Alexander Mccall Smith - Isabel Dalhousie 05 (12 page)

Isabel affected nonchalance. “Oh, I see.”

Jamie looked at her enquiringly. “You don't like him, do you?”

She hesitated. “I wouldn't choose him as a friend.”

“For me or for you? A friend for me or for you?”

She had to be careful. “I wouldn't want to choose your friends for you. They're your business, not mine.”

He took a few moments to ponder this. “Nick may not be easy,” he said. “But I don't want to be unkind to him. And he's helping me with something.”

She waited for him to continue.

“You know I'm a hopeless composer,” he said. “I've studied composition, of course. We all had to. But it's just not something that I've ever really had a talent for. And so I asked him to help me with something that I'd been working on for months, but getting nowhere with. And he did. He's been knocking it into shape for me.”

She glanced at him. He was transferring the bassoon case from one hand to the other. “Let me carry it just for a little while.”

He rejected her help with a shake of the head. “It could be worse,” he said. “It could be the contra.”

She felt relieved by what he had said about Nick, but her curiosity was still nagging away at her. She had once heard something that he had written, a small bassoon solo, and she had liked it. But it had had no end, and he had explained that he could not think of how to resolve it. “There are rules for resolution,” he said. “But they don't seem to be working.”

“What are you writing?” she asked. She tried to make the question sound casual.

Jamie sighed. “I didn't want to tell you. But I think that since you appear to be…well, a little bit jealous, I suppose I should.”

“I'm not jealous.” It sounded unconvincing, and that, she decided, was because she was jealous. “Well, I am, actually.”

He smiled. “And do you know something? I'm glad that you're jealous. I'm glad that you resent my spending time with other people. It's nice to be…to be wanted like that.”

She was surprised. She had imagined that he would resent possessiveness on her part; instead, it seemed that he was flattered by it. She had misread everything—again. She had imagined that Nick Smart had some sort of appeal for him, but it was just Jamie's kindness, that was all. Then she had been so careful, all along, right from the beginning of their relationship, not to appear as if she wanted to monopolise him, and now he said that he rather liked the idea of her wanting him all to herself. One can be wrong, she thought. One can be wrong about so much.

“Anyway,” Jamie continued, “I'm going to tell you. I've been working on a piece for you. An Isabel piece. For the second anniversary of our…our getting together. That's what.”

         

JAMIE'S RESOLVE
to carry the bassoon all the way back weakened at the edge of the Meadows, when they reached the point where the drive bisected the park. In the distance, the reassuring yellow light of a taxi wove its way towards them, and he made the decision; Isabel, who was herself tired, did not object. Within five minutes they were back at the house and Jamie paid off the taxi while Isabel went to open the front door.

Grace was full of indignation. She had been watching a television programme in which the expenses claims of a random group of parliamentarians had been scrutinised. One claimed, quite within the rules, a substantial sum for the removal of algae from his garden pond. Another had employed a number of relatives, none of whom struck her as being particularly qualified for their jobs.

“Our money,” snapped Grace.

“I think the removal of algae sounds ridiculous,” Jamie said.

“Of course to admit to algae is something,” Isabel mused. “I'm not sure that I'd actually admit to having algae.”

Jamie's face broke into a smile. It was a typical Isabel remark, and he found it very funny. He had no idea why it should be in the slightest bit amusing, but it was. Grace did not think so.

“It wasn't him that had the algae. It was his garden pond.” she said. “But I don't see why the taxpayers should pay for that.”

The conversation switched to Charlie. He had been as good as gold. She had read him the story about the caterpillar that consumed everything in sight, and he appeared to have understood it. He had grabbed the book and torn one of the pages, but she had stuck it together again. Then he had gone to bed and went off to sleep without protest.

Isabel said good-bye to Grace at the front door and returned to the kitchen, where Jamie was standing in the middle of the floor, his arms stretched up, yawning. He lowered his arms and embraced her.

“I was having a stretch,” he said. And then, “You're the most wonderful woman, you know.”

She felt his arms about her. He was lithe, like a sapling; spare. He was everything she desired; so beautiful in this, and every, light; so tender.

He kissed her and ran his hand down her back.

“Upstairs,” she said.

He switched off the kitchen light and they moved, hand in hand, to the foot of the stairs. Then Charlie started to wail, the sound drifting down from upstairs, a piercing, insistent howl.

She looked at Jamie and began to laugh.

“As between the claims of passion on the one hand,” she said, “and on the other the claims of a child's crying—which are we programmed to respond to first? Which is the most urgent?”

“Passion?” ventured Jamie, but not seriously.

“I'm afraid not,” said Isabel. Her answer was the one that any woman would give, but not, she thought, any man.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

O
F ALL THE TASKS
involved in running the delicatessen, Isabel most enjoyed preparing Cat's Special Mixture. This was convenient, as Eddie disliked anything to do with fish—“Why don't they close their eyes when they die?” he had said, in serious objection—and Cat's Special Mixture involved that fishiest of fish, anchovies. It was largely composed of olives, though: green olives that were pitted, chopped in half, and then mixed in colourful promiscuity with strips of red and yellow pepper. The whole was then marinated, with the anchovies, in extra-virgin olive oil, and the resulting mix was placed in a large bowl. It was not to everyone's taste—and certainly not to Eddie's—but Isabel enjoyed both making and eating it. And it helped her to think, she decided, sitting there with her hands covered in oil and the smell of anchovy in her nostrils.

