The Peppermint Tea Chronicles, page 21
The dominant group was led by Olive, Bertie’s nemesis in so many encounters, and holder of that controversial document relating to her proposed marriage to Bertie when they both reached the age of twenty. Olive claimed to have little interest in the doings of any of the boys in the class, but from behind this façade of indifference she watched the boys closely. She was convinced that boys somehow had more fun than girls, and devoted a great deal of her time to working out ways of making sure that this should not be the case. Olive had heard of systems of keeping track of dangerous offenders, and she took the view that a similar system should be introduced for boys. All boys should be obliged to sign up on reaching the age of seven, Olive said, so that girls would know exactly where boys lived. This system would also be a great help to the police, Olive thought, as if a crime were to be committed it would simply be a case of finding out where the nearest boy lived and dealing with him in as expeditious a manner as possible.
“I feel sorry for boys,” Olive announced. “Boys may not know it, but they’re history, Bertie. History.”
The main opposition to Olive was headed by Tofu, a boy of Bertie’s age but of a very different disposition. Tofu, who was the son of well-known vegan parents, ran several small-scale rackets in the playground. The most lucrative of these involved protection, with subscribers paying ten pence a week to ensure that nothing went wrong with any items of property they brought to school. Tofu’s other source of income was a numbers racket, participation in which was virtually compulsory. Each participant was given a number between one and twenty, valid for a weekly draw, at which Tofu would announce the winning number. The profits that Tofu made through these enterprises were used mainly for the purchase of various salamis, which he bought from one of the senior students whose father ran a delicatessen. These he discreetly consumed in the school grounds each afternoon while waiting to be collected by his father. He had the time to do this, as his father’s car, having been converted to run on olive oil, was very slow, usually arriving well after other parental cars had collected their charges and left.
Although there were occasional payments made to others, for the most part the prizes in the numbers racket were won either by Tofu himself or by his close ally, Larch, Tofu’s all-purpose enforcer, known for his tendency to spit at anybody who disagreed with him. One of Larch’s main targets was Olive. He tried, if at all possible, to sit behind her in the classroom, in order to be able to spit at the back of her head without her noticing. Other opportunities were seized where and when they arose, including during the performance of the school play when Larch, in his role as a Birnam Wood tree in Macbeth, was able to spit from the side of the stage at one of the three witches, played by Olive.
In the playground that Monday morning, Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson were conferring about the puppy they had been given by Wee MacTavish, the well-known Glaswegian dwarf and circus performer. The puppy had been with Ranald since Saturday, when they had brought it home from the circus on the Meadows, and Bertie was eager to hear how it had settled in.
“He’s fine,” Ranald reassured his friend. “I’m keeping him in our shed. I’ve made him a bed and he’s got a bowl of water.”
“And food?” asked Bertie. “What has he had to eat? You have to feed dogs, you know, Ranald.”
“I know that,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “I gave him some smoked salmon and I found some lamb chops in the fridge. He ate everything. He really likes smoked salmon, Bertie.”
It was while they were discussing their plans for the puppy that Olive and Pansy, flanked by two lesser acolytes of Olive’s, Marigold and Hermione, approached the two boys.
“Look out,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “Look out, Bertie—here comes Olive.”
Bertie started to move away, but was too late.
“Don’t try to avoid us,” scolded Olive as she intercepted Bertie’s attempt to escape. “You can’t run away forever, Bertie Pollock.”
“I wasn’t running away, Olive,” said Bertie. “Ranald and I were just trying to have a private conversation, that’s all.”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was temporarily emboldened. “We don’t want you sticking your nose in, Olive,” he said. “Boys have rights too, you know.”
Olive spun around and glared at Ranald. “Used to have rights, Ranald. And you’d better watch what you say, or you’re going to get into serious trouble.”
“Yes,” said Pansy. “Really serious trouble, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. You just wait and see.”
Marigold stepped forward. “I know something about you and Bertie,” she said, coming up to Ranald and addressing him barely an inch from his nose.
Ranald drew back. “You don’t know anything, Marigold,” he said. He spoke as firmly as he could, but his voice lacked conviction.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Ranald,” jeered Olive. “You tell him, Marigold.”
Marigold grinned. “My cousin lives next door to you, Ranald. She’s called Peggy Bogie. She goes to South Morningside School. She’s the cleverest girl in the school. She has a certificate that says that.”
“I know all that,” said Ranald, affecting indifference. But his heart had already sunk. Peggy Bogie and he were not on the best of terms.
“She says that she saw you and Bertie in the garden the other day,” Marigold continued. “She can see right into your garden, Ranald. She can see everything. And she says that if she stands on a stool she can see right into your mummy’s bedroom.”
Ranald blushed.
“Yes,” continued Marigold. “And you know what she saw the other day? She saw you and Bertie putting a dog in your shed. She says that you and Bertie have a secret dog.”
Bertie glanced at Ranald in dismay. This information, which needed to be kept as secret as possible, had fallen right into the worst possible hands.
