A Distant View of Everything

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Once she had rung off, she turned her attention to the papers on her desk. She glanced at her watch, and saw that it was now nine o’clock. She wondered whether she should seek out Jamie—she heard snatches of music off in the distance—but she decided that she would leave him to his own devices. She would give half an hour or so to the papers, and then go up for an early night. If Jamie came in while she was still awake, she would talk to him about his medical issue—if he did not, then it could wait until the morning, when problems tended to assume more manageable proportions anyway.

  She picked up Lettuce’s book review and began to read it. “New contributions to the debate on causation are always to be welcomed,” Lettuce began, “as long as they have something fresh to say, which this one most decidedly does not.” She gave an inward groan. She did not like discourteous reviews, especially, as in this case, when the book under review was written by somebody whom Isabel liked. Yet if she went back to Lettuce and asked him to tone it down, he would object. “Written by a friend of yours?” he would ask, and she would have to reply, “Yes, but that’s not why I’d like you to be a little kinder.” That would bring a laugh—Lettuce’s characteristic snort-like laugh, which made him sound to all intents and purposes like a braying donkey.

  She sighed, and put the review to one side. One possibility was simply to lose it. Papers got lost of course—they did—and it was always possible that something could get so thoroughly lost that it would not turn up again until after the deadline for the next edition of the Review. If that were to happen, then it could well be that the following edition would just be too full to allow for Lettuce’s review—now miraculously found again—to be published.

  She allowed herself a smile as she dropped Lettuce’s review into the waste-paper basket. She let it lie there for a few moments, and then, with a sigh, she reached forward and retrieved it. The trouble with having a conscience, she said to herself, is that it never sleeps.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ISABEL ARRIVED at the Café St. Honoré earlier than she had anticipated. She had with her a copy of that morning’s Scotsman newspaper, and while she waited for Rob, she busied herself with her two favourite features, the letters column and the crossword. The letters column, which occupied a double-page spread in the newspaper, was the spiritual home of the combative and the contrary, those who would write letters on the topics of the day, disagreeing with one another, challenging received opinions and generally provoking debate. Certain themes formed a constant refrain: Scottish independence, or otherwise; the hypocrisy of politicians; national debt; and in the background a long-running argument between secularists and theologians. Certain names cropped up with great regularity, and these correspondents, writing from familiar suburban addresses, had built up a following almost as large as that of the paper’s regular columnists.

  One of these—a favourite of Isabel’s—had written that day on the subject of statues in public places and of the need for more statues of people whom the public actually recognised. “There are far too many statues of long-forgotten generals and the like,” he wrote. “These should be melted down and the metal used to cast statues of people who mean something to us today. For example, the current manager of the Scottish football team has no statue erected to him…”

  Isabel rolled her eyes. The manager of the Scottish football team was important enough, in his way, but she had no idea who he was. Perhaps a statue of him might help people like her to recognise him, but that was not the point of statues. And there was, she thought, a strong argument against erecting statues of living people; a statue cast a person in metal and was intended to be a permanent monument—but what would happen if the person in question were to fall into disgrace, as public figures could do? Would the statue be scrapped, or moved into an obscure position, as had happened to statues of Lenin and others: as the past became hated, so too did its symbols and mementoes, left to the tender mercies of iconoclasts.

  But it was not just statues that could fall victim to revisionism: street names, portraits and even personal names could all become unpopular because of the changes in attitude. Isabel remembered her friend Neville Chamberlain, who had stuck to his name in spite of its association with appeasement—his parents had believed the earlier Neville Chamberlain had done his best to avert war. But if there were few Adolfs in post-war Germany or Benitos in Italy, then that was understandable; it was safer, by far, to avoid giving children names that had an association with public figures.

  She had moved on to a letter about education and the threat to the teaching of cursive script. There were schools where children were no longer being taught to write—and this, the correspondent said, should not be allowed to happen in Scotland. Isabel agreed; she wondered how people would be able to sign their names in the future if they could not write—by mark, perhaps, or a cross, as had been common in the days of widespread illiteracy. She found herself sharing the correspondent’s outrage, and was mentally composing a letter herself when Rob arrived.

  “Something interesting?” he asked, as he sat down opposite her at the table.

  “A letter to the paper,” she said. “It’s about how some children are no longer being taught cursive script.”

  He frowned. “So they print everything? In capital letters?”

  Isabel nodded. “Or type. They’re still being taught to type.”

  He shrugged. “It’ll be the end of letters.”

  She thought that letters had already ended. “Nobody writes to anybody any longer.” She looked at him and smiled, wondering whether he received any letters. She thought not; the loneliness she had sensed before was definitely present.

  It was as if he had heard her question. “I very rarely get a letter these days,” he said. “At least, not a personal one. But then, I don’t write any.”

  “Well, you could try,” she said. “It would be like casting bread upon the waters. You would write off to somebody—out of the blue, perhaps—and see if you got anything back.”

