The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday id-5

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I have no power to forgive. I am not a priest.”

  “It is too late for a priest in my case,” he said. “I lost that comfort a long time ago.”

  “Then you have to make do as best you can.”

  He nodded. “You’ve told me what to do,” he said.

  She wondered whether he would do it.

  JAMIE AND CHARLIE were waiting for her in Johnston Terrace. Charlie stared up at her from the padded cocoon of his travel seat. But he looked away quickly, distracted by a glint of sun on a silver door handle within the car.

  “So what happened?” asked Jamie.

  “I found out that I was completely wrong,” said Isabel. “And you were too.”

  It reassured her that she could embrace Jamie in her error. “I’m a hopeless sleuth,” she said. “I really am.” She thought, though, that perhaps that did not matter; she had a vague sense of having just saved a life, although she was not sure exactly how she had reached that point, and of course one does not think of such things. The moral account book, wherever it is—in some distant metaphysical databank, or just in the heart—should never be contemplated, or dwelt upon.

  Jamie leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He felt so fond of her; he loved her so, this interfering woman, this flawed but noble soul. “You always seem to sort things out,” he said. “Even if you get it all wrong, you sort things out.”

  “You can do the right thing for the wrong reason, I suppose,” said Isabel. “Eliot says something about that, doesn’t he?”

  “He might,” said Jamie. “He said all sorts of things.”

  Isabel laughed. “Name one.”

  It was a direct challenge. “ ‘A cold coming we had of it,’ ” said Jamie.

  “ ‘Just the worst time of the year for a journey,’ ” continued Isabel. “ ‘And such a long journey.’ ”

  Jamie laughed. “ ‘I will show you fear in a handful of dust.’ And that’s all the Eliot I know. Remember, I’m just a musician.”

  Isabel needed only a second or two to remember the lines that followed. “ ‘Frisch weht der Wind,’ ” she said. “ ‘Der Heimat zu / Mein irisch Kind / Wo weilest du?’ ” Fresh wafts the wind to the Homeland / My Irish child / Where do you linger?

  Charlie started to cry. He had had quite enough of this.

  “Mein scottische Kind,” said Isabel. “Warum weinest du?” My Scottish child—why do you weep?

  “That will only make him worse,” said Jamie.

  It did.

  He addressed Charlie in Scots. “Whisht now, bairn. Dinnae greet.” Hush, child. Don’t cry.

  Charlie was calmed.

  “You see?” said Jamie.

  They drove off, in the green Swedish car, with the castle towering above them, and above that a sky from which the clouds had drawn back to reveal an attenuated blue, cold and pure.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  S ATURDAY CAME, Isabel’s favourite day, and Jamie’s too—if there was no concert that evening. And that Saturday there was none, leaving him free to cook dinner, which he liked to do over the weekends. Charlie, for whom one day was very much the same as another, awoke early; he was ready for breakfast shortly after half past five, disturbed, perhaps, by the birds who had loud territorial business on a tree outside his window. Jamie heard him and slipped out of bed, telling Isabel that she could have a lie-in. “As long as you like,” he muttered drowsily. “I’ll take him down to the canal and then…”

  That was as much as she heard before she drifted back to sleep, and when she finally got out of bed at nine, the house was empty. The canal towpath was a good place to push Charlie in the new three-wheeled jogging stroller that they had recently acquired; they could go for miles, to Ratho, if they wished, and beyond. Isabel went downstairs in her dressing gown and opened the shutters in her study. The morning light on that side of the house was bright, and a band of it cut, butter-yellow, through the room, showing the particles of dust in their swirling dance. The air was not empty, she thought—nothing was.

  The postman had come. He arrived early on Saturdays and considerately refrained from ringing the bell when he had a parcel, leaving it discreetly propped up against the door. “Your philosophy stuff,” he said of the bundles of manuscripts and proofs that found their way to her door. “Do you think I’d understand any of it? I doubt it.”

  “You’d understand philosophy perfectly well, Billy,” she said. “Everybody’s a philosopher. You have views, don’t you?”

  “Aye, I have my views.”

