Espresso Tales (23 page)

62. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part VI–a Perthshire Weekend

“Now,” said Ramsey Dunbarton to his wife, Betty, as he read his memoirs to her. “Now things get really interesting.”

“Johnny Auchtermuchty!” mused Betty. “What a card he was, Ramsey! And such a good-looking man with that moustache of his.”

“A great man,” agreed Ramsey.

They were both silent for a moment. Then Betty asked: “And they found no trace of him?” she said. “Not even a few scraps?”

“Not a trace,” said Ramsey sadly. “But let's not slip into melancholy. I'll resume with my memoirs, Betty.” He looked at his watch. “This will have to be the last reading for the time being, my dear. People will just have to wait for the rest.”

“And we haven't even got to the part where you played the Duke of Plaza-Toro at the Church Hill Theatre,” said Betty.

“Time enough for that in the future,” said Ramsey. “Now back to Johnny Auchtermuchty and the invitation up to Comrie.

“I was delighted, of course, to receive this invitation to shoot, even though, quite frankly, I had not done a great deal of shooting before. In fact, if the truth be told, I had hardly ever handled a shotgun, although I had done a bit of clay-pigeon shooting when I was much younger. I don't hold with shooting really: I'm rather fond of birds and I think that the whole idea of blasting them out of the sky is a bit cruel. But it was not really for me to criticise my clients and certainly Johnny Auchtermuchty would have been very surprised if I had taken a stand on the matter. There are plenty of Edinburgh solicitors who would have jumped at the chance of a day's shooting with Johnny and some of them would not have been above a bit of subtle persuasion that he should perhaps take his legal business to them rather than to Ptarmigan Monboddo. Now I am not going to mention any names, but I'm sure that if any of them are reading this they will know that I mean them.

“Betty decided that she would not come after all, and so I motored up to Comrie by myself on the Friday afternoon. I had borrowed a friend's Rolls-Royce for the occasion and I enjoyed the drive very much, taking the road past Stirling and then up across the hills behind Glenartney. Johnny was standing outside the Big Hoose, as we called it, when I arrived and he said to me: ‘Nice Rolls there, Dunbarton! You chaps must be charging us pretty handsomely to afford a car like that!' I was a bit embarrassed by this and started to explain to him that it really belonged to a solicitor from another firm but he paid no attention. ‘That's right,' he said. ‘Blame the other chaps! Old trick that, Dunbarton!'

“We all had dinner that night and had a very good time too. There were a couple of people from Ayrshire and somebody from Fife. Johnny's wife was a splendid cook and had prepared a very fine set of dishes for us. I asked her if she could give me the recipes to take home to Betty, but she said no. I thought that this was rather rude of her, but I fear that she had long been nursing a grudge against me, at least since she unfortunately had overheard me, some years before, telling somebody that I thought that Johnny had married beneath him. That was most unfortunate, but I was absolutely right. He had, and I think she knew it. I also noted that I was given the smallest bedroom in the house–one at the end of the corridor and that the sheets on the bed did not quite reach the end. And the water in the flask beside my bed did not taste very nice at all, and so I decided not to drink it.

“In the morning we went out to shoot. Johnny had a keeper who I think was hostile to me from the start, although he was polite to the others. He looked at my shoes and asked me whether I thought they were sufficiently robust for the occasion–I thought that was a cheek and I decided there and then that he could expect no tip from me, and told him as much. He was a Highlander, of course, and these people can be quite resentful when they get some sort of notion.

“We took our places alongside several pegs which the keeper had inserted in the ground. I was right at the end, which I suspected was the worst place to be, as there was a clump of whin bush immediately to my right which kept scratching me. Then they started to drive the birds out of their cover and suddenly people started to point their shotguns up in the air and blast away. I did my best, but unfortunately I did not seem to get any birds going in my direction and so I got nothing. Then quite suddenly a bird flew up immediately in front of me and I jerked up my shotgun and pulled the trigger.

