Jamie was pleased to see that the prospect of Isabel having to devote large amounts of time to the deli had receded. He got on well with Hannah, whom he thought was an inspired choice for the job. He delighted in Eddie’s happiness, which was overt, and infectious.
“This is going to be really good,” Eddie said.
“Yes,” said Isabel. “And we want to make you assistant manager. Hannah’s going to be manager—but you will be her assistant.”
This took a while to sink in. Then he said, “Me? You mean me?”
“We mean you,” said Isabel. “Gordon will draw up a new contract for you.” She looked at him. She struggled to hold back the tears. “I’m really happy for you, Eddie. I know you’re going to do this really well.”
“Me?” he repeated. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said. “You. Who else?”
* * *
—
CAT AND LEO married at a marina near Oban, the ceremony being performed by a licensed humanist officiant from Fort William, a woman who carried a small lapdog with her to every ceremony she conducted. They invited only a handful of people: the man who was installing solar panels on the new boat; Cat’s friend Erica, from Birmingham; Leo’s cousin, who worked for a brewery in Dublin; and his friend Stan, who was a pilot with a cheap airline. Isabel and Jamie were sent photographs of the wedding itself, with Leo in a kilt and a rough green shirt that was laced rather than buttoned. Cat wore a sleek dress of brown Thai silk. The celebrant had her lapdog under her arm and Stan was in his pilot’s uniform.
“Bizarre,” said Isabel.
“Seriously funny” was Jamie’s verdict. “Do you think she’s happy?”
Isabel considered her answer. “I think she is,” she said. “She adores him.”
“But what does she see in him?”
Isabel sighed. “The usual thing,” she said. She did not want to elaborate. The happiness of others was often inexplicable. People got by; people sought different things; they felt their way through the accidental circumstances of their lives. They snatched at small scraps of happiness which, sometimes to the surprise of others, were enough.
* * *
—
A MONTH after the purchase of the deli, Isabel was in La Barantine one morning, drinking a cup of coffee before returning to the house and a day of unremitting editorial activities. The solstice had passed, and the summer had ripened. It was almost time for the Festival to begin, and the city was filling with artistic visitors. As Isabel sat in her window seat, she watched a group of very obvious students walk past. They had university drama group stamped all over them, and they were in Edinburgh for the Fringe. She could not help but smile. They would be putting on something by Beckett, or West Side Story, or a new and troubling play by one of their own number. They would spend several weeks sleeping on somebody’s floor or, if they were lucky, on their couch. They would have tiny audiences and they would lose whatever money they had. They would be blissfully happy—immortal; talented beyond the world’s understanding; inhabitants of a moment, and a stage, made just for them.
Isabel turned to her newspaper. There was a small war somewhere, getting worse. There were people adrift on the sea, desperate for somewhere—anywhere—to land. There was nothing new.
She looked up. A woman had come into the café and was standing before her. It was Hilary Reay.
“Do you mind?” said Hilary. “You seem absorbed.”
Isabel felt her heart beating hard within her. She was nervous. “No, not at all.”
Hilary drew up a chair. “The town’s getting crowded. Have you noticed?”
Isabel glanced through the window. She was thinking. Did Hilary know about the conversation she and Jamie had had with Iain? Was this going to be a confrontation?
Hilary fiddled with the menu. “Iain hasn’t been that well,” she said. “Had you heard?”
Isabel shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s being so brave about it,” said Hilary. “But, in a way, I suppose he has everything sorted out. There are no loose ends for him.”
Isabel said nothing. She was waiting.
“He told us that you were no longer going to be the executor.”
Isabel inclined her head. “I was rather over-extended. I have a lot on.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Hilary. “I understand perfectly. And, anyway, he sorted things out, as I expect you may know.”
Isabel shook her head. “I don’t, I’m afraid.”
“He made arrangements for the estate to be shared by the three families,” she said. “He never really wanted that, he said, but he saw no alternative.”
“Perhaps that was the best solution,” said Isabel. She felt a flood of relief. Hilary did not know of the part they might have played in turning Iain against her.
There was a further surprise. “No, I don’t think it was the only option. Jack felt that he couldn’t take it on—and I agreed with him. And Sarah was lukewarm too. The only one who could do it was John. So we made over our interest to him—with Iain’s agreement—and he’s getting stuck in.”
Isabel said nothing. She looked away. She had to say something, because she could not leave matters as they were. It might not be wise, but she decided to do it.
She turned to face Hilary. “Years ago, you know, I saw you.”
Hilary frowned. “Years ago? When…”
“Yes, when we were both on jury duty. But then I saw you a few months later, right here—in this very café.”
Hilary still looked puzzled. “So? So you saw me?”
“You were with that man. That man Macglashian.”
Isabel watched the effect of her words. “And then,” she continued, “you went outside—with him—and I saw you shake hands with him.”
“It’s a long time ago…”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “A long time. But it stuck in my mind, you see, because you had just been one of the people who wanted to acquit him. You knew him, didn’t you? You sat on that jury in the knowledge that you should not be there. And you argued for his acquittal—in spite of all the evidence against him, you wanted him acquitted.”
Hilary sat quite still. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she had been caught unawares. Then she shook her head very slowly. “No, no. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.”
Isabel shook her head. “Well, if you’ll forgive me, I can’t see how it can be interpreted in any other way. You were on a jury that acquitted somebody you knew. I heard you argue for acquittal. You were the main voice raised for that verdict. A short time afterwards, I saw you in the street with the man you wanted acquitted.”
“There’s a small matter of evidence,” said Hilary. “You don’t convict somebody just because you don’t like the look of him.” She looked at Isabel accusingly, as if to suggest that this was what had been behind Isabel’s desire to convict.
