Free Espresso Tales by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

been there for several months? And you completely forgot about it?”
    â€œSo it would appear,” said Stuart. He sounded wretched. He was in awe of Irene, and he hated to be the object of her scorn. “I must have caught the train without thinking.”
    â€œWell, that’s just fine, then,” said Irene. “That’s the end of our car. It’ll be stripped bare by now. Or stolen.”
    Stuart attempted to defend himself. “I’m sure that I parked it legally,” he said. “Which means that it’s probably still there. Perhaps the battery will be flat, but that may be all.”
    Irene failed to respond to his optimism. “When you say it will still be there,” she said evenly, “what exactly do you mean by there? Where precisely is there?”
    â€œGlasgow,” said Stuart.
    â€œWhere in Glasgow? Glasgow’s a big city.”
    â€œNear the Dumbarton Road,” said Stuart. “Somewhere…somewhere there. That’s where my meeting was. Just off the Dumbarton Road.”
    â€œWell, I suggest that you go and find it as soon as possible,” said Irene, adding: “If you can.”
    Stuart nodded miserably. He would go through to Glasgow next weekend, by train, and take a taxi out to the Dumbarton Road. He had a vague recollection of where he might have parked, in a quiet cul-de-sac, and there was no reason why the car should not still be there. People left their cars for months at the roadside, and the cars survived. It was different, of course, if one had a fashionable or tempting car, like the car that Domenica Macdonald drove–that sort of car would be bound to attract the attention of joy-riders or vandals–but their car, an old Volvo estate, would be unlikely to catch anybody’s eye.
    And then it occurred to him that when he made the trip over to Glasgow, he would take Bertie with him. He would take him away from whatever classes Irene had planned for him–Saturday was saxophone in the morning, if he remembered correctly, and junior life-drawing in the afternoon–and he would take him with him on the train. Bertie would love that. He had hardly ever been on a train before, Stuart realised, and yet that was exactly the sort of thing that a father should do with his son. He felt a momentary pang. I’ve been a bad father, he thought. I’ve left the fathering to Irene. I’ve failed my son.
    No more was said about the car that evening and the next morning Irene was too busy getting Bertie ready for school to talk to Stuart about cars, or anything else. She had awoken Bertie early and dressed him in his best OshKosh dungarees.
    â€œSuch smart dungarees,” said Irene.
    Bertie looked doubtful. “Do other boys wear them?” he asked.
    â€œDungarees? Of course they do,” Irene reassured him. “Go down to Stockbridge and see all those boys in dungarees.”
    â€œBut theirs aren’t pink.”
    â€œNor are yours, Bertie,” scolded Irene. “These are crushed strawberry. They are not pink.” She looked at her watch. “And we don’t have the time to sit around and talk about dungarees. Look at the time. You’re going to have to get used to being in time for school. It’s not like…”
    She was about to say “nursery school”, but stopped herself. In time, Bertie would forget about nursery school and the ignominy of his suspension. His psychotherapy would help–she knew that–but ultimately it was time, simple, old-fashioned time that was the healer.
    They ate a quick breakfast and set off for Dundas Street. Irene noticed that Bertie avoided treading on the lines in the pavement, and sighed. There were definite signs of neurosis there, she thought; Dr Fairbairn must be informed. As she thought this, she pictured Dr Fairbairn in his consulting room, wearing that rather natty jacket that he liked to wear. He was such a sympathetic man, and so