It was now Wednesday, and she had three more days in the delicatessen, including Saturday, which was always extremely busy. Cat would be back late on Sunday and, feeling guilty, would insist on returning to work on Monday morning. She had already been in touch from Sri Lanka, having sent a message to Isabel telling her that the villa had exceeded her expectations and that she would not be coming back. That's a joke, she added, but yes, I could stay here forever. Did you know, Isabel, that this country was called Serendip? I suppose you did, as you know so much. I didn't. But imagine living in Serendip.

Isabel wondered what would happen if Cat for some reason really did fail to return. Would she be landed with responsibility for the delicatessen, or would Eddie somehow rise to the occasion? Cat was adamant that he could not run the business by himself, but had anybody ever asked him? Even Isabel had assumed that he would be too anxious to manage by himself, but did these assumptions only serve to reinforce whatever anxieties he felt? She wondered whether it was not a bit like learning to swim: if one was expected to hang on, then one did; if one was expected to strike out by oneself, then that is what one did.

She thought of this as she pitted the olives. On Friday she had planned to meet Stella Moncrieff for lunch. She had not yet determined what she was going to say to her, but she had a day or two to decide on that. Travelling to and from lunch, and the lunch itself, would take about two hours out of her working day. She had no compunction in asking Eddie to run the shop single-handedly for that length of time, but if he could manage for a couple of hours, then why not make it the whole day? There were other things that she wanted to do on Friday, which was an important day for her. Edward Mendelson, Auden's literary executor, was delivering a lecture at the university in the late afternoon, and he was due to have dinner at the house after the reception that followed the lecture. Isabel had written to him on several occasions, and they had met briefly in Oxford, when he had been giving lectures at Christ Church, and she had been at a conference of women philosophers at Somerville. Isabel had felt awkward about the meeting of women philosophers: Would men have been allowed to convene a similarly exclusive meeting? She thought not. Nor were men allowed to have men's colleges anymore, and yet Cambridge maintained three women-only colleges, even if Somerville had now decided to admit men.

If she took Friday off in its entirety, then she could spend the morning on the next issue of the
Review,
which always seemed to be due at the printer's sooner than she imagined, and then she could have lunch with Stella Moncrieff. Edward Mendelson's lecture was at four, and she could skip the reception in order to get back to the house to spend time with Charlie, and to get the meal ready. Looked at in this way, Friday simply did not leave time to work at the delicatessen.

She beckoned Eddie over to the table where she was dealing with the olives. She discreetly closed the jar containing the anchovy fillets: even the smell of them could make Eddie nauseated, or so he claimed.

The young man looked at her quickly before his eyes slid away. It was like that with him; there would be a bit of progress, he would become more confident, and then suddenly he would regress, back to awkwardness and reserve. This time, she thought, the reason is that five hundred pounds; he thinks I am going to ask him about it.

“Eddie,” she said, “I want to talk to you about Friday.”

His eyes still remained fixed on the floor.

“Look at me, Eddie,” she said. “You should look at people when they talk to you.” I sound like a schoolmarm, she thought.

He raised his eyes, held her gaze for the briefest of moments, and then looked away again.

Isabel sighed. “Friday. I'm going to be very busy this Friday.”

“It's always busy on Fridays,” said Eddie. “Almost as bad as Saturday. Some people start their weekend on Friday, you see.”

His observation hardly made it easier for her. But she had made up her mind; and if Eddie could cope by himself on a Friday, then he should be able to cope at any time. She explained what she had in mind. “You'll be all right,” she said. “And you can have the number of my mobile phone. I'll switch it on just for you. If anything crops up and you need my advice, then just phone me.” She paused. “Except during the lecture I'm going to.”

A flicker passed over his face—anxiety, she thought, doubt. But then he shrugged. “All right. Will you be here on Saturday?”

“Of course. It's just Friday that's the problem. And thank you, Eddie.”

There was silence.

Isabel reached out and touched him on the forearm. “Listen, that money, that five hundred pounds. It's a gift from me to you. I'm not thinking about it, but I can tell you are.”

He looked up at her now; his lower lip was trembling. ”I wasn't thinking about it.”

She did not want to contradict him; he was so vulnerable, so uncertain of himself. But if people always avoided engaging with him, then she wondered whether he would ever make any progress; some boils needed to be lanced. And so she said, quite gently, “You were, Eddie. I think you were.”

He looked at her resentfully. “I know what I'm thinking. What gives you the idea that you can tell me what I'm thinking, when I'm not…” His words trailed away, and suddenly, without any warning, he began to sob. He reached down and brought the bottom of his apron up to wipe at his eyes. She thought for a moment that he was going to blow his nose on it—and he obviously thought so too, as he hesitated, but did not.

He began to turn away, but she reached out and took hold of him. “You told me that you were in trouble, and you obviously are. Why not tell me?”

