, Bertie, the truth of the matter is that things tend to work out all right. Boys in that position eventually get a little bit of freedom and are able to do the things they really want to do. That happens, you know. But the important thing is that you should try to remember that Mummy is doing what she thinks is her best for you. So if you can just grin and bear it for a while, that’s probably best.”

Bertie listened attentively. This was a teacher speaking; this was the voice of ultimate authority. And what was that voice saying to him? It was hard to decide.

“So just try to be nice to Olive,” went on Miss Harmony.

“Try to look at things from her point of view.”

“She wants to play house,” whispered Bertie. “I don’t want to do that.”

Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House 115

Miss Harmony smiled. “Girls love playing house.” And she thought: genetics – the bane of nonsexist theories of child-rearing. Stubborn, inescapable genetics.

Bertie was silent. Miss Harmony stayed with him for a moment longer, but she was now beginning to attract curious stares from Tofu and Olive, and so she gave him a final pat on the shoulder and straightened up.

“Do try to pay attention to your own work, Tofu,” she said.

“It’s always best that way. And you, Olive, should do so too.”

Bertie kept his eyes down on his desk. He had been encouraged by what Miss Harmony had said to him – a bit – and he would make the effort to be civil to Olive. And he was cheered, too, by the prospect of liberation that the teacher had held out to him. She must have met people like his mother before, and boys like him too, and if she had seen things go well for them, then perhaps there was a chance for him. But the way ahead seemed so long, so cluttered with yoga and psychotherapy and Italian conversazioni, that it was as much as he could do to believe in any future at all, any prospect of happiness.

“You’ll enjoy playing house,” said Olive to Bertie as they travelled back on the bus with Irene. “I’ll be the mummy and you, Bertie . . .” She paused for a moment. “And you will be the mummy’s boyfriend.”

35. Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House

“Now, where would you two like to play?” asked Irene as she unlocked the door to the Pollock flat in 44 Scotland Street.

“In the bedroom, please,” said Olive confidently. “We’re going to play house, Mrs Pollock, and that’s the best place.”

Bertie caught his breath. He had been hoping to keep Olive out of his bedroom, because if she saw it she could hardly fail to notice that it was painted pink. And that, he feared, would give her a potent bit of information which she 116 Bedrooms Are the Place for Playing House would undoubtedly use as a bargaining chip. All she would have to do would be to threaten to reveal to Tofu and the other boys at school that his room was pink unless he complied with whatever schemes she had in mind. It would be a hopeless situation, thought Bertie; he would be completely in her power and unable to stand up for himself, which, he suspected, was exactly what Olive had in mind.