“I only heard the keeper shout when it was too late, and by then the bird, which I noticed was quite black, had gone down into the heather. I realised then that I had shot a blackbird and I felt very apologetic about it.

“‘I'm awfully sorry,' I shouted. ‘I seem to have shot a blackbird.'

“The keeper came storming over. ‘That's no blackbird, sir,' he hissed. ‘That was a black grouse.' Then he added: ‘And you gentlemen were very specifically told that you were not to shoot any black game. Perhaps you forgot yourself, sir.'

“In the meantime, Johnny Auchtermuchty had wandered over. He had a word with the keeper and I overheard what he said. He told him to bite his tongue as he wouldn't have him being rude to any of his guests. Then he said something about how Mr Dunbarton was from Edinburgh and one shouldn't expect something or other. I didn't really hear the rest of it.

“I must say that I was very embarrassed about all this, although I very much enjoyed Johnny Auchtermuchty's company and the rest of the shoot were very decent to me and said nothing about what had happened. I left the next morning after breakfast, although my departure didn't go all that well. The Rolls would not start for some reason and they had to push me down the drive to start it that way.

“Poor Johnny Auchtermuchty–I miss him very much. He was the life and soul of the party and the most exciting friend I am ever likely to have in this life. I think that it's an awful pity what happened and I wish they had found at least some bit of him that we could have given a decent send-off to. But they didn't. Not even his moustache.”

63. Bertie Receives an Invitation

The invitation from Tofu was solemnly handed to Bertie in the grounds of the Steiner School. “Don't flash it around,” said Tofu, glancing over his shoulder. “I can't invite everybody. So I've just invited you, Merlin and Hiawatha. And don't show it to Olive. I really hate her.”

Bertie looked briefly at the invitation before tucking it into the pocket of his dungarees. It was the first invitation that he had ever received–from anybody–and he was understandably excited. Tofu, the card announced, was about to turn seven and would be celebrating this event with a trip to the bowling alley in Fountainbridge. Bertie was invited.

“Can you come?” asked Tofu, as they went back into the classroom.

“Of course,” said Bertie. “And thanks, Tofu.”

Tofu shrugged his shoulders. “Don't forget to bring a present,” he said.

“Of course I won't,” said Bertie. “What would you like, Tofu?”

“Money,” said Tofu. “Ten quid, if you can manage it.”

“I'll do my best,” said Bertie.

“Better had,” Tofu muttered.

Back in the classroom, while Miss Harmony read the class a story, Bertie fingered the invitation concealed in his pocket. He felt warm with pleasure: he, Bertie, had been invited to a party, and in his own right too! He was not being taken there by his mother; it was not a party of her choosing; this was something to which he had been invited in friendship! And bowling too–Bertie had never been near a bowling alley, but had seen pictures of people bowling and thought that it looked tremendous fun. It would certainly be more fun than his yoga class in Stockbridge.

Seated beside him, Olive watched Bertie's fingers go to the shape in his pocket and move delicately over the folded card.

“What's that you've got?” she whispered.

“What?” asked Bertie, guiltily moving his hand away.

“That thing in there?” insisted Olive. “It's something important, isn't it?”

“No,” said Bertie quickly. “It's nothing.”

“Yes it is,” said Olive. “You should tell me, you know. You shouldn't keep secrets from your girlfriend.”

Bertie turned to look at her in horror. “Girlfriend? Who says you're my girlfriend?”

“I do, for one,” said Olive, with the air of explaining something obvious to one who has been slow to realise it. “And ask any of the other girls. Ask Pansy. Ask Skye. They'll tell you. All the girls know it. I've told them.”

Bertie opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“So,” said Olive. “Tell me. What's that in your pocket?”

“I'm not your boyfriend,” Bertie muttered. “I like you, but I never asked you to be my girlfriend.”

“It's an invitation, isn't it?” Olive whispered. “It's an invitation to Tofu's party. I bet that's what it is.”

Bertie decided that he might as well admit it. It was no business of Olive's that he was going to Tofu's party. In fact, it was no business of hers how he spent his time. Why did girls–and mothers–think that they could order boys around all the time?