  “Well, there you are then: you do philosophy. Would you like a copy of my journal—the philosophy magazine I edit? I can give you one.”

  “No thank you.” And then, “That’s very kind of you, Isabel, but no thank you.”

  On that morning, though, there were no parcels, but there were several large envelopes which were Review business, accompanied by a fistful of bills and a couple of personal letters. One of these letters was from an old school friend who lived in Cheltenham and wrote at irregular intervals to share with Isabel her complaints about her husband, a philanderer whom she perversely refused to leave. Isabel opened this letter with the usual heart-sinking feeling that her friend’s letters triggered.

  I’m furious with Robert. He imagines that I don’t see a thing, but I see it all—he’s so transparent. He seems to be smitten with a dreadful blowsy woman who runs a small spaghetti restaurant down here. That’s all she cooks: spaghetti. In these days of more sophisticated tastes you’d think that the customers would want something a little bit more adventurous, but no, it’s just spaghetti. He went to Italy with her. He told me—promised me—that he was going to Rome on business, but what do I find in his shirt pocket when he comes back? Two boarding passes to Naples, one in his name and one in the name of la Spaghetti. And then he denied it. He said he had picked up another passenger’s boarding pass which he had found on the side of the basin in the plane’s loo. He had meant to hand it in, but forgot to so do. That’s what he said. Can you believe it, Isabel? Can you? That’s an excuse on a par with the famous The dog ate my homework, isn’t it?

  It was a weak excuse, thought Isabel, but what if it were true? There were excuses that seemed extremely implausible, but which were actually true. There were, she imagined, dogs who did eat homework. It’s the sort of thing that a terrier might do; they often worried away at things they found lying around the house, and why not homework? She had known of a dog who had, in a single afternoon, polished off a box of chocolates (potentially fatal to dogs) and a set of stereo headphones. Such things happened. People did find boarding passes on planes and put them in their pockets with the best of intentions. And if one had such an excuse, and if it was genuine, then how must it feel not to be believed? But of course she did not believe him in this case.

  She laid her friend’s letter aside. The husband would continue to philander and his wife would continue to complain about him. But they would stay together in their unhappiness, as people did. They remained. They endured.

  The second letter was altogether more cheerful. Her psychiatrist friend, Richard Latcham, had found an article in a psychiatric journal which he thought might interest her. He had photocopied it and sent it to her. She paged through it: “The Psychopath and His Childhood.” Psychopathy starts very early, wrote the author. At six or seven, the psychopathic die is probably cast. There then followed several examples of well-known psychopaths: a famous newspaper proprietor, an actor, Lawrence of Arabia. There were photographs of them as boys, small boys, in shorts. Lawrence already looked cold; the newspaper proprietor already avaricious; the actor preternaturally vain and self-centred.

  Isabel put the article down on a table and turned to Richard’s letter. “The enclosed should interest you. V. perceptive, I thought. And it goes to show how they’re all around us—psychopaths, Isabel. Watch out.”

  And she suddenly thought: Marcus Moncrieff? He had been utterly indifferent to the rules of his own calling; he had been
so proud. But he felt guilt—crippling, overwhelming guilt—and a psychopath would not have felt that. He would have simply got on with things; found something else. He would not have tortured himself over the death of the man in Glasgow.

  She returned to Richard’s letter. He moved on from psychopaths and began to tell her about a dinner he had been to in Newmarket:

  I drove over there in the Bristol. That’s the one you loved—remember it? It was the annual dinner of the Newmarket Society for the Apprehension of Felons and the Prevention of Crime. Yes, that’s what it really is called. It was founded in the nineteenth century and has just continued, although it doesn’t do anything about apprehending felons or preventing crime anymore. A lot of these societies forget about their original purpose, but still enjoy an annual dinner. Anyway, there I was with this group of lawyers and local businessmen and so on, and one of the committee members got up to say grace, as he always does each year: a mushroom compost manufacturer. He’s on the committee. And the grace he says is this: “They’re under starter’s orders…and they’re off.” And then he sits down. That’s what I like about this country, Isabel. It’s so utterly eccentric, so unpredictable.

