Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 55: Becoming Irish, Part 1

​If that day had been significant for Matthew and his family, the following day was to produce an equally important salience in Bertie’s life. Bertie had put up with so much in his seven short years so far, most of it engineered by his mother, Irene: saxophone lessons, yoga classes in Stockbridge, Italian conversazione, and, of course, psychotherapy with Dr Hugo Fairbairn, as he then was, author of that classic of child psychotherapy, Shattered to Pieces: Ego Dissolution in a Three-Year-Old Tyrant. These slings and arrows came at him not only at home, but at school, too, there had been the additional burden of dealing with Olive, Pansy, and, of course, for a short and particularly difficult period, the exceptionally bossy Galactica MacFee. And those were just the girls: equally trying were the boys, of whom Tofu was the most egregious example. He was ably assisted by the pugilistic Larch and, more recently, by the unpredictable Socrates Dunbar. In all of this, only Ranald Braveheart Macpherson was there to support and encourage Bertie – to give him a vision of the friendship that helped him to deal with the vicissitudes of life.

44 Scotland Street

​But in any list of tribulations, there is always one that seems to be such a gratuitously unfair burden – the proverbial straw that breaks the overladen camel’s back. This now seemed to have arrived in Bertie’s life in the shape of Irene’s decision that Bertie should get an Irish passport, which he could do on the strength of a maternal grandparent. An application had been made for this, supported by all the necessary paperwork, and sent to the Irish Passport Office in Dublin, the government department charged with extending the benefits of Irish citizenship to a wide diaspora. Irene had gone through all the bureaucratic hoops but, not satisfied with those stipulated by the Government of Ireland, she had created an additional one. This was a plan to ensure that Bertie should not just be a paper Irish citizen, entitled to move through EU queues at airports, but should be made fully aware of his Irish heritage. To this end she planned for Bertie to have a two-hour lesson each Saturday morning on the subject of Irish culture, to be given by an Irish postgraduate student at the University of Edinburgh, Eamonn Flynn. That morning, the first of these lessons was to take place, Stuart having reluctantly given in to Irene’s demand that he should be there to introduce the tutor to Bertie and to provide coffee for Eamonn at half-time.

Nicola was quietly fuming. “This really is the end,” she muttered. “That poor little boy having all sorts of Irishness thrust on him. That woman is the end – the absolute end.”

Stuart had simply looked down at the floor. “I know what you mean, Mother, but she’s entitled under our agreement to have some input into Bertie’s education. I have to go along with her on some things.”

Nicola muttered something – in Portuguese. Having been married to a Portuguese wine producer had its advantages – one of which had been the acquisition of an ability to express herself fairly volubly in the dialect of Portuguese used on the banks of the Douro. This was sometimes more expressive than the textbook language.

And now, at ten o’clock sharp, as arranged with Irene and confirmed by Stuart, Eamonn Flynn, a young man of twenty-six, a graduate of the University of Cork (BA) and Trinity College, Dublin (MPhil) and now a PhD candidate at the University of Edinburgh, knocked on the door of the Pollock flat at 44, Scotland Street.

Stuart tried to look welcoming as he opened the door. It was not this young man’s fault, he told himself: he had simply answered Irene’s advertisement and would have no knowledge of the background circumstances. For Eamonn Flynn, no doubt, this was no different from any other student-type employment, such as being a coffee bar barista (or avocato, in Scotland). What was it they said about messengers? That you shouldn’t shoot them?

Eamonn introduced himself. “I’m a wee bit early, I’m afraid. I didn’t want to be late.”

Stuart led him into the kitchen. “Bertie will join us in a moment,” he said. “He’s just tidying his room.”

“It’s rather an unusual request,” Eamonn ventured. “Teaching Irish culture is … well, a bit difficult. There’s so much. There’s history and geography and literature and music … well, rather a lot, when you come to think of it.”

Stuart nodded. “I agree. It’s his mother’s idea, actually …She lives up in Aberdeenshire, as you may know.”

“She told me that,” said Eamonn. “Awful cold up there, I believe.”

“Freezing,” said Stuart.

“And a lot of fish,” added Eamonn. “Which is a grand thing, I suppose. Nothing wrong with fish.”

“No,” said Stuart. “Fish are …” He searched for the right expression. “Fish are a good thing, I suppose.” He paused before continuing, “Fish are a great thing in Ireland, aren’t they? I remember a line of Yeats – ‘the mackerel-crowded seas’. A very vivid line, I thought.”

Eamonn laughed. “The Spanish have put a stop to that, but let’s not go there.”

“Yes,” said Stuart. “There are an awful lot of places we’re encouraged not to go these days.”

He looked at Eamonn. “What are you going to talk to Bertie about today?” he asked.

Eamonn shrugged. “I thought I might just tell him a bit about Ireland in general. A bit of Irish history, perhaps.”

“Ah,” said Stuart. “There’s a lot of history in Ireland, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” said Eamonn. “But it’s quite simple, really. All you have to remember is that the Irish were having a grand time, speaking Old Irish and making poteen, but the English came and spoiled it for us. Then we kicked the English out and the Church took over, and spoiled it for everyone all over again. Then we kicked the Church out and Brussels came and spoiled it for people by saying we had to charge company tax and so on. It’s an awfully difficult business being Irish, so it is.”

He said this with a straight face, but eventually could not prevent himself from laughing. Stuart joined in. “Sure, you’re a great fellow,” he said, in an attempt at an Irish accent.

“Don’t come the stage Irishman with me,” said Eamonn, with mock bellicosity. “My thesis subject is the plays of JM Synge. I know all about those boyos.”

They both laughed again. And at that point Bertie came into the room.

“Sure, it’s yourself,” said Eamonn, with a wink.

Bertie looked puzzled. This was just another thing. He took a deep breath. He imagined that becoming Irish was rather like going to the dentist. You closed your eyes and told yourself it would not go on forever.

© Alexander McCall Smith, 2025. Bertie’s Theory of Ice Cream will be published by Polygon in August, price £17.99. The author welcomes comment from readers and can be contacted at [email protected]