Irene listened to all this with growing enthusiasm. What a brilliant analysis of modern Scotland! And he was right, too, about saxophones; of course they were oral things and she was no doubt running a risk of fixing Bertie in the oral stage by encouraging him to play one. But at least she knew now, and the fact that she knew would mean that she could overcome the sub-text of her actions. So she could continue to encourage Bertie to play the saxophone, while at the same time helping him to progress through the oral stage to a more mature identity.
She looked at Dr Fairbairn. “What you say is obviously true,”
she said. “But I wonder: what shall I do to move Bertie on?”
“Give him a clear sense of where he’s going next,” replied Dr Fairbairn. “Take him to the place he’s going to. That is what we all need – to see the place we’re going to.”
105. Bertie’s Friend
Bertie sat in a small waiting room while Irene talked to the director of admissions at the Steiner School. He was not alone; on the other side of the simply-furnished room was a boy of about his own age, or perhaps slightly older, a boy with tousled fair hair, freckles around the cheek bones, and a missing front tooth. Bertie, who was wearing corduroy dungarees and his red 306
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lace-up shoes, noticed that this boy was wearing jeans and a checked shirt. It was a splendid outfit, thought Bertie – the sort of outfit which he would have seen cowboys wearing in cowboy films, had he ever been allowed to watch any.
For a time they avoided eye contact, staring instead at the brightly-coloured pictures on the wall and the pattern of the tiles on the floor.
Every so often, though, one of the boys would sneak a glance at the other, and then quickly look away before he was noticed.
Eventually, though, they glanced at the same time, and their eyes locked together. Bertie opened his mouth to speak, but the other boy spoke first.
“My name’s Jock,” said the boy. “What’s your name?”
Bertie caught his breath. Jock was a wonderful name to have
– it was so strong, so friendly. Life must be easy if one were lucky enough to be called Jock. But instead they had called him Bertie, and of course he could hardly tell this boy that.
“I don’t usually give my name,” Bertie said. “Sorry.”
Jock frowned. ‘You can tell me. I won’t tell anybody.”
Bertie looked Jock squarely in the eye. “You can’t break promises, you know.”
“I know that,” said Jock. “And I never would.”
“Bertie,” said Bertie.
“Hah!” said Jock.
A short silence followed. Then Bertie said: “Are you going to Steiner’s?”
Jock shook his head. “I’ve come here for them to look at me,”
he said. “But I don’t think my parents will send me here. I’m going to go to Watson’s.”
Bertie’s eyes narrowed. Watson’s! That was where he wanted to go – that was where they played rugby and had secret societies. That was where real boys went; sensitive boys came to the Steiner School. The thought caused him a pang of anguish. He would have liked Jock to be his friend, but now it seemed as if they would be going to different schools. All Bertie wanted was a friend – another boy who would like the same sort of things that he liked – trains and things of that sort. And he had no such person.
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“I envy you going to Watson’s,” said Bertie. “You’re lucky.
Will you play rugby?”
“Yes,” said Jock. “I’ve already started going to rugby for the under-sixes.”
The words stabbed at Bertie. Rugby was the game he wanted to play – like that nice man, Bruce, who lived on the stair. But he had never had the chance, and it was clear, too, that his mother disapproved of Bruce, and of Mrs Macdonald, and of everyone, really, except for Dr Fairbairn, who was mad, as far as Bertie could work out. Would Irene disapprove of his new friend, Jock?
He thought she probably would.
“Do you like trains?” Bertie asked suddenly.
Jock took the sudden change of subject in his stride. “I love them,” he said.
Bertie looked wistful. “Have you . . . have you ever been on a train?” he asked.
Jock nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I went to London on a train, and back again. And I’ve been to Dundee. I went over the Forth Bridge and the Tay Bridge. Then we came back and went over the bridges again. That’s four times over a bridge altogether.
Or does that make five?”
“Four,” said Bertie. What did it matter if Jock was no good at mathematics? – he played rugby and was just the sort of friend for whom Bertie had longed all his life.
“And I’ve got a model train set in my room,” Jock went on.
“I’ve got a Flying Scotsman. It goes under my bed and round the chair. I’ve got bridges too, and a station.”
Bertie was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “You’re lucky,”
he said. And then repeated: “You’re lucky.”
Jock looked at him. Then he stood up and crossed the room to sit next to Bertie.
“You’re sad about something,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong?”
Bertie looked into the face of his new friend, gazing at the freckles and the space where the tooth had been. “I don’t have much fun,” he said. “And I’ve got no friends.”
“You’ve got me,” said Jock. “We could become blood brothers. One of my babysitters read me a story about some 308
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boys who became blood brothers. They cut their hands just there and they mixed their blood together. And that makes you a blood brother.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” asked Bertie.
“No,” said Jock. “We could become blood brothers right now.
I’ve got my penknife.”
Bertie was astonished: he had never been allowed a knife, but now Jock took a bulky Swiss Army penknife out of his pocket and showed it in the palm of his hand. “See,” said Jock. “See that.”
Bertie gazed at the knife. There were numerous blades and devices on the knife; one could do anything with an implement like that.
“Here,” said Jock, prising out a blade. “I’ll cut myself first, if you like. You have to do it here, in this bit of skin between the thumb and this finger. Then you squeeze the blood out into the palm of your hand and you shake hands with your friend. That’s how it works.”
Bertie watched in fascination as Jock held the gleaming blade above the taut skin, and drew in his breath sharply as his new friend made a small incision. Small droplets of blood welled up, and were quickly smeared by Jock across his palm.
“Now your turn,” said Jock, wiping the blade on the leg of his jeans.
Bertie held out his right hand, the forefinger pulled back from the thumb, revealing the waiting stretch of skin. Jock steadied the blade and looked at Bertie.
“Are you ready?” he asked. “Do you want to close your eyes?”
“No,” said Bertie. “I don’t mind. It won’t hurt, will it?”
“No,” said Jock. “It won’t hurt.”
And at that moment the door opened and Irene came out. For a moment she stood quite still, slow to absorb the extraordinary sight before her. Then she screamed, and rushed forward to snatch the knife from Jock’s hand.
“What on earth are you doing?” she shouted.
Bertie looked down at the floor. He struggled against the tears, but in vain; he did not want Jock – brave Jock – to see him cry.
He had longed for a friend like Jock, and now he was being taken Lunch at the Café St Honoré
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away from him, snatched away by his mother. It had been so close, that ceremony of blood brotherhood, and it would have made all the difference to have had a blood brother. But it was not to be.