Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 56: Bertie’s Theory of Ice Cream

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 21st Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

Bertie looked at Eamonn. He was an honest boy and found it hard, if not impossible, to lie. Tofu found it very easy, as did Larch and Socrates Dunbar – and Olive, too, he suspected. In fact, it seemed to Bertie that everybody lied effortlessly and without remorse – except him, that is.

“Not really,” he said, adding, “If you don’t mind.”

Eamonn grinned. “I don’t blame you,” he said. ‘When I was your age, I spent most of my time riding my bike and catching frogs. Have you ever caught a frog, Bertie?”

Bertie shook his head. “Tofu has,” he said.

“Tofu?” asked Eamonn. “Is he a boy in your class?”

Bertie nodded. “Yes, he catches frogs and then puts them in girls’ desks. He did that to Pansy, and she screamed and screamed.”

“That sounds fun,” said Eamonn. “We’d call that craic in Ireland. Do you know that word, Bertie. Do you know what somebody means if they say that the craic was good?’

Bertie did not.

“It means a good time,” explained Eamonn. “It’s an expression we like to use in Ireland. As a general rule, the craic is good in Ireland – not so good in England, I’m afraid, but there we are. The craic can be good in Scotland, but there are an awful lot of moaners in this country, sure there are.”

“My granny says that’s because of the Reformation,” said Bertie. “She said that John Knox was a real old misery-guts.”

Eamonn smiled. “I believe he was, Bertie. Knox didn’t have much craic, poor fellow.”

There was a brief silence. Then Bertie said, “Will I feel any different when I’m Irish?”

The question took Eamonn by surprise. “Probably not, Bertie. Although you might have a bit more fun. We enjoy ourselves, you see, rather than bickering with each other as some people do in Scotland – no offence, Bertie.”

Bertie inclined his head. “I think that you should enjoy yourself – if you can. I don’t think you should be unhappy.”

Eammon looked at him with interest. “Do you now, Bertie?”

“Yes. I think that you should enjoy what you have, while you have it. Because things don’t last forever, you know.”

Eamonn could not conceal his admiration. ‘You’re the real wee philosopher, Bertie.”

“It’s like ice cream, Mr Flynn,” Bertie continued. “When you have an ice cream, you need to eat it. You could sit there and look at it, but ice cream melts, and there may be no ice cream when you get round to eating it. So, you should enjoy ice cream straight away. You should also share it, if you can. If there are people who haven’t got any ice cream, you should give them a lick of yours.”

“Of course you should,” said Eamonn.

“Yes,” said Bertie. “Because ice cream tastes better if it’s shared.”

Eamonn’s jaw dropped. This was a seven-year-old boy. This was not David Hume or Adam Smith, or even John Rawls. This was Bertie Pollock, to whom he was meant to be teaching Irish culture at the behest of that pushy mother of his. But any instruction on his part would be otiose, he decided. This little boy knew who he was and what he should be. Ice cream tastes better if it’s shared.

Now Bertie had a question. “What do you do, Mr Flynn? What’s your job?”

Eamonn wondered how to describe it. “I’m studying for a PhD, Bertie. Do you know what a PhD is?”

Bertie nodded. “It’s a doctorate of philosophy, Mr Flynn. My mummy is trying to get one up in Aberdeen. And most grown-ups in Edinburgh have one, I think.”

Eamonn grinned. “Well, I suppose this is the city of the Enlightenment. And do you know what my PhD is in?”

Bertie shook his head.

“It’s in Irish drama,” said Eamonn. “Irish people have written tons of plays, Bertie. Tons and tons. When you become Irish, you can be really proud of that. Sean O’Casey, for example.”

Bertie waited.

“He wrote a wonderful play called Juno and the Paycock,” Eammon went on. “There’s a character in that play called Captain Boyle. He’s a great man, the Captain is. He looks up at the sky and asks What is the moon?”

Bertie listened gravely. “Does anybody tell him?” he asked.

“No,” replied Eamonn. “That’s the problem. He never gets an answer.”

Bertie looked sad. “Poor Captain Boyle,” he said. “I know what it’s like when people don’t answer your questions.”

Eamonn was silent, He looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed. “I tell you what, Bertie,” he said. ‘Would you like to go to the Musselburgh Races? They’re on today. We could see if your father would like to come. We could all go. Irish people love horse racing.”

Eamonn left the room to speak to Stuart. When he came back, he was smiling broadly.

“Your Da says he’d love to go. We can all set off in ten minutes or so.” He paused. “And I’m going to give you five pounds to put on a horse. Irish people love putting money on horses – it’s a big bit of our culture.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Flynn,” said Bertie.

He liked Eamonn Flynn. He liked the sound of Ireland. It was even better than Glasgow, he thought – which was really saying something.