A suitable education

Now, having settled Ulysses for the night and having read a chapter of The Thirty-nine Steps to Bertie, who was always allowed a further half hour of private reading before lights-out, precious minutes that made him feel so adult, Nicola went into the kitchen, where she found Stuart browsing through a men’s clothing catalogue.

“It’s all about blue this year,” he said, pointing to a picture in the catalogue. “Listen,” he said, “Blue is the new you. That’s what this says. And then: Blue is so much more than a mere colour – blue is a statement.” He looked up from the catalogue. “And then they have a picture of a man in blue – making a statement, I suppose.”

“That he likes blue?”

Nicola was dismissive. “That’s the obvious inference. Mind you, I have no interest in whether or not I’m wearing this year’s colours.”

“No,” agreed Stuart, tossing aside the catalogue. “Nor do I. I’ll wear … Well, the usual things.”

Nicola looked at her son. “There’s nothing wrong with your clothes, Stuart. They’re a bit …” She searched for a tactful adjective. “Functional, perhaps. Of course, clothes should be functional. There are always those poor souls who have wardrobe malfunctions – a wonderful euphemism for one’s clothes falling off or suddenly becoming too revealing.”

“I’ve been thinking of getting a new sweater,” said Stuart.

“Perhaps you should.”

“I was thinking of blue …”

Nicola smiled. “If it’s you, why not?” “And I might get Bertie some new clothes too. He still has those trousers that Irene bought him. Those pink ones. He seems resigned to them, but I know he doesn’t like them.”

“I’ll take him into town tomorrow,” said Nicola. “I’ll get him a pair of jeans. Denim.”

Stuart looked doubtful. “Irene was very anti-denim.”

Nicola waited, but he did not explain. Of course, it would be obvious, if one thought about it, why Irene would not like denim. Denim was faux workwear for the bourgeoisie, who wore it ironically. But what about corduroy – a reactionary material, surely, in Irene’s book: corde du roi – its etymology gave it away. It was the sort of material even a monarchist might embrace.

“So, get him some denim jeans,” said Stuart. “I’m sure he’d love a pair.”

Irene nodded. She would get Ulysses something too – perhaps a red bandana to tie round his neck. She had seen a baby wearing a red bandana a few days ago and had thought it very fetching.

But there were other matters she wanted to talk to Stuart about, and now she raised them. “You may recall, Stuart,” she began, “that we talked about Bertie’s education.”

Stuart gazed out of the window. I have not been a good father, he thought. I gave up, and left it to Irene. I’ve been weak.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked.

Nicola frowned. “Do you not want to talk about this?”

He took a deep breath. The days of being weak are over. Irene is in Aberdeen; I’m here. I can get into the water – it’s safe.

“No, I would like to talk about it. But sometimes a glass of wine helps.”

She agreed, and Stuart poured a glass of for each of them.

“You know, said Nicola, raising her glass to her lips, “whenever I drink red wine, I think of Abril. I can’t help it. It’s a seemingly inescapable association. I see Abril. I hear him going on about his wine. I used to doze off sometimes when he started to talk about fermentation tanks and so on.”

Nicola had been married – it was her second marriage, after she had been widowed – to a Portuguese wine producer, Abril Tamares de Lumares, who had left her for his housekeeper, on the alleged instructions of the Virgin Mary. Ever since then, she had had a poor opinion of both the Portuguese wine trade and the Virgin Mary.

“You need to get over Abril,” said Stuart. “I never liked him. Not that I really knew him, but still.”

“The Cinderella syndrome,” said Nicola. “Stepmothers are never liked – I imagine there is a counterpart for antipathy towards stepfathers.”

“Possibly. I found him a bit …” Stuart hesitated. He did not want to offend his mother, and he had rarely talked about his feelings for Abril, who had married Nicola well after Stuart had become an adult and who therefore had played no part in his life. Of course, he had taken his mother away – to Portugal – and that might be a cause for resentment; but there was no point, Stuart thought, in exploring feelings that were now so firmly consigned to the past.

“You found him a bit what?” prompted Nicola.

Stuart swallowed. He might as well be honest; as his mother, Nicola had an uncanny ability to discern what he was really feeling: mothers, he thought, see through their sons. The sons don’t notice it, but they could never fool their mothers.

“I found him a bit greasy,” said Stuart, apologetically.

Nicola gave him an intense look. “Which of course he wasn’t really,” said Stuart hurriedly.

“But he was,” said Nicola. “He used to leave greasy stains on the back of the chairs, where his head touched the fabric.

“And his nose was quite greasy too. If he peered through a window, he would leave a grease mark on it. You could always tell if Abril has been pressing his nose to the glass.”

“Was it dietary?” asked Stuart. “What do the Portuguese eat? Lots of sardines. I’ve heard that pasta gives you oily skin. And sardines too, I gather.”

“Possible,” said Nicola. “But then again, possibly not.”

Stuart shrugged. “Let’s not talk about Abril. You were going to say something about Bertie’s education.”

Nicola took another sip of her wine. “All right,” she began, “I’ve been thinking, as you know, of how Bertie might benefit from a change. The Steiner School is wonderful, and it’s been great for Bertie, but I think he might benefit from different surroundings – even if only for a short time.”

“For a term?” asked Stuart. “A few months?”

“Maybe just a month or so,” said Nicola. “As a sort of treat. To get him away from that dreadful Olive. And Pansy. And that ghastly Tofu.”

“All schools have kids like that,” said Stuart. “They’re a fact of life.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Nicola. “But taking him out of their orbit for a while might provide him with a … a breath of fresh air, I suppose.”

Stuart looked thoughtful. “You mentioned a boys’ boarding school when we spoke about this last time. You said something about Merchiston.”

“Yes,” said Nicola. “I did. But since then, I’ve been thinking of something even more radical.”

Stuart waited. Then Nicola dropped her bombshell.

“Glasgow,” she said.

‘You mentioned sending Bertie to a boarding school?’ Stuart asked Nicola. ‘Yes I did,’ she replied. ’But since then, I’ve been thinking of something even more radical. Glasgow’