Bertie had left the matter at that; perhaps Professor Dawkins was a concept too, and Melanie Klein as well. He decided to try a different tack. ‘Anyway, Mummy, I think that some people in the class are too young. What about that little boy who got himself all tied up in a knot and nobody knew how to untie him? He was only three, wasn’t he?’

‘That was an unfortunate incident,’ said Irene. ‘But it was exceptional.’

‘Is he dead, do you think?’ asked Bertie.

Irene laughed. ‘Oh, Bertie, don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’s not dead. He would have been perfectly all right. He just got a bit stuck. We can all get a bit stuck now and then.’

And it was the same with psychotherapy. Bertie had suggested to his mother that he might give up his weekly psychotherapy session with Dr St Clair. ‘It would save a lot of money,’ he pointed out. ‘And just think, Mummy, we could go to Valvona & Crolla and spend it. Or you could spend it all yourself – I wouldn’t mind.’

Irene laughed. ‘But that’s not the point, Bertie. It’s not the money – it’s the benefit that you’re getting from seeing nice Dr St Clair. He’s helping you a lot, you know. He’s helping to make sure that you make the right decisions. He’s helping you to understand things – to grow up without neuroses. That’s what that’s all about, Bertie.’ She paused. ‘And you’re a lucky little boy to have this opportunity. There are quite a few young people who could do with the help of somebody like Dr St Clair but who aren’t getting it.’

‘Such as?’ asked Bertie.

‘Well, Tofu, for one. There’s a young man who needs a bit of help to control his aggressive urges.’

Bertie had to agree; not that he could say it. He did not think, though, that Dr St Clair would be a match for Tofu, who was robustly defiant of any authority, the one quality of his that Bertie secretly admired, of course. If Bertie had been Tofu, then his mother would not be able to push him around quite so much, he thought. Tofu would never agree to go to yoga and would resolutely refuse to play the saxophone or to speak Italian. The saxophone he derided by making a vulgar noise by putting the back of his hand to his mouth and blowing loudly.

‘That’s what you sound like on the saxophone, Bertie,’ he crowed. ‘Recognise the sound?’ And when the subject of Italian had come up, ‘Macaroni,’ was what he said, adding, ‘Spaghetti! Hah!’