44 Scotland Street 4ss-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She reached the end of Cumberland Street and decided not to take the more direct route along Circus Lane, but to make Latte Interrupta

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  her way along Circus Place, where she might just treat herself to a latte before the Floatarium. There was a café there she liked, where she could read the papers in comfort and occasionally make a start on one of the more challenging crosswords. Irene had thought of teaching Bertie how to do crosswords, but had decided that his programme was probably a bit too full at the moment. What with his Grade seven music theory examination coming up – Bertie was the youngest Scottish entrant for that examination that the Royal College of Music had ever registered

  – and with his new course of mathematics tutorials, there would be little time to take him through the conventions of crosswords.

  Perhaps he should learn bridge first, although it might be difficult to find partners for a bridge four. Stuart was not keen, and when Irene had raised the possibility of playing the occasional hand with that woman upstairs, that Macdonald woman, she had actually laughed at the thought that Bertie might play.

  There was something odd about that woman, thought Irene.

  She was a type which one often encountered in Edinburgh. A woman with intellectual pretensions and a haughty manner.

  There were so many of them, she reflected; so many.

  35. Latte Interrupta

  It was while she was sitting in the small café in Royal Circus with her generous cup of latte, skimming through the morning newspaper, that Irene’s mobile phone (with its characteristic Stockhausen ring) notified her of the incoming call from the East New Town Nursery. Christabel Macfadzean came right to the point. Would Irene mind coming round to the nursery immediately? Yes, Bertie was perfectly all right, but an incident had nonetheless occurred and it would be necessary to discuss it with her.

  Irene thought that she might finish her latte. It was an imposition to be summoned back to the nursery, and she would 90

  Latte Interrupta

  have to cancel her appointment at the Floatarium. But Christabel Macfadzean would not think of that, of course; in her view, parents had nothing better to do than drop everything and listen to her complaints. Obviously there had been some little spat between Bertie and one of the other children, presumably over that wretched train set. That was no reason to drag her into it.

  If Christabel Macfadzean had bothered to acquaint herself with the works of Melanie Klein, then she would have been in a position to understand these so-called “incidents” and she would not over-react – as Irene was fairly certain she was doing right now.

  Irene’s growing irritation prevented her from enjoying the rest of her coffee. She folded the newspaper and tossed it onto a side table. Then, having exchanged a few brief words with the young woman behind the counter, she began to make her way to the nursery. As she walked, she rehearsed what she would say to Christabel Macfadzean. She was adamant that she would not allow Bertie to be victimised. An incident, as Christabel Macfadzean called them, required two participants, and there was not reason to imagine that Bertie had started it.

  By the time she arrived at the nursery, Irene was ready for whatever conflict lay ahead. So when Christabel Macfadzean’s assistant opened the door and ushered her in, Irene was ready to go on the offensive.

  “I’m surprised that you deemed it necessary to call me,” she said to Christabel when she appeared from behind the water-play table. “I was actually rather busy. This is not really convenient.”

  Christabel Macfadzean dried her hands carefully on a small red towel.

  “There has been an incident,” she said calmly. “It is always my policy to involve the parents when an incident is sufficiently serious. I would be failing in my duty if I did not do so.”

  She looked up and fixed Irene with a firm stare. She knew that this woman would be difficult, but she was looking forward to the encounter with all the pleasure of one who knew that her position was quite unassailable.

  “Incident?” said Irene sharply. “Surely the life of a nursery school is filled with incident. Children are always acting out little Latte Interrupta

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  dramas, aren’t they, as Melanie Klein pointed out. You’re familiar with the works of Melanie Klein, I take it?”

  Christabel Macfadzean closed her eyes for a few moments.

  Ignoring the question, she said: “There are little dramas and big dramas. Then there are incidents. This is an incident which requires parental involvement. We can’t cope here with serious bad behaviour all by ourselves. We have to invoke parental assistance.”

  Irene drew in her breath. “Serious bad behaviour? A little spat over the train set? Do you call that serious bad behaviour? Well, really . . .”

  Christabel Macfadzean interrupted her. “It has nothing to do with the train set – nothing at all.”

  Irene glared at her. “Well, something equally trivial, no doubt.”

  “No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “It’s by no means trivial.”

  This is most enjoyable, she thought. This particular galleon is having the wind taken right out of her sails, and it is a most agreeable experience, for me at least.

  “Well,” said Irene. “Perhaps you would be good enough to let me know what it is. Has Bertie been involved in a fight? Fighting is to be expected of little boys, you know, particularly if they are not adequately supervised . . .”

  This last remark drew an angry snort from Christabel Macfadzean. “I shall pass over that comment,” she said. “I shall assume that I misheard you. No, there has been no fighting.

  What there has been is vandalism.”

  Irene laughed. “Vandalism! Children break things all the time!

  There’s no call for a fuss!”

  “No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “This incident did not involve the breaking of anything. It involved the writing of graffiti. In the toilet – all over one wall – in large letters.”

