“Can we get some Panforte di Siena, Mummy?” asked Bertie.
“I know where they keep it.”
“Very well, Bertie,” said Irene. “But not a large one. Just one of those small ones. In Italy, boys eat small pieces of Panforte di Siena.”
Bertie led his mother to the shelf where the panforte was stacked, resplendent in its box with its Renaissance picture. He picked up a small box and showed it to his mother, who nodded her approval. Then they all went on to the sun-dried tomato section and, after that, to the counter where the salami and cold meats were served.
212
Irene agreed to this. She would go home with Bertie, she said: he had saxophone practice to do in view of his impending examination. Bertie was not pleased by this, but his mind was now on the panforte, and he was wondering if he could persuade his mother to allow him to eat it all in one sitting. This was unlikely, he thought, but he could always try. Irene believed in rationing pleasures, and Bertie was never allowed more than a small square of chocolate or a spoonful or so of ice cream. And some pleasures –
such as Irn-Bru – were completely banned; it was only when Stuart was in charge that they slipped through the protective net.
Irene and Bertie walked back together. It was a fine morning, and Drummond Place was filled with light. In Scotland Street, they saw Domenica walking up the opposite side of the road, and she waved cheerfully to them. Bertie returned the wave.
“Poor woman,” said Irene quietly.
Bertie said nothing. He did not understand why his mother should call Domenica poor woman; it seemed to him that Domenica was quite contented with life, as well she might be, he thought, with her large, custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz.
But then Bertie realised that his mother had views on just about all the neighbours, with whom there was, in her view, always something wrong.
Inside the flat, Bertie was allowed to eat half the panforte, with a promise that he could eat the remainder the following day, provided he did his music practice.
“Mr Morrison is counting on you to do well in the examination,” said Irene. “So don’t let him down.”
“I won’t,” said Bertie, licking the white dusting of icing sugar from his lips. Panforte was Italy’s greatest invention, he thought.
His mother went on about Italian culture, about Dante and Botticelli and all the rest, but in Bertie’s mind it was Panforte di Siena which was Italy’s greatest gift to the world. That, and ice cream.
Bertie’s practice was finished by the time that Stuart returned from the Fruitmarket Gallery. He let himself into the flat and sauntered into the kitchen, where Irene was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, and Bertie was sitting at the table, reading.
Irene turned round to greet Stuart. “Interesting exhibition?”
she asked.
“Very,” said Stuart. “All sorts of marvellous artists – Crosbie, Houston, McClure. And I saw that chap Duncan Macmillan there. You know, he’s the one who has been poking such fun at the Turner Prize recently. And he’s right, in my opinion.”
Irene was not particularly interested in this. The Turner Prize was, in her view, a progressive prize, and it was nothing new to have people attack progressiveness. She put down her spoon.
“Where’s Ulysses?” she asked. “Is he in the hall?”
Stuart, who was standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen, seemed to sway. “Ulysses?” he asked. His voice suddenly sounded strained.
“Yes,” said Irene sarcastically. “Your other son.”
Stuart reached for the door handle and gripped it hard, his knuckles showing white under the pressure of his grip.
“Oh no . . .” he began.
Irene let out a scream. “Stuart! What have you . . . ?”
“I thought you had him,” said Stuart. “You parked the baby buggy . . .”
He did not finish. “I did not park it anywhere,” shouted Irene.
“You were meant to take him to the Fruitmarket Gallery. You were pushing him at Valvona & Crolla. You’re the one who parked him somewhere. Where is he? Where have you parked Ulysses?”
Stuart threw himself across the room to the table on which the telephone stood. “I’ll phone them right away,” he said.
“Quick, Bertie, get me the telephone directory. Quick.”
Bertie ran through to the hall and returned with the telephone directory. But then, noticing a Valvona & Crolla packet, he said, “We don’t need to look it up, Daddy,” he said. “The number’s there on the packet. Look.”
214
With fumbling fingers, Stuart dialled the number. It was a moment or two before the telephone was answered at the other end. “Our baby,” he shouted into the receiver. “Have you found a baby in the shop, or outside?”
“No,” said a voice at the other end. “No babies. An umbrella, yes. But no babies.”
