44 Scotland Street

protection from the pressures of the world. Parents who push their children too hard intrude on that little bit of space. And of course they make their children massively anxious. You weren’t pushed by your parents, were you?”

Pat shook her head. “Not at all. I was encouraged, but not pushed.”

“There’s a big difference,” said Domenica. “And I could tell

560 SEC

41

that you weren’t pushed. You’re too calm and sensible. You seem to be a very balanced person to me. Not that I know you terribly well. In fact, I don’t know you at all. But one gets that feeling about you.”

Pat felt vaguely embarrassed by this conversation, and was about to change the subject, but they had by now reached the front door and Domenica had disengaged her arm.

“You’re on your way to work?”

“Yes,” said Pat.

“I could give you a lift,” Domenica offered. “My car is right there in the street. It would be no trouble.”

“Work is just round the corner,” said Pat. “It’s kind of you, though.”

Domenica paid no attention to this refusal. “That’s it over there,” she said. “That custard-coloured Mercedes- Benz 560

SEC. That’s my car.”

Pat stared at the car which was being pointed out by Domenica.

It was a sleek-looking coupe with gleaming silver hub caps and a proud Mercedes circle worked into the grille. “It’s a very beautiful car,” she said. “A lovely car.”

“It’s a dream to drive,” said Domenica. “It has a double kick-down feature. You press your foot right down and it shifts the automatic gear-box down, twice, if you need it. And the power! The engine capacity is five point six litres, which gives it the power of five Minis!”

“Five Minis!” exclaimed Pat.

“Yes!” said Domenica. “Five Minis! Now come, my dear, let’s get in it!”

16. Irrational Beliefs and the Mind of the Child Bertie and his mother came out of the front door of 44 Scotland Street just after Domenica and Pat had strapped themselves into the front seats of the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz. Neither couple noticed one another: Domenica was busy with the starting of the engine, while Pat was looking with admiration at the plush off-custard leather upholstery and the polished walnut dashboard. For their part, the two members of the Pollock family, young Bertie, aged five, and his mother, Irene, aged thirty-four, were concerned about getting to the East New Town Nursery in good time. For Bertie, an early arrival was important if he was to secure the train set before other boys, with lesser moral entitlements, claimed it; for Irene, an early arrival meant that she could speak to the supervisor, Miss Christabel Macfadzean, before she became too distracted by children and parents to give her any attention. There were several matters which she wished to raise with her, and it was no good writing to her as she never gave anything more than a brief acknowledgment of the note.

Irene did not like Christabel Macfadzean, even if she had to admit grudgingly that the teacher had a few good points – she was conscientious enough, and the children seemed quite attached to her. The trouble was, though, that she did not appear to realise just how gifted Bertie was and how much extra stimulation and attention he needed. This was not to say that other children did not have their needs – of course they did – it’s just that Bertie’s needs were special. The other children could not read, for instance, while Bertie read English well and was making good progress with Italian. He had a well-used Italian children’s book, L’Avventure del Piccolo Roberto which he could now read in its entirety, and he had moved on to an Italian translation of Max und Moritz (not something with which Irene saw eye to eye ideologically, but it was better, she decided, than the Struwwelpeter with its awful cruelties).

As they walked through Drummond Place, Bertie held onto his mother’s hand and desperately tried to avoid stepping on any of the cracks in the pavement.

Irrational Beliefs and the Mind of the Child 43

“Do come along, Bertie,” said Irene. “Mummy has not got all day. And why are you walking in that silly way?”

“Cracks,” said Bertie. “If I step on the cracks, then they’ll get me. E vero.”

“What nonsense!” she said. “Non e vero! And who are they anyway? The CIA?”

“Bears . . .” Bertie began, and then stopped. “The CIA? Do they get you too?”

“Of course they don’t,” said Irene. “Nobody gets you.”

They walked on in silence. Then Bertie said: “Who are the CIA? Where do they live?”

“The CIA are American spies,” said Irene. “They watch people, I suppose.”

“Are they watching us?”

“Of course not. And they don’t mind if you step on the cracks.

Plenty of people step on the cracks and get away with it.”

Bertie thought for a moment. “Some people get away with it?

And other people? What happens to them?”

“Nothing,” said Irene. “Nothing happens to anybody if they step on the cracks. Look, I’m stepping on the cracks, and nothing is happening to me. Look. Another crack, right in the middle, and nothing . . .”