  “And what makes you assume that it was Bertie?” Irene asked belligerently. “Are you not rather jumping to conclusions?”

  Christabel Macfadzean put down the towel and looked at Irene in triumph. This was a sweet moment for her, and she prolonged it for a few seconds before she answered.

  “Two things compel that conclusion,” she said solemnly.

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  Bertie in Disgrace

  “Firstly, he’s the only one who can write.” She paused, allowing just the right interval to heighten the dramatic effect of her revelation. “And then it happens to be in Italian.”

  36. Bertie in Disgrace

  Irene, somewhat deflated, followed Christabel Macfadzean down the corridor, with its colourful examples of juvenile art pinned on the walls. An open doorway led to a room with a row of tiny washbasins and small stalls, and there, across the facing wall, was the graffiti, in foot-high letters.

  Irene gasped as she saw what Bertie had written. LA MACFADZEAN È UNA VACCA!

  “You see!” said Christabel Macfadzean. “That is what your son has done.”

  Irene nodded. “A very silly thing to do,” she said quickly.

  “But I’m sure that it will wash off easily enough. It’s probably washable marker pen.”

  Christabel Macfadzean bristled. “That’s not the point,” she said. “The real offence lies in the fact that he has written it at all. And, may I ask – since presumably you know Italian – may I ask what it means?”

  Irene blinked. It was going to be extremely difficult to explain.

  The word vacca had two meanings, of course: cow (the common meaning) and woman of ill repute (the rude meaning). She assumed that Bertie had intended the more innocuous of these, but even that one could hardly be admitted. Then an idea came to her, and at a stroke she was rescued.

  “It means La Macfadzean – that’s you, of course – is a . . .

  vacuum cleaner. What a silly, childish thing for him to write, but not insulting, of course.”

  Christ
abel Macfadzean looked puzzled. “A vacuum cleaner?”

  “Yes,” said Irene. “Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s just a piece of childish nonsense. A vacuum cleaner, indeed! Innocent nonsense.

  Bertie in Disgrace

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  Almost a term of endearment. In fact, in Italy it probably is. I shall look it up in the Grande Sansoni.”

  “But why would he call me a vacuum cleaner?”

  Irene frowned. “Do you use a vacuum cleaner here? Have the children seen you vacuuming? Could that be it?”

  “No,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “I never vacuum.”

  “Perhaps you should. Perhaps the children should see you doing these ordinary tasks, dignifying them . . .”

  “Well, may I suggest that we return to the subject of this . . .

  this incident. We cannot tolerate this sort of thing, even if the insult is a piece of childish nonsense. What will the other children think?”

  Irene sighed. “I’m sorry that you’re taking this so seriously,”

  she said. “I thought that all that would be required would be for Bertie to be told not to do this sort of thing. There’s no need to over-react.”

  Christabel Macfadzean turned to Irene. “Over-reaction, did you say? Is it over-reaction to nip juvenile vandalism in the bud?

  Is it over-reaction to object to being called a vacuum cleaner? Is that an over-reaction?”

  “But nobody will have understood it,” said Irene. “If the other children can’t read – nobody yet having taught them – then they won’t have understood. None of the children will know the first thing about it. They’ll assume that the writing is just another notice. No real harm’s been done.”

  Christabel Macfadzean led the way back to the small office that she had at the front of the building. Gesturing for Irene to take the uncomfortable straight-backed chair before her desk, she herself sat down and rested her folded arms on a large white blotter.

  “I very much regret this,” she said evenly, “but I’m going to have to suspend Bertie for a few days. It seems to me that the only way in which we can bring home to him the seriousness of what he has done is to suspend him. It’s the only way.”

  Irene’s eyes opened wide. “Suspension? Bertie? Suspend Bertie?”

  “Yes,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “If he’s as advanced as you 94

  At the Floatarium

  claim he is, then he will need to be punished in an advanced way.

  It’s for his own good.”

  Irene swayed slightly. The idea that Bertie – who was effectively doing the nursery a favour by attending it – the idea that he should be suspended was quite inconceivable. And that this pedestrian woman, with her clearly limited understanding of developmental psychology, should be sitting in judgment on Bertie – why, that was quite intolerable. It would be better to withdraw Bertie, thought Irene, than to leave him here. On the other hand, this nursery was convenient . . .

  Irene closed her eyes and mentally counted from one to ten. Then she opened her eyes again and stared at Christabel Macfadzean. “I was proposing to take him out of nursery for a few days anyway,” she said. “He needs a bit of stimulation, you know, and I thought that I might take him to the museum and the zoo. He doesn’t appear to get much stimulation here, and that, incidentally, may be why he called you a vacuum cleaner.

  It’s his way of signalling his boredom and frustration.”

  “You can call it taking him out of school,” said Christabel Macfadzean. “I’ll call it a suspension.”

  Irene did not wish to continue with the exchange. Fetching Bertie from the corner where he was playing with the train set, she retrieved his jacket and half-marched him out of the room.

