The Peppermint Tea Chronicles, page 5
“True,” said Matthew. And then, turning to James, “So your godfather inspired you?”
“Yes. I’ve always been close to Uncle Joburg—ever since I was a little boy. He taught me how to play the pipes. And then one day he said, ‘It’s about time you learned how to make a clootie dumpling.’ And that was that. I found that I really loved cooking.”
“You’re lucky to have a godfather like that,” said Elspeth. “He’s such fun.”
“Yes,” said James. “You know, I’ve never seen him looking unhappy. He’s always cheerful. Except twice, that is. I remember just two occasions when he was pretty low.”
They waited. James’s smile had gone, to be replaced by a grave expression. “One time was when the Lord Lyon was after him, for claiming to be a duke when he wasn’t. They really hounded him, you know. And then the other was when he heard that his cousin in America had died. She lived in a place called Columbus.”
“Where’s that?” asked Elspeth.
Matthew knew. “It’s in Ohio, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said James. “This cousin of his was called Barb. She owned a small country club just outside Columbus. Uncle Joburg said that it was quite a place—people went there to play tennis and sit about on the veranda. He said it was a really nice club.”
“And then?” asked Matthew. He feared that the story would not end well; any tale that began in such a setting was bound to go wrong after a time.
“And then,” James continued, “she was visiting the club one weekend—it was a Saturday, I think—and she was watching a game of tennis when apparently she went up in flames—just like that. She caught fire.”
Matthew caught his breath. Spontaneous combustion! He had read about this phenomenon, which he, at least, thought was a justified inference from what evidence there was. Others, he knew, were more skeptical, insisting that there always had to be an external source of heat before the human body could catch fire. But there were these apparently otherwise inexplicable cases in which people suddenly shot up in flames, sometimes with little more than their shoes remaining.
“She burned to a cinder,” James continued. “They had a fire extinguisher in the club kitchens, but they couldn’t get the pin out of the trigger. You know how they have those pins—just like hand grenades.”
Matthew nodded.
“It had become all corroded,” James said. “Kitchens can develop rather salty air. Things can corrode.”
“How awful,” said Elspeth. “For both of them.”
“Yes,” said James. “Uncle Joburg was really upset. He was very fond of his cousin. I met her too, when she came over once. She had flaming red hair.”
Matthew frowned. Was that a portent, he wondered—or even a causal factor?
“How is he?” he asked. “The Duke? Have you seen him recently?”
James put down his Danish fork, or knife.
“I’m a bit worried, Matthew,” he said. “You know that Gaelic-speaking driver of his? Padruig?”
“Yes.”
“He’s persuaded my uncle to finance him in a ridiculous project he has. And to help him—actually help him physically.”
“Doing what?” asked Elspeth.
They listened, increasingly appalled, as James told them of the kit that Padruig had bought for the building of a small, two-seater seaplane. “They’re working on it in the byre at Single Malt House,” James said. “And they’re both having flying lessons out at East Fortune Airport. Once they’ve built it, they want to fly it from some sea loch over in Argyll.”
“Oh my God,” exclaimed Elspeth.
“Yes,” agreed James. “OMG.”
11
Merry Hart with Small Possessioun…
That Saturday, when Angus Lordie took Cyril out for his morning walk in Drummond Place Garden, he came across Bertie sitting on the stairs, directly outside the Pollocks’ front door. That door was slightly ajar, and Angus could hear a radio playing music inside the flat, along with the sound of voices. Then a child began to cry.
“That’s Ulysses, Mr. Lordie,” Bertie ventured. “My little brother.”
“Of course,” said Angus. “I’ve met Ulysses, Bertie. And a fine little chap he is, too.”
Bertie looked doubtful. “He cries a lot, Mr. Lordie. When Mummy was here he cried all the time. Now that she’s in Aberdeen, he doesn’t cry quite so much.”