  He looked puzzled. “To people I don’t know? To public figures?”

  “Why not? Not all of them would reply, I imagine, but some might.”

  “But what would I say?”

  Isabel said that public figures were used to getting letters that gave them advice on what to do. Then they wrote back to say “Thank you for your suggestion.” “You could also try writing to them to tell them how much you admire what they do—they like that. In fact, everybody likes to hear that…” She stopped. Rob was looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face; her flights of fancy were not for everyone, she realised.

  “I don’t think I should do that,” he said.

  “No, maybe not.” She looked at the menu. “Perhaps we should decide on our food.”

  A waitress arrived and took their order.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Rob. “I like having lunch. I find it a much more sociable meal than dinner.”

  “It can be more relaxed,” said Isabel. “Now, Andrea Murray…”

  He inclined his head. He did not seem to be particularly interested.

  “I’ve discovered a new restaurant,” he said. “It’s in an old timber shop—very convenient for the Lyceum Theatre and the Usher Hall. You may know it.”

  Isabel did. “Yes, I’ve been there. You mentioned you could give me an address…”

  This time he reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of blue paper, folded in two. “It’s there,” he said. “And her phone number.”

  Isabel opened the note.

  “That’s her Edinburgh address,” he said. “She has a place outside town—out in East Lothian, but I don’t think she spends much time there.”

  Isabel tucked the piece of paper into the pocket of her blouse.

  “I hope you succeed,” he said. “I hope you succeed in getting Connie to see reason.”

  “Not even reason,” said Isabel. “Just to see danger.”

  He nodded. “Well, let me know how you get
on.” He paused. “But you must tell me a bit more about yourself. All I know is that you’re a philosopher and you edit a journal.”

  Isabel smiled at him. “Which is more than I know about you.”

  He raised a finger. “You first.”

  “All right. I’ve spent most of my life in Edinburgh. My father was Scottish, my mother American. I went to Cambridge. I studied abroad. I married an Irishman and then thought better of it. Then I married a Scotsman. I have two children—both boys. Is that enough?”

  She found herself stressing the word married. There was something about this meeting that made her acutely uncomfortable. There had been no reason why he could not have sent her the details she wanted, rather than hand them over like a spy passing classified information. And why lunch? She had assumed that there was something more he wanted to tell her, but he had simply passed over the paper and then changed the subject. Now it occurred to her that he had some other agenda; that this, in his eyes at least, was a date.

  He answered her question. “It tells me something, but not all that much. What do you read? Do you like Italy? Have you ever been to India? Do you have another job? All those things that one wants to find out about somebody.”

  She squirmed. “But those are things that come out naturally—in the course of conversation. One doesn’t lay it all out on the table.”

  He appeared to accept this. “Perhaps not. But perhaps you could answer just one of them—do you have another job?”

  She shook her head. “What I do may not sound all that taxing, but it keeps me busy enough, you know.”

  He absorbed this and then said, “But, forgive me for asking—how does your journal manage to keep going? You told me it had a very small circulation—how does it pay its way? You must take a salary, I assume…”

  She answered before she had time to think. “I support it…” She trailed off.

  “Ah,” he said. “You’re the backer.”

  “You could call it that, I suppose.”

  He adjusted the cutlery before him so that it was perfectly aligned with the pattern of the tablecloth.

  “Every publication needs an angel,” he said. “They all need somebody to support them. Newspapers, magazines—they have such a battle.”

  “I suppose it helps in this life to have somebody to pay the bills.”

  When she said this, she noticed that his face broke into a smile. “If only…”

  She laughed. “I could do with that.”

  He threw her a sideways glance. “Surely not. Surely you don’t need that.”

  She looked away. She decided that there was something about him that she did not like and she was trying to decide what it was. On the surface, he was good company—easy in his manner, softly spoken, good to look at; but underneath that there was something else, and she decided that it was intrusiveness. He was one of those people who seemed just a little bit too interested in you, a little bit too prying.

  The waitress returned with their orders. He had asked for a glass of house wine, and this was now poured for him; Isabel could not take wine at lunchtime if she wanted the afternoon to be productive. He seemed disappointed by this. “Surely a little drop? Something light?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I find if I have a glass of wine at midday, it makes me sleepy. Then the afternoon is ruined.”

  “Come on,” he urged. “Special occasion.”

  She stared at him. “I’m sorry—I’m not with you. Is this really a special occasion?”

  He looked at her coyly. “Well, a lunch à deux. This place.”

  She moved back in her chair. She had been holding her water glass, and she put this down on the table with a thud.

  “I’m sorry, but I think there may be a misunderstanding.”

  He remained impassive. He reached for his glass. “This is a white Burgundy. Do you like Burgundy?”

  She pushed herself further back. “I really must be going,” she said. “I have a young child, you see.”

