44 Scotland Street (8 page)

“I’ve twisted my ankle,” said Irene, miserably. “It’s very sore.”

“Poor Irene,” said Bertie softly. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Irene rose to her feet tentatively. The twisted ankle was painful, but not too painful to walk upon, and they could continue their journey, although more slowly than before.

“It’s very important that you don’t think that was anything but an accident,” she said firmly, a few minutes later. “That’s all

it was. I don’t want you developing magical ideas. Belief in fairies and all the rest.”

“Fairies?” asked Bertie. “Are there any fairies?”

They were now at the end of London Street. The nursery was not far away.

“There are no fairies,” said Irene.

Bertie looked doubtful. “I’m not so sure,” he said.

17. An Educational Exchange

Miss Christabel Macfadzean, proprietrix of the East New Town Nursery, looked concerned when she saw Irene limp through the front door. “You’ve hurt your ankle?” she asked solicitously. “An accident?”

“Not an accident,” muttered Bertie, only to be silenced by Irene.

“Yes, an accident,” she said. “But a very minor one. I tripped on the pavement in Drummond Place.”

“So easily done,” sympathised Christabel. “You take your life in your hands walking anywhere these days. If one doesn’t fall into a hole, then one might get stuck to the pavement because of all the discarded chewing-gum. One might just stand there, stuck and unable to move.”

Irene smiled tolerantly. Although Christabel was surely no more than forty-five, she was very old-fashioned, she thought, with remarks like that about chewing-gum –
anti-youth
remarks, really. In normal circumstances she might have been inclined to challenge her on that and say,
Is that remark really about
chewing-gum, or is it directed against teenagers in general?
but the conversation had to be brought round to Bertie.

“I wanted to discuss Bertie for a moment,” she said. “I know you’re busy, but …”

Christabel glanced at her watch. “A few minutes. I really must …”

Irene seized her chance. “You’ll have noticed how bright he is,” she said.

Christabel looked away for a moment. Of course Bertie was bright – frighteningly so – but she was not going to encourage this pushy woman. There was nothing worse in her view, nothing, than a pushy parent.

“He’s not slow,” she said, carefully.

Irene’s eyes widened in surprise. “Not slow? Of course he’s not slow. He’s gifted.”

“In what respect?” asked Christabel evenly. “Most children have gifts of one sort or another. That little boy over there – that tall one – he’s very good with a ball. Gifted, in fact.”

Irene’s lips pursed. “That’s different, quite different. Gifted is a term of art in developmental psychology. It should only be used for children who have exceptional intelligence.”

“I don’t know,” said Christabel casually. “I haven’t had all that much experience of young children, I suppose – no more than twenty-two years – but I do think that most children have their little gifts. Certainly Bertie is quite good at assembling the train set. And he’s not bad when we have our little sing-songs.”

Irene struggled to contain herself. “And his Italian?” she blurted out. “His Italian? Have you noticed that he speaks Italian?”

Miss Macfadzean had, but too much was at stake now to tell the truth.

“Italian?” she said. “How interesting. Are you Italian? Or your husband? We often get bilingual children in – when one of the parents speaks another language. Children pick it up so readily in the home. They’re remarkable linguists. All of them – not just Bertie.”

“I am not Italian,” said Irene. “Nor is my husband, for that matter. Bertie has
learned
Italian. It is an accomplishment he has – one of a number of accomplishments.”

“How useful,” said Miss Macfadzean coolly. “He will be well placed should he go on holiday to Italy.”

“That’s not the point,” said Irene. “He has learned Italian to read it and appreciate the culture.”

“How nice,” said Miss Macfadzean, glancing at her watch. “Such noble people the Italians, sometimes.”

“Yes,” said Irene. “And he’s recently passed Grade six saxophone. Grade six.”

“What an active little boy!” said Miss Macfadzean. “I’m surprised that he finds time to come to playgroup! We’re obviously very lucky to have him.”

