The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) (18 page)

I
T WAS ALEX MUNROWE
, Duncan’s daughter, who contacted Isabel with the suggestion that they meet, rather
than the other way round. Isabel had thought of getting in touch with her: having
met Patrick, the son, her curiosity about the family had been aroused. Duncan had
said very little about his daughter, other than to mention that she lived in Nelson
Street and to let drop the information that he saw her regularly when he came down
to Edinburgh. There was nothing unusual about that, even if it suggested that Duncan
might have a preference for the company of his daughter. He would not be the only
father to feel that way; many fathers had closer relations with their daughters than
with their sons. The evolutionary biologists might have something to say about that,
thought Isabel, and if they did not, then the Freudians certainly would. But in this
case it was no real concern of hers; she had not been asked to involve herself in
the internal dynamics of the Munrowe family, and it was only curiosity that drove
her to speculate about Alex.

The telephone call came on the day following Isabel’s trip to Munrowe House and her
uncomfortable meeting with Heather Darnt. After introducing herself, Alex apologised
for telephoning
Isabel at home.
But there’s nowhere else to telephone me
, she thought.

“My father gave me your number,” Alex continued. “He said you wouldn’t mind my getting
in touch.”

Isabel assured her that she did not mind in the least. “In fact, I was hoping to meet
you at some point. Your father told me all about you.” She said that without thinking;
Duncan had mentioned her, but had hardly said very much at all.

There was a silence at the other end of the line and Isabel wondered whether she had
inadvertently given offence. But she had not. Alex confessed that she had been finishing
off a piece of toast and had been licking butter off her fingers. “I know that sounds
rude,” she said. “But I have to go out shortly and there are two calls I have to make.”

“It’s not rude at all,” said Isabel. “There may be some occasions when you certainly
shouldn’t phone somebody, but while eating toast is not one of them.”

There was a further silence before Alex cleared her throat; a crumb had gone down
the wrong way, Isabel decided.

“My father is very grateful to you. So am I.”

Isabel felt embarrassed. “I’ve done nothing.”

“You’re being a support for him,” said Alex. “Martha Drummond said you would be, and
she was right.”

“Well,” said Isabel, “I’m sorry that he’s had this happen to him.”

“It’s awful,” agreed Alex. “Of all the pictures they could have taken, to take that
one … It’s just so cruel.”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “It is.” She waited for Alex to reveal why she had called.

“Could we meet?” asked Alex. “So that I can put a face to the name.”

Isabel agreed, and a time was agreed for later that day; she was going over to that
side of town, and she could drop in at about four in the afternoon, if that suited
Alex.

It did. “Sponge cake? Sandwiches? Coffee? Tea?”

“Sandwiches, if you’re making them,” said Isabel.

“Cucumber?”

Isabel laughed. “You guessed.”

“Nobody dislikes cucumber sandwiches. Or nobody I’ve met.”

Isabel suddenly wondered: Are there cultures where the cucumber, for some reason,
was spurned? People had such strange ideas about food: apples had, in some places,
once been regarded as sinful—Eve’s fault—and potatoes had been seen as encouraging
laziness. Cucumbers, surely, had escaped censure, and, rather, had attracted admiration,
even though it was not always complimentary to be described as being “as cool as a
cucumber.” The French might describe a lover as a
little cabbage
, but not, she thought, as a
little cucumber
. Certainly not. She smiled.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Sorry. I was thinking.” She did not say that she was thinking
about cucumbers.

Alex gave her address, and they rang off. Grace had just arrived and Isabel could
hear her in the kitchen emptying the bin in a way that told her that something had
incurred her housekeeper’s displeasure. When things were knocked together or banged,
it was a clear sign that some incident, probably something in the newspaper, had served
to irritate Grace.

Isabel left her study and entered the kitchen. Grace had just tipped the contents
of the bin underneath the sink into a large black plastic sack. She looked up as Isabel
entered.

“Have you seen the
Scotsman
today?” Grace asked.

I was right, thought Isabel.

