The Braveheart Book Club
Irene’s departure for Aberdeen had been easy for her, but difficult for Stuart. On the day on which she was due to drive up to Aberdeen in the family’s old Volvo estate car, its back seats flattened to allow room for her luggage, he suggested that Bertie and Ulysses be sent to Nicola’s flat.
“I don’t want them to see you going,” he said to Irene. “It’s not going to be easy for them.”
He almost choked on the words as the reality of what was happening struck home. This woman was about to leave her two small children. She may be intending to return at weekends, but the brute fact of the matter was that she was leaving home. Any parting might be a wrench, even one in which a fundamental pathology lay at the heart of a relationship; a parting was still the end of something, and he did not want his sons to see their mother drive away. That could not happen – it simply could not be allowed to happen.
Irene looked at him. “We’ve discussed this,” she said. “You assured me that the boys would have emotional continuity.”
“I know, I know, I know. You don’t have to tell me that.”
She sighed. “So why now? Why talk about their experiencing trauma just when I’m about to go?”
He returned her stare. Irene had always had a good complexion, with skin that seemed much younger than her years. How old was she? He suddenly realised he was not sure. She was two years younger than he was, and so she was thirty-eight. And he saw that around the edge of her eyes there were tiny crow’s feet developing. It was such a human thing to happen to a face; she was all mind, all theory, all domination of the world, and yet here was ordinary humanity touching her, ordinary being-in-the-world staking its claim.
“I don’t want them to see you go,” he insisted.
“It’s only for five days,” she said. “I’ll be back at the weekend.”
He shook his head. “No, you won’t.” She raised her voice. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said: you won’t be back. I don’t want you.”
She moved towards him. He felt his heart beating faster.
“What did you say, Stuart?” she hissed. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He gasped. He had never been able to stand up to her. He could not. It was impossible.
He looked down at his feet, at his suede shoes that were showing their age now, and had become shabby. His shoes. His shoes. He suddenly felt ashamed of them. “All right,” he said. “Come back.”
She seemed relieved. “Yes, I will. Just as we agreed. Remember our agreement, Stuart?”
He nodded. “Yes, I remember.” He paused. “But at least let me take them round to my mother’s. At least let me do that.”
She hesitated. “If it means that much to you. I don’t think it’s necessary, but if you really want it.”
“I do.”
“All right. I’ll say goodbye here and then you can take them round to her.”
He hated the way she referred to his mother as her or she. “She has a name,” he muttered.
“Nicola, then.”
“Yes, that’s her name.” He paused. “And she’s the one who’s going to be stepping into the breach.”
Irene sighed. “You’re being very petty, Stuart.”
He felt raw. There was a persistent, numb wound somewhere within him. He had always felt that way when he witnessed human conflict or bad behaviour. He felt dirtied by it, and the feeling of dirtiness soon became a feeling of regret at the way the world was, at the thought that people could treat one another badly.
Bertie and Ulysses were in the sitting room. Bertie was reading and Ulysses was in his bouncer – a strange construction in which he could sit, supported by straps that were in due course attached to heavy-duty rubber bands.
Bertie looked up as Stuart entered the room. “Has Mummy gone yet?” he asked.
Stuart tried to sound cheerful. “Not quite yet, Bertie.”
“Has she forgotten to go?” asked Bertie. There was a note of disappointment in his voice.
“No,” answered Stuart. “She hasn’t forgotten. But you could say goodbye now and I’ll take you around to Granny’s.”
Bertie closed his book. He was reading Walter Scott. “Rob Roy was very fierce,” he said.
Stuart grasped at the straw. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Bertie.”
“I am,” said Bertie. “Ranald Braveheart Macpherson and I have started a book club, you know.”
“Oh yes?” said Stuart brightly, bending down to release Ulysses from his bouncer.
“We’re going to read Rob Roy and then Kidnapped, which I’ve already read but Ranald says I should read again. That’s by Mr Stevenson, Daddy. Did you know he built lighthouses?”
“His people did,” said Stuart. “I’m not sure whether he built any himself.”
“They made one out on the Bell Rock, Daddy,” Bertie continued. “It was right out at sea and they had to wait for the tide to drop before they could build it. Every day the bits they had just built were covered by the sea until the next low tide. It was jolly hard, Daddy.”
“I bet it was, Bertie. And what a good idea to have a book club. Just like Mu …” He stopped himself. He did not want to mention her. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he did not want to mention her – not just yet.
Bertie did not notice the caesura. “The only problem is that Ranald can’t really read yet. He can, if he goes very slowly, but it takes a long time for him to get through a whole page.”
“That could be a problem in a book club,” said Stuart. “What do you do about it, Bertie?”
“I’m the one who reads the books,” replied Bertie. “Then we talk about them. Ranald tells me what he thinks after I’ve told him what the book is about.”
Stuart looked away. I want to cry ,he thought. I want to cry, but must not, must not; not in front of Bertie.
“We’ll go and see Mummy quickly and then I’ll take you to Granny’s.” He got the words out somehow.
And now, in the kitchen, Irene took Bertie in her arms, planting a kiss on his forehead. “You’re going to be a good boy, Bertie, aren’t you?”
Bertie nodded.
“And then Mummy will come back to see you very soon. On Saturday. How many sleeps away is that? How many sleeps until Saturday?”
Stuart turned away. He felt his stomach heave; sobbing did that to him; it racked him.
‘I’m the one who reads the books,’ Bertie told his father. ‘Then we talk about them. Ranald tells me what he thinks
after I’ve told him what the book is about’