44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [59]
“I’ll think about it further,” said Irene. “The only decision we have to make now is not to take him back to that woman and her so-called nursery school. And I don’t think we should.”
“D’accordo,” said Stuart.
Irene looked satisfied. “In that case, I shall have a look around and see what’s possible. I’ll do this after we’ve started his therapy.”
Stuart gave a start. This was new information. Had therapy been discussed before? He could not recall anything being said Plans for the Conservative Ball
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about it, but then sometimes he stopped paying attention when Irene was talking. He might have missed the discussion. Irene, noticing his puzzlement, explained. “The Scottish Institute of Human Relations,” she said. “We have an appointment there on Monday. A Dr Fairbairn. He’s been highly recommended and he’ll be able to advise us on why Bertie has suddenly started playing up.”
“Do we really need all this?” asked Stuart.
Irene stared at him. No response was necessary, or at least no verbal response.
48. Plans for the Conservative Ball
On the other side of the city, in their house in the higher reaches of the Braids, Raeburn Todd and his wife, Sasha, had finished their breakfast and were now drinking a cup of coffee in the conservatory. This was where they liked to sit after breakfast at weekends, particularly on a fine day, such as this was. The Braids could be cold, with their extra three hundred feet or so, but that morning the weather was warmer than normal and they had even opened a window of the conservatory. It was the day of the South Edinburgh Conservative Ball, and Todd, who was the chairman of the ball committee, was reviewing the prospects for that evening’s entertainment. He had made a list of things to do and was going through this with Sasha.
“First thing,” he said in a businesslike fashion. “First thing is hotel bits and pieces. Meal and ballroom.”
“All fine,” said Sasha, who composed the rest of the committee, the other members having sent their apologies. “The menu’s approved and the hotel said they would look after the flower.”
Todd smiled. “Flower? Only one?”
Sasha nudged him playfully. “You know what I meant. Flowers. The fact that we have very few people coming doesn’t mean we’re only going to have one flower.”
Todd looked down at the list in front of him and shook 124
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his head. “On which subject,” he said, “this is really very disappointing. Nothing’s come in this morning, I take it? Nobody else signing up?”
Sasha shook her head. “When the phone went before breakfast I hoped that it would be somebody. But it was the dress shop about my dress. So it looks like that’s it.” She paused. “Are you still sure that we should go ahead? Couldn’t we come up with some other explanation for a late cancellation?”
Todd’s reply was firm. “No. Absolutely not. We’ve been through this before. And, anyway, other parties have their problems with parties, so to speak. Have you ever been to a Labour Party do?
Awful. Dreadfully dull events. Like a primary school parents’
evening, but not quite so much fun. And the Liberal Democrats have these terrible dinners where everybody wears woolly pullovers and rather shabby dresses. And as for the SNP, well, everybody’s usually tight at their events, rolling all over the floor. Ghastly. No, we don’t do too badly, I’m telling you!”
“Even with . . . how many is it?”
Todd consulted his list. “I make it six,” he said. “You, me, Lizzie, that young man from the office, and Ramsey and Betty Dunbarton. They’ve confirmed, so that’s six.”
Sasha picked up her coffee and took a sip. “We could have just one table, then,” she said. “We could all sit together.”
This idea did not appeal to Todd. “No,” he said. “I think we should have two tables. Table One and Table Two. This is because it would look rather odd just to have one table, and then I’m not sure if we want to spend the whole evening with the Dunbartons, charming company though