Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(95)

‘Well!’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘As you say, it communicates what it’s trying to communicate very well. A very vivid picture of . . . something strange.’

I met his gaze levelly. It was all right for him, wasn’t it? He was trained in giving orders and had packed his boys off to boarding school and could use the holidays to casually perfect their incredible music and sporting skills while adjusting their spelling of ‘inauspicious’.

‘How about the rest of it?’ he said.

‘No. He’s – his marks are very good apart from the spelling. Homework’s still pretty disorganized.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Mr Wallaker, rifling through the science papers, then picking up the planets one.

‘“Write five sentences, each including a fact about Uranus.”’

He paused. Suddenly could feel myself wanting to giggle.

‘He only did one sentence. Was there a problem with the question?’

‘I think the problem was it seemed rather a lot of facts to come up with, about such a featureless galactical area,’ I said, trying to control myself.

‘Oh, really? You find Uranus featureless?’ I distinctly saw Mr Wallaker suppress a giggle.

‘Yes,’ I managed to say. ‘Had it been Mars, the famed Red Planet, with recent robot landings, or even Saturn with its many rings—’

‘Or Mars with its twin orbs,’ said Mr Wallaker, glancing, I swear, at my tits before staring intently down at his papers.

‘Exactly,’ I got out in a strangled voice.

‘But, Mrs Darcy,’ burst out Mr Pitlochry-Howard, with an air of injured pride, ‘I personally am more fascinated by Uranus than—’

‘Thank you!’ I couldn’t help myself saying, then just totally gave in to helpless laughter.

‘Mr Pitlochry-Howard,’ said Mr Wallaker, pulling himself together, ‘I think we have admirably made our point. And,’ he murmured in an undertone, ‘I can quite see whence the giggling originates. Are there any more issues of concern with Billy’s work?’

‘No, no, grades are very good, gets on with the other boys, very jolly, great little chap.’

‘Well, it’s all down to you, Mr Pitlochry-Howard,’ I said creepily. ‘All that teaching! Thank you so much.’

Then, not daring to look at Mr Wallaker, I got up and glided out of the hall.

However, once outside I sat in the car thinking I needed to go back in and ask Mr Pitlochry-Howard more about the homework. Or maybe, if Mr Pitlochry-Howard should, perchance, be busy, Mr Wallaker.

Back in the hall Mr Pitlochry-Howard and Mr Wallaker were talking to Nicolette and her handsome husband, who had his hand supportively on Nicolette’s back.

You’re not supposed to listen to the other parents’ consultations but Nicolette was projecting so powerfully it was impossible not to.

‘I just wonder if Atticus might be a little overextended,’ Mr Pitlochry-Howard was mumbling. ‘He seems to have so many after-school clubs and play dates. He’s a little anxious sometimes. He becomes despairing if he doesn’t feel he is on top.’

‘Where is he in the class?’ said Nicolette. ‘How far is he from the top?’

She peered over at the chart, which Mr Pitlochry-Howard put his arm across. She flicked her hair crossly. ‘Why don’t we know their relative performance levels? What are the class positions?’

‘We don’t do class positions, Mrs Martinez,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard.

‘Why not?’ she said, with the sort of apparently pleasant, casual inquisitiveness which conceals a swordsman poised behind the arras.

‘It’s really about doing their personal best,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard.

‘Let me explain something,’ said Nicolette. ‘I used to be CEO of a large chain of health and fitness clubs, which expanded throughout the UK and into North America. Now I am CEO of a family. My children are the most important, complex and thrilling product I have ever developed. I need to be able to assess their progress, relative to their peers, in order to adjust their development.’

Mr Wallaker was watching her in silence.

‘Healthy competition has its place but when an obsession with relative position replaces a pleasure in the actual subject . . .’ Mr Pitlochry-Howard began nervously.

‘And you feel that extra-curricular activities and play dates are stressing him out?’ said Nicolette.

Her husband put his hand on her arm: ‘Darling . . .’

‘These boys need to be rounded. They need their flutes. They need their fencing. Furthermore,’ she continued, ‘I do not see social engagements as “play dates”. They are team-building exercises.’

‘THEY ARE CHILDREN!’ Mr Wallaker roared. ‘They are not corporate products! What they need to acquire is not a constant massaging of the ego, but confidence, fun, affection, love, a sense of self-worth. They need to understand, now, that there will always – always – be someone greater and lesser than themselves, and that their self-worth lies in their contentment with who they are, what they are doing and their increasing competence in doing it.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Nicolette. ‘So there’s no point trying? I see. Then, well, maybe we should be looking at Westminster.’