The Charming Quirks of Others (15 page)

Cat tensed. “Of course not.” She hesitated, but then, relaxing, said, “Gordon is very popular.”

Isabel said that she was pleased to hear that. There was always some reason for popularity.

“Oh yes?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Have you ever met somebody who’s popular but unpleasant?”

Cat thought about this. “No, not really.”

“Well, there you are.” She took a sip of her coffee. “So he has no faults—as far as you know?”

Cat shrugged. “Everybody has faults.”

“So they do,” said Isabel. “We all have our quirks.”

Cat looked at her with interest. “And yours are? Your faults, I mean: What are they?”

“We don’t always see our own faults with
crystal
clarity,” said Isabel. “But since you put me on the spot, I suppose I would have to say that I tend to over-complicate matters—it’s my training. And I can be nosy—so Jamie tells me.” She noticed that Cat was nodding in agreement, and felt slightly irritated. What she wanted was for Cat to say, ‘
You
over-complicate things?
You
nosy? Surely not.’ ”

Isabel was about to ask Cat about her own faults, but Cat suddenly said, “He’s too generous with his time. That’s one of his faults. It can be misinterpreted.”

Isabel was careful not to appear too interested in this. “A nice fault to have,” she said. “And it’s better, surely, than being grudging with one’s time.”

“He’ll listen to anybody,” said Cat. “He lets them go on about things, and then they think that he’s more interested in them than he really is.”

Isabel said that she saw how this could be awkward: expectations could be raised, hopes dashed. While she said this, her heart sank. Gordon was not going to prove to be the flawless candidate she had hoped. Affairs: that was what Cat was alluding to.

“Tell me,” she said. “Was he … with somebody before you met him?”

Cat took the spoon from her saucer and retrieved a residue of milky foam from the bottom of her cup. “There was somebody.” She paused, as if uncertain whether to go on. “Not that it amounted to anything on his side. One of these one-sided things.”

Isabel looked out of the window. A one-sided thing. She saw a man waiting at the bus stop on the other side of the road; a young woman passed by and his head turned. She thought he said something; the woman stopped, half turned, and then walked on. A one-sided thing.

“You mean somebody fell for him, but not the other way round?”

Cat nodded.

“Well, that can be difficult,” said Isabel. “Yes, I see that. But
all that needs to be done, presumably, is to indicate that it’s not on.”

“She was rather unstable,” said Cat. “And married.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not a big thing,” said Cat. “Women get infatuated. Remember what’s-her-name? Madame …”

“Bovary.” Isabel sighed. “Married. And there was a betrayed husband, I suppose.”

Cat’s answer was spirited. “It wasn’t his idea. I’ve been trying to tell you that. It was her.”

“How far did it go?” asked Isabel. The question seemed prurient and she was not sure whether she wanted to know; but it was too late now. Cat looked at her angrily. “It didn’t go anywhere. I told you that.”

Perhaps it was not as bad as Isabel had feared. “Well, so no harm was done.” She wanted to change the subject because she did not want Cat to begin to ask why she was so interested. She looked over to the other side of the room, where Eddie was feeding Charlie small pieces of black olive. “He must be the only child in Scotland who likes olives,” she said.

Cat rose from the table. “I must get on with things.”

Isabel reached out. “I meant what I said. I really like him.”

Cat softened. “Well, thank you. I’m glad about that.”

She wants to share him, thought Isabel. It was a lover’s pride. A lover wants others to see the beloved in exactly the same light as she does. And that was true of how Isabel felt about Jamie; she assumed that others would see him as she saw him. Yet she knew that this was an illusion: the light that surrounds the one we love is not always as bright to others. Indeed, they were often unaware that it was there at all.

ISABEL FINISHED THE LAST
of her coffee and then crossed the room to relieve Eddie of Charlie. The marzipan pig, slightly bigger than usual this time, had been produced and was being flourished enthusiastically by Charlie. “Pig! Pig!” he shouted. And then, exactly as anticipated, he bit off its head.

