something, and smiled. Antonia, who had hardly looked at a man over the previous year, looked at him.
There was to be a meeting on the stair that morning, but not between Angus and Antonia. Halfway up, as he turned a corner, Angus came across a small boy sitting disconsolately on one of the stone steps. It was Bertie.
“Ah!” said Angus, peering down and inspecting Bertie. “The young man who plays the saxophone, I believe. The very same young man who exchanged warm words with my dog . . .”
The mention of Cyril had slipped out, and it revived the pain that seemed to be always there, just below the surface, as the mention of the names of those we have lost can do.
“He’s a very nice dog,” said Bertie. “I wish I had a dog.”
“Oh, do you?” said Angus. “Well, every boy should have a dog, in my view. Having a dog goes with being a boy.”
“I’m not allowed to have one,” said Bertie. “My mother . . .”
“Ah, yes,” said Angus. “Your mother.” He knew exactly who Irene was, and Bertie had his unreserved sympathy. “Well,” he went on, “don’t worry. I’m sure that you’ll get a dog one of these days.”
There was a brief moment of silence. There’s something wrong, thought Angus. This little boy is feeling miserable. Is it something to do with that mother of his? I would certainly feel miserable if I were her son, poor little boy.
“Are you unhappy?” Angus asked.
Bertie, still seated on the stone stair, hugging his knees in front of him, lowered his head. “Yes,” he said. His voice was small, defeated, and Angus felt a surge of feeling for him. He, too, had endured periods of unhappiness as a boy – when he had been bullied – and he remembered what it was like. Unhappiness in childhood was worse than the unhappiness one encountered in later life; it was so complete, so seemingly without end.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Angus said. “It’s rotten being unhappy, isn’t it?” He paused. “I’m a bit unhappy myself at the moment. But you tell me why you’re unhappy and then I’ll tell you why I’m feeling the same way. Maybe we could help one another.”
“It’s because of Olive,” said Bertie. “She’s a girl at school. She 134
Angus’s eyes widened. “Took some of your blood?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “She had a syringe which she found in her bathroom cupboard. It had a proper needle and everything.”
“My goodness,” said Angus. “Did she actually . . . actually . . . ?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “She stuck the needle into my arm – there, just about there – and then she squirted the blood into a little bottle. She said she was going to do some tests on it and would let me know the result.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear about that,” said Angus. “She shouldn’t have been playing with needles.”
“She said that the needle was a clean one,” said Bertie. “It was all wrapped up in plastic and she had to take it out.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Angus. “But why did you let her do this? I wouldn’t.”
“I thought that she was just pretending,” said Bertie. “So I closed my eyes. Then the next thing I knew she had the needle in my arm and was telling me not to move or it would go all the way through to the other side.”
Angus extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “How very unpleasant for you, Bertie,” he said. “Did you tell your mother about this?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “I ran through and told her, but I don’t think she heard me. She just started to talk to Olive, who was pretending that nothing had happened. She’s very cunning that way.”
“I can imagine that,” said Angus. “Well, Bertie, I don’t know what to say, other than to suggest that you give Olive a wide berth in the future. But I suppose that’s difficult. And I certainly won’t say to you that you should cheer yourself up by thinking of how many other people are worse off than you are yourself.
The contemplation of the toothache of another does very little to help one’s own toothache, you know.”
Bertie nodded. “Daddy sometimes says: worse things happen at sea. But when I ask him what these worse things are, he can’t tell me. Do you know what they are, Mr Lordie?”
Angus thought for a moment. Terrible things undoubtedly happened at sea, but he did not think it appropriate to tell Bertie about them. “Oh, this and that, Bertie,” he said. “It’s best not to talk about these things.”
Bertie appeared to accept this. He looked up at Angus and asked: “Mr Lordie, you said that you were unhappy too. Why are you unhappy?”
“My dog,” said Angus. “He’s in the pound. He’s been accused of biting people in Northumberland Street.”
Bertie thought for a moment. “That’s another dog,” he said eventually. “It looks like your dog, but it’s another one. I’ve seen it.”
Angus hardly dared speak. “Are you sure?” he whispered.
“Of course,” said Bertie. “There’s a dog who lives in a basement flat in Northumberland Street. They let him wander about.
And he’s a very bad dog – he tried to bite me once in Drummond Place Gardens, but I ran away in time.”