“So what if it's an invitation?” Bertie said. “Tofu told me not to talk about it.”

“Ha!” crowed Olive. “I knew that's what it was. He invited me to his sixth birthday party last year. I refused. So did all the other girls he invited. He tried to get us to pay ten pounds to come. Did you know that? He tried to sell tickets to his own party.”

Bertie said nothing, and Olive continued. “I heard that the party was pretty awful anyway,” she said. “Vegan parties are always very dull. You get sweetened bean sprouts and water. That's all. Certainly not worth ten pounds.”

Bertie felt that he had to defend his friend in the face of this onslaught. “We're going bowling,” he said. “Merlin and Hiawatha are coming too.”

“Merlin and Hiawatha!” exclaimed Olive. “What wimps! I'm glad I'm not going to that party. I suppose Merlin will wear that stupid rainbow-coloured coat of his and Hiawatha will wear those horrid jungle boots he keeps going on about. They'll make him take those boots off, you know. They won't allow boots like that in the bowling alley. And then people will smell his socks, which always stink the place out. Pansy says that she was ill–actually threw up–the first time Hiawatha removed his boots for gym. Boy, is it going to be a stinky party that one!”

It was clear to Bertie that Olive was jealous. It was a pity that Tofu had not invited her, as if he had then she would have been less keen to run the party down. But Bertie was not going to let her destroy his pleasure in the invitation and so he deliberately turned his back on her and concentrated on the story that was being read out.

“You're in denial,” Olive whispered to him. “You know what happens to people in denial?”

Bertie turned round. “What?” he said. “What happens to people in denial?”

Olive looked at him in a superior way. She had clearly worried him and she was enjoying the power that this gave her. “They get lockjaw,” she said. “It's well-known. They get lockjaw and they can't open their mouth. The doctors have to knock their teeth out with a hammer to pour some soup in. That's what happens.”

Bertie looked at Olive contemptuously. “You're the one who should get lockjaw,” he whispered. “That would stop you saying all these horrid things.”

Olive stared at him. Her nostrils were flared and her eyes were wide with fury. Then she started to cry.

Miss Harmony looked up from the story. “What is the trouble, Olive?” she said. “What's wrong, dear?”

“It's this boy,” Olive sobbed, pointing at Bertie. “He says that he hopes that I get lockjaw.”

“Bertie?” said Miss Harmony. “Did you say that you hope that Olive got lockjaw?”

Bertie looked down at the floor. It was all so unfair. He had not started the conversation about lockjaw–it was all Olive's fault, and now he was getting the blame.

“I take it from your silence that it's true,” said Miss Harmony, rising to her feet. “Now, Bertie, I'm very, very disappointed in you. It's a terrible thing to say to somebody that you hope they get lockjaw. You know that, don't you?”

“What if you got lockjaw while you were kissing somebody?” interjected Tofu. “Would you get stuck to their lips?”

Everybody laughed at this, and Tofu smirked with pleasure.

“That's not at all funny, Tofu,
Liebling
,” said Miss Harmony.

“Then why did everybody laugh?” asked Tofu.

64. Bertie's Invitation Is Considered

Irene Pollock was late in collecting Bertie from school that afternoon. She had been preparing for her Melanie Klein Reading Group, which would be meeting that evening, and she had become absorbed in a particularly fascinating account of the Kleinian attitude to the survival of the primitive. Irene was clear where she stood on this point: there was no doubt in her mind but that our primitive impulses remain with us throughout our life and that their influence cannot be overestimated. This view of human nature, as being envious and tormented, was in Irene's view obviously borne out by the inner psychic drama which we all experience if only we stop to think about it. Irene thought that it was quite clear that we are all confronted by primitive urges–even in Edinburgh–and these primitive urges and fears make for a turbulent inner life, marked by all sorts of destructive
phantasies
).

