A Distant View of Everything

by Alexander McCall Smith

  But Rob said he thought he’d thrived there. “It was a kind place. They allowed us all sorts of treats—I suppose because they must, at one level, have felt sorry for us. We were encouraged to take up all sorts of hobbies—woodwork, collecting things, birdwatching. They kept us busy.

  “Then, when I was twelve, I had to go off to senior school. My parents were doing a second tour of duty in India then—my father was looking after the consulate in Madras, as it was then. I went out just before I was due to start at my next boarding school. I remember it as a sad trip. I was aware that something was coming to an end, but I wasn’t sure what was next. I asked if I could stay in India. I didn’t want to return to this country. I remember weeping and weeping, but to no avail. I dreaded the thought of what lay ahead, but my parents just tried to jolly me along. They said that everything would be fine, that I would enjoy the next place and that before I knew it the time would have arrived to come back for the summer holidays. They said we could go up to Shimla together or even make a trip out to the Andaman Islands. I was inconsolable, though, and wouldn’t be bought off with promises.”

  Rob paused. “I can’t imagine you’ll be interested in all this.”

  “But I am,” Isabel assured him. “I’d like you to go on.”

  He seemed uncertain. “I don’t know if I want to.”

  She was not sure how to respond to that. She had formed the impression that there was something he wanted to talk about, but that he was finding it hard to let go. There were, she thought, years of repression to overcome, and that would hardly happen over lunch in the Café St. Honoré. And Rob, she decided, was not straightforward; he was a vulnerable and evidently lonely man, one who was desperate for affection but who misread social signals. Everything about him suggested that she should keep her distance.

  “It’s up to you,” she said. “I don’t want to press you.”

  He seemed to make up his mind. “No, I’ll tell you. But stop me if you like.”

  She nodded her assent. I’ve started this, she said to herself; this is my fault.

  “The school I went to,” he continued, “was in Perthshire. It’s one of those expensive Scottish boarding schools where everybody wears a kilt on Sunday and where there are compulsory outings into the hills and mountains. It was an all-boys school in those days; it’s different today—different in every respect.”

  He stopped. “I don’t think I should burden you.”

  Isabel opened her mouth to say something, but he had already continued.

  “But you did ask me. I wouldn’t otherwise…”

  “Of course not. But don’t if you feel awkward. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

  “It’s too late for that,” he said softly. “What happened, happened.”

  She said nothing; the casualties of past cruelties were still there amongst us; the least we could do was to listen to them.

  “Not a day goes past—not a day—that I don’t think of that place. Of what happened there, of what they did to us.”

  She still said nothing. She had never understood why men—or boys—in groups were so inventive about finding ways of hurting one another.

  “I’ve tried to make a go of my life,” he went on. “And I know that there’s no point in going over the past—rehashing it. I know that one should just get on with living. I really have tried, you know.”

  “Of course you have.”

  Then he said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He was finding it difficult to talk.

  “We all have painful memories,” she said gently. “Every one of us, I suppose, has something that’s just very painful to us.” She thought of John Liamor, and of what he had done to her—the deception, the indifference to her feelings. She thought of how she herself, as a twelve-year-old, had joined in the teasing of a girl called Morag Maclean, who wore her hair in plaits and had a speech impediment. They had called her M…M…M…Morag and had tied a notice to one of her plaits saying, Pull here to get a word out. She added, “And shameful too. Shameful things we’ve done ourselves.”

  “I know. I know.”

  She could see that he was struggling to remain in control of himself. It had been the same with Jamie and that sad little episode over his visit to the doctor: it was exactly the same, she thought—these were both instances of the loneliness of men and their battle to be strong. On a sudden sympathetic impulse, Isabel reached out and placed a hand on top of his, on the table. It was a gesture of solidarity between the sexes; a woman who knew, and felt, what a man was going through and wanted to say: We understand.

