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

The concert began. A couple of pieces were familiar to Isabel—the rest were new, but
there were full programme notes that explained who the composers were and put their
music in
context. She did not go out at the interval, but remained where she was, reading the
notes for the second half. Jamie caught her eye and smiled; she returned the smile.
She felt so proud of him.

At the end of the concert, the audience went downstairs, where most stayed for the
reception. A group of young women in black skirts and white tops circulated among
the guests, offering glasses of wine and small, rather greasy snacks. Isabel took
a sausage on a stick and nibbled at it: it was not at all warm and seemed to be packed
with cold fat. She steeled herself to swallow it. The Scottish diet was famously unhealthy,
and it seemed that the same applied to Scottish canapés.

There was no sign of her friends, and she found herself in conversation with a couple
she had not met before. Looking for something to talk about, she asked them where
they lived. Their eyes lit up: they had recently moved to a new house and were full
of the details. “It has a large conservatory,” the woman said. “With a vine—an established
vine.”

“And there’s a terrific garden,” said the husband.

“Yes, terrific,” agreed his wife. “The people before us were demon gardeners. Demons.”

Isabel sipped at her wine, discreetly eyeing the prospects for escape. Jamie was on
the other side of the room, with the musicians. They were enjoying themselves, and
a peal of laughter sounded across the room to make the point. She pointed to him.
“My husband.”

The woman looked across the room. “On the right?”

Isabel shook her head. “On the left. And I must have a word with him, if you’ll excuse
me.”

Isabel could tell that the woman was interested. The musician on the right was a short
man with a thickset neck, much
older than Jamie. She has assumed, thought Isabel, that that is the sort of husband
I should have. And now she had seen Jamie and was thinking: How did
she
get
him
? People are transparent, Isabel thought; so often we can tell exactly what they’re
thinking although they may not have said a thing. And I am equally transparent: this
woman knows that I’m not really interested in our conversation and that I don’t really
have to have a word with Jamie; not an urgent word; not anything that couldn’t wait
until they’ve finished telling me about their garden.

The woman’s interest in Jamie changed now to offence that Isabel wanted to get away
from her. “Please,” she said. “Don’t let us hold you up.”

Isabel blushed, and moved away. She did not like to give offence, but sometimes it
was difficult not to do so. Sometimes the ordinary contingencies of social life meant
that offence was inevitable: the turning down of an invitation that one could not
accept because one had another engagement—that could give offence, no matter how genuine
the excuse:
she doesn’t want to come; she says that she’s got something else on … that’s what
she says
. Or at a cocktail party—those occasions that Isabel sometimes called “trials by cocktail”—you
had to move on; you couldn’t stay and talk to the same person for hours; and yet how
to detach yourself? What formula could one use for getting away? Could you simply
say, “I’ve enjoyed our chat,” and walk away? That was somewhat abrupt. “I must fill
up my glass.” “But it’s quite full already.” “Oh, is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Perhaps
one might try: “I need some fresh air. I must get to a window.” “Oh, so do I! I’ll
come with you.” As a last resort, a quick glance at one’s watch, and then, “I really
have to go. What a pity.” “Oh, so do—” “No. Actually, I’ll stay—you go. Goodbye.”

Isabel moved towards the other side of the room. She sensed
that the woman was watching her; she felt her eyes upon her, and thought she should
be seen to be walking in that direction. Then she hesitated: Why? Why should she worry
about what somebody whom she had just met, and whom she would probably never meet
again, should think about her? She had done nothing wrong; she had been perfectly
polite when they had been going on about their garden. She had done nothing for which
she should reproach herself.

She stopped. There was a young man standing in front of her. He had just finished
talking to a woman in a purple dress, a large woman who was a regular attendee at
Edinburgh concerts and who was considered vividly eccentric by many; an enthusiastic
exponent of a wide range of subjects, on which she entertained strong and unconventional
opinions. The young man looked bemused, which often happened when people spoke to
that particular woman for the first time. She was now making off towards her husband,
who was standing near the door; a rather insignificant-looking man who had the appearance
of being permanently overwhelmed; shell-shocked, perhaps, after years of marriage
to that woman. The Scots expression
hauden doon—
held down—was made for people like him, thought Isabel.

