‘What do you mean, “not a fan”? I think they’re socially divisive. Don’t you?’
‘In principle, yes, sure. But I know you’ve not been enjoying your job recently, and things are bound to be easier in a nice middle-class school, aren’t they? And the cash will
be useful. We could go to China this summer. I’ve always fancied that. Some of the new buildings in Shanghai . . .’
‘Jesus, the money! Is that all you care about!’
‘You’re the one taking the job!’
They had both raised their voices. Several people were now tutting at them, quite loudly.
‘Look, we’re disturbing everyone else,’ Marcus said. ‘If we have to talk about this now, I suppose we’d better leave.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘See? I knew you were bored.’
‘Let’s just go.’ Sarah was already striding towards the exit. Marcus followed slowly, looking longingly up the free-floating staircase towards the secondary exhibition on
Russian Constructivism.
Outside, Sarah decided it was too cold to sit by the river, so they went to the members’ bar at the top of the Festival Hall, standing silently next to each other in the lift up.
The bar was very quiet, with two other couples talking in hushed tones at the far end. They sat down at a table overlooking the water and Sarah ordered a cappuccino. Marcus thought about doing
the same, but as it was mid-afternoon he ordered an espresso instead. Sarah sighed audibly.
‘So, to recap,’ Marcus said. ‘You’ve been offered an interview for a more comfortable and better-paid job, and this has put you in a terrible mood.’
‘Marcus, please don’t be flippant about this. Do you think I’d be doing the right thing?’
‘Sure, if you’ll be less miserable, why not?’
‘No, I mean is it morally right?’
‘Jesus, you’re not the Archbishop of Canterbury! It’s just a job.’
‘But I’m trying to do some good in Dalston. What would I be doing at a private school?’
‘Perpetuating the edifice of class privilege, obviously.’
‘Marcus!’
‘You’ll be educating some kids. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Yes, but it’s not the same, is it?’
‘Well, if you feel so sick about it, don’t take the job.’
‘But I don’t, that’s the thing! I applied for the job!’
Marcus watched her pale skin flushing with small islands of colour. But the tired, anxious expression on her face seemed to suck the life out of her features. Sometimes he really found it
difficult to put in the effort needed to understand her.
‘So what’s the problem, then?’ he asked.
‘Marcus! You’re not being very helpful.’
‘Aren’t I? What do you expect me to say?’
‘You’re always telling me how you didn’t like the school you went to.’
Marcus couldn’t understand why this was relevant. ‘So you don’t want to take the job because my classmates were a bunch of cocks?’
‘But that’s the sort of students I’d be teaching.’
‘Maybe, but all teenagers are pretty annoying, aren’t they?’
Sarah didn’t reply. They stared out over the river in silence for a while. A couple walking across Hungerford Bridge burst out in private laughter as they passed a busker playing the
saxophone. Marcus wondered what the tune was.
Abruptly, Sarah asked: ‘Do you find my moral principles ridiculous?’
Marcus couldn’t stifle his laugh.
‘So you do?’
‘I find that question ridiculous.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously!’
‘Of course I am. I know changing schools would be a big step for you.’
‘No – you’re not taking my moral dilemma seriously.’
Marcus laughed again. He couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry, well, no. Especially not when you put it like that.’
‘Everything’s a joke to you! Why don’t you care about this?’
‘You’re overreacting . . .’
‘No, I’m not. All you think about is your holiday in China. I want to know if I’m doing the wrong thing.’ Sarah was breathing heavily. ‘Thank you,’ she added
as the waitress set down the cappuccino in front of her. ‘And then what about the kids? I’d be letting them down. I’d just feel so guilty about it.’
‘At the moment you seem to be feeling guilty about not feeling guilty, so it won’t be much of a change.’
‘That’s the fucking problem with you!’ she flared up suddenly. ‘You don’t care about the wider world unless it affects you! As far as you care, it’s all just
the setting for an art house film.’ She took a short, tight sip of coffee. ‘Look at someone like Justin. He’s dedicated his life to helping other people. That’s what I
thought I was doing. Now I find myself about to give that up. And all you talk about is what to do with the cash.’
Marcus drank some of his espresso, a little startled by her vehemence. He recomposed himself.
