‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Go on.’
‘At work, how many people do you know who can’t tie their shoelaces?’
‘None.’
‘And how many adults do you know who can’t use a knife or don’t eat any vegetables at all?’
‘Connie—’
‘Or who talk about poo and wee at dinner, or leave the lids off felt-tips, or are afraid of the dark?’
‘I realise the point you’re making but—’
‘So can we just assume that Albie will learn these things and that the time you spend constantly getting at him, which is all the time, is not well spent?’
‘The point you’re making doesn’t stand.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not about teaching him how to tie his laces or to eat broccoli or talk sensibly. It’s about doing things properly; teaching him application, perseverance and discipline.’
‘Discipline!’
‘I’m teaching him that not everything in this life is easy or fun.’
‘Yes,’ Connie sighed and shook her head. ‘You certainly are.’
Was I an authoritarian? Certainly less so than my own father, and never unreasonably so. Connie was of the school that thought a certain degree of cheekiness, irreverence, rebellion — the crayon on the wall, the unwanted cauliflower hidden in the shoe — should be treated with an indulgent nod, a wink, a ruffling of the hair. I wasn’t like that, it was not in my nature or upbringing, and neither was I of the school that thought praise should be unearnt, or that ‘I love you’ should be tossed around with wild abandon, just another way of saying ‘goodnight’ or ‘well done’ or ‘see you later’, a clearing of the throat. I did love my son, of course I did, but not when he tried to set fire to things, not when he refused to do his maths homework, not when he spilt apple juice into my laptop, not when he whined because I’d turned off the TV. He would thank me in the long run, and if I did overstep the mark sometimes, if I did lose my temper, snarl when I should have forced a smile then, well, I was very, very tired.
I was commuting by then, eating breakfast before sunrise and fighting against the tide of in-comers at Paddington as I travelled to my work as a project manager based in the research labs just outside Reading. A tube, a train, another train, a walk; then, at night-time, the same journey in reverse. Exhausting, brutal, that working day, and yet I had only myself to blame.
I had left academia. Shortly after Albie started school, I had been offered a new job in the private sector, working for a multinational that you will have heard of, on the news or in documentaries, a huge global company with diverse interests in the world of pharmaceuticals and agrochemicals, a company that had, at times, in the past, perhaps not placed ethical considerations at the heart of its strategy.
But now here was this job proposal, brought to me by an old colleague with a tan and a sharp suit, and here was my family in a perfectly pleasant flat but with no savings, no pension and a hefty mortgage. Before Albie arrived I’d been employed on a series of short-term projects on reasonable but unspectacular pay and this had been enough for the cinema tickets and vodka and tonics that made up the greater part of our household budget. I had a fellowship now, with students working for me, and there seemed every chance that in a few years, I’d become a professor. But now, with nursery fees and endless new shoes, with Connie on a part-time salary from the museum, money was considerably tighter. There were other frustrations, too: long-term insecurity, administrative demands, the endless pressure to publish in ‘high-impact’ journals, the undignified scramble for funding. When I began to study science I had presumed, naïvely I suppose, that politicians would be falling over themselves to further human knowledge. Surely any government, irrespective of its political hue, could see that innovation in science and technology led to wealth and prosperity? True, not all research had an immediate commercial application, it was not all obviously ‘translational’, but who knew where a line of thought might lead? So many of the great breakthroughs had first been glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, and surely anything that added to the sum of human knowledge was valuable? More than valuable — essential.
Not if our funding was anything to go by. Increasingly we found ourselves scrabbling around for enough money to pay our research assistants the lowest possible wage. Apparently the nation’s future lay not in innovation and development but in global finance and telesales, in the entertainment industry and coffee shops. Britain would lead the world in frothing milk and making period dramas.
And now here was this large multinational company, with its security and pension scheme and its salary commensurate to my achievements and qualifications, its well-equipped labs and the brightest, best graduates, and here was my family too. I felt — is this common among new fathers, I wonder? — a new-found obligation to provide, which all sounds very atavistic and primitive but there it is. Of course, I couldn’t make the decision independently. Connie and I talked many nights until late. She had heard of my potential employers, had noted their name in the press and on the news, and while she never used the phrase out loud, it played on her lips: sell-out. Her response to big business was instinctive and emotional and, I thought, naïve, and in turn I rationalised the issues: surely it was only by working for a large organisation that you could make a meaningful change, and wasn’t it better to be inside than out? Was profit really such a dirty word? And what about the financial security, the extra money? What about another room, a garden of our own, or a house near a much, much better school, outside London maybe? A studio for Connie — she could paint again! What about school fees?
Connie bridled. ‘I don’t want those things—’
‘Not now, perhaps—’
‘And don’t pretend you’re doing it for us!’
‘But I am; if I accepted, I would be, to an extent …’
‘The bottom line is I don’t think you should make a decision based on money, that’s all.’
Which is a noble sentiment, and a very Connie thing to say, Connie the nurturing artist. But substitute that chilly word ‘money’ for ‘security’ or ‘safety’, substitute ‘money’ for ‘comfort’ or ‘peace of mind’ or ‘well-being’, ‘a good education’ or ‘travel’ or simply ‘a happy family’. Often — not always, but often — didn’t they equate to the same thing?
‘No,’ said Connie. ‘Not at all.’
‘So what would you have me do? If it was up to you?’
‘It isn’t up to me. It’s your job, your career—’
‘But if it was up to you?’
‘I wouldn’t take the job. You’ll lose your freedom. You’ll be working for accountants, not for yourself. If you’re not making money for them, they’ll cut you off and you’ll hate that, and it won’t be fun. There’ll be no joy in it. Find something better paid or more secure by all means, but I wouldn’t take this job.’