‘Well, of course,’ Cleo replied. ‘We’re very interested to know how our son is doing, and whether he is fitting in?’
‘Yes, well... I... we...’ Hartwell hesitated, then momentarily looked lost for words. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Bruno is a nice chap. No question. A very polite boy.’ After another brief hesitation he added, rubbing his hands together as if soaping them, ‘Quite independent, his teachers are finding.’ He wrung his hands in silence for a few seconds. ‘A little bit of a loner, perhaps. That’s hardly surprising, given the background, losing his mother — a lady who lived a rather — shall we say chaotic lifestyle — from what you told me?’
Roy Grace grimaced. ‘I think that’s a fair description of his mother, certainly in recent years, from what I’ve been able to establish.’
‘Let’s look at the facts. Bruno’s having problems adjusting, which is hardly surprising. He’s lost his mother, who wasn’t the best role model to him, it would seem. He’s moved country. From being an only child he’s having to contend with a sibling, a stepmother, a father who was never previously part of his life and a new language and culture.’
‘It’s something we’re very aware of,’ Cleo said. ‘Our hope is that by giving him a stable and loving home life, together with the caring nature of your school, things will become normalized for him.’
‘Indeed.’ Again he hesitated. ‘There are still, unfortunately, some prejudices about Germany, and we have noticed a couple of instances of bullying, which of course we are doing our best to put a stop to, very firmly. Has he mentioned this?’
Grace looked at Cleo, who shook her head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a word.’
‘I think he’s dealing with it in his own way. And he is actually a very confident boy in some ways.’
‘He is,’ Cleo said.
The headmaster looked pensive. ‘I had a private chat with him a couple of days ago and he did rather surprise me with something he said.’ He seemed unsure he should now repeat it.
‘Which was?’ Cleo prompted.
Hartwell wrung his hands together again, now looking rather bemused. ‘Well, I asked him a question I ask all the boys here of his age, to give me an idea of where their interests lie and to give their teachers direction. I asked your son if he had any thoughts on what he would like to do for a future career. For many of our pupils it is of course far too early. But Bruno was very definite — and, frankly, his response took me a little bit by surprise. Have you ever asked him this question?’
‘No,’ Grace said. ‘What was it?’
‘Well, he said that he would either like to become a chemist or a dictator.’
Grace smiled, briefly, until he saw the shocked expression on Cleo’s face.
‘A chemist or a dictator?’ she said.
‘Exactly those words.’
‘Did he elaborate?’ she asked. ‘If a dictator, of which country?’
‘I asked him that very question,’ the headmaster said. ‘He told me, quite solemnly, he hadn’t yet decided, but that he favoured Venezuela.’
‘Venezuela?’ Grace said. ‘Why Venezuela?’
‘He said so that he could create similar conservation ethics to those of the Galapagos Islands and encourage other countries across the world to do the same. Pretty impressive thinking, wouldn’t you say, for a lad of his age?’
‘Is Venezuela a dictatorship?’ Cleo asked.
‘A good question,’ the headmaster replied. ‘It isn’t, it’s a democracy.’ He looked bemused. ‘I suspect Bruno is too young to understand the difference.’
Grace reflected for a while, saying nothing. He just hoped Ted Hartwell was right.
He wasn’t sure.
18
Wednesday 26 September
Roy Grace and Cleo stopped for a meal at a country pub and restaurant on their way home, the Ginger Fox. Seated at a corner table, he got a gin and tonic and Cleo an elderflower cordial, then they glanced at the menus.
When they had ordered — a starter of scallops with black pudding for Roy and lentil soup for Cleo, followed by roast cod for him and plaice for Cleo, and a large glass of Albarino for him — they began to discuss what Ted Hartwell had told them about Bruno.
‘Is it normal for a ten-year-old to have ambitions to be a dictator?’ Cleo asked him. ‘I mean, did you have ambitions of world domination at his age?’
A basket of bread arrived. ‘I’m not sure what clear ambitions I had, but certainly not that, no!’
‘We know so little about the first ten years of his life, don’t we?’ she said.
He shrugged, tipping some oil then balsamic into a bowl. ‘Virtually nothing.’ He broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in the bowl and ate it, hungrily. ‘I suppose—’ He shrugged. ‘We haven’t really talked seriously with him. We put him in a nice school and hoped for the best — that he would make friends and settle in. It’s not happening, is it?’
‘No.’ She twirled her glass in her hands. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him, but apart from the time he talked to our neighbour about his Porsche, I’ve hardly seen him engage with anyone, let alone people of his own age. He doesn’t seem interested in making friends — when he went to the football with your colleague Jason and Stan, it didn’t go well. We have to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with him. About his issues at school, about food — his likes and dislikes — and about, you know, just everyday life with us. He seems to like Noah and Humphrey, but that’s about all. He’s never had a father — at least from what we know. Maybe you can get through to him?’
Roy dipped another piece of bread into some olive oil. ‘Sure, I’ll try. I think we need to make a plan. Let’s start with my trying to make a real effort with him. See how that goes?’
‘Yep. He’s got your genes in him, Roy. You have good person genes. Maybe you can mine those out of him.’
Their starters arrived, along with Roy’s glass of wine. He realized, to his surprise, that he had finished his gin and tonic. And by the time they’d eaten their starters, he’d finished his glass of wine also. He ordered another.
‘We’ll prove him to be a nice kid,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll do everything I can to work on him — or rather, with him.’
‘I know you will.’
When his second Albarino arrived, they clinked glasses. ‘To Bruno,’ he said. Cleo gave him a strange, hopeful look.
19
Wednesday 26 September
‘Toby, darling, you really do look quite dishy — for a fifty-eight-year-old, anyhow!’ Paul Sibley ribbed his husband. He was seated at the kitchen table glancing through the images of him that Suzy Driver had found on her internet search and emailed him.
‘I can’t believe the bastards made me fifty-eight!’ Toby Seward, wearing his kitchen apron bearing the legend My sausage is on fire!, was keeping a weather eye on the water heating in the saucepan. He took a sip of his glass of wine. ‘Fifty-eight — I mean, how dare they? It’s outrageous, they’ve added ten years to my age!’
‘Eleven, darling, actually — Norbert!’
‘Yep, well, my birthday’s next week so it will be then, Mr Pedantic.’
Paul poured himself another glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge and lit a cigarette. ‘I do have to say, you look pretty good for your age.’
‘Not funny!’
Paul clicked on the keyboard to bring up the profile photograph of Suzy Driver from the dating site. He studied the fifty-five-year-old for a few moments. ‘Not bad, not bad at all for her age. Nice hair, attractive face! You know, I really ought to be jealous. All these lovely ladies fawning over you, craving your body. Eleven of them, no less.’ He sighed. ‘Well, I’ve got to admit they all have something in common!’