Perhaps my breaking down had something to do with it, but after hours of inactivity the staff now sprang into action and I was led away from Kat and taken to a back room where, once I’d calmed down, it was made clear through complicated mime that there would be no formal charges against me. But where would I go? As it was nearly midnight and I had no passport or money, I was shown to a cell by the desk sergeant with the slightly apologetic air of a hotel manager who really has nothing better left. The small windowless room smelt of a lemony disinfectant, reassuring in this context, with a mattress in blue vinyl that was deliciously cool to the touch. The stainless steel toilet had no seat and was closer to the bed than was ideal, and I was wary of the pillow, too. Prison pillows are different from other pillows. But perhaps if I wrapped it in my shirt and tried not to use the toilet, I’d be okay. After all, I had paid upwards of one hundred and forty euros for less comfortable rooms than this and the alternative, sleeping rough on the streets of Siena, held little appeal. So I accepted the bargain happily, on the proviso that the cell door be left ajar.
‘
‘
And then I was alone.
The great virtue of defeat, once accepted, is that it at least allows one to rest. Hope had kept me awake for too long, and now, untroubled by the fantasy of a happy ending, I was finally able to fall into a sleep that was remarkable for the total absence of dreams.
‘I don’t think our son likes me very much,’ I said to Connie one night in bed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Douglas. What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. The way he cries when you leave the room. Oh, also, he tells me.’
She laughed, and drew closer. ‘He’s going through a mummy phase. All boys, girls too, have it. In a few years’ time you’ll be his idol, you’ll see.’
And so I waited to become his idol.
He started school, and was happy there I think, though often he’d be in bed when I got back from work. If he was asleep, I’d go and watch him, brush his hair back and kiss his forehead. I loved that smell on him, freshly bathed, Pears soap and strawberry toothpaste. If he was awake:
‘Do you want me to read tonight?’
‘No, I want Mummy to read.’
‘Are you sure? Because I’d really like to read to—’
‘Mummy! MUMMY!’
‘Okay, I’ll get Mummy,’ I’d say, then on closing the door, ‘You know you shouldn’t go to bed with wet hair, Albie. You’ll catch flu.’ I’d say this, even though the science on the issue was dubious to say the least. Still I couldn’t help myself, any more than, on holidays, I could resist telling him not to swim immediately after eating in case of cramps. What was it about water against skin that caused the intestines to suddenly spasm and contract? Why should that be? Didn’t matter — it was one of those phrases on the list.
Because throughout my childhood and teenage years I had been compiling a list of banal and irritating remarks that I swore I would never, ever make when I was a parent. All children make this list, and all lists are unique, though no doubt there is considerable overlap.
‘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.’
