May Contain Nuts by John O'Farrell Page A

it,’ I suggested.
    â€˜You had a thought about what it was all about, didn’t you, Bronwyn?’ her mother cut in. ‘About why C.S. Lewis wrote it, didn’t you, darling? What was it you thought about the book, an idea about what it all meant or something, why don’t you say that now, Bronwyn, hmmm, darling, hmmm?’ prompted Ffion, nodding expectantly at her daughter.
    Bronwyn went a little red in the face and then said, ‘I think the whole story is an allegory for the Christian story with Aslan representing Christ, the children as the disciples and Edmund as Judas.’
    David shot me a furious look.
    â€˜Oh, Bronwyn is such a clever girl, Ffion,’ whispered Sarah. ‘She really is extremely bright for her age,’ and Ffion felt forced to agree.
    David smiled and half nodded agreement but clearly histhoughts were elsewhere. ‘What was it you wanted to say about the Turkish delight, Molly?’ he interjected. Mortified at being put on the spot like this, our eldest mumbled ‘Nothing’ and glared furiously at her father.
    â€˜Come on, darling, didn’t you think that it had some kind of wider meaning?’
    Molly sighed and was forced resentfully to proclaim, ‘I think that the Turkish delight that Edmund eats represents all sorts of temptation.’
    â€˜Oh I say, that’s very sharp!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘Well done!’ And there was a murmur of impressed agreement round the room while David and I tried not to beam with pride too obviously. The evidence was there for all to see: our daughter was a highly literate, perceptive and intelligent eleven-year-old, even if she didn’t do very well in exams.
    â€˜He told me to say that,’ declared Molly, looking at her father. And all adult heads turned accusingly to the cheat in our midst.
    â€˜Well, I guided her towards it …’ mumbled David.
    â€˜No, you wrote it down on a piece of paper for me to learn,’ said Molly, grinning mischievously, though her smile fell away when she saw the thunderous expression on her father’s red face.
    â€˜I think it’s best if children can learn to discover the books for themselves,’ commented Ffion sadly as her daughter discreetly turned her notepad face down. ‘Shall we go through into the kitchen and leave them to it?’ she said, leading the way.
    â€˜I liked the little drawings,’ offered Kirsty as we headed out of the room, and her mother smiled at her but didn’t comment on this insight, hoping that we hadn’t heard.
    I took orders for drinks – three teas, two coffees – and an ashtray for Philip.
    â€˜I guided her towards it and then we made notes,’ David muttered to Sarah. He turned to William. ‘I guided her towards it …’
    Ffion glanced at Jamie’s music sheet propped open on the piano. ‘Ah, that brings back memories. Look, Philip, do you remember Gwilym doing this one?’
    â€˜Ah yes,’ he said, craning his neck through the kitchen window, where his face had popped up so as not to be antisocial.
    â€˜Careful, darling, you’re letting smoke in again …’
    Inside I was still seething that Bronwyn had won the battle of the book club. I knew that I was perhaps a bit too competitive sometimes. But I was beginning to despair at the level of unrelenting competitiveness Ffion possessed. The level that always won, damn her. When Bronwyn had had to do a little song and dance presentation for the Spencer House talent night, Ffion asked a professional theatre director who lived in their road if he could just watch her practise it and give her any advice. She had him round there four times in the end, which is ridiculous. I mean, Molly could have won first prize if we’d got a professional theatre director. But he said no, he was already helping Bronwyn.
    I went to fill the kettle but found that the water filter was empty, so we would have to