Espresso Tales (19 page)

50. A Trip to Glasgow in the Offing

Sitting at the breakfast table, her single piece of toast on her plate, Irene said to Stuart: “When you go through to Glasgow on Saturday, you may take Bertie with you, but…”

Stuart interrupted her. “Thank you. I'm sure that he'd like the train ride. You know how he feels about trains. Little boys…”

Irene nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes,” she said, buttering her toast. She knew how little boys–or some of them–felt about trains, but that was no reason to encourage them. Little boys felt that way about trains because they were socially encouraged to do so–and she was sure that it was Stuart who had brought trains into the picture; she certainly had not. There was nothing inherent in the make-up of boys that attracted them to trains. Boys and girls were genetically indistinguishable, in her view (apart from the odd chromosome), and it was social conditioning that produced interests such as trains, in the case of boys, and, quite appallingly, dolls in the case of girls. Irene had never played with dolls, but had Stuart played with trains as a boy? They had never discussed the matter, but she had a good idea as to what the answer would be.

“Don't spend more time in Glasgow than you have to,” she said. “Bertie's going to miss his yoga class as it is, and I don't want him to miss his saxophone lesson as well.”

“It would be nice to take him down to Gourock or somewhere like that,” Stuart ventured. “He would probably like to see the ferries. We could even pick up some fish and chips.”

Irene laughed ominously. “And a deep-fried Mars Bar while you're about it?”

Stuart thought that Bertie would probably rather enjoy that, but had the good sense not to say it. He was looking forward to the outing and he did not want to provoke Irene into offering to accompany them. It was good to be going off alone with his son–as a father should do from time to time. Bertie hardly spoke to him these days; he seemed to have withdrawn into a world from which he, Stuart, was excluded, and this was worrying. Yet Stuart found it difficult to know what to say to Bertie, or to anybody else for that matter. He was a naturally quiet man, and throughout his marriage to Irene, whom he admired for her strength of character and her intellectual vision, he had left it to her to do the talking. She had always been in charge of what she called the Bertie project, and he had left it to her to make the decisions about the little boy. But beneath this acceptance there was a vague unease on his part that he was not much of a father to Bertie, and Bertie's distance from him had fuelled this unease. And when that dreadful incident had occurred and Bertie had set fire to his copy of the
Guardian
he had done nothing; a real father would have remonstrated with his son and punished him–for his own good. He had done nothing, and it had been left to Irene to arrange a psychotherapeutic response.

For his part, Bertie was fond enough of his father, but he wished that he would be somewhat less passive. It seemed to him that his father led a very dull life, with his daily journey to the Scottish Executive and all those statistics. Bertie was good at mathematics, and had absorbed the basic principles of calculus, but did not think that it would be very satisfying to do mathematics all day, as his father did. And what did the Scottish Executive need all those statistics for in the first place? Bertie wondered. Surely there was a limit to the number of statistics one needed.

When Bertie was told that he was going to Glasgow with his father, and on a train to boot, he let out a yelp of delight.

“That means we'll go to Waverley Station?” he asked. He had seen pictures of Waverley Station but he had never been there, as far as he could remember.

“Yes,” said Stuart. “And we'll get on the Glasgow train and go all the way to Queen Street Station. You'll like Queen Street Station, Bertie.”

Bertie was sure that he would, and gave vent to his pleasure with a further yelp.

“Now remember to wear your duffel coat over your dungarees,” his mother said. “And wash your hands before you eat anything. Glasgow is not a very salubrious place, and I don't want you catching anything there.”

Bertie listened but said nothing. He would not wash his hands in Glasgow, as his mother would not be there to make him. Being in Glasgow, in fact, would be like being eighteen, the age which Bertie yearned for above anything else. After you were eighteen you never had to listen to your mother again, and that, thought Bertie, would be nirvana indeed.

“Glasgow's not all that bad,” said Stuart mildly. “They've got the Burrell and then there's…”

Irene cut him off. “And the mortality statistics?” she snapped. “The smoking? The drinking? The heart disease?”

