The World According to Bertie Read Online Free PDF Page A

just that these things have to be kept in proportion. One can complain about things without looking for compensation. That’s the difference. In what we fondly call the old days, if one was nipped by a dog then one accepted that this was the sort of thing that happened from time to time. You might try to give the dog a walloping, to even things up a bit, and you might expect the owner to be contrite and apologise, but you didn’t necessarily think of getting any money out of it.”
    Angus thought about this, but only for a very short time. He was not interested in Domenica’s observations on social trends, and he felt irritated that she should move so quickly from the point of the discussion. “That may be so,” he said. “All of that may be so, but the point is that Cyril is not that dog. Cyril would never do anything like that.”
    Domenica was silent. This was simply not true. Cyril had bitten Bertie’s mother in broad daylight in Dundas Street not all that long ago. Domenica had heard about the incident, and although she was pleased that on that occasion Cyril had been so discerning in his choice of victim, he could hardly claim to have an unblemished record. It was, she thought, entirely possible that Cyril was not innocent, but she did not think it politic to raise that possibility now.
    â€œBut how did they identify Cyril?” she asked.
    â€œThey had an identity parade,” said Angus. “They lined up a group of dogs in Gayfield Square police station and they asked the Northumberland Street man to identify the dog which had bitten him. He picked out Cyril.”
    Domenica listened in astonishment. “But that’s absurd,” she exclaimed. “Were the dogs in the line-up all the same breed? Because if they weren’t, it would be quite ridiculous.”
    For a few moments, Angus was silent. Then he said, “I never thought of that.”

7. Irene’s Doubts Over Bertie’s Friendships
    While Domenica listened to Angus recount the traumatic experiences endured by his dog, Cyril, Bertie Pollock stared out of his bedroom window. Bertie’s view was of Scotland Street itself, sloping sharply to the old marshalling yards down below, now a playground, which Bertie had been forbidden by his mother to enter.
    â€œIt’s not so much the devices themselves,” Irene had said to her husband, Stuart. “It’s not the so-called swings, it’s the attitudes to which Bertie will be exposed down there.”
    Stuart looked at her blankly. He had no idea why she should call the swings “so-called” surely swings were either swings or they were not. There was nothing complicated about swings, as far as he could make out; they went backwards and forwards–that was all they did. And what attitudes would Bertie be exposed to in the playground?
    Irene saw Stuart’s look of puzzlement and sighed. “It’s the roughness, Stuart,” she said. “Surely you’ve seen it yourself. All that aggressive play that goes on. And there’s another thing: have you noticed the rigid segregation which the children down there impose on themselves? Have you noticed how the boys play with the boys and the girls play with the girls? Have you seen it?”

    Stuart thought for a moment. Now that Irene mentioned it, it certainly seemed to be true. There were always little knots of boys and girls all playing within the group; one did not see boys and girls playing together. Irene was right. But, he thought, surely this was natural.
    â€œWhen I was a boy,” he began, “we used to have a gang. It was boys only. But the girls had their own gang. I think everybody was happy enough with the arrangement. My gang was called…”
    Irene silenced him with her stare. “I think the less said about your boyhood, Stuart, the better. Things have moved on, you know.”
    â€œBut have boys moved on?” It was a bold question,