Espresso Tales by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

all the other parents, waiting for the children to be released. She looked about her, seeing whether she recognised anybody: she knew that the parents of the other children would see a lot of one another over the years ahead, and she was interested to find out what they were like. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, although there was one woman whom she had met somewhere or other and who nodded in her direction. Where had it been? Yoga? The floatarium? Edinburgh was like that; there were so many familiar faces but they were often difficult to place exactly.
    Her gaze moved discreetly over the other parental faces. They were much as she expected; ordinary, reasonable people, just like herself. Irene felt comfortable.
    â€œWarm, isn’t it?” said a voice just behind her.
    She turned and looked at the speaker. He was a tall man, with a rather thin face, and dark hair swept back over his head. He was wearing a pair of bottle-green slacks and a thin, denim jacket.
    â€œI’m Barnabas Miller,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m Tofu’s father. And you’re…”
    â€œBertie’s mother,” said Irene. And then, laughing, she added: “I have a name as well, I suppose. Irene Pollock.”
    Barnabas nodded. “No doubt we’ll all meet at the parents’ evenings,” he said. “They’re very good with that sort of occasion. This is a very happy school.”
    â€œYes,” said Irene. “No doubt we will.” She paused. “And Tofu–it was Tofu, wasn’t it?–was he at nursery here?”
    â€œYes,” said Barnabas. “We took him out for a while–minor behavioural issues–and then he went back. He’s a very expressive child. I looked after him at home while I was writing my book. My wife is often away. She lectures on diet.” (Note:
Olive was wrong, of course; Tofu’s mother may have been thin, but she was still quick–in the old-fashioned sense of the word.
)
    Irene was interested. “Your book? What do you write?”
    â€œI’ve just had a new one come out,” said Barnabas. “
The Sorrow of the Nuts
. I don’t imagine that you’ve read it.”
    â€œSorry,” said Irene. “What is it? Fiction?”

    Barnabas shook his head. “No. It’s a holistic nutrition book. It examines the proposition that nuts have energy fields–and some form of morphic resonance. You’ll have heard of Rupert Sheldrake, I take it?”
    Irene had, but only just. “The man who wrote
The New Science of Life?
”
    â€œYes,” said Barnabas. “He’s the one who pointed out that there are resonant energy fields that contain biologically significant information. He proved it with the milk-top hypothesis.”
    Irene frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did look at that book, ages ago, and I’ve forgotten…”
    â€œNo need to apologise,” said Barnabas. “Sheldrake reminds us that before the war birds had worked out how to peck away at the foil tops of milk bottles and drink the top of the milk on the doorstep. It took them some time to learn this, but eventually they did. Then along came the war and they stopped using those foil tops–metal had to be kept for other uses. And so several generations of birds never saw those milk tops. Then, after the war they were able to introduce those tops again and, lo and behold, the birds knew immediately what to do.”
    â€œAnd Sheldrake says?”
    â€œThat the only way in which the birds could have picked up that knowledge would be if there had been some sort of energy field which contained that information for them. He calls it morphic resonance.”
    Irene reflected on this. It was challenging stuff. “And your book?” she asked.
    â€œIt explores the possibility that nuts have feelings,” said Barnabas solemnly. “And it concludes that they