Bertie looked at his father. He would defend Glasgow, he hoped, in the face of this attack.

“They have their problems,” Stuart conceded. “But not everybody's like that.”

“Close enough,” said Irene. “But let's not think too much of Glasgow. It's time for some Italian, Bertie, especially if tomorrow is going to be so disrupted by your little trip.”

Bertie complied, and busied himself with a page of his Italian grammar. His heart was not in it, though, and he could think only of what lay ahead of him. The Glasgow train! He would get a window seat, he hoped, and watch the countryside flashing past. He would see the signals and hear the squeal of the brakes as they neared a station. And then there would be Glasgow itself, which he thought sounded very exciting, with all its noise and germs. They would find their car and he would help his father to get it started. And perhaps on the way back, he might be able to do some fishing with his father, if they went anywhere near the Pentlands. There was always a chance of that.

Bertie reflected on his lot. He felt much happier with his life now. He had settled in to Steiner's, and he found that he liked it. He had made a tentative friendship with Tofu, and now he was being taken to Glasgow by his father. If this good fortune continued, then he would be able to put up with all the other things that made his life so trying: his psychotherapy with Dr Fairbairn, and, of course, his mother. He had only another twelve years of his mother, he thought, which might be just bearable. Unless, of course, they went over to Glasgow, his father and he, and stayed there…

51. On the Glasgow Train, a Heart Is Opened

Bertie sat with his face pressed to the window, his father in the seat beside him, on the ten-o'clock train from Waverley Station. It had been a morning of excitement at a level quite unparalleled in his young life. It had begun with the walk up from Scotland Street with Stuart, during which they had seen two mounted policemen riding their horses down Dundas Street; one of the policemen had waved to Bertie, and he had waved back. And then they had arrived at Waverley Station itself, nestling in its hollow with the buildings of the Old Town towering above it, flags fluttering in the morning breeze; all of this was perfect background for a soaring of spirits. In the booking hall, they had stood together in the ticket queue and Bertie had heard his father utter those potent words: “One and a half tickets to Glasgow,” and had realised that he was the half that was going to Glasgow, and back; oh happy, happy prospect!

Bertie had thrilled at the sound of the conductor's whistle, which had set the train off on its journey, and almost immediately they had entered the tunnel under the National Gallery of Scotland, and were out again so soon, with the Castle Rock soaring above the track, before another tunnel enveloped them in its darkness. After a couple of minutes, they emerged from this tunnel into a station.

“Is this Glasgow?” Bertie asked, rising from his seat.

Stuart laughed. “Haymarket, Bertie. We're still in Edinburgh. Glasgow's forty-five minutes away.”

Bertie sank back into his seat, delighted at the prolongation of the journey. Forty-five minutes seemed like a wonderfully long time to him–more or less the length of time he spent in a session with Dr Fairbairn, and those sessions lasted forever, he thought. With nose pressed to the window glass he watched the great shape of a stadium draw near, and he tapped his father's shoulder and pointed.

“Murrayfield,” said Stuart. “That's the rugby stadium.”

Bertie stared in wonder. Although he had decided that rugby was perhaps not for him–a conclusion which he had reached after that unfortunate experience at Watson's when Jock, his false friend, had kicked him in the ribs–he would still like to watch Scotland play rugby against the All Blacks, or even England. That would be a thrilling thing to do, and perhaps he would find himself sitting next to Mr Gavin Hastings and would be able to listen to his view of the game they were watching. That would be a fine thing to do, Bertie thought.

“Have you ever been there, Daddy?” he asked. “Did you ever go to Murrayfield?”

Stuart nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I used to go there when I was a student. I went with…” He paused, and then continued. “I went there with the boys, I suppose.”

Bertie looked puzzled. “Small boys? Boys like me?”

Stuart smiled. “No, not boys like you. Friends of mine. I used to call them the boys. We used to go to see rugby matches and we would also go to pubs.”

“To get drunk?” asked Bertie politely.