“He needs more stimulation,” Irene pressed on. “If you could find the time to work with his reading …”

“Out of the question,” said Miss Macfadzean. “There are all the other children to think about. I’m sorry.” She paused for a moment. “Anyway, I did want to have a word with you about Bertie’s behaviour. He needs to work a bit more on his co-operation with other children. He’s not exactly gifted in that respect. Sometimes there are
incidents
.”

“Incidents?”

“Yes,” went on Miss Macfadzean. “He likes the train set. But he must learn to share it a bit more. He destroyed a rather nice little station set-up that one of the other children had made. He said that he had blown it up. He said it was something to do with politics.”

Irene smiled. “Dear Bertie! That’s the trouble, you see. He’s so much more advanced than the other children. They won’t know anything about politics. They won’t even know the word.”

“No, they won’t,” agreed Miss Macfadzean. “But he shouldn’t really spoil their games. We have to teach them how to live and let live. We have to encourage socialisation.”

“Bertie knows all about socialisation,” said Irene quickly. “The problem is that all the other children are … well, sorry to have to say this, but they’re just not up to him. They won’t understand him. And that means he gets frustrated. You have to see it from his point of view.”

Miss Macfadzean glanced at her watch again. “Perhaps he needs to be left alone a bit more. Perhaps he needs a little more space to be a five-year-old boy. Do you think …?” She tailed off weakly, disconcerted by Irene’s stare.

“Bertie is a very special child,” Irene said quietly. “But not everyone seems to understand that.” She glanced at Miss Macfadzean, who looked away again. It was hopeless, Irene thought; hopeless.

18. The Works of Melanie Klein

The unsatisfactory interview over, Irene walked back to Scotland Street, giving a wide birth to the section of pavement which had been the cause of her downfall. She knew very well what Miss Macfadzean had thought of her; it had been apparent in her every look and in her every insulting remark. She thought that here was another pushy mother – one of those women who thinks that their child is special and is not getting enough attention. That’s what she thought about her, and it was all so wrong, such an unfair judgment. They had never pushed Bertie – not for one moment. Everything that they had done with him had been done because he wanted it. He had asked for a saxophone. He had asked to learn Italian after they had gone to buy sun-dried tomatoes at Valvona and Crolla. They had never pushed him to do any of this.

And what did that woman mean when she talked about the space to be a five-year-old boy? What exactly did that mean? If it meant that they had to deny Bertie’s natural curiosity about the world, then that was outrageous. If a child asked about something, you could hardly deny his request for information.

There are certain difficulties with Christabel Macfadzean, thought Irene. Firstly, she’s a cow. Now, that was putting it simply. But even as she thought this – and it gave her some satisfaction to think in these terms – Irene realised that such thoughts were unworthy of her. That’s how ordinary people thought. She knew that the real difficulty lay in the fact that this woman purported to run an advanced playgroup (the brochure claimed that they adhered to the latest educational principles, whatever those were). In spite of these claims, this woman knew nothing about how children behaved. She had made some sarcastic reference to her
mere
twenty-two years’ experience, but no amount of experience, not even fifty years, could make up for her complete ignorance of Melanie Klein. That was the astonishing thing, in Irene’s view: to claim to be able to look after children and not to have read a page, not one single page, of Melanie Klein. It quite took one’s breath away.

Had Christabel Macfadzean been familiar with the merest snippets of Kleinian theory, she would immediately have understood that when Bertie blew up that other child’s train station, this was purely because he was expressing, in a person-object sense, his fundamental anxieties over the fact that society would never allow him to marry his mother. This was obvious.

It was remarkable, when one came to think of it, that Bertie should behave so like Richard, the boy whom Melanie Klein analysed during the war. Richard had drawn pictures of German aeroplanes swooping in for attack, thus expressing the anxieties he felt about the Second World War, and about his mother. In destroying the train station, Bertie had merely acted out what Richard must have felt. Irene stopped. A remarkable thought had occurred to her. Had Bertie read Klein? He was an avid reader, but probably not, unless, of course, he had been dipping into the books on her shelves … If he had been reading Klein, then he might unconsciously have mirrored Richard’s behaviour
because he realised that his anxieties so closely matched Richard’s.
This, then, was his way of communicating, and it had gone completely unnoticed by the very adult who was meant to be guiding him through these first, delicate steps towards socialisation.

