But I would not give up on him, I was sure of that. Each night we’d work, then argue. I’d patch things up as best I could and then lie in bed, kept awake by a vision of a boy of Albie’s age, Chinese or South Korean, sitting up late and working away at his algebra, his organic chemistry, his computer code; this boy against whom my own son would some day compete for his livelihood.
My son’s faltering progress corresponded with a further cooling in our relationship. The little physical rapport we’d once shared, the tickling, the holding of hands, melted away with our growing self-consciousness, and I was surprised how much I missed it, especially the holding hands. I’d never been much of a wrestler, always too anxious about cracked skulls and sprained wrists, but now even a simple arm around the shoulder was shrugged away with a wince or a grunt. Bedroom and bathroom doors were locked and now instead of telling my son to go to bed at the weekend, I began to say goodnight and to leave the two of them downstairs on the sofa, Albie’s head in Connie’s lap or vice versa.
I had been bracing myself for Albie’s adolescence, but its arrival felt like the outbreak of a long-simmering civil war. We argued frequently. One example will be enough. I was making the case for why science and maths might make better qualifications than drama and art. A banal discussion, I know, the kind that every family has, but Connie was away in London, which made the topic dangerous.
‘My point is this,’ I said. ‘Put an average member of the general public in a room with paintbrushes or a camera, give them a stage or a pen and paper and they’ll achieve something. It might be inept or ugly or untutored, or it might show potential, or it might even reveal some hidden talent but everyone, anyone can knock up a painting or a poem or photo or whatever. Put someone in a room with a centrifuge, a selection of lab equipment, some chemicals and they’ll produce nothing, nothing worthwhile whatsoever, just … mud pies. That’s because science is methodical, it demands rigour, application and study. It’s more difficult. It just is. It is.’
‘So — what, you think, because you’re a scientist, you’re smarter than other people?’
‘In my field, yes! And so I should be! That’s what I studied for, that’s why I stayed up late for ten years. To be good at it.’
‘So if I drop a subject I hate and don’t understand, you’ll think less of me?’
‘I’ll think you didn’t persevere. I’ll think you gave up too soon.’
‘You’ll think I took the easy option?’
‘Maybe—’
‘Bit of a coward—’
‘I didn’t say that. Why are you twisting words like—?’
‘For doing what I’m good at, rather than what
‘No, for doing what’s easy instead of what’s hard. It’s good to be challenged, to have your mind stretched.’
‘So what I
‘There might be, but that doesn’t mean you’ll earn a living. Success comes to those who work hard and stick at things that are difficult. And I want you to be a success.’
‘Like you?’
He said this with something of a sneer, and I felt a little twist of anger. ‘The future is … well, it’s terrifying, Albie, you have no idea, and I want you to be well prepared for it. I want you to have skills and information that will enable you to thrive and succeed and be happy in the future. And I’m afraid that spending all day colouring in does not count.’
‘So, to summarise,’ he said, blinking quickly now, ‘what you’re saying, basically, is that I should be shit-scared—’
‘Albie!’
‘And base my decisions on fear, because basically I’ve got no talent.’
‘No, you may well have a talent, but it’s a talent that is shared by millions of other people. Millions! That’s all.’
And perhaps that was a poor choice of words. Perhaps this example does not present me in the best light, I would concede that. But as to the accusation that I wanted him to be something he was not? Well, yes, of course I did. Because what is a parent