  A young woman walked past—she had been lunching in the downstairs section of the restaurant. She paused as she passed their table, glancing at Isabel. Isabel tried to remember where she knew this woman from, but it would not come to her. She was, thought Isabel, somebody she had come across incidentally—somebody with whom a brief conversation had been shared at a party; somebody who was a friend of a friend, or a member of a committee. She did not think that she knew her other than in that casual way.

  Isabel was thinking of Rob’s story. For her part, the woman appeared to think that perhaps she was mistaken in thinking she recognised Isabel; she moved on.

  “I shouldn’t have told you all this,” said Rob. “I’m not looking for pity.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re not. And you know, talking through things is often the best thing to do.”

  “Maybe,” said Rob.

  “No, definitely,” said Isabel.

  She took her hand away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JAMIE HAD BEEN BUSY with bassoon lessons all day and was tired when he came back that evening.

  “I had to teach that boy again today,” he said. “Gordon Christie. I don’t want to be uncharitable, but he’s utterly hopeless. It’s something to do with his ear—he can’t seem to hear any differences of pitch. Everything sounds the same to him, or so it seems.”

  Isabel had heard Gordon Christie being complained of before. “Is he tone deaf?”

  Jamie scratched his head. “I’m not sure if there’s such a thing as complete tone deafness. I suspect that just about everybody can tell that notes are different, even if they can’t work out which is which. No, I don’t think he’s hearing properly.”

  Isabel wondered whether he had spoken to the school nurse, but he had not.

  “It occurred to me his ears might be blocked,” Jamie continued. “So I discreetly tried to take a look. And you know what? I noticed that there was wax—I saw it. You could actually see the wax in his ear.”

  Isabel shuddered. She was squeamish about wax—and ears, now that she came to think of it. “Did you say anything?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want to. Wax in the ears is a bit personal, don’t you think?”

  “I do. Somebody was talking about ear candling the other day. I didn’t enjoy the conversation. And I didn’t know even that candle was a verb…but I suppose anything can be a verb these days.”

  Jamie was intrigued. “Ear candling?”

  Isabel explained. “You lie on your side and stick the end of a long hollow candle into your ear. Then somebody lights the candle, and it draws air up through its hollow centre, creating a suction effect.”

  “Which gets the wax out?”

  Isabel nodded. “So people claim. But there are those who claim it’s nonsense and that what you think is ear wax is actually candle wax. It’s a bit like homeopathic medicine—highly unlikely and with no empirical evidence to support it.”

  “But there’s always a placebo effect, isn’t there?” Jamie was thinking of an uncle of his, who always swore by homeopathic remedies. He was now dead.

  “I don’t see how a placebo can clear your ears of obstruction,” Isabel pointed out.

  “Oh well…” He smiled at her. “Let’s not talk about Gordon Christie’s ears. What about you? What did you do today—apart from look after your two children, organise the house, run the Review, think great thoughts and so on?”
His smile broke into a broad grin. “I’d never accuse you of having too little to do.”

  “This and that. Nothing special. Grace helped with the boys. She wants to monopolise them.”

  She flushed as she spoke. She had told Jamie about her previous meeting with Rob, but this last occasion had been very different, coloured by the fact that he had entertained those embarrassing hopes of an affair. She could have told Jamie about this, but somehow she felt awkward about it. It would in no way reflect badly on her that she had been the recipient of unwelcome attentions, but she just did not want to talk to him about it. And that fact itself added to her discomfort: she had reproached Jamie for not talking to her about his visit to the doctor, and now here she was doing much the same thing—keeping something from him.

  It was still open to her to qualify her reply. She could have said, “Nothing special. Apart from lunch with Rob McLaren.”

  She could have done that; she had lunch with various people from time to time, particularly with people associated with the Review. Rob had nothing to do with that side of her life, of course, but it was relevant to this other thing she was doing—this other thing that Jamie knew all about.

  “A day in your study,” said Jamie. It was a statement, not a question, yet she answered it.

