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‘Mr Morrison is counting on you to do well in the examination,’ said Irene. ‘So don’t let him down.’

‘I won’t,’ said Bertie, licking the white dusting of icing sugar from his lips. Panforte was Italy’s greatest invention, he thought. His mother went on about Italian culture, about Dante and Botticelli and all the rest, but in Bertie’s mind it was Panforte di Siena which was Italy’s greatest gift to the world. That, and ice cream.

Bertie’s practice was finished by the time that Stuart returned from the Fruitmarket Gallery. He let himself into the flat and sauntered into the kitchen, where Irene was standing at the stove, stirring a pan of soup, and Bertie was sitting at the table, reading.

Irene turned round to greet Stuart. ‘Interesting exhibition?’ she asked.

‘Very,’ said Stuart. ‘All sorts of marvellous artists – Crosbie, Houston, McClure. And I saw that chap Duncan Macmillan there. You know, he’s the one who has been poking such fun at the Turner Prize recently. And he’s right, in my opinion.’

Irene was not particularly interested in this. The Turner Prize was, in her view, a progressive prize, and it was nothing new to have people attack progressiveness. She put down her spoon. ‘Where’s Ulysses?’ she asked. ‘Is he in the hall?’

Stuart, who was standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen, seemed to sway. ‘Ulysses?’ he asked. His voice suddenly sounded strained.

‘Yes,’ said Irene sarcastically. ‘Your other son.’

Stuart reached for the door handle and gripped it hard, his knuckles showing white under the pressure of his grip.

‘Oh no . . .’ he began.

Irene let out a scream. ‘Stuart! What have you . . . ?’

‘I thought you had him,’ said Stuart. ‘You parked the baby buggy—’

He did not finish. ‘I did not park it anywhere,’ shouted Irene. ‘You were meant to take him to the Fruitmarket Gallery. You were pushing him at Valvona & Crolla. You’re the one who parked him somewhere. Where is he? Where have you parked Ulysses?’

Stuart threw himself across the room to the table on which the telephone stood. ‘I’ll phone them right away,’ he said. ‘Quick, Bertie, get me the telephone directory. Quick.’

Bertie ran through to the hall and returned with the telephone directory. But then, noticing a Valvona & Crolla packet, he said, ‘We don’t need to look it up, Daddy. The number’s there on the packet. Look.’

With fumbling fingers, Stuart dialled the number. It was a moment or two before the telephone was answered at the other end. ‘Our baby,’ he shouted into the receiver. ‘Have you found a baby in the shop, or outside?’

‘No,’ said a voice at the other end. ‘No babies. An umbrella, yes. But no babies.’

64. Ulysses

In the storm that followed, three voices were raised, each offering different suggestions. Irene, her face flushed with rage, insisted that Stuart go immediately to Valvona & Crolla and personally search the shop for any sign of Ulysses. Stuart disagreed, and tried to make his voice heard above the screech of his wife’s. There was no point in going back to the shop if they reported that there was no trace of a lost baby.

‘Lost?’ raged Irene. ‘You mean abandoned. Lost is when you . . . when you forget where you put something. Abandoned is when you simply walk away from something. Ulysses was abandoned.’

‘It takes two to tango,’ Stuart stuttered. ‘You were jointly in charge.’

‘What’s a tango?’ asked Bertie.

Stuart looked down at his son. ‘It’s an Argentinian dance,’ he began to explain. ‘The Argentinians were very keen on dancing back in the—’

‘Stuart!’ shouted Irene. ‘We are discussing Ulysses. Every second may be vital, and there you are talking about Argentina.’

Stuart blushed. ‘I thought you were going to take him when I said that I was going to the Fruitmarket Gallery,’ he said mildly. ‘I really did.’

‘Well you had no reason to think that,’ snapped Irene. ‘I distinctly remember saying to you that you should take him. We were standing outside the shop and I . . .’

‘So he wasn’t in the shop at all,