“If you think that was what I did,” began Isabel. “Then—”
Hilary stopped her. “I didn’t say you did.”
“You implied it,” said Isabel, her tone coldly polite. “And there was a lot of evidence, you know. I listened to that, just as you must have done…Or maybe we heard different things.”
Isabel waited.
Hilary was staring at her. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
The directness of the accusation upset Isabel. It was one thing to express scepticism about what somebody was saying; it was another thing altogether to make a direct accusation of mendacity. She hesitated. Suddenly, Hilary looked truthful to her. She was not sure why, but it was something in her expression. Liars, she thought, don’t look like this.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Isabel muttered.
Hilary continued to look directly at Isabel. There was no flinching; there was no sliding away of looks. “I didn’t know him before th
e trial. I didn’t.”
Isabel raised an objection, but she was changing her mind, and the objection sounded tame. “So what were you doing talking to him then? And your husband too? What was he doing?”
“Macglashian was on the board of a small museum in Glasgow. They kept him on after the trial—he had given them a lot. They were buying one of Jack’s pictures. At that time, I handled all of Jack’s sales. I was making all the arrangements.”
Isabel stared at her. “You’re telling me it was a business meeting?”
“Yes. It was.”
“And your arguing that he was innocent. That had nothing to do with it?” Isabel had now come round to the view that Hilary’s story was entirely credible.
“I believed he was innocent. Or rather, I thought it likely that he was innocent. I wasn’t sure, you see, and I felt if there was a doubt then we should be very careful about our verdict.”
“So you were prepared to do business with him, afterwards?”
For the first time, Hilary raised her voice. “Yes! And doesn’t it occur to you that it would be wrong to behave otherwise? If you’re acquitted, the law says you’re innocent, and you should be treated accordingly.”
Isabel felt ashamed. “Yes,” she said. “You should.”
Hilary looked at her challengingly. “Well then.”
Isabel’s shame grew. “You sent me a picture.”
Hilary nodded. “I did.”
“I thought it was a bribe,” said Isabel. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I thought.”
“It wasn’t,” said Hilary. “But do you know, after I sent it to you and I received no acknowledgement, it occurred to me that that was what you thought. I felt mortified. I lost sleep over it.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Isabel. “I’ve done you a real injustice.”
Hilary hesitated. It was clear that she was hurt by Isabel’s lack of trust, but she seemed to overcome that. She shook her head. “No, no. I’m immensely relieved that we’ve sorted this out. It felt all wrong to me—wrong and confused.”
“I sold the picture,” Isabel continued. “I sold it and gave the money to one of Macglashian’s victims. I don’t know if you remember her. She’s the only one of the victims who gave evidence.”
“The single mother? A hairdresser, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, her.”
“I’ve seen her from time to time,” said Hilary. “She works in that salon on Morningside Road. I’ve seen her in the street.” Suddenly, she laughed. “What a peculiar business—all round. What a complete…complete mess.”
Isabel agreed. “But…”
“But sorted out,” said Hilary. “By you. It never occurred to me to do anything to help that woman. It simply didn’t occur.”
“It just happened,” said Isabel.
“So, would you like another cup of coffee?”
“Please,” said Isabel. “I suspect that there’s more to talk about.”
“Probably,” said Hilary. “That woman—so you had no trouble finding her?”
“I didn’t.”
“And you gave her the money.”
“I did.”
“Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“Good.”
Isabel waited a few moments; then she said, “You can be so wrong, can’t you? About just about everything.”
“As long as you aren’t wrong all the time,” said Hilary.
“Sometimes I feel I am,” confessed Isabel.
“I suspect you’re wrong about that,” said Hilary, with a smile.
* * *
—
TWO DAYS LATER, at the Edinburgh Academy concert, Isabel sat by herself towards the back of the hall. Jamie, along with other members of the music staff, was busy arranging for the individual pupils to perform. Mark Brogan’s slot came halfway through the programme, a bassoon solo by a French composer whom nobody had heard of, accompanied on the piano by Jamie. Mark made a false start, and they began again. Then, halfway through, he missed several bars, although Jamie was able quickly to work out where he was and resume his accompaniment. There were stifled giggles from two rows of fellow students at the front, quickly smothered by a stern glance from the rector and his wife. Mark’s parents sat in the middle of the third row, beaming with pleasure and pride. A small boy, seated just behind them, nudged his friend, pointed at Mrs. Brogan and whispered, “Jeez, look at her hair. Cosmic.”
As was usually the case with the weaker players, the applause that greeted Mark’s completion of his piece was deafening. Neither of his parents suspected that the clapping was ironic; they felt too elated to make such a fine judgement.
Back at the house, where Grace, doing a sleepover babysit, had already retired to her room, Jamie and Isabel sat in the kitchen and shared the last glass of wine from a bottle they found in the fridge. There were several books on the kitchen table: Jamie had been at a book sale and had come home with a book of poetry, a biography of Patrick Leigh Fermor, and a book on the Darien colony—Scotland’s Central American disaster.
He picked up the book of poetry. “Have you seen this?” he said to Isabel. “Scottish poetry. There are woodcuts. Look at this one. Celtic.”
He opened the book at random and found what he was looking for. Three figures, in a typical Celtic circle, held hands with one another, arms in a complicated pattern of intermingling. “I love that,” he said. “I think it says everything there is to be said about helping one another and loving one another and being part of…well, I suppose being part of something bigger than oneself.”
Isabel looked. “The geometry of holding hands,” she said.
She reached out and took his hand, the hand of the man she loved beyond any expression of love, and who reciprocated that love, every moment of it, every atom, every contour, every echo.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and of a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.
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The Geometry of Holding Hands Page 20
