“Dungarees!” the other boy said contemptuously. “Or are they pyjamas?”
“It’s not my fault,” said Bertie. “It’s my mother.”
Tofu looked at him and sneered. “Dungarees are good for falling over in,” he said suddenly. “Like this.” And with that he gave Bertie a push, causing him to fall to the ground. There was laughter, and Tofu walked off.
Bertie picked himself up off the ground and dusted his dungarees. There was a large brown patch on one of the knees. As he attended to this, he became aware of the fact that a girl was standing beside him. It was Olive.
“Poor Bertie,” she said. “It’s not your fault that you look so silly. It really isn’t. And that Tofu is a horrid boy. Everybody knows he’s horrid.” She paused. “But I suppose we should feel sorry for him.”
“Why?” asked Bertie. “Why should we feel sorry for him?”
“Because he doesn’t have a mummy,” explained Olive. “She was a vegan and she starved to death. My dad told me all about it.”
Bertie was horrified. “And what about his daddy?” he asked.
“Has he got a daddy?”
“Yes,” said Olive. “But he’s a vegan too, so he won’t last long either.”
“And Tofu himself ? ” whispered Bertie.
“He’s very hungry,” Olive replied. “We were at nursery together, and I saw him stealing ham sandwiches from the others’
lunch boxes. Yes, he’s very hungry. In fact, he’s not going to last too long himself. So cheer up, Bertie! Cheer up!”
For the first few days, they went home early. Irene was there at the school gate, in good time, along with all the other parents, waiting for the children to be released. She looked
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about her, seeing whether she recognised anybody: she knew that the parents of the other children would see a lot of one another over the years ahead, and she was interested to find out what they were like. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, although there was one woman whom she had met somewhere or other and who nodded in her direction. Where had it been?
Yoga? The floatarium? Edinburgh was like that; there were so many familiar faces but they were often difficult to place exactly.
Her gaze moved discreetly over the other parental faces. They were much as she expected; ordinary, reasonable people, just like herself. Irene felt comfortable.
“Warm, isn’t it?” said a voice just behind her.
She turned and looked at the speaker. He was a tall man, with a rather thin face, and dark hair swept back over his head.
He was wearing a pair of bottle-green slacks and a thin, denim jacket.
“I’m Barnabas Miller,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m Tofu’s father. And you’re . . .”
“Bertie’s mother,” said Irene. And then, laughing, she added:
“I have a name as well, I suppose. Irene Pollock.”
Barnabas nodded. “No doubt we’ll all meet at the parents’
evenings,” he said. “They’re very good with that sort of occasion. This is a very happy school.”
“Yes,” said Irene. “No doubt we will.” She paused. “And Tofu
– it was Tofu, wasn’t it? – was he at nursery here?”
“Yes,” said Barnabas. “We took him out for a while – minor behavioural issues – and then he went back. He’s a very expressive child. I looked after him at home while I was writing my book. My wife is often away. She lectures on diet.”
(Note:
Irene was interested. “Your book? What do you write?”
“I’ve just had a new one come out,” said Barnabas. “
“Sorry,” said Irene. “What is it? Fiction?”
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Barnabas shook his head. “No. It’s a holistic nutrition book.
It examines the proposition that nuts have energy fields – and some form of morphic resonance. You’ll have heard of Rupert Sheldrake, I take it?”
Irene had, but only just. “The man who wrote
“Yes,” said Barnabas. “He’s the one who pointed out that there are resonant energy fields that contain