Angus said nothing, but thought: post hoc, propter hoc. He looked down on the small boy and smiled. He noticed that Bertie was wearing a freshly ironed shirt, and trousers with a well-pressed crease. The formality of his outfit was finished off by a small, clip-on tartan bow tie.
“Special occasion today, Bertie?” he asked.
Bertie took a few moments to answer. He stared down at the stone step on which he was sitting; he looked disconsolate. Eventually he said, “There’s a party, Mr. Lordie.”
“Ah,” said Angus. “And am I to assume that you don’t want to go? Is that right?”
Bertie nodded mutely. Cyril, a good judge of human mood, nudged gently at his side—canine body language for I understand. Dogs understood misery.
“Whose party is it?” asked Angus. “Somebody at school?”
Bertie nodded again. “It’s a girl called Olive,” he said. “She’s very bossy. When I went to her last birthday party, it was full of girls, Mr. Lordie. Hundreds of them. I was the only boy.”
“Oh, that’s bad luck, Bertie.”
“Yes. They played Jane Austen all the time—that’s all that they wanted to do. And I had to be Mr. Darcy for the whole afternoon.”
Angus suppressed a smile. “That can’t be easy, Bertie.” And added, “Even for Mr. Darcy himself, I imagine.” He paused. “Do you have to go, Bertie? You could always send your apologies.”
Bertie sighed. “My granny says I have to go. She said I had accepted the invitation, and we must always keep our promises.”
“Did you accept?” asked Angus.
Bertie sighed again. “Only because Olive made me,” he replied. “She said that if I didn’t accept she’d tell everybody never to talk to me again.”
Angus frowned. “That’s very bad, Bertie. But I can see why you felt you had to say yes.”
“So now I have to go. At least Ranald will be there this time.”
Angus remembered Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, whom he had met, with Bertie, after that remarkable rugby match when Scotland trounced New Zealand at Murrayfield. “Well, that’s something. Maybe Olive’s party won’t be so bad after all.”
Bertie looked unconvinced. Once again, Cyril nudged at him with his sympathetic, wet, dog’s nose.
“Cyril doesn’t want you to be sad, Bertie,” said Angus. “He wants you to cheer up.”
“I’ll try, Mr. Lordie,” said Bertie. “But I wish I could…I wish I could go and live in Glasgow, Mr. Lordie. That’s what I’d really like.”
Angus lowered himself onto the stair beside Bertie. “Listen,” he said, “the world often isn’t quite as we’d like it to be, Bertie. But it’s a mistake, you know, to think that things will be better somewhere else. It’s an old mistake.” He paused. Things were better, he thought, for this little boy now that his mother had decamped to Aberdeen, but obviously not everything was perfect just yet.
“Have you heard of the town mouse and the country mouse, Bertie?”
Bertie shook his head.
“Well, it’s a famous old Scottish poem by Robert Henryson. He got the story from Aesop. They both lived quite a long time ago.”
Bertie was listening.
“And the story’s quite simple really,” Angus continued. “There was a mouse who lived in the country, you see, and she thought it would be a good idea to come into town and stay with her sister. She was told of all the fine food—the luxuries—that her sister had in the town. And the food was pretty good. But there was a cat, Bertie, and he gave the country mouse a real fright. He was called Gib, if I remember correctly.”
“Did Gib eat her?”
“No, he threw her about a bit, but the country mouse managed to get away—just. But it made her think. And do you know what she thought?”
“No.”
“She thought that it was a mistake to leave her simple life in the country. She thought it was a mistake to think that somebody else’s life is better than your own.”
Angus waited. Cyril looked at Bertie, who continued to stare at the stone beneath his feet.
“I don’t remember many of the lines,” Angus said. “But I do remember these. Henryson—he was the poet, Bertie—said: Thairfor, best thing in eird, I say for me / Is merry hart with small possessioun. That’s in old Scots, Bertie, but I rather think you’ll understand it. Have a merry heart even if you don’t have much else.”
