30

A Swiss Army Knife

It was the last day of term at the Steiner School and the talk in the playground was all about plans for the upcoming summer holidays. Bertie was unsure what Stuart and Nicola had planned for him – there had been some talk of going away for a week or two in the Highlands, but nothing definite seemed to have been arranged. Bertie himself had asked whether it might be possible to have a holiday in Glasgow, but this suggestion had been met with silence and glances between his father and grandmother that he had found difficult to interpret.

Then Stuart had said, “That’s an interesting idea, Bertie, but usually, if you live in a city already, you go somewhere different for your holidays.” He paused. “That’s not to say that Glasgow isn’t a good place to go. I’m sure that there’s a lot to do there.”

“One could go down the Clyde,” Nicola suggested. “There’s the Waverley paddle steamer, and then there’s…” She looked to Stuart for help.

“The People’s Palace. And the Burrell Collection is not far away. And…”

“There’s plenty to do in Glasgow,” Nicola said. “But I think that we might go further afield.” She looked fondly at Bertie. “You love Glasgow, don’t you, Bertie?”

Bertie nodded. Glasgow was a promised land to him – it had always been a place of freedom and excitement – a place devoid of the constraints of life in Edinburgh, where you had to watch what you did, where there were people like Olive and Pansy around to criticise anything you said, even if life was, admittedly, easier since his mother had gone to Aberdeen and the psychotherapy and yoga had stopped. There was no yoga in Glasgow and very little psychotherapy, he had been told, and there were lots of jokes, too, because all the photographs he saw of Glasgow were full of smiling people. And they liked pies there, and everyone drank Irn-Bru, which was widely discouraged in Edinburgh for some reason.

But now there was a cloud – ill-defined and distant, but a cloud nonetheless – on Bertie’s horizon. This was the remark that Stuart had made about the possibility of him being sent to some sort of camp outside Edinburgh. “Mummy thought you might enjoy it,” Stuart said, glancing at Nicola as he spoke. “It’s out near Carlops somewhere, Bertie, and they have all sorts of things for the boys and girls to do.”

Nicola was silent. Bertie did not notice her eyes rolling up as Stuart spoke.

“Will it be a scout camp, Daddy?” Bertie asked. It had long been an ambition of his to go to scout camp. “Will we be able to cook sausages on a fire?”

“Vegan sausages possibly,” muttered Nicola.

Stuart shot his mother a warning glance.

“I’m sure they’ll have campfires,” he said.

Nicola muttered again. “I’m not.”

Bertie sensed that his grandmother had her reservations. “And will we be able to do some tracking?” he asked. He had read about tracking in Scouting for Boys and he was keen to try it. He had read how you could put sticks on the ground in the shape of an arrow to show people what route you had taken. He had seen pictures of how you could tie grass in a knot to leave a similar message. And then there were signalling flags: Bertie had always wanted to learn semaphore. A camp was just the sort of place where semaphore might be useful.

But most of all, a camp spelled the promise of a penknife. If you went on a scout camp you more or less certainly had to have a penknife, which would come in useful for all sorts of tasks. Perhaps this was his chance to be issued with the Swiss Army penknife that he had long craved with every fibre of his being.

“I expect I’ll need a penknife,” he ventured. “You can’t go to camp without a penknife, I think.”

He watched for the adult reaction. Stuart looked away, but Nicola smiled. “I think that’s a very good idea, Bertie. I think you should definitely take a penknife to this camp.”

Bertie’s eyes widened with delight. “Do you really think so, Granny?”

“Yes,” said Nicola, heedless of the warning glance from Stuart. “A penknife will be de rigueur.”

“What’s that mean, Granny?”

“Compulsory,” said Nicola. “Essential.”

Stuart gave her a discouraging glance. “I’m not sure…” he began.

“Well, I am,” said Nicola. “And I’ll get you one. A Swiss Army knife is what you need. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Bertie quickly, before the offer could be withdrawn. He could hardly believe his good fortune. A Swiss Army knife – at last!

Bertie did not hear the exchange that took place between his father and his grandmother later that evening.

“You are being deliberately provocative,” said Stuart. “You know how that’s going to go down with Irene. She’ll go ballistic.”

Nicola shrugged. “I don’t care,” she said. “I’ve had enough. I’ve bent over backwards to sort things out for her – arranging for her to stay with Antonia and Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. But when it comes to Bertie, I’m not prepared to give any ground.”

“Well, I have major misgivings,” said Stuart.

“He’s a very responsible little boy,” said Nicola. “He’ll be careful how he handles it. And it’ll only be a small penknife – it’s hardly a machete.”

“I know that,” said Stuart. “But it’s the principle of the thing. This camp that he’s going to – well, you know what it’ll be like. They won’t approve of knives.”

“Nor campfires, I suspect,” said Nicola.

“Be that as it may,” said Stuart. “Irene is Bertie’s mother and she has joint custody. She has the right to send him during his time with her.”

“He should be with her during her access time,” said Nicola.

“I know,” sighed Stuart. “But please, Mother: don’t poke a stick at Irene. Keep things cool, please. Bite your lip.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing,” said Nicola. “I’ve poured a great deal of oil on the water. You needn’t worry.”

“I wish I knew a bit more about this camp,” Stuart said. “She said something about an electronic detoxification programme. No mobile phones or tablets.”

“That seems reasonable enough.”

“Yes,” agreed Stuart. “But she also said something about removing bourgeois expectations.”

“Bourgeois expectations?”

“Yes.”

Stuart looked out of the window. He was doing a mental calculation, working out exactly how many weeks, days and hours it would be before Irene returned to Aberdeen. The total seemed so dauntingly large. It was going to be a long, hot summer – metaphorically, of course.