May Contain Nuts by John O'Farrell

into discovering all these things for herself, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes, of course it is. I’ll sit down with her again tomorrow and ask her what the Turkish delight bit made her think about, you know, if she felt it had any wider meaning …’
    â€˜And if she still doesn’t get the right answer?’
    â€˜Well, then I’ll tell her what to say.’
    My house had been volunteered for the first meeting of the junior book club, though not necessarily by anyone who lived there. I had realized earlier that day that I would have to provide appropriate refreshments and so there were bowls of organic kettle chips arranged around the room and a jug of iced elderflower cordial and five glasses placed on the table. The four other children arrived with their books under their arm, a parent or two excitedly ushering them in. My daughter, reader-in-residence of the South-west London Literary Society, welcomed her fellow academics with the usual enthusiasm.
    â€˜Say hello to Bronwyn, Molly,’ I prompted.
    â€˜Hello.’
    â€˜Say hello to Molly, Bronwyn.’
    â€˜Hello.’
    It was going very well so far. The children hovered in the hallway, a little unsure as to what they should do next, till theywere manoeuvred into position under the persuasive guidance of Ffion. ‘Well, this does all look lovely, doesn’t it, hmmm, doesn’t it? Why don’t you all sit yourselves down, and look, Molly’s mummy has even provided some crisps, that is kind, so get yourselves a drink and some crisps, not you, Bronwyn, you don’t eat crisps, go on, that’s it, everyone sit down, there you are, this is nice, and then when you’re all sorted just sit yourselves down, that’s it, you’ve all brought your books, haven’t you, well, we won’t interfere, and why don’t you find your favourite bits or anything that you wanted to read out, hmmm? And we’ll just be right here so you don’t have to worry about anything.’
    I had been just about to head through into the kitchen when I realized that every other parent was planning to stay in the room and watch. Well, everyone except Philip, who watched from outside the French doors where he stood puffing away in the light drizzle. William was there but wasn’t there; he took a book of poetry from the shelves and attempted to escape from the book club with a book. The scholars sat on the chairs, their legs still not quite reaching the ground, while the remaining parents stood round the edge of the room in eager anticipation.
    â€˜Off you go then!’ said David.
    Silence.
    Molly looked at me and I smiled and tried to give her an encouraging nod to say something to the group. Every child was looking at its mother or father, unsure what they were supposed to do. They looked as if they’d done something wrong.
    â€˜Well, somebody say something,’ said Ffion.
    â€˜These crisps taste old,’ said Kirsty.
    â€˜No, that’s just posh crisps,’ explained Molly. ‘They’re organic.’
    â€˜Somebody say something about the book. Bronwyn, why don’t you start?’ said her mother.
    Bronwyn glared at her mother and furiously whispered, ‘Mum! Don’t!’
    â€˜Did you like the book? Why don’t you start by saying whether you liked the book or not, darling?’
    â€˜I liked the book,’ mumbled Bronwyn.
    â€˜Not to me, darling, don’t look at me when you’re saying it, say it to the rest of your book club.’
    Bronwyn turned her head and, addressing the floor in front of her, announced, ‘I liked the book.’
    This inspirational literary insight failed to break the ice and another period of silence ensued, while various adult observers remained frozen round the edge of the room exchanging expressions of upbeat bravery. Someone coughed quietly. The children waited for the purgatory to be over.
    â€˜Maybe we should leave them to