  Isabel looked at her watch. She had a feeling that Jamie and Charlie would be out for some time yet. Jamie sometimes walked down to his flat with Charlie to check up on mail; he might do that today. And once he was down there in Stockbridge, he often dropped into the Patisserie Florentin for breakfast and conversation with whoever might be there. Other fathers went there, he said, and talked while their children played about their feet. New men, of course, and to be encouraged.

  She dressed, scribbled a note for Jamie should he come back early, and left for Bruntsfield. Cat had been back for a full week now, and although she had intended to drop in to see her, Isabel had not done so. Part of her hankered after the bustle of the delicatessen and would have traded her editor’s chair for the busy cheese counter. But another part knew that she was a philosopher at heart; that this is what she did, what she was most fulfilled doing. Perhaps the two could somehow be combined. There were philosophers’ cafés, of course, where people met and discussed philosophical issues. Isabel’s friend in Vancouver told her they were popular there and suggested that she set up one in Edinburgh. Perhaps a philosophers’ delicatessen, especially if Cat lost interest in the business and went off to Sri Lanka: Cheese and Philosophy, a place where people might come in, sample and buy cheese, and then join a discussion group. Eddie could assist, but would have to be taught the rudiments of philosophy first; just enough to prevent his letting slip that he thought Aristotle was a cheese. It could work, she thought, but it would have to join the list of things she would like to do one day, if she had time. And there never would be time now. Now there was Charlie, and Jamie, and the Review, for which she alone was responsible. As Charlie grew up there would be all his interests to take into account: his friends, his dance class…She stopped herself. Would Charlie dance? Why had she thought he would? She must be careful. Charlie was a boy—an entirely different creature from herself. She must open herself to the things that Charlie might be interested in as a boy: football, for example. And football left Isabel cold; she simply could not understand where the appeal lay in vying for the possession of a leather ball and kicking it. Did men need to kick things? She would ask Jamie. She had never seen him kicking anything, but perhaps he felt—in some deep, entirely masculine part of himself—the urge to kick something.

  When she arrived at the delicatessen there were only two customers, one at the counter, being served by Eddie, the other seated at one of the coffee tables, a newspaper open in front of him and a steaming cappuccino beside it. Isabel nodded to Eddie, who smiled at her and made a sipping motion with a hand. Would she like coffee? She nodded and made her way across the shop towards the half-open door of Cat’s office.

  Cat was at her desk, carefully removing the sticking tape from round the top of a tin of sugared almonds. She glanced up when Isabel appeared.

  “These have passed their sell-by date,” she said. “But I’m sure that they’re fine. I’m just checking.”

  Isabel said nothing. She did not approve, but said nothing.

  “Eddie is going to make me a cappuccino,” she said. “Will you join me?”

  Cat struggled with the tape, which kept sticking to her fingers. “What’s it like out there?” she asked.

  “Not very busy,” said Isabel. “Rather quiet, in fact. We were pretty busy last Saturday.”

  “Eddie told me,” said Cat. “And thank you. I gather you were both worked pretty hard.”

  Isabel was about to say something, but did not. She had been about to say, “And all for no pay!” But she thought, correctly, it would not help. She did not need the money, which is what Cat would think. So she said nothing.

  Cat joined her at the table a few minutes later as Eddie brought them both their coffee. Eddie smiled at Isabel again.

  “How’s…” Isabel wanted to ask after Eddie’s girlfriend, but found that she could not remember her name. In fact, she thought that Eddie had never told her, and she could hardly say, How’s that girl in black? or How’s that girl with the piercings?

  “Virginia?” volunteered Eddie.

  It seemed an inappropriate name to Isabel, but she nodded.

  “History,” said Eddie. And smiled.

  Both Isabel and Cat were taken aback. Cat glanced at Isabel, an eyebrow raised. “It’s over?” she asked.

  “Yup,” said Eddie. “She’s history.”

  “You don’t seem too upset,” Isabel ventured.

  “Cried my eyes out,” Eddie replied. “For an hour maybe. Not anymore.”

  He left them. Cat smiled. “It’s different,” she whispered. “It’s just different.”

  “He seems pleased,” said Isabel.

