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‘To wash all that blood off your hands,’ said Albie, and then several things happened at once, not all of them entirely clear to me. I recall that the American stood, placing one hand behind Albie’s neck, pressing his face towards the open palm of his other hand, saying, ‘Where? Show me the blood, son! Where?’ I saw Connie hanging off the American’s arm, calling him an arsehole, attempting to pull his hand away, a coffee cup spilling, the Dutchman gesturing at me angrily — why couldn’t you mind your own business? — the waiter crossing quickly, amused and then alarmed, the big Russian laughing at it all until Cat stood too, took a glass of orange juice and poured it onto a brochure, then another, then another, until it began to pool on the glossy pages and then cascade into the Russian’s lap and he too stood, revealing his great size just like in a slapstick comedy, at which Cat started to laugh herself, a theatrical cackling, quite maddening, which caused the Russian to start calling her a stupid bitch, a stupid mad bitch, all of which made her laugh even more.

At least that is what I recall. It was not quite a brawl, no punches were thrown, it was more a tangle of reaches and grabs, jeers and sneers, ugly in the extreme and pointless too, I felt. As to my own behaviour, I had intended to play the role of peacemaker, disentangling arms and appealing for calm. That was my intention, to calm the situation, and at some point I wrapped my arms around Albie, holding him back but incidentally allowing the American to shove his shoulder — not hard, just a demeaning little jab. I held on to Albie tight, pulling him away, doing my best to separate the parties and proceed with the day that I had planned for my family. As I say, it was all a blur. What was undeniable, though, because everyone remembered it afterwards, was that at some point I had dragged Albie away and used the words:

‘I’d like to apologise for my son.’

85. sunflowers again

Albie did not come to the Van Gogh Museum. Connie nearly didn’t make it either, so sullen and angry was she that morning, riding her bike with head-down fury, barely bothering with hand signals.

We stood in front of Sunflowers, one of several versions Van Gogh painted, and I was reminded of the print I’d had on my wall. ‘Do you remember? In the Balham flat? I bought it to impress you.’ But she was not in the mood for nostalgia, and all my other observations about the thickness of the paint on the canvas and the rich palette of colours made not a mark on the impenetrable shell of my wife’s contempt. She was even too angry to buy postcards. So much for the soothing power of great art.

Sure enough, the explosion came as we stepped outside.

‘You know what you should have done? When that guy went for Albie? You should have punched him in the nose, not held Albie’s arms so he could hit him.’

‘He didn’t hit him, it was a little shove.’

‘Makes no difference.’

‘Albie started it! He was being obnoxious, he was showing off.’

‘Makes no difference, Douglas.’

‘You think that would have helped? That guy would have knocked me flat! Would that have helped the situation, me getting beaten up in front of everyone? Is that what you’d have preferred?’

‘Yes! Yes, that man would have broken your nose and split your lip and I’d have wanted to kiss you, Douglas, because you’d have stood up to someone for the sake of your son! Instead, you simper away: “We’re having a lovely time here, just two days unfortunately”.’

‘It was a fatuous argument in the first place! Good God, what are you, nine years old? So they make guns! You don’t think we need guns? The police, the army? You don’t think someone has to manufacture them? It’s the politics of primary school to shout abuse at people going about their lawful business, even if you disapprove …’

‘Douglas, you have an incredible capacity for missing the point. Will you listen to me, just for once? The debate does not matter. It’s not about the issues. Albie might have been naïve or ridiculous or pompous or all of those things, but you apologised. You said you were embarrassed by him. You took the side of a bunch of arms-dealers! Bloody bastard arms-dealers against your son — our son — and that was wrong, it was the wrong thing to do, because in a fight you side with the people you love. That’s just how it is.’

86. daydreams of near disaster

When I first began to feel my son slipping away from me — I think perhaps he was nine or ten when I first felt the wriggling of his fingers in my manic grip — I found myself indulging in a particular fantasy. I’m aware that it sounds perverse, but what I hoped for at that time was some accident, some near disaster, so that I could be as heroic as the occasion demanded, and show the strength of my devotion.