Isabel caught the young man’s eye. She had the feeling he wanted to speak to her.

“Enjoyed the concert?” she asked.

He looked at her gratefully; in a room full of people talking, we do not wish to be
by ourselves. “Yes. A lot. I love early music and we don’t get enough of it, I think.”

“I like it too.”

He transferred his glass from right hand to left to be able to shake hands. “I’m Patrick
Munrowe.”

It took a moment for the name to register. But then, in an
instant, she saw the resemblance. Of course he was Patrick Munrowe; there was Duncan’s
forehead, and the same eyes; the same presence.

The coincidence struck her sharply. “Your father’s Duncan Munrowe?”

He nodded, somewhat surprised. She looked at him appraisingly. He was slightly taller
than his father with the same good looks, but had an air of vulnerability about him;
the air that some men have of being slightly lost.

“I had lunch with him yesterday, you see.”

He looked thoughtful. “Here? In Edinburgh?”

“Yes, he was in town.”

“I see. I didn’t know.”

There was nothing in his tone to suggest that he was aggrieved to hear that his father
had been in Edinburgh and had not told him, and yet Duncan had made a point of saying
that he always saw his daughter when he came to town. If the daughter, then why not
the son?

“I think it was a pretty brief visit,” she said hurriedly. “It was business.”

He started to enquire. “You’re a …?” He did not finish the sentence.

“It was about the loss of the painting.”

“So you’re with the insurance company?”

“No.” She was not sure how to proceed, being uncertain as to whether the approach
from Duncan was meant to be confidential. She had already given it away, if it was.
“No. I’ve got nothing to do with that side of it. I was asked by Martha Drummond to
speak to him about it.”

The mention of Martha’s name had an immediate effect: he looked incredulous. “Her?”

“Yes. I believe that she’s a friend of your father’s.”

“I suppose so. It’s just that, well, frankly, I find that woman rather difficult to
take. Sorry.”

“She may not be everybody’s cup of tea.”

He took a sip of his wine. “Has he asked you to help him?”

Isabel felt that she could hardly decline to talk about it now. “He has. I’m not sure
what I can do—if anything. But I think your father needed a sounding board, so to
speak.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. He was very upset by it, you know.”

“I know.”

“And it wasn’t because of the money side of it. Pop is very unworldly. He’s one of
the least materialistic people I know.”

Isabel said that she had formed the impression that it was the painting that counted
rather than its monetary value.

“Dead right,” said Patrick. “With him, it’s a question of … well, there’s no other
word for it but
honour
. It’s a question of honour that he promised the painting to the Scottish National
Gallery. That’s what’s really hurt him—the possibility that the painting might never
be recovered or could be damaged.”

“I can understand that.”

He looked at her with interest. “May I ask what you do? Are you a psychologist?”

“No. I’m a philosopher.”

He seemed impressed. “There aren’t many people who can answer that question that way.
That’s what you actually do—philosophy?”

She explained about the
Review
and about the sort of articles she published. And then she turned the question back
on him. “And you?”

His reply was delivered in a tone of self-deprecation. “Nothing
nearly as interesting, I’m afraid. I work for a company that advises on investment
in pharmaceutical companies. I’ve been doing it for the grand total of six years so
far.”

She wondered about his age. Duncan had told her, but she had forgotten. Twenty-something—twenty-seven?
So he must have gone straight from university into the job. And that left another
forty years to do it. Forty years of working on drug companies. Forty years.

“I’m not sure that I’d say that was uninteresting. Drugs don’t strike me as boring.
And isn’t what you do a form of intelligence gathering?”

He smiled. “I suppose you could look at it that way. We look at pharmaceutical companies
with a view to putting the investors’ money in them. I suppose that’s intelligence
gathering. I look at smaller companies—the ones who think they might just invent the
cure for something big.”

“And do they?”

