The World According to Bertie

“Aye, well, that’s the stuff that a boy needs,” she said.

“Especially after a music lesson.” She nodded in the direction of the saxophone case. “Is that your trumpet, Bertie?”

“It’s a saxophone,” said Bertie. “The saxophone was invented by Adolf Sax, who was a Belgian . . .” He did not finish his explanation. The man who had been talking to Big Lou, and who was still standing at the bar, now turned round. “A sax?” he said.

“And you play it?”

Bertie looked at his interlocutor. “Yes,” he said. “I can play jazz, and some other things. I used to play ‘As Time Goes By’

a lot, but now I’ve got a new piece from Mr Morrison.”

Big Lou, who was standing nearby, thought it time to effect introductions. “This is my old friend Alan Steadman,” she said.

“His cousin married my cousin, up in Kirriemuir. He runs a jazz show on Radio Tay. And a club too. Near Arbroath.”

“Arbroath?” said Stuart. “Is there jazz up there?”

Big Lou rounded on him. “What do you mean, is there jazz up there? Of course there’s jazz in Arbroath.”

“Hospitalfield, actually,” said Alan. “Do you know it? It’s an art college these days, but, as it happens, we do have a monthly jazz club there. There are lots of people round about who like to listen to jazz. We get great players going up there, you know.

Brian Kellock’s coming up in a few weeks’ time. He’s based here in Edinburgh, but comes up to Arbroath now and then. Great pianist.”

“Aye, he’s that,” joined in Big Lou. “He did a great Fats Waller tribute some time ago. I heard it.”

“You should come up and listen,” said Alan. “You and your dad. You’d be very welcome, you know.”

“Aye,” said Big Lou. “I’ll come along with you. It’s about time somebody went up to Arbroath.”

Stuart smiled. Why should he and Bertie not go up to Arbroath with Big Lou and listen to jazz together? He would have to find the car first, of course, but after that . . . Well, why not?

Bertie’s Words Stop Stuart in His Tracks 167

“Thanks,” he said. “We’ll come.” He looked at Bertie, who was busy drinking his Irn-Bru through a straw.

“Great stuff, that,” said Alan Steadman. “Made from girders.”

And sugar, thought Stuart.

50. Bertie’s Words Stop Stuart in His Tracks They walked back to Scotland Street, hand in hand, Stuart and Bertie, father and son. The visit to Big Lou’s had been an unqualified success – in every respect. Two generous pieces of Dundee cake had been followed by three large squares of vanilla tablet, and the whole thing had been washed down with a couple of brimming glasses of Barr’s Irn-Bru. That had been Bertie’s portion. For his part, Stuart had restricted himself to a large cup of cafe latte and a dovetail-shaped piece of Big Lou’s home-baked shortbread; more modest fare than that of his son, but for both of them it had been perfect.

The invitation extended by Big Lou’s friend, Alan Steadman, had been an agreeable bonus. They would all three of them –

Stuart, Big Lou, and Bertie – travel up to Arbroath for the next jazz evening at Hospitalfield. Alan wrote out the details on a piece of paper, along with the directions, and scribbled down his telephone number in case they should need to contact him.

Everything was satisfactorily arranged. And if they left early enough on the Saturday afternoon, Big Lou promised, they would be able to call in at her cousin’s farm, and Bertie could look at the two retired Clydesdale horses who lived there. That was also agreed, and duly planned for.

“What will Mummy do while we’re up in Arbroath?” asked Bertie, as they made their way back round Drummond Place.

Stuart thought for a moment. “She’ll stay and look after Ulysses,” he answered. “Ulysses, you see, is too young to appreciate jazz. Pity about that, but there we are.”

168 Bertie’s Words Stop Stuart in His Tracks Bertie nodded. It would be best to leave his mother behind, he thought, as he could not imagine her in a jazz club in Arbroath.

He hoped that she would agree.

As they walked down Scotland Street, Stuart fell silent.

“Are you all right, Daddy?” asked Bertie. “You didn’t eat too much, did you?”

Stuart looked down at Bertie and laughed. But there was a nervous edge to his laugh. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “I’m just thinking. That’s all.”

“About statistics?” asked Bertie.

It would have been easy for Stuart to answer yes to that, as he had been thinking about his chances, which appeared to be diminishing the nearer they approached the front door of 44 Scotland Street. To begin with, before any other charges were considered, he and Bertie were late. They had spent rather longer than he had intended at Big Lou’s, and the meal which Irene would have prepared for them would have been ready a good twenty minutes earlier. That would undoubtedly be an issue.

But then there was the question of the trip to Arbroath. He was reluctant to ask Bertie not to mention it, as that would suggest that something was being kept from Irene, but if Bertie mentioned it before he, Stuart, had the chance to do so, then the whole outing might not be presented in quite the right light.

Irene could hardly be expected to agree to Bertie’s going to a club of any sort; there had been that unseemly row over his attending Tofu’s birthday party at the bowling alley in Fountainbridge, and a jazz club was surely even