44 Scotland Street: The dear green place Episode 46 They made their way back to the car park - the small group of Stuart, Bertie and Ulysses, with Bertie pushing his brother in his squeaking, much-in-need-of-oil pushchair. While Stuart paid the parking ticket, Bertie scanned the confusing ranks of vehicles, trying to remember where their own car was parked. Such was his excitement on their arrival at the airport he had not paid attention to where his father was parking, and now, faced with row after row of confusingly similar cars he was unable to make out their own. "Right," said Stuart breezily, as he rejoined his sons. Now, off we go to the car. He hesitated. Bertie looked at him expectantly. "Do you remember ..." he began, but trailed off as he saw his father look anxiously around. Bertie sighed. It was not the first time they had lost their car. Stuart gave a cry. There it is, Bertie! You see that one over there, that red one. That's our car. He was right, and they were soon safely strapped in and ready to depart. Bertie opened a window. "You can get these things that make cars smell better," he said to his father. They're sort of round things that sit on the dashboard. Could we get one, Daddy? It would take away the smell of Ulysses. "Maybe, Bertie," said Stuart. But Ulysses doesn't always smell. "Most of the time he does," said Bertie. I'm not being unkind, Daddy. I really like him. But I don't really like the way he smells. He's going to have big problems in life if he carries on smelling like that. They drove out onto the motorway that led back into the heart of Glasgow. Bertie watched the unfolding panorama of the city pass them by; this was, in his mind, the promised land, the great beacon of freedom; this was where he would live when he was eighteen and could leave Edinburgh. He looked at the houses. There were Glaswegian boys living there, he assumed - presumably unaware of their great good fortune. There would be no yoga classes in Glasgow, no girls like Olive or Pansy, and certainly no psychotherapy. "Are they happy in Glasgow?" he asked his father. Stuart glanced at his son and smiled. Are they happy in Glasgow? That's an odd question, Bertie. But I think that by and large they are. They're quite cheerful people, the Glaswegians. They have a very good sense of humour - if you like that sort of thing. By now they were in the tunnel under the Clyde, and Stuart explained to Bertie that they were directly underneath one of Scotland's greatest rivers. Bertie marvelled at the thought but was distracted shortly afterwards by a sign pointing to an exit from the motorway. "Can't we go down there, Daddy?" he asked. Can't we go and take a look at a bit of Glasgow? Stuart hesitated. He had made no plans beyond returning to Edinburgh, and it seemed to him that a brief diversion off the most direct route would do nobody any harm. It ought to be possible, he thought, to strike off to the left and then work up towards Balfron or Drymen or somewhere like that. Then they could return to Edinburgh by Stirling - a more picturesque route than the dull and rather bleak journey along the spine of the Central Belt. He made up his mind. "All right, Bertie," he said. Let's go and take a look at a bit of this dear green place. He used the name traditionally applied to Glasgow, and Bertie repeated it under his breath. Dear green place; dear green place. The words, powerful and affecting, were like a shibboleth. Dear green place: have you got room for me too? Dear green place. They slipped off the motorway and into a sidestreet. Stuart had no map with him, and was uncertain as to where exactly they were, but he thought that they were headed in the general direction of the University. Once they were there they could meander off in a generally northerly direction and would eventually get to Bearsden or somewhere like that. They could always stop and ask somebody for directions, if they needed to. And they were in no hurry, after all. They drove through Kelvinside and into Maryhill. By now he was not so sure where he was, although he was aware of the fact that the urban scenery had changed. After a while he turned off onto a side road and brought the car to a halt in a parking place that had conveniently appeared outside a pizza restaurant. Bertie stared out of the car at the large notice that advertised the pizzas within. Stuart looked down at his son and smiled. Would you like one, Bertie? I'm feeling a bit peckish myself. Bertie's face broke into a broad smile of delight. Irene did not let him have pizzas, which she described as unhealthy (which they undoubtedly were), vulgar (which was a matter of opinion), and "inappropriate" (which was unintelligible). Bertie's friend, Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, by contrast, had pizza at home every Friday and sometimes on other days too. "They're delivered on a motorbike," Ranald explained to Bertie. And you can have all the toppings you like. Salami. Pineapple. Tons of cheese. The works, Bertie. It's a pity you aren't allowed to eat them. I'll try to bring a slice into school for you one day, just to show you're what you're missing. It seemed to Bertie that there could be no greater pleasure in life to have your food delivered on a motorbike. That surely was the height, the very pinnacle, of privilege. "I must get ready for dinner," you would say. The motorbike will be here any moment. And then it would arrive, and the man delivering it would get off his motorbike and take your dinner out of the insulated hot-box on the back of the bike and carry it into the house just as those armed guards deliver boxes of money to the bank. He would put it down on your table, and you would open the box and there would be your dinner. Not the healthy fare you were normally enjoined to eat, but a great, vivid pizza, oozing oil, a burst of colour, carrying with it a whiff of everything that was excluded from your life, everything that you could not have but wanted so desperately. And the delivery-man would get back on his motorbike and start it noisily; and the roar of its engine would be the sound of freedom, and the smell of the melted cheese would be the odour of happiness.