  “Yes, mostly.”

  Now it was too late, and she frowned as she thought of what she had just done. I have lied to him, she thought. I did not spend the day in my study. And then she asked herself why she had done this. It crossed her mind that it was some form of subconscious revenge for his having gone to the doctor without telling her; often our conscious acts are that petty—stratagems pursued to compensate for the things that have happened to us—small acts of getting even, acts of punishment.

  She pulled herself together. “Actually, I did go out. I went out to get hold of an address. It was to do with this Connie Macdonald business.”

  Jamie did not show much interest. “Progress?” he asked, although she could tell that he was not especially keen to hear just what progress—if any—had been made.

  “Rob McLaren,” she began. “He gave me…”

  But Jamie was taking off his jacket. “I’m feeling very sweaty,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I always come back from the Academy feeling a bit hot and sticky. I’m glad that it’s the end of term.” He tossed his jacket onto a chair. Men, thought Isabel, never hang up their clothing.

  “He’s a bit odd…,” Isabel began.

  “Plenty of people are a bit odd,” said Jamie. “But I’m going to take a shower. I’ll cook this evening, if you like.” He moved off. “I hate feeling sticky like this—I really hate it.”

  She watched him leave the room. At least she had told him, even if she had said nothing about Rob’s surprising behaviour. She could not bring herself to do that, but she still imagined that it would make no difference to anything. There must be many women, Isabel thought, who failed to mention to their husbands that somebody had made a pass at them; and many men, as well, who would not mention it if a woman showed an interest in them. Jamie, she imagined, must have people giving him second glances every day, but he never mentioned this. Perhaps he thought it unimportant—part of the background noise that went with being as good-looking as he was. She remembered that Auden had said something about that—about the blessed not caring what angle they were regarded from, having nothing to hide.

  This conversation took place in the kitchen. Charlie was on the floor, constructing something from a set of plastic building bricks; Magnus, who had just woken up, was in his cot, preoccupied with a colourful mobile of fur-covered blocks.

  “If Daddy’s going to have a shower,” said Charlie, “then I want one too. I want to shower with Daddy.” And then he added, “And with Mummy.”

  “We could all have a shower together,” said Jamie. “And Magnus as well. We can’t leave little Magnus out.”

  Jamie caught Isabel’s eye. “Bonding exercise,” he whispered.

  “Magnus smells,” said Charlie. “But all right: all of us.”

  It took time to get the water temperature right, and then, holding Magnus to her, Isabel stepped gingerly into the shower. Jamie held Charlie at first, but then the small boy wanted to stand on his own, clinging to his father’s leg. The water fell upon them, gathered in rivulets, then disappeared amongst feet and toes. Jamie smiled at Isabel. “What families are all about,” he said.

  She returned his smile. “A family that showers together, stays together.”

  He laughed. “That’s probably true,” he said.

  “It’s definitely true,” she said.

  From down below, Charlie made his contribution. “Let’s put Magnus down the drain,” he said.

  —

  CAT ASKED HER TO HELP in the delicatessen again the following day. She was apologetic about it, as she always was, and Isabel agreed to put in three or four hours—as she always did. It suited Grace, of course, for whom it would be an excuse to lavish attention on Magnus. She had found a café in Church Hill that particularly welcomed mothers and infants, and had taken to wheeling Magnus there in his pushchair and joining in the discussions that took place on diet and teething and sleeping patterns. Grace was an expert in all of these things, and announced to the other customers of the café that she was a governess. This was not true; Grace was a housekeeper, but took a liberal view of her position and occasionally described herself as, variously, a house manager, a “butleress,” and a lifestyle assistant. Her job included aspects of all of these, at least in so far as she had expanded it over the years, and Isabel was perfectly happy for Grace to announce herself as she wished. Isabel wanted Grace to be happy in her work, and if it helped her to enhance the description of her job, then that harmed nobody. It was a common enough practice, after all, and had led to an inflation of position resulting in the disappearance of many established roles; salesmen had long since vanished, to be replaced by sales or retail consultants; clerks had become IT operatives; and bank tellers were account advisers or associate managers. It was all obfuscation, of course, but it was, Isabel decided, generous obfuscation.

