Scotland Street to his mother and Ulysses with all his girning.
Stuart understood his son’s silence. “Bertie,” he said, “I
promised you an outing, and you will have one. When we come back, we’ll go to that little cafe in Dundas Street. We might find something really unhealthy to eat. Would you like that?”
Bertie said that he would, Scottish genes.
With Bertie’s saxophone lesson over, he and Stuart made their way back across town by bus. The lesson had gone well; Lewis Morrison had been pleased with Bertie’s performance of Boccherini’s Adagio and Moszkowski’s Spanish Dance. There had been some technical issues with his interpretation of Harvey’s Rue Maurice-Berteau, but these had quickly been sorted out, and had Bertie himself not drawn attention to them they might even have passed unnoticed.
They got off the bus shortly after the junction of Dundas Street and Heriot Row. It was now just early evening, but Big Lou’s Coffee Bar was still open; Lou did not like to leave before six-thirty, even if there were no customers. She had never stopped work before then when she was in Arbroath or Aberdeen, and the habit had remained.
Stuart, who was carrying the saxophone case in his right hand, gave Bertie his left as they crossed the road.
“The cafe’s still open, Daddy,” said Bertie excitedly, pointing over the road. “I can see the lights.”
“Good,” said Stuart. “And I do hope that Big Lou has some really nice cake for us. She often does, you know.”
“One with cream?” asked Bertie.
“Possibly. Or maybe a piece of millionaire’s shortbread. Have you ever had that?”
“No,” said Bertie. “But Tofu had a piece at school once. He let me look at it, and have just one lick, on approval, and then he tried to sell it to me.”
164
“Quite the little entrepreneur, your friend Tofu,” said Stuart, laughing. “You didn’t buy it?”
“No,” said Bertie. “But I might buy the X-ray specs that he says he’ll sell me. I’d like those.”
Stuart smiled. X-ray specs! What boy has not yearned for a pair of X-ray specs, as advertised in the faded pages of half-forgotten comics, complete with illustrations of the fortunate possessor of a pair of such specs looking through the clothing of passers-by, to the manifest envy of his friends! An irresistible advertisement, at any age.
They made their way down the steep steps that led to Big Lou’s. As they descended, they caught a glimpse of Big Lou inside, at the counter, polishing cloth in hand, talking to a man in a black overcoat.
“Yes,” said Stuart, winking at Bertie. “We’re in business, Bertie!”
Bertie pushed open the door and they entered the coffee bar. Big Lou looked up as they went in. She smiled. She knew Stuart slightly as one of her occasional customers, and although she had never met Bertie before, she had seen him once or twice. From conversations with Angus and Matthew, she also knew that Bertie’s life was not an easy one, at least from the maternal point of view. Big Lou remembered the incident in
which, under severe provocation, Cyril had sunk his teeth into Irene’s ankle. Although this incident was not talked about during Cyril’s current legal difficulties, it had been remembered in the area and had indeed passed into local legend.
“Well, young man,” said Big Lou, smiling at Bertie. “I see that you’ve brought your father in for a treat. That’s kind of you.”
Stuart nodded to the other man standing at the counter, the man who had been talking to Big Lou when they had entered.
Then he asked Big Lou if she had something large and sweet for Bertie to eat. She replied that, as it happened, there was a Dundee cake which she had baked herself and which tasted rather good with copious quantities of sweetened cream ladled on the top. This went rather well with Irn-Bru, she said, and what would Bertie’s views be on that?
With the order placed, Bertie and his father sat down at one of the nearby tables.
“This is a very nice place, Daddy,” said Bertie politely, swinging his legs backwards and forwards under the table. “Is it a nightclub?”
“No,” said Stuart. “Nightclubs are a bit different, Bertie.” He thought for a moment. He wondered if he had ever been in a nightclub before and concluded that he had not. And if there were nightclubs in Edinburgh, where were they? He looked at Bertie. “Where did you hear about nightclubs?”
“From Tofu,” said Bertie. “He says that he goes to nightclubs sometimes.”
Stuart suppressed a smile. “Quite the lad, Tofu,” he said.
Bertie nodded. “Most of the time he tells fibs,” he said. “So I don’t really believe him.”
“Rather wise,” said Stuart.
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes while Big Lou prepared the order, which she then brought across.
Bertie stared appreciatively at the large glass of orange-coloured fizzy drink that was placed before him and the sizeable chunk 166
of rich Dundee cake under its mantle of whipped cream. He looked up at Big Lou and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
