Stuart attempted to defend himself. “I’m sure that I parked it legally,” he said. “Which means that it’s probably still there.
Perhaps the battery will be flat, but that may be all.”
Irene failed to respond to his optimism. “When you say it will still be there,” she said evenly, “what exactly do you mean by there? Where precisely is there?”
“Glasgow,” said Stuart.
“Where in Glasgow? Glasgow’s a big city.”
“Near the Dumbarton Road,” said Stuart. “Somewhere . . .
somewhere there. That’s where my meeting was. Just off the Dumbarton Road.”
“Well, I suggest that you go and find it as soon as possible,”
said Irene, adding: “If you can.”
Stuart nodded miserably. He would go through to Glasgow next weekend, by train, and take a taxi out to the Dumbarton Road. He had a vague recollection of where he might have parked, in a quiet cul-de-sac, and there was no reason why the car should not still be there. People left their cars for months at the roadside, and the cars survived. It was different, of course, if one had a fashionable or tempting car, like the car that Domenica Macdonald drove – that sort of car would be bound 52
to attract the attention of joy-riders or vandals – but their car, an old Volvo estate, would be unlikely to catch anybody’s eye.
And then it occurred to him that when he made the trip over to Glasgow, he would take Bertie with him. He would take him away from whatever classes Irene had planned for him – Saturday was saxophone in the morning, if he remembered correctly, and junior life-drawing in the afternoon – and he would take him with him on the train. Bertie would love that. He had hardly ever been on a train before, Stuart realised, and yet that was exactly the sort of thing that a father should do with his son. He felt a momentary pang. I’ve been a bad father, he thought. I’ve left the fathering to Irene. I’ve failed my son.
No more was said about the car that evening and the next morning Irene was too busy getting Bertie ready for school to talk to Stuart about cars, or anything else. She had awoken Bertie early and dressed him in his best OshKosh dungarees.
“Such smart dungarees,” said Irene.
Bertie looked doubtful. “Do other boys wear them?” he asked.
“Dungarees? Of course they do,” Irene reassured him. “Go down to Stockbridge and see all those boys in dungarees.”
“But theirs aren’t pink.”
“Nor are yours, Bertie,” scolded Irene. “These are crushed strawberry. They are not pink.” She looked at her watch. “And we don’t have the time to sit around and talk about dungarees.
Look at the time. You’re going to have to get used to being in time for school. It’s not like . . .”
She was about to say “nursery school”, but stopped herself.
In time, Bertie would forget about nursery school and the ignominy of his suspension. His psychotherapy would help –
she knew that – but ultimately it was time, simple, old-fashioned time that was the healer.
They ate a quick breakfast and set off for Dundas Street.
Irene noticed that Bertie avoided treading on the lines in the pavement, and sighed. There were definite signs of neurosis there, she thought; Dr Fairbairn must be informed. As she thought this, she pictured Dr Fairbairn in his consulting room,
53
wearing that rather natty jacket that he liked to wear. He was such a sympathetic man, and so attuned to the feelings of others, just as one could expect. It would be wonderful to be married to a man like that, rather than to a statistician in the Scottish Executive. She glanced down at Bertie, as if afraid that he might read her disloyal thoughts, and he looked up at her.
“It’s all right, Mummy,” he said quietly. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Sitting at his new desk, with his name printed out in large letters in front of him, Bertie stared at his new classmates. There were fifteen of them, eight boys and seven girls, none of whom he knew. He at least had the advantage over them; he could read the names of all the others, whereas most of them could not.
He looked at the placards: Luke, Marcus, Merlin, Tofu, Larch, Christoph, Hiawatha and Kim (boys); and Jocasta, Angel, Lakshmi, Skye, Pansy, Jade and Olive (girls).
He looked in vain for Jock, the boy he had met at his inter-view and whom he wanted so much to be his friend, but there was no sign of him. So he had gone to Watson’s, Bertie concluded; it was just as I thought. Jock would be at Watson’s that very morning, playing rugby perhaps, rather than sitting in a circle with Tofu and the rest.
There was a short talk from Miss Harmony, the teacher, a tall woman with an encouraging smile, who explained what fun going to school was. They would learn so much, she said, and enjoy themselves in the process. There would be music, too, and they would shortly start on the recorder.
“It’s like a whistle,” said the teacher. “You blow it and –
– out comes some music. Such fun!”