“Well,” Olive crowed. “Aren’t you going to deny it, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson? Perhaps not—because it’s true, isn’t it?”
“It’s none of your business, Olive,” said Ranald. “Nor of yours, Marigold.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” said Olive. “You can’t keep a dog in secret like that. If your parents knew, you’d get into real trouble, sure as anything.” She paused. “The only reason we’re telling you that we know, Ranald—and you, too, Bertie—the only reason is that we are concerned about the dog’s welfare.”
Bertie decided to appeal to Olive’s better nature. “Please don’t tell, Olive. Please.”
Olive flounced. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to do my duty, Bertie. I know you’re not as stupid as Ranald, but you shouldn’t get involved in this sort of thing, you know. You should think about the consequences of what you do, Bertie—you really should.”
54
A Matter of Mis-speaking
Olive’s discovery was a disaster for Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. Of all people to find out about the puppy, Olive was undoubtedly the worst. Bertie fully believed her threat to tell Ranald’s parents that there was a dog in their garden shed, and he imagined that it would not be long before she did just that. Olive was as impatient as she was peremptory in manner, and that meant that if they were to forestall exposure they would have to act quickly.
“We’re in real trouble, Ranald,” Bertie said after Olive and Team Olive, as they called themselves, had left them.
Ranald’s anxiety was palpable. “Do you think she’d really tell?” he asked.
Bertie nodded. “You know what she’s like. She’d do any-thing to cause trouble for us.”
Ranald knew that Bertie was right, and he knew, too, that, indulgent as his parents were, they would never allow him to keep a dog. His father was mildly allergic to animal hair, and would certainly not tolerate a dog in the house. Ranald had thought that keeping the puppy in the shed would deal with that issue, as his father took very little interest in what happened in the garden, but he did not envisage a dog being allowed to stay officially, even on that out-of-doors basis.
“What can we do, Bertie?” asked Ranald. And then, in answer to his own question, and as an indication of his faith in Bertie, he went on, “I’m sure you’ll sort it out.”
Bertie’s eyes widened. It was comforting to know that Ranald had confidence in him, but he could not think of any way in which in these dire circumstances exposure could be averted. Unless…
“If Olive’s going to tell,” he began, “then we need to move the puppy.”
Ranald brightened. “That’s a great idea, Bertie,” he said. But then his face fell. “But where?”
“My house,” said Bertie. “He can come to live in Scotland Street.”
“But your mummy,” Ranald blurted out. “I mean, your ex-mummy. What if she found out?”
“She’s in Aberdeen, Ranald,” said Bertie.
“And your dad?”
“He needn’t find out,” said Bertie. “If I keep the puppy in my room and remember to close the door, then he’ll never know.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Ranald. But he foresaw a problem. “Doesn’t he come in to say goodnight when you go to bed? Parents like to do that sort of thing—at least mine do. They bring their drinks in with them.”
“I can put the puppy under the bed,” said Bertie. “Then, when my dad—or my granny—leaves the room, I can bring him out again.”
“You’re really clever,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “You think of everything, Bertie.”
“Thank you,” said Bertie. He was pleased that Ranald approved of his plan, but he realized that there were still aspects of it that needed to be settled.
“How will we get him from your house to mine?” he asked.
Ranald thought for a moment before giving his response. It was simple. “By bus,” he said. “There’s one that goes past the end of Albert Terrace. We can catch that one, Bertie.”
Bertie looked doubtful, but Ranald was confident his plan would work. “We’ll tell your dad or your granny, or whoever your Named Person is, that you want to come and play at my place? Right?”
Bertie encouraged Ranald to continue. “And then?”
“Then, when you come, we get the puppy out of the shed and take it on the number 23 bus down to Dundas Street. Then we get off and take it to your house. See?”
“When?” asked Bertie.
“Today,” said Ranald. “When your granny comes to fetch you, you tell her that you really want to come to my place.” He paused. “You can tell her it’s my birthday and that I’m having a party.”
“But it isn’t your birthday, Ranald.”
Ranald laughed. “I know that, Bertie. But she won’t.”
Bertie’s face fell. “Then it’s a fib,” he said.
Ranald looked at Bertie with pity. “Not if you cross your fingers when you say it,” he said. “And anyway, if you don’t want to tell her, then I will.”
Bertie expressed further doubts. “I don’t know, Ranald…”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson cut him short. “This is an emergency, Bertie. Do you want Olive to get away with this?” He paused. “Well, do you?”
Bertie shook his head. “But I don’t like telling lies.”
Ranald had no time for such scruples. “But it’s not telling lies, Bertie. These days it’s called mis-speaking. If you say something that’s not true, you’re just mis-speaking. I heard all about it on the radio. It means that you’re allowed to tell lies now—especially when you’re dealing with somebody like Olive.”
The plan was agreed, even if with some reservations on Bertie’s part. Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, having urged Bertie on, offered to do the speaking—or the mis-speaking—and when Nicola arrived, with Ulysses, to collect Bertie from the school gate, she was greeted effusively by Ranald.