He began to get control of his sobbing. “I lied to you. I'm not in trouble. I lied to you to get the money.”

This took a moment to sink in. His anguish, it seemed, was caused not by some nameless bit of trouble into which he had got himself, but by his guilt over having lied to her. In a curious way this made Isabel feel relieved: she might not be able to sort out any trouble into which he had strayed, but she could grant him expiation of his guilt. She could forgive the deception; that would be easy—a matter of a few words.

“All right,” she said. “You lied to me to get me to give you money. But now you've confessed. You've told me about it, and that means I can say that it doesn't matter, that I forgive you.” She watched him. His hands, which had been shaking, were still. He was listening very carefully, she could tell.

“And I really do forgive you. I mean what I say. It's all right.”

He looked up. “You don't mind?”

“Don't mind? Of course I mind—or minded. Nobody likes to be lied to. Especially by somebody they know. Somebody they thought of as a friend. So I did mind…
did.
Not now. That's what forgiving somebody is all about. You say,
I minded, but now it doesn't matter anymore. It's rubbed out.
”

“Well, I'm sorry I lied.”

She still held him, but she felt his arm move slightly; he wanted to get away. He would have to learn about apology. “So now you're apologising to me?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

She shook her head. “That's not a full apology, Eddie. You can't just say sorry. You have to say something about why you did what you did. Then you say sorry.”

“I wanted the money.”

No, that would not do. “Why?”

He did not speak for a while. A customer had entered the delicatessen and was peering at a display of dried pasta. Eddie watched him; he mistrusted customers until he knew them well; there were too many shoplifters, he said.

Isabel dropped her voice. “We can still talk. Why did you need that five hundred pounds?”

Eddie turned to her. “My father's got this hip, see. It's really painful. They can give him one of these new ones, you know those metal hips they put in. But they can't do it for a year. They say that there's…”

“A waiting list?”

“Yes.”

A year of pain. That was what socialised medicine meant; sometimes pain had to be endured if nobody was to go without the basics.

“So you wanted to get it done privately? To pay for it?”

He nodded, and she watched him closely. He did not look away; his eyes moved slightly, the normal flicker of movement that comes with consciousness, but he did not look away.

“Do you know how much it costs?” she asked. “Do you know how much it costs to have it done at the Murrayfield Hospital? The surgeon's fees? The anaesthetist? The physiotherapy, and so on?”

Now he looked away. “Five hundred,” he muttered. “Something like that.”

“Oh, Eddie…” She was about to say that five hundred pounds was not very much, but she realised in time that this was exactly what she should not say. So she said instead, “It's much more expensive than that.”

He said nothing. He was fiddling with the strings of his apron, twisting them round a finger. She watched him for a moment, and then made her decision. “I can pay for this, you know. I can pay for the whole thing. I can do that for your father.”

Her words had an immediate effect. The twirling of the apron string stopped as Eddie froze. He did not move.

“Yes,” said Isabel. “I can easily do it. You see, I have a special fund that allows me to do things like that. I give grants, or rather the lawyer gives them. We can do this very easily.”

“You can't pay for other people's operations,” said Eddie.

“Why not? If they need them. Why not?”

“Because it's their own business.” It was crudely put, but she knew exactly what he meant. In philosophical terms she would have referred to it as individual autonomy, or the sphere of private decision. But what Eddie had said summed it up very well.

“All right,” she said. “I'll keep out of it. But if you change your mind, then I'll do it. You just let me know.”

She realised that she had said nothing about the return of the five hundred pounds. If that was not going to be anywhere near the sum required for the operation, then Eddie should surely offer to return it. Indeed, he
had
to return it. But he said nothing about it, and just turned away, to get on with his work. And that was the point at which she realised that the whole business about the father's hip replacement was a complete lie.

It hurt her, being lied to by Eddie, and it made her reflect on why exactly it was that we were harmed by lies. Sometimes, of course, lies harmed us because we acted on them, and this proved to be to our detriment. That was straightforward and understandable. The person falsely directed onto the cliff path by the mischievous passerby is harmed by the lie when he falls over the edge. The fraudster's victim is harmed when he sends money for the nonexistent benefit that will never materialise. He suffers loss. But what of other lies—lies which did not necessarily make us act to our disadvantage, nor took anything from us, but which just misled us? Why should we be hurt by them?

It is all because of trust, she decided. We trusted others to tell us the truth and were let down by their failure to do so. We were hoodwinked, shown to be credulous, which is all about loss of face. And then she decided that it was nothing to do with trust, or pride. It was something to do with the moral value of things as they really were. Truth was built into the world; it informed the laws of physics; truth
was
the world. And if we lied about something, we disrupted, destabilized that essential truth; a lie was wrong simply because it was
that which was not.
A lie was
contra naturam.
Truth was beauty, beauty truth. But was Keats right about that? If truth and beauty were one and the same thing, then why have two different terms to describe it? Ideas expressed in poetry could be beguiling, but philosophically misleading, even vacuous, like the rhetoric of politicians who uttered the most beautiful-sounding platitudes about scraps of dreams, scraps of ideas.