It angered Irene just to think about it, and for a few moments she paused, standing quite still in the middle of the pavement, her eyes closed, battling with her anger. She had been going to the Floatarium recently and she imagined herself back in the tank, lying there in perfect silence. This sort of envisioning always helped.

She would take Bertie to the Floatarium next time and put him in the tank. He would like that, because he had an inter

est in meditation. And he might go to yoga classes too, she thought. He had asked her about yoga recently and she had made enquiries. There was a yoga class for children in Stockbridge on a Monday evening, Bendy Fun for Tots, it was called, and Bertie was always free on a Monday evening. Any other evening would have been difficult, but Monday was fine. She would pencil it in.

19. A Modest Gift

The custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz drew up outside the gallery and Pat stepped out. She waved her thanks to Domenica Macdonald, who waved back, and then drove off down the hill.

Matthew had not yet arrived, but Pat had a key and had been instructed in the operation of the alarm. Scooping up the morning’s mail from the floor, she placed it on the front desk before she went through to the back of the gallery to make herself a cup of coffee.

Matthew had told her to open the mail, which she now did. There was a bill from the electrician for a new light switch which he had installed and an enquiry from a prospective customer who was interested in purchasing a Hornel.
Had they
anything in stock
, he asked, and Pat reflected that an honest answer would be: W
e have no idea
, as they did not know what they had. There could be a Hornel, for all she, or Matthew knew, although it was unlikely. She suspected that there was nothing of any great value in the gallery, although even as she thought that she looked at the painting of Mull/Iona and wondered. How much was a Peploe worth these days? The day before she had paged through a magazine which she had found in the back of the gallery and which had featured the previous year’s auction prices for Scottish art. A large Peploe had gone for ninety thousand pounds, and so if the painting at which she was now staring was indeed a Peploe then it would be worth, what, forty thousand pounds?

The door chime sounded and Pat looked up. It was the man who had called in yesterday – the man in the casual sweater who had examined the painting and pronounced on it with such authority.

He walked over towards the desk.

“I was just passing by and I thought I might take a quick look at one or two other things. I have a birthday present to buy, and that’s terribly difficult, you know. A little painting perhaps – nothing too pricy, but something that will hang on any wall without
shouting
. You know what I mean.”

“Please look around,” said Pat, gesturing at the display on the walls. “You might find something.”

The man smiled and sauntered over to the wall to Pat’s right.

“D.Y. Cameron prints,” he muttered, just loudly enough for her to hear. “Not bad for one’s aunt, but not really suitable for one’s lover. Know what I mean?”

Pat was not sure how to respond; she had an aunt, but no lover, and so she laughed. This made the man turn round and look at her with a raised eyebrow.

“You think otherwise?” he asked.

“No,” said Pat. “I’m sure you’re right.”

He resumed his browsing, now moving over to the wall on which the Peploe imitation hung. He stopped and peered down at it more closely.

“How much are you asking for this … this Saturday afternoon work?”

“Saturday afternoon?”

“It’s when amateurs get their paints out,” he explained. “This person, for example, was probably a retired bank manager from Dumfries or somewhere like that. Painted a bit. Like our friend Mr Vettriano.”

Pat caught her breath. She had seen the comments about Mr Vettriano and she knew that some people had a low opinion of his work, but she did not share these views. She rather liked pictures of people dancing on beaches in formal clothes, with

their
butlers
; she had never seen this happen, of course, but it was always possible. Just.

She reached for the list which Matthew kept in the top drawer. Running her eye down the figures, she came to the appropriate entry.
Scottish school
–
Unknown: initials SP – Some Person? One
hundred and fifty pounds.