Espresso Tales

on the day of her mother’s funeral and chose to wear a flamboyant pair of red boots for the occasion!

All of this would come out, of course, but Irene thought this was not the point. The real point was this: Melanie Klein was not a nice person because nobody’s nice. That was the very essence of the Kleinian view. Whatever exterior was presented to the world, underneath that we are all profoundly unpleasant, precisely because we are tormented by Kleinian urges.

It was these complex thoughts that were in the forefront of 212 Bertie’s Invitation Is Considered Irene’s mind when she collected Bertie that afternoon and brought him back to Scotland Street. Bertie seemed silent on the 23 bus as they made their way home, and this silence continued as they walked back along Cumberland Street and round the corner into Drummond Place. Irene, however, still busy thinking about Kleinian matters, did not notice this and only became aware of the fact that something was on Bertie’s mind when he came to her in her study and presented her with the crumpled piece of card that he had extracted from the pocket of his dungarees.

“What’s this, Bertie?” said Irene, as she took the invitation from him.

“I’ve been invited to a party,” Bertie said. “My friend, Tofu, has asked me.”

Irene looked at the invitation. There was an expression of faint distaste on her face.

“Tofu?”

“Yes,” said Bertie. “He’s a boy in my class. You spoke to his daddy once. He’s the one who wrote that strange book. Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely,” said Irene. “But what’s this about Fountainbridge and bowling? What’s that got to do with a birthday party?”

“Tofu’s daddy will take us bowling,” said Bertie, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice. “It’ll be Merlin, Hiawatha, Tofu and me. He’s taking us bowling to celebrate Tofu’s birthday.”

He paused, and then added: “It’s a treat, you see. Bowling’s fun.”

“It may be considered fun by some,” said Irene sharply. “But I’m not sure whether hanging about bowling places is the sort of thing that six-year-old boys should be doing. We have no idea what sort of people will be there. Not very salubrious people, if you ask me. And people will be smoking, no doubt, and drinking too.”

Bertie’s voice was small. “I won’t be drinking and smoking, Mummy. I promise. Nor will the other boys.”

Irene thought for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Sorry, Bertie, but no. It’s for Saturday, I see, and that means that you Stuart Intervenes

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would miss both Saturday yoga and your saxophone lesson with Lewis Morrison. You know that Mr Morrison is very impressed with your progress. You mustn’t miss your lessons.”

“But Mr Morrison’s a kind man,” said Bertie. “He won’t mind if I have my lesson some other time.”

“That’s not the point,” said Irene. “It’s a question of commitment – and priorities. If you start going off to these things every Saturday then you’ll end up missing far too much of the enriching things we’ve arranged for you. Surely you understand that, Bertie? Mummy’s not being unkind here. She’s thinking of you.”

Bertie swallowed. Unknown to his mother, he was experiencing a Kleinian moment. He was imagining a bowling alley

– probably the Fountainbridge one – with a set of skittles at the far end. And every skittle was painted to represent his mother!

And Bertie, a large bowling ball in his small hand, was taking a run and letting go of the ball, and the ball rolled forward and was heading straight for the set of Irenes at the end of the alley and – BANG! – the ball knocked all the skittles over, every one of them, right out, into the Kleinian darkness.

65. Stuart Intervenes

When Stuart returned that evening from his office in the Scottish Executive (which Irene, provocatively, referred to as

“the wee government”), he found Bertie in his bedroom, sitting at the end of his bed, greeting copiously. Dropping his brief-case, he rushed forward to his son and put an arm around the boy’s shoulder.

An inquiry soon revealed the reason for Bertie’s state of distress.

“I’ve been invited to a party,” Bertie sobbed. “It’s my friend Tofu’s party.”

Stuart was puzzled. “But why cry over that?” he asked. “Surely that’s a nice thing – to be invited to a party?”

214 Stuart Intervenes

“Mummy says I can’t go,” said Bertie. “She says that there’ll be smoking and drinking.”

Stuart’s eyes widened. “At Tofu’s party? What age is this Tofu?

Twenty-four?”

Bertie shook his head. “He’s six at the moment,” he said. “But he’ll be seven soon.”

“Then surely there won’t be any drinking and smoking,” he said. “Do you think that Mummy has got things mixed up?”

Bertie thought for a moment. His mother certainly did have everything mixed up, in his view, but not necessarily in relation to the party. It was more a case of her Weltanschauung being mixed up (in Bertie’s view).

“It’s going to be a bowling party, Daddy,” Bertie explained, his voice still thick with tears. “At a place called Fountainbridge.

She says that there will be people there who will be drinking and smoking.”