“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
91
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.
92
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.”
Christabel 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
93
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.