The topic for discussion at the reading group that evening was a problematic choice, suggested by one of the more reticent members of the group. Indeed, this member was probably a borderline-Kleinian, given her sympathy for the approach of Anna Freud, and Irene wondered whether this person might not be happier out of the reading group altogether. Her ambivalence, she felt, was eloquently demonstrated by the topic she had suggested for discussion:
Was Melanie Klein a nice person?

When Irene had first seen this topic she had expressed immediate doubt. What a naive question! Did she expect a genius of Melanie Klein's stamp to be a simpering optimist? Did she expect benignity rather than creative turbulence?

Of course she knew what sort of things would be said. She knew that somebody was bound to point to the facts of Melanie Klein's life, which were hardly edifying (to the bourgeois optimist). Somebody would point out that Melanie Klein started out life in a dysfunctional family and that from this inauspicious start everything went in a fairly negative direction. Indeed, she suffered that most serious of setbacks for those who took their inspiration from Vienna: her own analyst died. And then, when it came time for Melanie herself to die, her daughter, Melitta, unreconciled to her mother because of differences of psychoanalytical interpretation between them, gave a lecture on the day of her mother's funeral and chose to wear a flamboyant pair of red boots for the occasion!

All of this would come out, of course, but Irene thought this was not the point. The real point was this: Melanie Klein was not a nice person
because nobody's nice
. That was the very essence of the Kleinian view. Whatever exterior was presented to the world, underneath that we are all profoundly unpleasant, precisely because we are tormented by Kleinian urges.

It was these complex thoughts that were in the forefront of Irene's mind when she collected Bertie that afternoon and brought him back to Scotland Street. Bertie seemed silent on the 23 bus as they made their way home, and this silence continued as they walked back along Cumberland Street and round the corner into Drummond Place. Irene, however, still busy thinking about Kleinian matters, did not notice this and only became aware of the fact that something was on Bertie's mind when he came to her in her study and presented her with the crumpled piece of card that he had extracted from the pocket of his dungarees.

“What's this, Bertie?” said Irene, as she took the invitation from him.

“I've been invited to a party,” Bertie said. “My friend, Tofu, has asked me.”

Irene looked at the invitation. There was an expression of faint distaste on her face.

“Tofu?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “He's a boy in my class. You spoke to his daddy once. He's the one who wrote that strange book. Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely,” said Irene. “But what's this about Fountainbridge and bowling? What's that got to do with a birthday party?”

“Tofu's daddy will take us bowling,” said Bertie, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice. “It'll be Merlin, Hiawatha, Tofu and me. He's taking us bowling to celebrate Tofu's birthday.” He paused, and then added: “It's a treat, you see. Bowling's fun.”

“It may be considered fun by some,” said Irene sharply. “But I'm not sure whether hanging about bowling places is the sort of thing that six-year-old boys should be doing. We have no idea what sort of people will be there. Not very salubrious people, if you ask me. And people will be smoking, no doubt, and drinking too.”

Bertie's voice was small. “I won't be drinking and smoking, Mummy. I promise. Nor will the other boys.”

Irene thought for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Sorry, Bertie, but no. It's for Saturday, I see, and that means that you would miss both Saturday yoga and your saxophone lesson with Lewis Morrison. You know that Mr Morrison is very impressed with your progress. You mustn't miss your lessons.”

“But Mr Morrison's a kind man,” said Bertie. “He won't mind if I have my lesson some other time.”

“That's not the point,” said Irene. “It's a question of commitment–and priorities. If you start going off to these things every Saturday then you'll end up missing far too much of the enriching things we've arranged for you. Surely you understand that, Bertie? Mummy's not being unkind here. She's thinking of you.”

Bertie swallowed. Unknown to his mother, he was experiencing a Kleinian moment. He was imagining a bowling alley–probably the Fountainbridge one–with a set of skittles at the far end. And every skittle was painted to represent his mother! And Bertie, a large bowling ball in his small hand, was taking a run and letting go of the ball, and the ball rolled forward and was heading straight for the set of Irenes at the end of the alley and–BANG!–the ball knocked all the skittles over, every one of them, right out, into the Kleinian darkness.