“There’s an article about a wee boy in Fife who’s a real expert in physics. He’s just
nine and he’s outstripping the seventeen-year-olds. They won’t let him go to physics
classes at the secondary school.”

Isabel was not prepared for this. She had been putting off a discussion about Charlie
and mathematics, but this report seemed to be leading in that direction.

“Who’s preventing him going there?” she asked.

“The education committee.” Grace spat the words out with maximum distaste. “Those
councillors. What have they ever done? That’s what I ask? They’ve all made a career
of being politicians and they’ve never done anything in their lives. And then when
a boy of real talent comes along, they say things like, ‘Our resources must be fairly
shared—we can’t encourage one child at the expense of another.’ Can you believe it?
That’s what they said.”

Isabel moved towards the kettle. A cup of coffee could often calm Grace down, and
she decided that this was an occasion for just such a tactic.

But Grace continued. “It’s the same with Charlie, isn’t it?”

Isabel was noncommittal. “I’m not sure—”

Grace cut her short. “Yes, it is.” She looked reproachfully at Isabel. “He’s doing
very well, you know.”

Isabel frowned. “We’re very grateful to you, Grace. We’re very grateful to you for
everything you do. But in this particular instance, I think that there may be a case
for speaking to an expert …” And here she looked at Grace before going on, “I freely
admit I’m out of my depth here. I don’t know how to teach mathematics—how to get the
right approach. We could
ask an expert—maybe somebody at one of the schools, at Watson’s perhaps.” She paused.
“Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

“We already have an expert,” said Grace. “The book I’ve been using to help Charlie
is written by a world expert. She’s in California.”

“The fact that somebody is in California doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s …” Isabel
searched for the right word. “Reliable. In fact, California is the sort of place where
all sorts of fads take hold. It’s famous for that. It’s a big place for fads.”

Grace came back immediately. “Not this book. The book I’ve been using is definitely
not faddish. It’s been proved.”

Isabel sighed. “I think we need to talk about it,” she said mildly. “If children learn
mathematics the wrong way, they can develop bad habits. Then you can’t get them to
do it the right way ever again.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “I’m not making any mistakes,” she said. She turned away.
“And if you don’t trust me with Charlie, then quite honestly I don’t really see how
I can continue to work here. I’m sorry, but what other conclusion can I reach?”

Isabel gasped. “Oh, Grace, I didn’t mean to upset you. I really didn’t. Of course
I trust you with Charlie. We both do.”

“Then why did you say that?”

Isabel spoke softly. “I didn’t say what you think I said. All that I said was that
mathematics is the sort of thing that perhaps an expert …”

“An expert? That is, anybody but me. That’s what that means, doesn’t it?”

Isabel shook her head. “No, not at all. I’m not an expert either. Nor is Jamie.”

“And you haven’t even read the book,” said Grace. “You’ve accused me of making all
sorts of mistakes and you haven’t even
read the book.” She turned away and began to undo the strings of her apron, which
dropped to the floor as she loosened it. She did not bend down to pick it up, but
patted her hair as if to compose herself for her next move. “I’m sorry that it’s ending
in this way,” she said.

“Look,” said Isabel. “I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to. You
must know that, Grace. It’s just that neither Jamie nor I want to push Charlie too
much. We want him to have time to be a little boy. There’ll be time for mathematics
later on.”

Grace was not listening. “I was merely doing what needed to be done,” she said. “No
more than that.”

“Well, then, let’s talk about it. Let’s sit down and work it out.”

Grace moved away. “No. It’s too late for that. I’m going now,” she said.

“Grace—”

The kitchen door slammed. Isabel sat down and put her head in her hands. Grace had
resigned twice before, and on both occasions had been persuaded to return. In neither
of the previous cases did Isabel feel it had been her fault—and she was right: she
was an infinitely considerate employer. She imagined that once again Grace would be
prevailed upon to change her mind, but it would involve prolonged explanations and
assurances. And neither of the previous resignations had been so firm and so reproachful,
which did not bode well for a rapid resolution. Jamie would have to be involved, Isabel
decided. Grace normally ate out of his hand, and he had been responsible for bringing
the last resignation to an end. He would be an ambassador, sent on a mission of reconciliation
and peace-keeping, the bearer of a diplomatic note and a peace-offering.