  “Of course he’ll be pleased,” Cat snapped. “They’re not into commitment, his age group.”

  Isabel sipped at her cappuccino. Cat was hardly one to talk about commitment, she thought, with her record.

  “Have you started to look for your new manager yet?” she asked.

  Cat looked out of the window. “No. In fact, I don’t think I will.”

  Isabel hesitated.

  “There’s a change of plan,” said Cat. “I’ve decided not to go out to Sri Lanka.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Well, I might visit it again sometime. I liked it. But not for a while.”

  Isabel was not sure whether she should ask the question she was burning to ask. Simon. Cat looked at her astutely; the question did not need to be asked.

  “Simon and I have parted company,” she said. “It didn’t work. Long-distance relationships…”

  Isabel reached out and touched Cat. “I’m sorry.” She was. Cat needed love and affection and got instead passing and unsatisfactory romance, time after time. But it was her fault—if fault came into it. She looked in the wrong place, for the wrong men, and applied the wrong criteria. That sort of thing, of course, was very rarely something for which a person could be blamed. It was a character defect of the sort which we can rarely do anything about. In sexual matters, we dance to a tune which was composed for us a long time ago, by somebody else, by our parents perhaps, or by biology. Cat’s father, Isabel’s brother, was a remote, handsome man. Every single one of Cat’s boyfriends had struck Isabel as being in some way remote. And every one of them was good-looking in a particular way—the way of Isabel’s brother at that age. Simon, she was sure, would have been like that.

  She suddenly asked: “You don’t have a photograph of him, do you?”

  Cat looked at her in astonishment. “Why?”

  “I’m curious. That’s all. I’ve seen most of your boyfriends. But not him.”

  Cat shrugged. “I’ve got some photos from Sri Lanka in the office. He’ll be in some of them.”

  “Please let me see.”

  “I suppose so. If you really want to.”

  She rose an
d disappeared into her office, to reappear a few minutes later with a small folder of photographs. “Look at the shots of Galle,” she said. “It’ll make you want to go there.”

  Isabel opened the folder and took out the photographs. On the top was a picture of a small island, just a few yards out to sea. The island was topped by a white villa, a tattered flag flying limply from the high point of its roof.

  Cat looked over Isabel’s shoulder. “Taprobane Island,” she said. “We went there for lunch with a friend. He lives there. It’s the most wonderful place.”

  “And here?” asked Isabel.

  There was a group of ten or twelve people on a beach. A highly coloured fishing boat was drawn up on the sand behind them. “That was farther down the coast. We went there before we went to a tea plantation—the place I bought that white tea that I gave you. Have you tried it yet?”

  “Not yet,” muttered Isabel. She was looking at the group of people. Cat was there, and she was standing next to a man, who had an arm around her. But even without that, Isabel could tell.

  “That’s him, isn’t it? That’s Simon?”

  Cat glanced at the photograph, and looked away again quickly. “Yes.”

  “He’s…so good-looking.” She spoke quietly. “And he looks so like my brother. Your father. Isn’t that strange?”

  She said nothing else, but moved on to the next photograph. The tea estate. “That was where they dried the tea. Over there,” said Cat. “And do you see that man? That one? He showed us round. Tea was his life.”

  But she spoke as one who was thinking of something else. Isabel could tell that, and she wondered whether she had planted the seed of something that might help Cat; she hoped that she had. Some women searched for their fathers; some men searched for their mothers. Sometimes it was better to search for neither. But she could never tell Cat that; not directly.

  SHE HAD a few purchases to make in Bruntsfield, and she went directly from the delicatessen to the fish shop at Holy Corner. She wanted langoustines, and she was pleased to see that there were some, neatly arranged on a marble slab in the window, along with squid and wild salmon. While the fishmonger selected them for her, placing them on a piece of greaseproof paper, she asked him about how they differed from crayfish. “Langoustine are saltwater decapods,” he said. “Decapods. Nice word, isn’t it, Isabel? And crayfish, which are crawfish over the pond, are freshwater decapods. But…if you’re in France, then prawns are called langoustines. As an act of charity towards the humble prawns, I think. To promote them a bit.”