sufficiently serious. I would be failing in my duty if I did not do so.”
She looked up and fixed Irene with a firm stare. She knew that this woman would be difficult, but she was looking forward to the encounter with all the pleasure of one who knew that her position was quite unassailable.
“Incident?” said Irene sharply. “Surely the life of a nursery school is filled with incident. Children are always acting out little
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dramas, aren’t they, as Melanie Klein pointed out. You’re familiar with the works of Melanie Klein, I take it?”
Christabel Macfadzean closed her eyes for a few moments.
Ignoring the question, she said: “There are little dramas and big dramas. Then there are incidents. This is an incident which requires parental involvement. We can’t cope here with serious bad behaviour all by ourselves. We have to invoke parental assistance.”
Irene drew in her breath. “Serious bad behaviour? A little spat over the train set? Do you call that serious bad behaviour? Well, really . . .”
Christabel Macfadzean interrupted her. “It has nothing to do with the train set – nothing at all.”
Irene glared at her. “Well, something equally trivial, no doubt.”
“No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “It’s by no means trivial.”
This is most enjoyable, she thought. This particular galleon is having the wind taken right out of her sails, and it is a most agreeable experience, for me at least.
“Well,” said Irene. “Perhaps you would be good enough to let me know what it is. Has Bertie been involved in a fight? Fighting is to be expected of little boys, you know, particularly if they are not adequately supervised . . .”
This last remark drew an angry snort from Christabel Macfadzean. “I shall pass over that comment,” she said. “I shall assume that I misheard you. No, there has been no fighting.
What there has been is vandalism.”
Irene laughed. “Vandalism! Children break things all the time!
There’s no call for a fuss!”
“No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “This incident did not involve the breaking of anything. It involved the writing of graffiti. In the toilet – all over one wall – in large letters.”
“And what makes you assume that it was Bertie?” Irene asked belligerently. “Are you not rather jumping to conclusions?”
Christabel Macfadzean put down the towel and looked at Irene in triumph. This was a sweet moment for her, and she prolonged it for a few seconds before she answered.
“Two things compel that conclusion,” she said solemnly.
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“Firstly, he’s the only one who can write.” She paused, allowing just the right interval to heighten the dramatic effect of her revelation. “And then it happens to be in Italian.”
Irene, somewhat deflated, followed Christabel Macfadzean down the corridor, with its colourful examples of juvenile art pinned on the walls. An open doorway led to a room with a row of tiny washbasins and small stalls, and there, across the facing wall, was the graffiti, in foot-high letters.
Irene gasped as she saw what Bertie had written. LA MACFADZEAN E UNA VACCA!
“You see!” said Christabel Macfadzean. “That is what your son has done.”
Irene nodded. “A very silly thing to do,” she said quickly.
“But I’m sure that it will wash off easily enough. It’s probably washable marker pen.”
Christabel Macfadzean bristled. “That’s not the point,” she said. “The real offence lies in the fact that he has written it at all. And, may I ask – since presumably you know Italian – may I ask what it means?”
Irene blinked. It was going to be extremely difficult to explain.
The word
“It means
Christabel Macfadzean looked puzzled. “A vacuum cleaner?”
“Yes,” said Irene. “Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s just a piece of childish nonsense. A vacuum cleaner, indeed! Innocent nonsense.
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Almost a term of endearment. In fact, in Italy it probably is. I shall look it up in the
“But why would he call me a vacuum cleaner?”
