Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

‘The children don’t recognize it as a crush, of course, but it happens all the time. One child forms a strong attachment to another and the object of their affections doesn’t reciprocate the emotion. In this particular case, Jupiter had started bringing little treats into school for your son. A ladybird that she was keeping alive in a matchbox, for example. A book that she particularly enjoyed. She even made him a sandwich one day and brought in a strawberry cupcake to follow.’

‘I wish someone would do that for me,’ said Maurice. ‘And what does Daniel do? When she gives him these things?’

‘What all boys that age will do, I suppose,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘He takes the gifts and eats the food but once he gets what he wants from her he goes right back to playing with his friends and then she’s left upset by his rejection. In that respect, perhaps there’s not a lot of difference between boys and men.’

Maurice raised an eyebrow, surprised by the comment, which seemed based on some unfortunate personal experience instead of a professional evaluation of the situation. He thought about challenging her on it but became distracted by an abacus placed on the windowsill behind her desk. It was fairly basic, ten rows of multicoloured beads supported by a wooden frame and stand. He hadn’t seen one in a long time but, like Proust’s madeleine, it brought back a wave of memories that he knew had the power to overwhelm him if he did not remain steady. Dr Webster’s abacus, of course, had been much more elaborate, monochrome but constructed from maple wood, the beads polished ivory. It had been passed down in the Webster family since before the Great War, he had been told, and the inscription on the base – A. F. P. Webster, 1897 – had always made him wonder whether the original recipient had gone on to make a success of his life or had forfeited it in the trenches.

Looking at this cheaper version now, Maurice felt an urge to pick it up and hear the click of the beads as he slid them along the wires, but he resisted, uncertain whether he would find himself throwing it to the ground and smashing it underfoot, actions that would surely provoke an even stronger reaction than that to one child slapping another in the playground. Mrs Lane noticed him staring and turned to see what he was looking at, misinterpreting his interest in the abacus as an observance of the children playing outside.

‘They are being supervised, you know,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The children. They’re being supervised. There’s always at least two teachers in attendance during playtime.’

‘No, I wasn’t…’ he began, but shook his head, not bothering to continue the sentence.

‘Anyway,’ she said, her voice loud, sharp and hectoring now. ‘This morning, between classes, Jupiter went over to Daniel while he was talking with some of the other boys, threw her arms around him and kissed him. On the lips. I suppose she’d seen someone do that on television or in a movie and—’

‘She kissed him?’

‘Yes. Only for a moment. The poor boy was mortified, particularly as the other boys immediately started to laugh at him, and that’s when he did it. When he slapped her, I mean.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And was she badly hurt?’

‘Well, no. I don’t think the attack was particularly brutal. There was a red mark on her cheek afterwards, of course, but I think she was more shocked than anything else. Not to mention humiliated.’

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me now that her parents are planning on suing me. Or you. Or the school.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. They made a point of saying that they believe America has become far too litigious a society and that they have no intention of going down that road.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘Yes, I echo your sentiments there. The last thing St Joseph’s needs is a costly lawsuit. The attendant publicity alone could be ruinous. No, what they want is for Daniel and Jupiter to attend a couple’s counselling session together.’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘They’re seven. And they’re not a couple.’

‘It’s a figure of speech, Mr Swift. A forum where they can air their grievances aloud. Jupiter’s parents like to talk, you see. They talk a lot . They never stop talking, if you follow my meaning.’

‘And what if I say no?’ asked Maurice. ‘What if I say that I don’t like the idea of my son seeing a shrink at such a young age?’

‘Well, that would be entirely up to you, of course,’ said Mrs Lane, picking up a fountain pen from her desk and removing the cap before tapping the nib against a piece of blotting paper in what Maurice took to be a nervous gesture. ‘But my advice would be to go ahead with the session, if only to appease them. I can’t imagine it would do any harm and it might do a lot of good. After that, I expect the entire matter will be put to bed.’

‘Fine,’ said Maurice, who had no particular opinion on psychotherapy one way or the other but was happy to do what was necessary if it meant that he could leave her office soon. ‘One session?’

‘One session, yes. It might be useful for Daniel, anyway,’ she added, and Maurice could tell that she was choosing her words carefully now because her speech pattern had slowed down and she wasn’t looking him in the eye. ‘One wonders, after all, where he picked up such behaviour.’

‘Like you said,’ said Maurice. ‘From TV. Or a movie. Although I don’t allow him a lot of screen time and he never really wants any. We’re readers in our family.’

‘That’s good. Yes, Miss Willow says that Daniel loves books. And that he’s a very good writer too.’

‘He has a terrific imagination,’ said Maurice. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from.’

‘Well, you, most likely,’ she replied. ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’

He didn’t reply.

Discomfited, she hesitated, replacing the cap on her fountain pen and returning it to a stand with holes for a dozen more, almost all of which were empty. ‘There’s nothing going on at home that you’d like to discuss with me?’

Maurice smiled. It was obvious what she was getting at. ‘I don’t hit him, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ he said. ‘I’ve never laid a finger on the boy.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting that you had. And Daniel hasn’t witnessed any violence against women, I suppose?’

‘I’m a widower, Mrs Lane,’ said Maurice. ‘I thought you knew that.’

‘I do. But am I correct in thinking that Daniel’s mother died many years ago?’

‘No, that’s not correct.’

‘It’s not?’ she said, frowning. ‘But in your file, it says that—’

‘My late wife wasn’t Daniel’s mother,’ he explained. ‘Daniel was conceived through a surrogate after Edith died. I wanted a child but didn’t want to share my life with a woman and, as my career began to take off around the same time, I did what I had to do in order to become a father.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Lane, looking as if she wanted to extract every juicy detail that could be offered but was uncertain whether she could ask or not. ‘That was very selfless of you, Mr Swift.’

‘No it wasn’t,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Had I gone to an orphanage in China or India and rescued a baby from a life of poverty, then that would have been selfless. But I didn’t do that. I paid a woman a lot of money to carry a baby for me and hand him over the moment he was born, then disappear from our lives. It was an entirely selfish act in some ways but one that I was happy to commit.’

Mrs Lane’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s.