to be. And why do you think that is?”
Pat shrugged. “You get a bit more set in your ways? You become more judgmental?”
“And what is wrong with being judgmental?” Domenica asked indignantly. “It drives me mad to hear people say: ‘Don’t be judgmental.’ That’s moral philosophy at the level of an Australian soap opera. If people weren’t judgmental, how could we possibly have a moral viewpoint in society? We wouldn’t have the first clue where we were. All rational discourse about what we should do would grind to a halt. No, whatever you do, don’t fall for that weak-minded nonsense about not being judgmental. Don’t be excessively judgmental, if you like, but always – always – be prepared to make a judgment. Otherwise you’ll go through life not really knowing what you mean.”
Pat was silent. She had not come to see Domenica to discuss developmental psychology. She had come to talk about Bruce, and, specifically, to ask what she should do.
“Very interesting,” she said quietly. “But what should I do?
Do you think I should apologise to Bruce?”
“Nothing to apologise about,” snapped Domenica.
“I feel so sorry for him,” said Pat. “I feel . . .”
“Don’t,” interrupted Domenica. “Be judgmental. He told you a series of lies. And even if he isn’t quite twenty- eight yet, he should know better.”
“More judgmentalism?”
“Absolutely,” said Domenica. “Silly young man. What a waste of space!”
50
– by catching the 23 bus as it laboured up the hill from Canonmills.
“It would be nice to be able to run Bertie to school,” she had remarked to Stuart the previous evening, “but not knowing exactly where the car is makes it somewhat difficult, would you not agree?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Stuart. “You were the last to use it.
You parked it. You find it.”
Irene pursed her lips. “Excuse me,” she said. “I very rarely use that car, and I certainly was not the last one to drive it. You drove it when you went through to Glasgow for that meeting a couple of months ago. Remember? It was that meeting when you bumped into that person who used to live next to your parents in Dunoon. I distinctly remember your telling me that.
And that was the last time the car was used. So you parked it –
not me.”
Stuart was silent. Irene glanced at him with satisfaction. “Try to remember the journey back,” she said. “You would have come in on the Corstorphine Road, would you not, and driven back through Murrayfield? Did you turn off at the West End? Did you come along Queen Street? Try to remember.”
Stuart remained silent, looking up at the ceiling. Then he looked down at the floor.
“Well?” pressed Irene. “Did you come back that way?”
Stuart turned to her. “I came back by train,” he said quietly.
“I remember it because I saw the Minister on the train, eating a banana muffin, and he said hello to me and I was impressed that he had remembered me. I remember thinking how nice it was of him to make the effort. He sees so many civil servants.”
“Yes, yes,” said Irene. “The Minister. Banana muffins. But the car. What about the car?”
“Are you sure that I drove there?” asked Stuart weakly,
51
although he knew the answer even as he asked the question.
Irene would remember exactly; she always did.
For a few moments there was complete silence. Then Irene spoke. “I saw you get into it,” she said. “You waved goodbye and drove off. So what does this mean?”
When Stuart replied his voice was barely audible. “Then it’s still in Glasgow,” he said. He waved a hand in a westerly direction. “Somewhere over there.”
Irene’s tone was icy. “You mean that you have left the car –
our car – in Glasgow? That it’s been there for several months?
And you completely forgot about it?”
“So it would appear,” said Stuart. He sounded wretched. He was in awe of Irene, and he hated to be the object of her scorn.
“I must have caught the train without thinking.”
“Well, that’s just fine, then,” said Irene. “That’s the end of our car. It’ll be stripped bare by now. Or stolen.”