On the other side of the compartment a woman overheard this question and smiled. She had noticed this small boy in his dungarees and had been amused by his excitement over the trip.

Stuart caught the woman's eye and raised an eyebrow. “Not really, Bertie. Well…well, maybe some of the boys had a little bit too much to drink. But usually they didn't.”

Bertie digested this answer. He was intrigued by the thought that his father had had another life altogether different from the one which he led in Scotland Street. “What was it like before you met Mummy?” he asked suddenly. “Was it fun?”

Stuart looked at his son, and then out of the window. They were now leaving the outer suburbs of Edinburgh and the fields and hills were all about them. An expanse of earth, ploughed in readiness for the winter crop, rich earth, shot past on one side of the track. A crow flew up from a tree, and was left behind. Stuart looked back at Bertie.

“It was fun,” he said quietly. “Yes. I had a lot of fun.” He paused. “And you'll have fun too, Bertie. I'm sure you will.”

Bertie said nothing for a few moments. He was pulling at a loose thread on the seam of his dungarees. “You need to have friends to have fun,” he said at last. “I have no friends.”

Stuart frowned. “You must have some friends, Bertie. What about this boy you mentioned to me. Paddy? What about him?”

“I don't really know him very well,” said Bertie. “I hardly ever see him. I have to go to psychotherapy and yoga all the time.”

Stuart reached out and took his son's hand. It felt so small; dry and small. “Friends are very important, aren't they?”

Bertie nodded. Stuart continued: “I had a best friend, you know. That's very important, too. To have a best friend.”

“What was he called?” asked Bertie.

“He was called Mike,” said Stuart. “He was very kind to me.”

“That's nice,” said Bertie. “Kind friends are the best sort, aren't they?”

Stuart nodded his assent to this and they both looked out of the window, Bertie's hand still resting in his. I shall not fail this little boy, he thought. My God, how close I've come to doing that. What is that corny line from that musical?
I let my golden chances pass me by.
Yes, that was it; sentimental, but absolutely true. We all let our golden chances pass us by–all the time.

The woman who had overheard this conversation had been staring at the page of her book–staring but not reading. She had heard every word and now she looked very discreetly in their direction and saw the two of them quite still, quite silent, sunk in their thoughts. She transferred her gaze back to the words on the page before her, but she could no longer concentrate. It had nothing to do with her, of course–the business of others. But now she willed with all her heart that this stranger into whose life she had unwittingly strayed should listen to every word that the little boy had said. And when she glanced again, and saw the expression on the man's face, she knew that he would.

52. Arriving in Glasgow

As the Edinburgh train neared Glasgow, the light with which the passing countryside had been suffused became subtly attenuated. The clear skies of the east of Scotland yielded place to a lowered ceiling of grey and purple rain clouds. And above the train, rising on each side of the railway line, reared up the shapes of high flats, great dispiriting slabs of grey. Bertie watched the changing landscape, his mouth open in awe; so this was Glasgow, this was the place of which his mother had spoken so ominously. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was a dark and dangerous place after all. And to think that such a place existed less than an hour away from Edinburgh! That was the extraordinary thing. One could be in Edinburgh, with its floataria and coffeehouses, and then, in the space of a short train journey, one could be in this place, under these purple clouds, facing heaven knows what perils.

They left their railway carriage and stepped out onto the platform. Bertie looked down at his feet and thought: “I'm standing on Glasgow!” The stone of the platform, a special, highly-polished stone, chosen by the railway authorities as the surface most likely to become dangerously slippery if wet, was very similar to the slippery stone floors he had seen at Waverley Station. And the people waiting at the barrier were not all that different from the people he had seen at Waverley Station, he thought.

“This way, Bertie,” said Stuart, pointing in the direction of a large glass door. “We'll get a taxi out there.”

Bertie hurried along behind his father, his duffel coat buttoned up to the top to disguise the fact that he was wearing crushed-strawberry dungarees. He had not noticed any crushed-strawberry trousers in Glasgow yet, and he was sure that they did not wear them here.

