She did not complete her sentence. Her heel, caught in a rather larger than usual crack, became stuck and she fell forwards, landing heavily on the pavement. Her foot, wrenched out of its shoe, twisted sharply and she felt a sudden pain in her ankle.
Bertie stood quite still. Then he looked up at the sky and waited for a moment. If there was to be further retribution, perhaps it would be from that quarter. But nothing came, and he felt safe enough to bend down and take his mother’s hand.
“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 44
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.
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 –
“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 . . .”
45
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
– 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.”
46