Eddie laughed. “Olives and pigs. His two big things.”

“And the fox in our garden,” said Isabel. “He loves him.”

Eddie bent down and ruffled Charlie’s hair. “Their hair is always so soft,” he said. “Like an owl’s feathers. Have you ever felt an owl’s feathers, Isabel?”

Isabel said that she had not.

“I have,” said Eddie. “There was a guy who had a little barn owl on a sort of string. The string was tied around its leg. He was a falconer, and he brought it to the Meadows Festival.”

Isabel smiled encouragingly. Increasingly, Eddie spoke of things he remembered, whereas in the past he had been largely silent about his life outside the delicatessen. It seemed to her that he was reclaiming something, piece by piece, assembling a life.

“He let me stroke the feathers on the top of its head,” he continued. “I had never felt anything so soft. It was like … like Charlie’s hair. Even softer, maybe.”

Eddie touched Charlie’s hair again, and the little boy looked up appreciatively.

“He likes you,” said Isabel. “I think you’re one of his favourite people.”

The compliment had a marked effect, and it seemed to Isabel that Eddie grew in stature before her, swelling with pride.
He straightened up; his head moved back. Like a soldier on parade, thought Isabel; but how strange that mere words should do that to people—inflate them, deflate them too.

Eddie looked at his watch. “I’d better get on with things,” he said. “I have to slice some Parma ham and people will be coming in soon. It’s always busy around lunchtime—as you know.”

Isabel picked up Charlie to put him back in his pushchair. “Of course. And Charlie will need his sleep, won’t you, darling?”

“Pig,” said Charlie, examining the marzipan animal.

“Insults won’t help,” said Isabel.

Eddie laughed. “He said
pig
and you thought …” He looked at his watch again. Then he seemed to remember something, and turned to Isabel. “Did you enjoy the film?”

Isabel looked blank. She had not been to the cinema in two months, and she could not remember what it was that she and Jamie had seen last—something at the Dominion, she thought. But what was it? It had not been memorable. “What film?”

“That Italian film,” said Eddie, reaching for a large Parma ham. “The Parma ham made me think of it. Remember that scene where …”

Isabel frowned. “Italian film?” She could not remember when she had last seen an Italian film.

“La Famiglia,”
said Eddie. “Remember? Last Wednesday. I saw Jamie when I went out to get something to drink. Weren’t you there too?”

Isabel was fastening the straps that held Charlie in the pushchair. She did so very slowly, listening carefully to what Eddie was saying. His voice seemed to echo, for some reason. It was loud in her ears.

“Where was it?” she asked. “The Dominion?”

“Never go there,” said Eddie. “No, it was at the Filmhouse in Lothian Road. I love going there. My friend used to work there. He sometimes gave me tickets. Maybe he shouldn’t have—I don’t know.”

Isabel would normally have said that he should not, but her mind was preoccupied. Eddie had seen Jamie at the cinema. Jamie had not said anything about seeing a film. Why?

“Are you sure it was Jamie?”

“Yes. Of course. It’s not as if I don’t know Jamie.” He paused. “We said hello. He said ‘Hello, Eddie’ and then he went back in.”

“Oh … Oh. Well.”

She finished securing Charlie and turned to go. She said goodbye to Eddie, and he made a cheerful remark about keeping another marzipan pig for Charlie. “It’s not that I want to ruin his teeth. It’s just that …”

Isabel did not hear the rest of the remark. She had pushed Charlie out on to the pavement and now, for a moment, she had no idea which way to turn. Was she going to walk back to the house—in which case she would turn left—or was she going to go back into Bruntsfield—in which case she would turn right? She felt completely lost. She felt empty, scoured out; as if somebody had taken a great knife and hollowed her.