“Where are we going?” he asked his father, as they took their place in the short queue for taxis. “Do you remember where you left the car?”

“More or less,” said Stuart, waving a hand in the general direction of the Dumbarton Road. “I'll recognise the place…I think.”

Their turn came to get into a taxi. Stuart opened the door and Bertie climbed in. This was far better than the No 23 bus, he thought: comfortable seats, small glowing red lights, and a taxi driver who looked at them in his rear-view mirror and smiled cheerily.

“Whauryousesgaahn?” the driver asked.

“Dumbarton Road, please,” said Stuart.

The driver looked back up at the mirror. “Radumbartonroad? Butwhitpartoradumbartonroadyouseswantinanthat? Radumbartonroadizzaroadanahafwhaurabit?”

Stuart explained that he was not sure exactly which part of the Dumbarton Road they wanted, but that he would let the driver know when they neared it. The driver nodded; people who got off the Edinburgh train were often a bit vague, he had found, but they very rarely tried to jump out of the taxi without paying. Nor did they try to walk half the way in order to save money. You had to watch the Aberdeen train for that.

“Now, Bertie,” said Stuart. “Look over there. That's…well, I'm not sure what that is, but look over there anyway.”

Bertie looked out at Glasgow. It seemed busier than Edinburgh, he thought, and the buses were a different colour. But everybody seemed to know where they were going, and seemed happy enough to be going there. He was going to like Glasgow, he thought, and perhaps he would even come to live here when he was eighteen. If he did that, then he would even start to learn the language. It sounded quite like Italian in some respects, and was possibly even easier to learn.

They made their way to St George's Cross and then down below Glasgow University. Stuart pointed in the direction of the university and drew Bertie's attention to the fact that his own father, Bertie's grandfather, had studied medicine there.

“It's a very great medical school,” said Stuart. “Many famous doctors have trained there, Bertie. You could even go there yourself.”

“That would be nice,” said Bertie. The thought had occurred to him that perhaps Dr Fairbairn had trained there, but then that would have been a long time ago. Glasgow did not seem like a good place for psychotherapists, Bertie thought. It was difficult to say exactly why this should be so, but Bertie certainly felt it. Edinburgh was better territory for that sort of thing. And he had not seen a single floatarium during the taxi drive, not one; a large number of Indian restaurants, of course, but no floataria.

Once they reached the Dumbarton Road, Stuart began to sit forward in his seat and peer out at the roads going off to either side.

“It's pretty near here,” he said to the driver.

“Ayeitspruttybutwhauryuzwantintogetaff?” the driver replied genially.

Stuart stared at a road-end which was approaching them on their right. Yes, this was it. There had been a church at the end of the street because he had remembered its odd-shaped tower. “Right here,” he said to the driver. “This is where we want to get aff.”

The driver nodded and drew into the side of the road. Stuart paid the bill, and then he and Bertie strode across the busy Dumbarton Road and began to walk slowly down the quiet residential street to the right.

“It was along here,” said Stuart. “Further along on this side.”

Bertie skipped ahead of his father, looking for the familiar shape of their red Volvo station wagon. It was not a long street, and before he had gone very far he realised that he had cast his eyes down the line of cars parked along the street and there was no sign of a red Volvo. He turned to face his father.

“Are you sure, Daddy?” he asked. “Are you sure that this is the right road?”

Stuart looked down towards the end of the road. He was sure that this was it. He closed his eyes and imagined that afternoon. He had taken his files from the back of the car and had locked the door. And then he had begun to walk towards the Dumbarton Road and the place where the meeting was to be held. And there had been a dog crossing the road and a motorist had braked sharply. There was no doubt about it; this was the place.

“This is it, Bertie,” he said quietly. “This is where the car was. Right here.”

Stuart pointed to a place now occupied by a large green Mercedes-Benz. Bertie stepped forward and stared into the car, as if expecting to find some clue to the disappearance of their Volvo. And as he did so, they heard a door open in the house directly behind them and a voice call out:

“Yous! Whit chu doin lookin at Mr O'Connor's motor?”