The World According to Bertie

Now they went up the hill, up Broughton Street and into Union Street, in the direction of Leith Walk. A dog walking along Union Street with its owner made Bertie think of Cyril and the plight in which the dog found himself.

“Tofu says that they’ll cut Cyril’s tail off as a punishment for biting,” he ventured. “Tofu said that’s what happens to dogs that bite.”

It Seemed the World Was Full of Killing 209

“That’s absolute nonsense,” said Irene. “Your friend Tofu is full of ridiculous notions. It would be much better, Bertie, if you had nothing to do with him.”

Bertie was relieved to hear that Tofu, as usual, was wrong.

“So they won’t do anything cruel like that?”

“Of course not,” said Irene.

“Then what will they do?” asked Bertie. “If they find him guilty?”

There was an awkward silence.

“Well?” said Stuart, looking at Irene. “Will you answer, or shall I?” He waited a moment and then turned to his son. “I’m afraid that they’ll put Cyril down, Bertie. Sorry to have to tell you that.”

Bertie looked puzzled. “Put him down where?” he asked.

There was another silence. Then Irene took charge of the situation. She remembered Cyril as the dog who had bitten her – quite without provocation – in Dundas Street. He was a nasty, smelly creature in her view, and she still had a slight scar, a redness, on her ankle where his gold tooth had penetrated the skin.

“Put down is a euphemism, Bertie,” she said. “You’ll remember that Mummy told you about euphemisms. They’re words which sound nicer than . . . than other words.”

Bertie remembered their conversation about euphemisms, but he could not remember any examples that his mother had given.

In fact, he had pressed his mother for examples and she had been strangely reluctant to give any. “Such as, Mummy?”

“Well . . .” said Irene. She trailed off.

“Putting down for . . . for killing,” said Stuart.

Bertie stopped in his tracks, causing them all to come to a halt. He looked up at his father, who immediately regretted what he had said.

“You mean that they’re going to kill Cyril?” asked Bertie, his voice faltering.

“I’m afraid so,” said Stuart. “But they’ll do it humanely, Bertie.

They won’t shoot him or anything like that.”

210 It Seemed the World Was Full of Killing

“Will they put him in an electric kennel?” asked Bertie. “Just like an electric chair?”

Stuart reached for Bertie’s hand. “Of course not, Bertie!” he said. “What an idea!”

Holding his father’s hand was a comfort for Bertie, but it was not enough. As he stood there on the pavement in Union Street, his eyes began to fill with tears. He could not believe that anybody would wish to kill Cyril, or any dog, really. Nor could he believe that anybody would want to kill anything, for that matter, and yet it seemed that the world was filled with killing. People killed seals and deer and birds. They killed elephants and rhinoceroses and buffalo. The Japanese even killed whales, when just about everybody else had recognised that as wrong; those great, intelligent, friendly creatures –

they killed them. And then people killed other people with equal, if not more, gusto: Bertie had seen pictures in the newspaper of a war that somebody was fighting somewhere, and had seen a soldier firing a gun at somebody who was firing back at him. That seemed utterly absurd to him. People should play with one another, he thought, not fight. But then obviously there were people who disagreed with that, who wanted to fight; people such as Larch, for example, who loved to punch people and kick them too, if he had the chance. Larch had pinned a sign saying kick me on Tofu’s back and had then kicked him hard in the seat of the pants. That had brought whoops of delight from Olive, who had witnessed the event and who had run over to try to kick Tofu while the offer still stood, only to have her hair pulled by an enraged Tofu. That sort of violence solved nothing, thought Bertie. But that, it seemed to him, was what the world was like. People kicked one another and pulled each other’s hair and wept at the result.

Why?

“There, there, Bertie,” said his father. “I’m sure that everything will turn out well in the end.”

Irene shook her head. “It’ll do no good your telling Bertie that, Stuart,” she said. “It won’t. You know it. I know it. It won’t.”

63. Panforte for Bertie and a Shock for Stuart In the delicious caverns of Valvona & Crolla, Mary Contini, author of Dear Olivia, was busy adjusting jars of truffle oil on a shelf when the Pollock family entered. She turned round and saw Irene, and for a moment her heart sank. She knew Irene slightly, and their relationship had not been easy. Irene had strong views on olive oil and was only too ready to share these with the staff of the delicatessen, even when, as was often the case, she was on shaky ground. Mary listened patiently and refrained from correcting or contradicting Irene, but it was not easy. And that poor little boy of hers, she thought. And the husband! Look at him. There’s a hearth from which freedom has been excluded, if ever there was one.

And now there was another baby, who would no doubt have to face the same awful battle that poor little Bertie had faced.

Poor child!

Irene smiled at Mary. She had read her books and enjoyed them, but it did remind her that she herself could have written a number of books, and that these books would undoubtedly have been very successful; indeed, they would have been seminal books. But she had not actually got round to doing this yet, although it was, she felt, merely a question of time. The books would certainly come, and she would handle the resulting success very much better than many authors did. Of that she was certain.