  Cat needed help because she had been invited to a salami fair in Glasgow. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “It’s a sort of trade fair for salami people. It’s important.”

  “I’d never laugh at those who profess to love salamis,” said Isabel.

  Cat looked at her sideways. “I’m not joking,” she said.

  “Nor am I,” said Isabel. “There is nothing wrong in dedicating yourself to salamis.”

  This brought a reproachful look from Cat. “I don’t think you take this seriously enough…”

  “Take salamis seriously enough? Of course I do.”

  “You sound very condescending, you know.”

  Isabel refuted this. “I am not condescending. And I’d remind you that I have agreed to help you out today, but if you’d prefer me not to…”

  “Oh no,” said Cat quickly. “I’m grateful to you—I really am. It’s just the way you go on about salamis makes me think—”

  “Let’s forget about it,” said Isabel. “Tell me what’s going on today. Who’s on?”

  “Eddie’s coming in shortly, and there’s a new person.”

  “A new employee? Full-time?”

  “Yes,” said Cat. “You know how you were telling me I was understaffed? Well, I’ve found somebody. Peg. She started yesterday.”

  Cat gave Isabel a triumphant look before continuing, “She’s very good. She has a degree in history. She’s going to be in charge of the pastas and the filled rolls.”

  It was typical of Cat, thought Isabel, to conflate history with pasta and filled rolls. “Well, her degree in history will help,” she said, and then, noticing her niece’s dismayed expression, added quickly, “I wasn’t being condescending. I really wasn’t. I just meant to say that it’s good to have well-educated staff in any business involving people. It just helps, doesn’t it?”

  Cat made a non-c
ommittal noise.

  “Where did you find her?” asked Isabel.

  “I met her,” said Cat. “We were chatting, and she mentioned that she was looking for a job. It was that simple.”

  “Where did you meet her?” asked Isabel.

  Cat ignored the question. “She’s got a natural feeling for filled rolls.”

  Isabel smiled, wondering how such a feeling manifested itself. Perhaps it was in the eyes; perhaps in the way one looked at filled rolls.

  “Where did you meet her?” she asked again.

  “Oh, somewhere or other,” said Cat. “I can’t remember.”

  Isabel noticed that as she answered, Cat’s cheeks became red. It was as clear a sign as any that her niece knew her answer was unsatisfactory. While it was true that we might forget where or how we met old friends—friends we had had for years, for decades—that was not the case with friends of a more recent vintage. Cat remembered perfectly well where she had met her new assistant, but did not want to tell Isabel. Such reticence, annoying as it was, was nothing new: there had been other occasions on which Cat had been reluctant to reveal even the most insignificant piece of information—such as where she had bought a particular item for the delicatessen—and had claimed not to remember it. Isabel thought this entirely unbelievable amnesia was something to do with power: knowing something, but yet not disclosing it to another, made one feel stronger than the person denied the information.

  “I look forward to meeting her, anyway,” said Isabel. “I’ve always thought you made life more difficult for yourself by being short-handed.”

  Cat nodded absently. “Maybe. Anyway, if you could show her anything she needs to know. She’s still finding her feet.”

  Isabel confirmed that she would be happy to do this and set about the task of cleaning the work surfaces. This was something that Cat was lax about, and Eddie disliked doing. Yet it was high on the list of must-dos in running any food business, and Isabel was very conscious of safety issues. She read copies of the trade magazine the Grocer, which she found lying about in Cat’s office, and paid particular attention to the occasional report of a health-related prosecution. She left the magazine on Cat’s desk, turned, in warning, to the relevant page, but she was not sure whether the message had been received and, if it had, whether it was ever acted upon.