44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [46]
“Bertie,” she said, as they walked back along London Street,
“Mummy is very, very cross with you for writing that Miss Macfadzean is a cow. You should not have said it. It’s not nice to call somebody a vacca.”
“You do,” said Bertie.
37. At the Floatarium
The curious thought occurred to Irene, as she lay in her supporting Epsom salts solution, that they were both suspended. Bertie was suspended from nursery over that ridiculous graffiti At the Floatarium
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incident, and she was suspended, almost weightless, in her flotation chamber. Her suspension was for no more than an hour, though, whereas Bertie was to be suspended for three days. They had walked directly to the Floatarium from the nursery school. Little had been said, but Bertie had been left in no doubt that he was in disgrace. By the time they reached their destination, though, Bertie had been half-forgiven. Indeed, Irene had begun to smile – discreetly – over what had happened. It must have been an act of great self-liberation for him to climb onto one of the little chairs and write that message across the wall. And of course what he had written was accurate; indeed, it showed a real understanding of what was what to write an observation like that. He had to learn, though, that some things are best kept to oneself. This was a difficult thing for children to master, she thought, as they were naturally frank. Duplicity and hypocrisy came later, instilled by adults; thus we learn to hide, to say one thing and mean another, to clad ourselves with false colours. Irene reflected on these things as she lay in the darkness of the tank. Bertie had been left in the tank room with her, but not in a tank. He was seated on a chair with a colouring book which the proprietor of the Floatarium had thoughtfully provided for him. Of course, this would not be capable of diverting him, and he had rapidly abandoned it in favour of a magazine. Bertie had never seen the sense of colouring things in. Why bother?
Irene’s mind wandered. It was completely quiet within the tank, and the absence of sensory distraction induced a profound sense of calm. One did not feel confined by the walls of the tank; rather, one felt weightless and without boundary, independent of any physical constraint, freed of the attachment that came with gravity. I could lie here forever, thought Irene, and forget about the world and its trials.
Her sense of detachment was suddenly interrupted by a knocking on the side of the tank.
“Bertie?”
A muffled voice came from outwith. “Irene?”
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At the Floatarium
“Yes, I’m here, Bertie. In the tank, as you know. I’m relaxing. You can have a little go at the end.”
“I don’t want to float. I’ll drown.”
“Nonsense, darling. The specific gravity of the water is such that you can’t sink. You’ll like it.”
“I hate floating.”
Irene moved her hands gently in the water, making a slight splashing sound. This was rather irritating. Bertie was ruining the floating experience.
“Let Mummy float in peace a little longer, Bertie,” she called out. “Then we’ll go and have a latte. You can float some other time, if you want to. Nobody’s forced to float.”
There was silence for a moment and then a sudden shout that made Irene start.
“Non mi piace parlare Italiano! ”
“Bertie?” called out Irene. “What was that you said?”
“Non mi piace parlare Italiano! Non mi piace il sasofono! No! No!”
Irene sat up, banging her head on the top of the chamber. Pushing open the lid, she looked out, to see Bertie standing defiantly in the middle of the room, a ripped-up magazine on the floor before him.
“Bertie!” she exclaimed. “What is this? You’re behaving like a little boy! What on earth is wrong with you?”
“Non mi piace parlare Italiano!” shouted Bertie again. “I don’t like speaking Italian!”
Irene climbed out of the chamber and reached for her towel.
“This is complete nonsense,” she said. “You’re upset – quite understandably – about what happened. That’s all. You’ll feel better once we’ve had a nice latte. Italian’s got nothing to do with