‘Oh, I don’t think so, Cat.’
‘Come on, Mr P. When in Rome …’
‘No, thank you. It’s really not for me.’
‘How do you know if you’ve never tried it?’ said Albie, the exact rationale I once used to get him to eat cabbage.
‘I have tried it; of course I’ve tried it, Albie. I was young once!’
‘I think I missed that bit,’ said Connie.
‘When I was with you, Connie, as a matter of fact, and Genevieve and Tyler. I pulled a massive whitey, if you recall.’
‘“Massive whitey”,’ sniggered Albie.
‘Mr P., you dark horse. Why not give it another go?’
‘No, thank you, Cat.’
‘Okay, Dad’s out,’ said Albie, barely bothering to hide his relief.
‘How about you, Mrs P.?’ said Cat, and all eyes turned to Connie.
‘Mum?’ said Albie.
Connie weighed up her options.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘sounds good,’ and off she went to park her bicycle.
At various points during Albie’s teenage years I had found myself in these situations, confronting the kind of ‘life dilemma’ that pads out the weekend newspapers. What is the correct parental response to shoplifting, the unsuitable friend picked up at the playground, the smell of alcohol or tobacco on teenage breath, the money disappearing from the dresser, the esoteric search history on the family computer? How much water in the wine? Should a girlfriend be allowed to stay the night, what is the policy on locked doors, on bad language, bad behaviour, bad diet? In recent years these dilemmas had come thick and fast and I had found them quite bewildering. Why had we not been issued with a clear set of guidelines? Had I caused my own parents all this ethical writhing? I was sure I had not. The most illicit act of my teenage years was to sometimes watch ITV. Yet here we were again, the latest instalment of this perpetual radio phone-in. I stood alongside Connie as she chained her bike. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Quite sure, thank you, Douglas.’
‘And you really think you should be encouraging him?’
‘I’m not encouraging him, I’m just not being a hypocrite about it. Look at him! He’s with a girl in Amsterdam, he’s a teenager. Frankly, I’d be more worried if he didn’t want to do it.’
‘You don’t have to sanction it, though.’
‘How am I
‘By joining in!’
‘I’m keeping a gentle eye on him. Also, as a matter of fact, I quite fancy a smoke.’
‘You do? Really?’
‘Is that really so strange? Really, Douglas?’
Cat and Albie were watching us now. ‘Fine. Fine. But if he drops out to become a bud-tender, then it’s your responsibility.’
‘He won’t become a
‘I’m going to leave you to it.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I think you’ll have more fun without me.’
‘Okay,’ she shrugged, ‘we’ll see you later,’ and I thought, once more,
We walked back to the expectant party. ‘I’m leaving, your mother is staying.’
Albie pulled his fist down and hissed, ‘Yessssss!’ at this best of all possible outcomes.
‘Just don’t eat the space cookies,’ I said. ‘There’s no way to control the dosage.’
‘Truth. Sound counsel, Mr P.,’ said Cat, patting my arm. ‘Words to live by.’
‘I’ll see you back at the hotel, for supper maybe,’ said Connie, pressing a cheek against mine, and off they went to the Nice Café.
I was certainly in no mood for the Anne Frank House now. Without Albie there seemed little point, and while the Rembrandt House Museum was atmospheric and informative, particularly on the extraordinary technical demands and innovations of seventeenth-century engraving, I found myself distracted and ill at ease.
Because it was all very jolly, wasn’t it, all very cool, sitting around and getting stoned all afternoon with your mum? What a lark, what memories to share! But I wanted my son to have ambition, I wanted him to have drive and energy and a fine, fierce mind. I wanted him to look out into the world with curiosity and intelligence, not with the awful solipsism and silliness of the stoned. Irrespective of the medical risks, the memory loss and apathy and psychosis, the possibility of addiction or exposure to hard drugs, what was this idiotic obsession with chilling out? I wasn’t aware of having been relaxed at any time in my entire life; that was just the way things were, and was it really so bad? To be taut as a wire, on the ball, conscious of the dangers around you — wasn’t that to be admired?