“It’s my birthday, Mrs. Tavares de Lumiares,” he announced. “And Bertie would like to come to my party.”
Nicola was surprised. “What, today?”
“Yes,” said Ranald, unblushingly. “My party is at four o’clock.” And then, as a precaution, he added, “Adults aren’t invited, I’m afraid. Just Bertie and…a few others.”
Bertie looked away. He was secretly appalled at the ease with which Ranald was lying. He was used to Tofu’s mendacity, but it sat ill upon Ranald’s shoulders, he felt, to tell such blatant mistruths. It was too late, though, to do anything about that, as Nicola, after only a brief moment of hesitation, agreed that she would allow Bertie to go home with Ranald.
“And my dad said he’d bring Bertie back,” Ranald said.
Nicola was pleased to be spared another trip. “That’s very kind of him,” she said. “And I’m sure Bertie will enjoy the party, won’t you, Bertie?”
Bertie kept his eyes on the ground. As his hands were firmly in his pockets, nobody saw the fingers he was crossing, desperate to avert the judgment that would undoubtedly come his way once his lies were discovered. Adults had a way of exposing the truth—that’s what they did. But then he thought: I’ve said nothing—these are Ranald Braveheart Macpherson’s lies, and if anybody is going to be punished it will be Ranald. That gave him some relief, but left him worried about what Ranald was doing. Was it a good sign to show such willingness to tell lies for a friend? He was not sure, but he felt that, on balance, Robert Baden-Powell, author of Scouting for Boys, would probably not approve. Boy Scouts, he more or less certainly said, should never mis-speak.
55
Für Elise
When he was told by a disembodied voice in the City Council’s Dog Control department that his call was being escalated, Angus felt that gratitude that we all feel when somebody in officialdom takes us seriously. The term escalation has a soothing ring to it, and is suggestive of the smooth progress that an escalator makes in its ascent. Height without effort might be the mission statement of escalator manufacturers: we carry you upwards. Escalation of his query as to what to do with the dead cat he had found in the Drummond Street Garden was precisely what Angus felt he needed, as he thought that there must be, somewhere in the vast edifice of local government, some department that dealt with this particular issue. There must be, he told himself, or the city would be covered in dead cats. There must be someone, somewhere, whose job it was to deal with precisely this problem.
The man in Dog Control asked if he minded being put on hold. Angus assured him that he did not, and this led to a brief silence, followed by the playing of a looped recording of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” The council was not the only body to use the key of A minor to entertain anybody who telephoned with an enquiry—numerous companies and government departments seem to share a belief that there is something in “Für Elise” that will pacify potentially impatient callers. Provided that it is interrupted from time to time with the assurance Your call is important to us, “Für Elise” appears to be capable of preventing people from hanging up or becoming irritated by lengthy delays. Other music is considerably less effective, although extensive research has revealed that the “Flower Duet” from Lakmé is not only capable of soothing callers through delays of up to twenty minutes, but also has remarkable qualities in combatting airsickness. That piece of music, purloined by British Airways as its theme tune, is suggestive of the soaring of both the human spirit and of aircraft—a happy coincidence for the airline with which it is identified.
Angus did not have long to wait. After less than a minute of “Für Elise,” the music stopped and he was switched through to another voice—that of a woman this time.
“Public health,” she announced firmly, as if to discourage, through the mere annunciation of the name, any insanitary practices.
Angus cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if I’m through to the right person,” he said.
“Public health,” the woman repeated.
“Yes,” said Angus, “but this is actually about an animal matter.”
“Do you need veterinary help?” asked the woman.
“It’s a bit late for that,” said Angus. “The cat—this is a cat matter, you see—the cat in question is dead.”
There was a brief moment of silence. Then back came the question, “Has the cat passed?”
“You could put it that way,” said Angus. He had an aversion for the term to pass, which he considered embarrassingly euphemistic. What was wrong with dying? Why did people refer to passing when what they meant was dying? Passing suggested passage to somewhere, whereas many people who actually passed had no intention, nor hope perhaps, of going anywhere. Far better, he thought, to use the verb to die, which was unambiguous, self-explanatory, and bore with it no particular attachment to any theology or eschatology. And if it was thought a bit brutal, the verb to die could be replaced with to expire, which had the benefit of being more accurate than to pass and less prissy. Passing sounded a bit camp, in fact, as if those who passed actually minced over to the other side, wherever that was.
Then there was the good old-fashioned expression of making a pass at somebody. Angus had always liked that phrase, although he was never quite sure how one would make a pass. Did one walk past the object of one’s desire—or, frankly, one’s lust—skirting around him or her in a way which was indicative of interest? And if the pass was unwelcome, did the person passed—the passee—simply ignore the fact that somebody was going past her or him rather closely, or did they say Pass, in the way in which some people reject things, or, at bridge, decline to enter into the bidding for a contract?
“A deceased cat?” the woman asked. “Where is this cat?”
Angus did not answer for a moment. Then he said, “In my flat. In Scotland Street.”