That was what Grace would expect, and it was what she would get, although for a brief
moment Isabel allowed herself to speculate on what would happen if she were simply
to accept Grace’s resignation. Would Grace then apologise and ask for her job back,
or would she stand on her dignity? It was inconceivable that Grace should go. She
had been there for ever, it seemed, and the house would not be the same without her.
Isabel owned the house, it was true, but that did not make her feel that she, alone,
had the right to be there. The right to be in a place came in different forms: the
legal title was one such form, but only one, and could sometimes be considerably weaker
than moral rights of another form altogether. Those with legal title often misunderstood
that; they thought that a piece of paper—a legal device—spoke more eloquently than
any human link, any claim of long presence or association. But they were wrong, even
if they had the crude mechanisms of enforcement on their side.

No, Jamie would be sent on his peace mission and, with any luck, Grace would soon
be back at work as normal. Charlie might ask where she was, but Isabel was prepared
for that. She had resolved never to lie to her young son, and she would not start
now. So if he asked where she was, Isabel thought that she might simply say that Grace
was reviewing her position. She had no idea how that would sound to a three-year-old,
perhaps rather as if Grace had gone off to watch a film. Then she realised that this
was meretricious. She would say to Charlie that Grace had gone home because she was
cross. She hoped that she would not be cross the next morning, but she could not be
sure. That would be both truthful and comprehensible, and Charlie, she was sure, would
accept it. Children understood that adults could become angry—curiously so, and for
no apparent
reason, just as the weather could change and a smiling day might suddenly frown.

The contretemps with Grace left her feeling slightly raw, despite Jamie’s later assurances
that she could likely be persuaded to withdraw her resignation. “And she won’t make
a fuss about the mathematics,” he said. “You’ll see—she’ll have picked up your concerns
about that and won’t make a fuss.”

Isabel hoped that he was right, but as she made her way down to her meeting with Alex
Munrowe, she decided that if Grace was determined to persevere with her mathematics
teaching, then they would simply have to have another talk. She did not relish the
prospect of specifically overruling Grace on the matter, but she had her duty as a
mother to consider. And it was not unreasonable, she thought, to insist on something
when it came to the education of her son; surely Grace would understand that and would
see it from Isabel’s point of view. That was what she hoped, but there remained a
nagging doubt. Grace could be stubborn, and it was just possible that this question
of mathematics was going to be a battlefield that neither of them wanted but neither
felt she could avoid.

ALEX
’
S FLAT
in Nelson Street was on the second floor of a four-storey tenement, built in the
early years of the nineteenth century when the Edinburgh New Town spread confidently
down the hill towards the Firth of Forth. Nelson Street was a short street by the
standards of its neighbours, a brief, sloping link between two sets of elegant private
gardens. Unlike most New Town streets, which ran in a straight line or, at most, followed
a leisurely curve, Nelson Street had a zigzag where it was interrupted
at a right angle by another street; Alex lived in the
zag
, just before it opened out on to the broad square of Drummond Place. Her flat was
served by a common stair that ascended from behind a classical panelled door. This
staircase, chilly in spite of its being summer, still retained its original heavy
mahogany handrail and ornate ironwork banisters: craftsmanship that had been built
to last, and had done just that. The stone stairs themselves were worn by centuries
of feet, creating in the middle of each step a small curved indentation—not enough
to make the stairs hazardous but deep enough to remind the visitor that he or she
was not the first to walk that way.

The door off the landing had two names on it, each separately engraved on a small
brass plate. Isabel noticed that the screws holding these plates were countersunk
so as not to protrude even by the smallest fraction of an inch above the surface;
it was an odd detail for her to notice, and not, she decided, one loaded with meaning—except
that, perhaps, it was because we were so used to cheapness in our surroundings, to
sloppiness, that craftsmanlike standards stood out and reminded us of what had once
been taken for granted.