44 Scotland Street: 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’ll do anything 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 never 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 realised that there were still aspects of it that needed to be settled.
“How will we get him from your house to mine?” Bertie 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,” answered 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 tell the fib,” 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 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 Tamares 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 the 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 travel 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 would be punished it would 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 Badenpowell, author of Scouting for Boys, would probably not approve. Boy Scouts, he more or less certainly said, should never mis-speak.
‘If Olive’s going to tell,’ he began, ‘we need to move the puppy.’ ‘That’s a great idea, Bertie,’ he said. ‘But where?’ ‘My house,’ said Bertie. ‘He can come to live in Scotland Street.’