He watched the small boy struggle. And as he did so, he felt that urge we all feel when we see the young in their unhappiness. We want to reassure them, This will not last—it really won’t. It will get better. It will. But we don’t say that, and even if we did, the young would not listen, for the simple reason that they have not lived long enough to know what we, for our part, have learned.
Angus rose to his feet. “There’s another poem about a mouse, Bertie.”
He did not have time to tell him. “ ‘To a mouse,’ ” said Bertie. “Mr. Burns wrote it, Mr. Lordie. He disturbed a mouse when he was plowing a field. He felt very sorry for it.”
“He did indeed, Bertie,” said Angus.
Bertie stood up. “I have to go,” he said.
“Feeling better?” asked Angus.
Bertie was silent, but his nod gave the answer.
“And some time soon I must tell you about a plan I’ve hatched.”
Bertie looked up enquiringly.
“I’m going to build a shed,” said Angus. “I’m going to build a shed in Drummond Place Garden.”
Bertie drew in his breath. A shed! He looked up at Angus, who knew immediately what the look meant.
“Of course you can,” said Angus. “Of course you can use my shed.”
Olive’s party, and all the dread it entailed, receded. A shed would change everything. But then Bertie thought: What possible use could an adult have for a shed? Was Mr. Lordie planning something?
12
Olive’s Party
Olive received her guests at the front door. This was not so much out of courtesy as to ensure that all presents were scrutinised before being stored in such a way as to prevent their repossession by the donor. This precaution was necessary, Olive felt, after an incident at Lakshmi’s party, where one of the guests had taken back her present after a spat with the host. One could not be too careful when it came to presents, Olive thought.
“So, Bertie,” said Olive, eyeing her guest with a certain triumph, “it’s just as well you decided to come.”
“But I told you I was coming, Olive,” said Bertie. “I told you last week.”
Olive pouted. “Oh, I knew you said you’d come, Bertie. I knew that. But if you believe everything everybody says—especially boys—then you’re in for a big disappointment, aren’t you?”
This last remark was addressed as much to Olive’s lieutenant, Pansy, as it was to Bertie. Pansy was standing immediately behind Olive, ready to give as much support, physical as well as verbal, as was required.
Pansy was in full agreement. “That’s right,” she said. “All boys are well-known liars.”
Bertie bit his tongue. There was no point in arguing with Olive, he felt—especially on her home territory.
He tried to pass through the hall and into the corridor beyond, but Olive prevented him.
“So, what have you brought me, Bertie? I hope you’ve got a present.”
Bertie had, and he now passed over the neatly wrapped present that his grandmother, Nicola, had prepared for him. Olive took it suspiciously.
“I hope you like it,” said Bertie. “Happy birthday, Olive.”
Olive did not acknowledge this; she was busy tearing off the wrapping paper, which she handed to Pansy. The present was now revealed. It was a large plastic swan, its middle section padded in pink satin.
“What’s this?” said Olive.
“It’s a pincushion,” said Bertie. “You put pins into it. It’s a way of storing them.”
Olive stared at him. “I haven’t got any pins,” she said coldly.
“You might get some,” said Bertie. He wished that his grandmother had bought something more conventional. He knew that she cordially detested Olive, but he felt there was no point in provoking her unnecessarily.
Olive tossed the pincushion aside. Her attention had now returned to Bertie.
“So, why are you wearing that stupid bow tie, Bertie?” she asked.
“It’s really stupid,” chimed in Pansy.
“And gay,” said Olive.
Bertie felt the back of his neck getting warm. He did not know what Olive meant, but he sensed she was not being complimentary. “It’s not gay, Olive. It’s my tartan. I’ve got a kilt just like it.”
“A kilt!” exclaimed Olive. “I bet you look even more stupid in a kilt, Bertie.”