‘I’m still struggling to see why this is my fault,’ he said.
‘You’re not being helpful. It’s like you don’t even care enough to challenge me on it.’
‘Wait, let me check if I’ve got this right. You’re having a go at me because I’m not having a go at you?’
Sarah gave a yelp of frustration.
‘No, no, if that’s what you want . . .’ Marcus pressed on. ‘All right, I can’t believe you’re even thinking about taking this job. It’s a betrayal of
all your principles.’
‘Marcus . . .’
‘No, it would be wrong. Morally wrong. You’d be giving up on the poorest children to go to pamper a load of spoiled brats and entrench social inequality for another
generation.’ He picked up his coffee cup and drained the espresso. ‘There – happy now?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Marcus!’
‘I can’t win, can I?’
‘You’re so . . .’ Sarah tailed off into frustrated inarticulacy. She gave a short, angry growl jumped up and stormed towards the lifts.
‘Sarah . . .’
‘I’ll see you at home,’ she called. ‘Or wait . . . why don’t you go straight to Justin and Barbara’s? I don’t want to speak to you any more.’
Marcus didn’t get up to follow her. The couples at the other end of the bar were staring at him, but quickly looked away when he turned round.
Marcus took another sip of coffee, realizing too late that he had already finished it. He felt a prickle of annoyance as the grounds seeped between his lips.
But the feeling soon began to subside. Sarah would get over it. She was stressed at the moment, obviously. If the new job stopped the tantrums, it would be well worth it.
Best to give her a bit of time to calm down. Marcus looked at his watch. Still not yet four. The afternoon stretched ahead, precious hours alone before the dinner. He could go back and do the
Russian Constructivists. And at his own pace too. Marcus felt a surge of pleasurable anticipation at the thought.
Jonathan stared at the plastic monkey as it revolved slowly on the turntable. A tinny American voice sang an educational song about zoo animals. When the song finished,
Jonathan reached out and knocked over the monkey.
Stephen stood it upright for the fifth time. Although the tune was beginning to get on his nerves, he felt oddly proud of his son’s suspicious attitude towards the toy. Still eyeing the
monkey warily, Jonathan pressed the big red button on the front of the plastic dashboard, and the song began again.
Stephen gazed at his son with the same total concentration Jonathan gave to the monkey. He was on the verge of speaking now, properly speaking, and Stephen felt a thrill of excitement every time
he thought about having a conversation with his son. He was obviously a clever child, and Stephen was convinced that sentences were piling up in there, waiting to rush forth as soon as the dam was
breached.
What would he say? Stephen felt sure there would be a lot of questions. Jonathan’s wide brown eyes often seemed puzzled by what was going on around him, but never quite confused. There was
always an edge of calculation in there, Stephen thought, a sign that the world was being processed and understood. He reached out and stroked the soft, wispy hair on top of Jonathan’s head.
Jonathan didn’t look up. He waited until the end of the animal song, reached out, and knocked over the monkey.
The educational value of the song was clear, Stephen admitted. It ran through the names of various zoo creatures and illustrated them with sound effects. But he couldn’t quite see why
Jonathan found it so riveting. Perhaps it was the combination of movement and sound. Stephen tried pointing to the tiger and the penguin when they were mentioned, but Jonathan wouldn’t take
his eyes off the revolving monkey.
The song restarted its insistent jingle. It really was annoying. Stephen hadn’t yet met a parent who didn’t become sick of it after five minutes. What grated on him most, though, was
the bit about the zebra. The word was pronounced in the American way, zee-bra, and although the woman singing it sounded very friendly, Stephen was irritated that the manufacturers hadn’t
bothered to record a British version. Presumably they re-dubbed the song for France or Sweden. So why not for Britain? They were training his child to speak with an American accent. Between the
toys and the cartoons, it was no wonder kids got confused about what country they lived in and ended up calling 911 in emergencies.
But then Jonathan looked up and smiled proudly at him after knocking over the monkey, and Stephen’s annoyance evaporated. He bent over, picked Jonathan up – getting heavier all the
time – and gave him a hug.