She turned left, and began to walk back along Merchiston Crescent. A woman was approaching her on the pavement, going the other way. It was a woman she recognised but did not know—one of those nodding acquaintances that one builds up in a city even if in many cases one never finds out who they are or where they live. She was a small, bird-like woman who wore
a scarf over her head, like an old-fashioned French farmer’s wife. Isabel did know a little bit about her. She lived in a flat in Merchiston Crescent and Grace, who knew her too, had been told that she was a singing teacher. “I saw somebody going to her place,” Grace once said. “He was standing outside her front door, about to ring the bell. A very round man with slicked-down hair and highly polished shoes. He must be learning to sing.”

The singing teacher drew level with Isabel and, seeing Charlie, slowed her pace.

“Such a beautiful little boy,” she said. “Do you mind my asking: what’s he called?”

This was the first time that Isabel had heard her voice; it was high, with a West Highland lilt to it.

“Charlie.”

“Bonnie Charlie,” said the woman, bending down to examine Charlie more closely.

Isabel took a deep breath. I am not going to cry, she told herself. I am not. But when the woman looked up, she saw the tears in Isabel’s eyes.

“My dear …”

Isabel reached in her pocket for a handkerchief. “It’s nothing. I’m all right.” She realised, as she spoke, how trite the words were. People said things like that without thinking, but it helped neither them nor the people trying to comfort them.

The woman placed a hand on Isabel’s arm. “It’s hard being a mother, isn’t it? There are so many things.”

Isabel nodded. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“If I can do anything to help?”

Isabel shook her head. “Thanks. I’ll be all right. I must get Charlie back for his sleep.”

They parted, although the singing teacher looked over her shoulder a few yards on. She saw Isabel continue her journey, walking more swiftly now, head down, as if to fight a wind that was not there, on this calm day, with its clear sky and darting birds.

T
HERE HAD BEEN PAINFUL DAYS
in Isabel’s life, as there are in the lives of all of us. There had been days during her brief marriage to John Liamor when she had felt a blanket of despair about her—a dark, enveloping blanket that prevented her from doing anything, from thinking about anything other than her distress. And it brought with it self-pity, for which she had a particular distaste when she saw it in others, but which she nevertheless understood perfectly well.
I shall not
, she said to herself as she returned to the house.
I shall not. No
. But what was it that she would not do? Think Jamie capable of deception, of …? She could hardly bring herself to think the word, let alone mutter it to herself; but now she said it, the word escaping her lips in an almost inaudible whisper:
Unfaithfulness
. And then, the word still hanging in the air, she muttered:
Affair
.

She passed the photograph of her sainted American mother in its place on the hall table; her sainted American mother who, as she had subsequently discovered, had had an affair. She had learned this from a conversation with her mother’s cousin, Mimi McKnight, who had tried to protect her from the knowledge but
who had had it drawn out of her. Mimi had put it as tactfully as she could, and had wanted Isabel to forgive her mother, which she had done, of course; forgiveness, Mimi pointed out, can be as powerful when it is posthumous as when it is given in life; perhaps even more so. This had intrigued Isabel, and she had realised that it was quite true: forgiveness of others allows us to adjust our feelings towards the past, assuages our anger. Our parents may disappoint us in so many ways: they could have done more, they made us neurotic, they should have insisted we learn the piano—and now it is too late; they were too strict, in big things or small; they were too poor, too ignorant, too rich and possessive. There are so many grudges we can hold against the past and for the love and approval that we did not get from it. But if we forgive, then the past can lose its power to hurt.

She looked at her mother. The photograph had been taken on a trip that she had made to Venice with a college friend whose name Isabel had now forgotten. The friend was in the background, clutching at a straw hat she was wearing; there was a breeze and there were flags fluttering in the background; St. Mark’s Square, and the outside of the Caffè Florian, which had been such a favourite with Proust, and had been portrayed in a glorious Scottish Colourist painting. She looked at her mother’s face; she was smiling, and now it seemed to Isabel that the smile meant,
My dear, life is like this; there are so many disappointments; so many …