“Ranald Braveheart Macpherson wears a kilt,” said Pansy. “He looks stupid even without a kilt, but when he puts on a kilt it’s even worse, with those spindly legs of his.”
“Yes,” agreed Olive. “I’d really hate to be Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. It’d be bad enough being you, Bertie, but a hundred times worse being Ranald.”
“I can just imagine it,” said Pansy.
“Anyway,” Olive went on, “you’re very welcome to my party, Bertie. Please go through into the living room and get yourself a helium balloon. And don’t pop it, because there’s only one per person.”
In the living room, Bertie surveyed his fellow guests with sinking heart. There they all were—the people who made up Olive’s circle of friends—Lakshmi, Priscilla, Chloe and Chardonnay. But then he saw Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, standing by himself in a corner, and his despair lifted slightly.
Ranald was relieved to see Bertie. “I’m really glad you’re here, Bertie,” he said. “You know what they’re going to play?”
Bertie’s heart sank. “Jane Austen?”
Ranald shook his head. “No. They’ve got a new game. They’re going to play a game called The Crown. It’s all about the Queen.”
Bertie asked Ranald whether he had played it before.
“No,” Ranald replied. “But Olive and Pansy have told me how it works. Olive’s going to be the Queen and Pansy will be Princess Margaret.”
“And what about us?” asked Bertie.
“I’ve got to be the Duke of Edinburgh,” said Ranald. “I have to walk just behind Olive and say nothing. She warned me not to say anything at all.”
“And what about me?” Bertie asked. “Did Olive tell you who I have to be?”
“You’re going to have to be one of the Queen’s dogs,” said Ranald. He could tell from Bertie’s expression that this news was not well received, and he tried to reassure his friend. “It won’t be hard, Bertie. All you have to do is go down on your hands and knees and follow Olive wherever she goes.”
“It sounds like a really stupid game, Ranald.”
“I know,” agreed Ranald. “But what can we do, Bertie? We’re outnumbered.”
Bertie could think of nothing that would relieve them of their predicament. He and Ranald made their way to the center of the room where, on a small side table, several plates of macaroons and chocolates had been placed. Helping themselves to a macaroon each, they watched the girls on the other side of the room.
“You know something, Bertie?” said Ranald. “My dad hates Olive’s dad. He says nobody trusts him and he has pinched a lot of people’s money.”
Bertie’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” Ranald continued. “Fortunately, we’ve got a safe, as you know, Bertie. So Olive’s dad couldn’t come and steal our money. I’m really glad about that.”
“So am I, Ranald,” said Bertie.
“Lots of adults hate other adults, you know, Bertie,” Ranald said. “My mummy hates your mummy, you know.”
Bertie said nothing.
“And she says your daddy hasn’t got a backbone.”
Bertie remained silent.
“Is that true, Bertie?” asked Ranald. “Can you be born without a backbone? Because it must make it quite hard to stand up straight, don’t you think?”
“It’s not true, Ranald,” said Bertie. “My dad has got a backbone. It’s connected to his ribs, I think. Maybe your mummy’s thinking of somebody else.”
“Possibly,” said Ranald. He noticed that Olive was about to make an announcement. “I suppose we’d better listen. Olive’s going to say something.”
Olive stepped into the middle of the floor. “I’ve got something really important to say,” she said. “So you’d all better shut up.”
“I hate her,” whispered Ranald. “I hate Olive so much.”
Bertie looked down at the floor. Why did people dislike one another so much? Why was the world like this—so full of feelings that did not really need to be there?
“I heard you, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson,” said Olive. “I heard what you said.”
13
Olive Spells It Out
Olive stood in the middle of the floor and addressed her assembled guests.
“I know you’re all really pleased to be at my birthday party,” she said. “So, I’d like to thank you all for coming and also for the presents.” She paused, acknowledging an encouraging smile from Pansy. “Most of the presents were quite nice—most, but not all.” And here she sought out Bertie, and fixed him with an intense stare.
