Love Over Scotland by Alexander McCall Smith

sighed. What did she want to talk about? She would ask him questions, he was sure of that, and she would give him a lecture about bears. He would listen, of course, but if she was going to try to get him to tread on any lines, then the answer would be no. Bertie knew what happened if you trod on lines. Of course he understood that there was no question of bears; bears were just a metaphor for disaster, that’s all they were. But try to explain that to an adult–just try.

19. Leerie, Leerie, Licht the Lamps
    Irene looked down at Bertie as they walked slowly round the north-eastern sweep of Drummond Place.
    “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Bertie,” she said. “You know how Mummy is, don’t you, with her intellectual curiosity? Silly Mummy! But Mummy does like to know what’s going on in her little boy’s head, that’s all.”
    “I don’t mind,” Bertie muttered, crossing his fingers as he spoke. It was well known that if you crossed your fingers, you could lie with impunity. Would his mother cross her fingers in the police station? he wondered. Perhaps he would suggest it to her closer to the time.

    “I’ve been wondering where you get your ideas from,” Irene began. “I know that you get a lot of things from Daddy or from me.” (Mostly me, she thought. Thank heavens.) “And you learn a lot from your teacher at the Steiner School, of course. But you must also pick up some things from the other children. You do, don’t you?”
    Bertie shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said. He thought of the other children he knew: Tofu, Hiawatha, Olive. He was not sure if he learned much from any of them. Tofu knew virtually nothing, as far as Bertie could ascertain. Hiawatha hardly ever said anything, and anyway he spoke with a curious accent that very few people could understand. And as for Olive, she was always imparting information to others, but it was almost always quite wrong. Bertie had been shocked to discover that Olive thought Glasgow was in Ireland. And she held this view although she had actually been there–“Well, it seemed like it was in Ireland,” she had said in her own defence. And then she had said that a tiger was a cross between a lion and a zebra and had stuck to this position even after Bertie had pointed out that lions ate zebras and would therefore never get to know one another well enough to have offspring. Olive had simply stared at him and said: “What’s that got to do with it?” And so they had left the subject where it stood.
    “Perhaps you’ll tell me some of the things you pick up from other children,” coaxed Irene. “Do you know any counting rhymes, for example?”
    “Counting rhymes?” asked Bertie.
    “Yes,” said Irene. “Here’s one that I remember. Shall I tell it to you?”
    “If you must,” muttered Bertie.
    “Very well,” said Irene. “Here we go:
    Bake a pudding, bake a pie,
    Send it up to Lord Mackay,
    Lord Mackay’s not at home,
    Send it to the man o’ the moon.
    The man o’ the moon’s making shoes,
    Tippence a pair,
    Eery, ary, biscuit, Mary,
    Pim, pam, pot.”
    Bertie looked at his mother. Then he looked away again. In his astonishment, he had almost trodden on a line. He would have to be more careful in future.
    “So,” said Irene jauntily. “Do you know anything like that?”
    Bertie stopped and looked up at his mother. “I know some rhymes, Mummy. Is that what you want to know?”
    “Yes,” said Irene. “You tell them to me, Bertie, and I’ll tell you if I knew them when I was a little girl. A lot of these things are very old, you know.”
    “Postie, postie, number nine,” said Bertie suddenly. “Tore his breeks on a railway line!”
    “Well!” exclaimed Irene. “Poor postie! I don’t believe I know that one, Bertie. How interesting!”
    “Leerie, leerie, licht the lamps,” continued Bertie. “Lang legs and crookit shanks.”
    “My goodness!” said Irene. “That’s remarkable. I suspect