Soon the boy squirmed free, sat back down on the floor, and pressed the red button. The tune was lodged deep in Stephen’s brain, going round and round his head in an endless loop. He tried
to tempt Jonathan with some stuffed toys and a book about caterpillars. Jonathan showed no interest. He waited until the end of the song, then knocked over the monkey.
Jonathan had been given the toy a couple of weeks ago, and Stephen now found the song often popped into his head during the day. When that happened at work he didn’t find it so annoying,
because it always made him think of Jonathan. The song reminded him why he was there in the office, that the petty frustrations were all worth it, really.
On Thursday, Stephen had been told that Sujay, his graduate trainee, was being appointed a Sixth Floor Liaison Officer, even though Stephen himself had never even been on the Higher Floors
e-mail list. That was when Stephen didn’t mind having the song about zoo animals going round and round his head. It took him outside his humiliation, reminded him why he put up with it and,
as usual, showed him why it wasn’t so important by comparison. Before the insistent jollity of the parrots and the lions, his mind would have been a bitter stew of resentment and anger,
bafflement at how the company kept going when it was run so badly. How Matt almost certainly didn’t have to put up with this at work. As it was, he came back to his desk with a list of
tigers, elephants, penguins and meerkats running through his mind and so was able to wonder instead about how meerkats got in there.
Stephen hated thinking about work at the weekend, particularly on a Saturday morning, when two days with his family still stretched ahead. It was the best time of the week. His son always seemed
to have learned so much in seven days.
Jonathan pressed the button again. There were footsteps in the hall, and Rosie appeared in the doorway.
‘Is he still playing with that thing?’ she said. ‘The song drives me absolutely nuts.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ Stephen replied.
Rosie was wearing that cape-like jacket thing he liked, the one that gave her a glamorous sixties look. Every year she got it out at about this time, when she put away her winter coat; a sign
that spring was almost here.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit repetitive?’ she said.
‘Well, I do, but I’m not the target market. At his age they enjoy repetition.’
‘I can’t stand it,’ she said. ‘Maybe you could get him to play with those wooden alphabet blocks my mother bought for him?’
‘Watch what happens when the song ends. He does this every time.’
They waited as the simple melody played itself out. Jonathan reached out and knocked over the monkey.
‘There, you see? Every time.’
‘Oh my God!’ Rosie clutched her hands together. ‘Do you think he’s autistic?’
‘Rosie! Don’t be ridiculous. He’s fine.’
‘Maybe I should take him to the doctor, just in case.’
‘“And what are the symptoms, madam?”’ Stephen intoned gravely. ‘“Well, he keeps knocking over a plastic monkey.” “Hmm, I see. That sounds
serious.”’
‘It’s not funny, Stephen.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Your son might have autism!’
‘He doesn’t, though.’
Rosie tutted. But a smile broke out anyway and there was Stephen’s favourite dimple, the one on her right cheek that he always associated with happiness. It appeared from nowhere whenever
she was enjoying herself, as real but transient as a soap bubble. No, he didn’t envy Matt at all.
‘Is there anything you want from the shops?’ she asked.
‘Are you going now?’
‘Yes. Have you seen my Bag for Life?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sure I left it in the hall, but it’s not there. I’ll have to take some plastic bags from under the sink.’
‘They’ll give you some in the shop, you know.’
‘Not in the organic shop. I asked for a plastic bag in there once and they looked at me like I was a war criminal.’
‘Then go to Sainsbury’s.’
‘We have to support the local shops.’ Rosie went out into the hall to get her handbag. ‘I have to go now, or the butcher’s will be shut.’
‘What are we having for dinner?’
‘Stephen! We’re going to Justin and Barbara’s tonight.’
‘Oh yes.’ Stephen’s anticipation of the weekend dimmed markedly. ‘The vegetarians.’
‘Don’t be like that, Stephen. I’m sure it will be nice.’
‘Can you get some steaks, then? You know the nice ones they have there?’
‘Yes, OK,’ Rosie said as she searched in her handbag for the keys. ‘We can have them on Monday. Bye.’ She came over and kissed Jonathan and Stephen in turn.
‘See you in a bit.’
Stephen reached down to pick up Jonathan again. Steaks on Monday. That was something to look forward to. Stephen felt unreasonably happy at the thought.