  He was staring at the tablecloth. He began to say something. “Please don’t think that…”

  His tone was wretched—like that of a boy caught red-handed in some misdemeanour.

  She hesitated, and almost changed her mind. But then she decided: there was no sense in prolonging an encounter that had got to this point.

  “You’ve been very kind,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to think me rude.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t. Of course I don’t. I’m the one who has been rude.”

  He was still seated, and she was looking down on him.

  “My life is a bit lonely,” he said. “I’m not looking for sympathy, but…but the fact of the matter is I’m on my own, and sometimes I wish it could be different.” He looked up at her. “I don’t expect you’ll know about that.”

  “Loneliness? Of course I know what loneliness is. But there are ways of dealing with it.” She paused. “Listen, Rob, you don’t ask married women out to lunch. You just don’t.” She paused again. “Surely you must realise that?”

  He looked at her helplessly. “I’m bad at these things.”

  She wanted to laugh, and she did. “Well, at least you see it.”

  The tension of the previous few minutes now dissipated. The irritation that Isabel had felt now disappeared, to be replaced by a sort of pity—a fond pity. She sat down again.

  “Let’s eat our lunch,” she said. “I think we both know where we stand, so there’s no reason why we can’t enjoy our meal on civil terms.”

  He nodded eagerly. “Thank you,” he said. “And I hope you’ll accept my apology for my…for my thoughtlessness.”

  “Let’s forget it, yup. Now, I told you a bit about myself—you tell me about you.”

  “It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure it is.” She took a sip of water. “I think there are very few personal histories that are devoid of interest. So try me.”

  “My father was a diplomat,” said Rob McLaren. “He came from up north—from Forres—and studied German in Edinburgh. He was good at languages—he had Russian and Arabic too, and so he got into the diplomatic service when it was pretty competitive. He met my mother at university, and they were married when they were both quite young. They had me, and then my sisters—both of whom married Dutchmen; their husbands are cousins. One lives in The Hague and the other in Amsterdam. They’re both lawyers—the husbands, that is.

  “My father was posted all over the place. You’d think that because of his German and Russian they would have sent him to Bonn or Moscow, but no, that’s not the way the Foreign Office works: we were in Delhi, Jakarta, Asunción—all sorts of places. I was actually born in Jakarta; then we went to Delhi when I was three.”

  Isabel watched him as he spoke. She saw that he had cut himself while shaving that morning—there was a small nick on his chin and a fleck of blood on his collar. She found the sight curiously poignant: people prepared themselves for the world—combed their hair, washed their face, chose their clothing—all of this because of human vulnerability and the desire to be approved of by others, to fit in, to be loved.

  “Do you remember India?” she asked. “Were you old enough?”

  “I was six when we left, and yes, I do remember a bit. Not very much.” He sat back in his chair. “What about you? What was your first memory?”

  “Oh, when I was three or four, I think. I remember throwing a doll out of the car window.”

  He laughed. “Really? And you felt…”

  “Guilty,” said Isabel. “It was my first experience of guilt.” She smiled. “I’ve been feeling guilty ever since.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I exaggerate, I suppose. But I do feel guilty about things—about not doing enough, about not answering letters as quickly as I should, about letting my study get out of control. All the usual things.”

  “You shouldn’t feel that way,” he said.

  “I try not to,” said Isabe
l. She wanted to get off the subject of herself. “But carry on—what do you remember about India?”

  “I remember having a birthday party in the garden. I remember one of our dogs being shot by the vet because they thought he had been in contact with rabies. I remember the vet coming and not wanting to give him an injection because he didn’t want to risk being bitten. I remember his taking a revolver out of his bag and shooting the dog. I wasn’t meant to see it, but in the excitement nobody noticed me around, and so I witnessed the whole thing. I must have been about five, I suppose.”

  Isabel winced. “What a terrible thing for a child to see.”

  Rob nodded. “I suppose it was. And that’s why I remember it, when I’ve forgotten so much else.” He was staring at the tablecloth. “I remember other, better things, of course. I remember a toy plane I had, made out of pressed tin. It was painted yellow, and through the windows you could see the one-dimensional people inside and also the pilot, who had a tiny painted moustache. I wanted it to fly, I wanted that so much, but it was an earthbound toy. It could be propelled along the ground by its clockwork motor—perpetual taxi-ing.

  “I started going to school in India. I went to a place for the children of diplomats. I remember very little about it other than that it smelled of sick. The children were sick in the corridor, and although they cleaned it up, there was always a lingering smell. Even today, that smell triggers memories for me of that school and of the way the sun used to slant in the windows at an angle and of how there was a picture of Gandhi in the corridor.

  “Of course, as I got older, it became more difficult for me to be schooled in the places where my father was posted. So when I was eight, I was sent to a small prep school in East Lothian. I was rather young for it, but I was actually rather happy there.”

  “Eight is terribly young to go off to boarding school.” She imagined sending Charlie off four years from now; she could not see herself doing that.