  “Bertie,” she said, as they walked back along London Street,

  “Mummy is very, very cross with you for writing that Miss Macfadzean is a cow. You should not have said it. It’s not nice to call somebody a vacca.”

  “You do,” said Bertie.

  37. At the Floatarium

  The curious thought occurred to Irene, as she lay in her supporting Epsom salts solution, that they were both suspended.

  Bertie was suspended from nursery over that ridiculous graffiti At the Floatarium

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  incident, and she was suspended, almost weightless, in her flotation chamber. Her suspension was for no more than an hour, though, whereas Bertie was to be suspended for three days.

  They had walked directly to the Floatarium from the nursery school. Little had been said, but Bertie had been left in no doubt that he was in disgrace. By the time they reached their destination, though, Bertie had been half-forgiven. Indeed, Irene had begun to smile – discreetly – over what had happened. It must have been an act of great self-liberation for him to climb onto one of the little chairs and write that message across the wall. And of course what he had written was accurate; indeed, it showed a real understanding of what was what to write an observation like that.

  He had to learn, though, that some things are best kept to oneself. This was a difficult thing for children to master, she thought, as they were naturally frank. Duplicity and hypocrisy came later, instilled by adults; thus we learn to hide, to say one thing and mean another, to clad ourselves with false colours.

  Irene reflected on these things as she lay in the darkness of the tank. Bertie had been left in the tank room with her, but not in a tank. He was seated on a chair with a colouring book which the proprietor of the Floatarium had thoughtfully provided for him. Of course, this would not be capable of diverting him, and he had rapidly abandoned it in favour of a magazine. Bertie had never seen the sense of colouring things in. Why bother?

  Irene’s mind wandered. It was completely quiet within the tank, and the absence of sensory distraction induced a profound sense of calm. One did not feel confined by the walls of the tank; rather, one felt weightless and without boundary, independent of any physical constraint, freed of the attachment that came with gravity. I could lie here forever, thought Irene, and forget about the world and its trials.

  Her sense of detachment was suddenly interrupted by a knocking on the side of the tank.

  “Bertie?”

  A muffled voice came from outwith. “Irene?”

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  At the Floatarium

  “Yes, I’m here, Bertie. In the tank, as you know. I’m relaxing.

  You can have a little go at the end.”

  “I don’t want to float. I’ll drown.”

  “Nonsense, darling. The specific gravity of the water is such that you can’t sink. You’ll like it.”

  “I hate floating.”

  Irene moved her hands gently in the water, making a slight splashing sound. This was rather irritating. Bertie was ruining the floating experience.

  “Let Mummy float in peace a little longer, Bertie,” she called out. “Then we’ll go and have a latte. You can float some other time, if you want to. Nobody’s forced to float.”

  There was silence for a moment and then a sudden shout that made Irene start.

  “Non mi piace parlare Italiano! ”

  “Bertie?” called out Irene. “What was that you said?”

  “Non mi piace parlare Italiano! Non mi piace il sasofono! No! No!”

  Irene sat up, banging her head on the top of the chamber.

  Pushing open the lid, she looked out, to see Bertie standing defi-antly in the middle of the room, a ripped-up magazine on the floor before him.

  “Bertie!” she exclaimed. “What is this? You’re behaving like a little boy! What on earth is wrong with you?”

  “Non mi piace parlare Italiano!” shouted Bertie again. “I don’t like speaking Italian!”

  Irene climbed out of the chamber and reached for her towel.

  “This is complete nonsense,” she said. “You’re upset – quite understandably – about what happened. That’s all. You’ll feel better once we’ve had a nice latte. Italian’s got nothing to do with it. And I can’t under
stand why you should say you don’t like the saxophone. You love your saxophone.”

  “No! No! ” shouted Bertie, stamping his feet on the ground.

  His face was red with rage now, and his fists were clenching and unclenching.

  “Bertie, just calm down,” said Irene. “If you want to talk, we can do so over latte. You mustn’t make a noise here in the Floatarium. There are other people floating.”

  At the Floatarium

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  “I hope they sink!” shouted Bertie.

  Irene took a deep breath. “That’s a very, very nasty thing to say. What if somebody did sink? How would you feel then? You’d feel very bad, wouldn’t you?”

  Bertie did not reply. He was looking down at the ground now, and Irene noticed that his shoulders were heaving. Bertie was sobbing, but in silence.

  She reached forward and embraced him, hugging the little boy to her.

  “You’ll feel better soon, Bertie,” she said. “That smelly nursery must be very boring for you. We’ll send you somewhere better. Perhaps St Mary’s Music School. You like their Saturday mornings, don’t you? There are some nice boys and girls there.

  And you might even get into the choir and dress up, like the rest of the Episcopalians. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “No,” sobbed Bertie. “No.”

  38. Mother/Daughter Issues

  Barely a mile from the Floatarium, where Bertie was protesting, Sasha Todd, wife of Raeburn Todd ,was sitting down for morning coffee with her daughter, Lizzie. Sasha had chosen Jenners’