Unbearable Lightness of Scones

38. Stuart Is Stupefied

How did all that go?” asked Stuart when he came home that evening. Irene, who was standing in the kitchen looking pensively out of the window, rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Not a conspicuous success,” she said. “As you know, Bertie had two guests this afternoon.”

“That’s nice for him,” said Stuart. “I’ve always thought that he needed a few more friends.”

Irene looked at her husband disapprovingly. The trouble with Stuart, she thought, was that he had an outdated, possibly even reactionary vision of childhood. Childhood was no longer simply play and picnics; childhood was a vital time for potential self-enhancement, a time when one could develop those talents that would stand one in good stead in adult life. She had explained this to Stuart many times before, but he seemed incapable of grasping it. “Friends are not the issue,” she said. “Bertie gets plenty of opportunities for social interaction, both in the home, with you and me, and in the classroom, with his classmates. The issue with friends is not how many, but who.”

“Well, he seems happy enough with Tofu’s company,” said Stuart. “He seems a pleasant enough boy – in his way.”

Irene sighed. Stuart did not get it; he did not get this, and there were many other things that he did not get. Now she adopted the tone of voice that she used when explaining the obvious either to Bertie or to her husband, an ex cathedra tone redolent of the more condescending type of politician trying to avoid responsibility for some failure or other. “Tofu is completely unsuitable,” she intoned. “There is simply too much unresolved psychopathology there. He has a passive-aggressive personality, as you may or may not have noticed. He’s the worst possible influence on Bertie.”

“I was just making an observation,” Stuart said meekly. “That’s all.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very perceptive one,” snapped Irene. “I don’t know, I really don’t. Bertie seems to be doing so well with Dr. Fairbairn and now…”

Stuart raised an eyebrow. “Problems?”

Irene spoke carefully. She sounded insouciant – perhaps excessively so. “I meant to tell you. Hugo is going to Aberdeen. Very soon. Bertie has one more session and then that will be that.”

Stuart seemed relieved to hear the news. “Well, he’s had a long time with the good doctor. And I think he’s a bit fed up with going along there. He’ll be pretty pleased to hear the news.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, “is the very last thing I had in mind. Interruptions in therapy are extremely counter-productive. We must try and arrange as smooth a transition as possible.”

“You mean…”

“Yes. Hugo is handing his practice on to a new therapist. A highly thought-of Australian, I gather. He’ll be fully briefed by Hugo. Bertie will be in safe hands.”

Stuart stood in silence, looking out of the window. He was remembering his conversation with Bertie in Dundas Street, the conversation in which the issue of joining the cub scouts had been raised. Did Irene know about this, he wondered; and, if not, should he raise it with her?

He turned away from the window to face Irene. “Perhaps we should ask Bertie what he wants,” he said. “He’s old enough now to have views.”

“I know very well what Bertie wants,” said Irene coldly. “I spend a lot of time with him, you know.”

Stuart was not sure if there was an element of censure in this last remark. Perhaps I am a failure as a father, he thought. But I don’t seem to get a look-in. She decides, all the time. I try, but she decides.

He took a deep breath. “So what does he want then?” he asked.

She had not heard him. “What?”

He repeated the question, louder now. “What does Bertie want? You said that you knew what his views were. Well, what does he want?”

Irene opened her hands; a gesture to be made when answering the obvious. “He wants to… He wants to learn Italian. He wants to go to yoga. And I suspect that underneath it all he enjoys his psychotherapy sessions. And, oh, he wants to have a train set. Which he’ll get one of these days.”

“No,” said Stuart. “He does not like learning Italian. He hates yoga. And he endures psychotherapy because he has no alternative.”

Irene looked down at the floor. This would pass. But Stuart was warming to his theme now. “And as for what he actually wants to do,” he went on, “Bertie confided in me that he wants to join the cub scouts.”

Irene gave a cry of triumph. “Oh, I know all about that,” she said. “That came up this afternoon. Our little friend Tofu announced over tea that he wanted Bertie to join a club with him. So I asked what it was and was told that it was the Young Liberal Democrats! Can you believe it? So a bit of probing and the whole thing collapsed and it emerged it was some cub scout pack in Morningside and that the Young Liberal Democrats was Tofu’s idea of what I might approve of. Isn’t that rich?”

As Stuart listened, he felt his sorrow grow. Sorrow. Sorrow that the boys had felt they had to come up with such a ridiculous invention. Sorrow that Irene could not see what was so obvious.

“But he must join,” he said. “It’s a wonderful organisation. It’s exactly what he needs.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “The matter’s closed,” she said. “I’m not having Bertie joining any paramilitary organisations. And I’ve told him that.”

Stuart let out an involuntary gasp. “Paramilitary organisation? Are you aware… even vaguely aware of what scouting is all about?”

“Self-confessed male bonding,” Irene snapped. “Reinforcement of primitive male rituals. It starts with the cub scouts and ends with… ends with Muirfield Golf Club. Is that what you want for our son, Stuart? Is it?”

Stuart said nothing. For a moment he looked at Irene in blank amazement, and then he walked smartly to the kitchen door and called down the hall. “Bertie! Come along here, my boy. I want to talk to you about the cub scouts and when we can get you started.”

“Stuart!”

“Shut your face.”