The friend had nodded her agreement. “Thank heavens for that,” she said. “Those people are so earnest. So self-consciously serious. All trying to outdo one another in the depth of their comments. It’s quite funny when you come to think of it.”
This conversation had taken place in the Pollocks’ flat in Scotland Street and had been overheard by Stuart. He wondered what was wrong with book groups, which he thought were a rather good idea. Indeed, Stuart would have liked to have been in a book group himself and had almost joined one organised by a colleague in the office – a book group for men – but Irene had poured cold water on the idea.
“Join it if you wish,” she had said disparagingly. “But it’s sad, don’t you think? Rather sad to think of these middle-class men all sitting around talking about some novel they’ve tried to finish in time for the meeting.”
Stuart had said nothing. He had never understood Irene’s prejudice against people whom she called middle- class; indeed, he had never comprehended why the term middle-class should be considered a term of abuse. To begin with, he thought that they themselves were middle-class; not that he dared say that to his wife, but surely it was true. In income terms, they were about the middle, and they lived in a street where just about everybody else was in roughly the same position. And Edinburgh, of course, was itself mostly middle-class, whatever some people liked to think. As a statistician, Stuart knew the figures: 60 per cent of the population of the city was in highly skilled jobs and was therefore middle-class. So why should Irene speak so scornfully about the middle-class when the middle-class was all about 206
. . . just as it would if you took away the people who did the hard, thankless jobs, the manual work that was just as important in keeping things going. That, thought Stuart, was why class talk was so utterly pointless: everybody counted.
And now, overhearing this attack on book groups, Stuart pondered this again. It might be true that middle-class ladies belonged to book groups, but what was wrong with that? It seemed to him to be an entirely reasonable and interesting thing to do. It was fun to discuss books with others – to share the pleasure of reading – and one might learn from the views of one’s fellow members, even if they were middle-class.
Irene was an enigma to him. He admired her, and there was a bit of him that loved her – just – but he could not understand her contempt for others and her desire to be something that she was not. Stuart was a reasonable person, who saw the good and the bad in others without reference to where they stood politically. He would read any newspaper he found lying about in the office and find something of interest in it. And if he did not agree with what was written, he would nonetheless reflect on the arguments put forward and weigh them up. Irene did not do that. There was one newspaper she read, and one alone, and she would barely look at anything else.
On occasion, Stuart came back from the office with another paper, and this would trigger a firm response from Irene.
“Stuart, I don’t think it’s wise to bring the
Stuart had shrugged. “He’s got to learn what the world’s like sooner or later,” he said. He wondered if he should add: “He’s got to learn that there are Conservatives . . .” but a look from Irene discouraged him.
“That, if I may say so,” she said, “is utterly and completely irresponsible. Do you want his mind to be poisoned? It’ll be the
That argument had not gone any further, for Stuart had capit-ulated, as he always seemed to do, and had agreed that inappropriate newspapers would not be brought into the house in the future. But, as they set off on their walk that Saturday morning, he thought about it and wondered why he had not defended freedom of thought.
“Where are we going?” asked Bertie, as Stuart and Irene jointly manipulated Ulysses’s baby buggy down the common stair to the front door.
“Valvona & Crolla,” replied Irene. “It’ll be a nice walk.” Bertie was pleased to hear this. He liked the delicatessen, with its high shelves of Italian produce. For the most part, they bought olive oil there and sun-dried tomatoes and packets of pasta. But there were other delights there too, such as Panforte di Siena, and Bertie, with all his soul, loved Panforte di Siena.
“There’s our car!” he exclaimed. “Look, Daddy. There it is.”
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“So I see, Bertie,” said Stuart. “That’s where Mummy must have parked it.”
Irene reacted sharply. “I beg your pardon. You parked it there, Stuart. I very rarely park in this street.”
Stuart looked down at the pavement. He was sure that he had not parked the car there, but he understood that there was no point in arguing about it. Irene seemed to win any argument that they had, particularly in relation to their car, often by the simple technique of staring at Stuart until he became silent. It was a powerful method of overcoming opposition, and Stuart had come across one or two politicians who used it to great effect. These were generally the same ones who refused to answer any questions, usually by giving a response which bore no relation to the actual question which was asked.
In fact, when he came to think of it, Irene would make a good politician – but for which party? Would Jack McConnell have her in the Labour Party, he wondered, or would she simply stare at him until he became uncomfortable? Irene would not join the Conservatives, and they, quite understandably, would not want her. Which left the Liberal Democrats, the Scottish National Party, and the Greens. The Greens! There was an idea. Stuart knew Robin Harper, their leader, and liked him, but wondered if even Robin Harper, the leader of the Greens, could continue to smile if he found himself faced with Irene.
No, Irene should perhaps remain out of politics after all.
“Well, at least we know where our car is,” said Bertie. “That’s something.”
They continued down London Street, with Bertie throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder at the car.