“Sometimes, but very rarely. I’ve recently been looking at one that is trying to find
an Alzheimer’s drug. There have been one or two possibilities, but at the end of the
day they’ve fizzled out. Then somebody comes up with something that makes everybody’s
efforts look a bit expensive. Such as eating oily fish. Apparently that stops your
brain shrinking and protects you against Alzheimer’s. But there’s no profit in that.”

Isabel laughed. “Sardines? A tin of sardines a day?”

“Exactly. And if you’re worried about strokes, then …”

They were interrupted by Jamie, who had left the group of musicians. He took Isabel’s
hand and squeezed it lightly.

“Lovely concert,” said Isabel. And to Patrick, “This is Jamie.”

Patrick smiled at Jamie. “Yes,” he said. “You played the bassoon, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“I played a curtal once,” said Patrick. “At school. We had a music teacher who loved
old instruments. He arranged for us to play sackbuts and sordunes and whatever.”

Isabel asked what the curtal was.

“The precursor of the bassoon,” Jamie told her.

“And the racket,” prompted Patrick. “Don’t forget the racket.”

“That’s another early instrument,” said Jamie. “It looks like a little pot. You blow
down a crook into the little pot and a deep sound comes out. It’s a sort of bassoon
for people who were waiting for the bassoon to be invented.”

Patrick laughed. She saw that his eyes had lit up during this conversation. “Imagine
people wanting to play instruments that haven’t yet been invented. One might say,
‘I really want to play the saxophone, but Adolf Sax hasn’t invented it yet.’ ”

Isabel smiled. She liked a conversation that went in odd directions; she liked the
idea of playfulness in speech. People could be so depressingly literal.

Jamie now turned to her. “I think perhaps we should go home. Grace doesn’t want to
stay over tonight, she wants to get home.”

Isabel explained to Patrick, “Grace is our babysitter.”

She saw Patrick’s eyes move quickly to Jamie and then back to her. It was quick, but
she noticed. There was a look of disappointment on his face; it was unmistakable.

“I must be on my way too,” Patrick said quietly.

Isabel felt a sudden sympathy for him. “Where do you live?”

“I live in the New Town,” he said. “St. Bernard’s Crescent.”

“I like it there,” said Isabel.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “So …”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” said Isabel. “Your father has invited me to the
house.”

“You’ll like it there too.”

He smiled and began to turn away. Isabel took Jamie’s arm and led him through the
crowd, towards the door. Outside, in the darkness, she looked up at the towering stone
buildings that lined the narrow thoroughfare of the Cowgate. A soft rain was falling,
a spitting.

“Your bassoon?” she asked. “You’ve left your bassoon behind.”

“They’re looking after all our instruments. They have a van that will bring everything
back tomorrow.”

They began to make their way back towards the Grassmarket, undecided as to whether
to walk home or catch a taxi.

“That was Patrick Munrowe,” said Isabel. “His father is the man whose painting was
stolen.”

Jamie seemed distracted by something. “That second piece we played,” he said. “I’m
not sure it was a success. The flute—”

“What did you think of him?” pressed Isabel.

“Of Patrick?”

“Yes.”

“I was interested to hear that he had played the curtal. He knew what he was talking
about.”

“And?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Gay?” asked Isabel.

“Maybe,” said Jamie. “Did you think so?”

“Yes,” she said. “He was very disappointed when we mentioned Grace and getting back
for the babysitter. Did you notice it?”

Jamie had not. “That second piece,” he said. “We sounded much better at rehearsal.”

“It was because he hadn’t realised that you and I were together. That was why.”

Jamie was silent. Isabel’s deduction embarrassed him. “You mean … Well, how can you
tell? And anyway, what does it matter?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all. But I think there’s an issue between him and his father.
It may have nothing to do with that, or it may. I can’t tell.”

“Gaydar can be misleading, you know,” said Jamie. “It needs to be calibrated.”

“Like sympathy,” said Isabel. “And all our emotions and feelings. Shame. Anger. Love.
Pain. Calibration is required if we are to use them sensitively.”