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.”
It was an entirely satisfactory conversation. Isabel liked talking to people who knew their subject, and the fishmonger knew all about fish. Many people in shops did not know what they were talking about, she thought. They just sold things; the fishmonger, and people like him, believed in things.
She left the fishmonger and wandered down to the news-agent near the post office. She would buy a paper—perhaps two—and a couple of magazines. Scottish Field, perhaps, because it was so full of comforting things: dogs, wildlife, lochs, glens—an unchanging Scotland that started just a mile or two from where she was standing, where the Pentland Hills swept down to the edge of the city. Then, armed with her purchases, she would go back to the house and think about lunch. She was happy.
She sauntered back. The morning was comfortable—warm enough for the time of year—and the sky was clear. A few gulls, circling overhead, mewed in the wind, and then glided away, disturbed, perhaps, by the sudden appearance of a small formation of geese heading west. The geese were flying low for some reason and she heard the muffled sound of their pinions on the air, that slight thumping sound, punctuated by the calls of the leader. She stood still for a moment, halfway down Merchiston Crescent, and watched them pass overhead. Within hours they would be in the Hebrides, at the very edge of Europe, where they would land on the machair, the sweet pastures of the islands.
Jamie was already at home when she arrived. Charlie had slept for much of his outing and was wide awake now. Isabel changed him and took off his Macpherson tartan rompers in favour of a loose white tee-shirt, more suitable for the warmth of the day.
“We can sit outside,” she said. “A bit later on I’ll make a picnic lunch.”
It had rained the previous day, and although the grass had dried out in the morning sun, the earth was still wet. Jamie decided that he would replant the bulbs that Brother Fox had dug up again. And there were several shrubs that Isabel had ordered from a horticultural catalogue and were waiting to be planted.
She sat on the blanket, a book beside her, but she did not read. She played with Charlie. He had a small stuffed fox that Jamie had bought him. He loved it.
Jamie worked in the garden for an hour or so and then rejoined them on the rug. Charlie was drowsy now, and had been put, with a feeding cup, on an infant deck chair that rocked gently backwards and forwards. He would drop off to sleep, the beak of the feeding cup still in his mouth.
Isabel looked at Jamie. “You’re covered in mud,” she said. “Look, stand up, and I’ll brush it off you.”
She stood beside him. There was mud upon the knees of his trousers, where he had been kneeling. She brushed it off. “Mud and Saturdays go well together,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “They do.”
She examined his shirt; there were small patches of mud on the sleeves. She brushed these off too, gently, with love.
Brother Fox, unseen, watched them from the shadows of a rhododendron bush. There were the red flowers of the bush above him, and below him the muddy earth in which he made his burrow, his sanctuary. When Isabel and Jamie went inside, briefly, to get the things for lunch, he padded out across the grass and sniffed gently at the sleeping child. Then he turned away and pressed his wet black nose against the stuffed fox. It smelt of milk. Brother Fox took it in his jaws and began to carry it across the lawn. But then, when a sound came from within the house, he dropped the soft toy in the middle of the lawn and slunk back into the shadows.
“How did that happen?” asked Jamie.
Isabel put a tray down on the ground and looked at Charlie, still asleep. She did not answer the question because she was not in any mood to solve the problems of others, and all she wanted to say was “I am so very happy.” Which she did; and she was.
PERMISSIONS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful acknowledgement is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
The Estate of W. H. Auden and Random House, Inc.: Excerpt from “If I Could Tell You,” copyright © 1945 by W. H. Auden, and “In Praise of Limestone,” copyright © 1951 by W. H. Auden, from Collected Poems by W. H. Auden. Reprinted courtesy of Edward Mendelson, Executor of the Estate of W. H. Auden, and Random House, Inc.
Faber and Faber Ltd.: Excerpt from “The Waste Land” from Collected Poems, 1909–1962 by T. S. Eliot, copyright © 1936 by Houghton Mifflin Publishing Company and renewed 1964 by T. S. Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company and Faber and Faber Ltd.: Excerpt from “Journey of the Magi” from Collected Poems, 1909–1962 by T. S. Eliot, copyright © 1936 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company and renewed 1964 by T. S. Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company and Faber and Faber Ltd.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the international phenomenon The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, and the 44 Scotland Street series. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and has served on many national and international bodies concerned with bioethics.
BOOKS BY ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH
IN THE ISABEL DALHOUSIE SERIES
The Sunday Philosophy Club
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate
The Right Attitude to Rain
The Careful Use of Compliments
The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday
IN THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY SERIES
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive
The Miracle at Speedy Motors
IN THE PORTUGUESE IRREGULAR VERBS SERIES
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances
IN THE 44 SCOTLAND STREET SERIES
44 Scotland Street
Espresso Tales
Love over Scotland
The World According to Bertie
The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Alexander McCall Smith
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Owing to limitations of space, all acknowledgements for permission to reprint previously published material may be found at the end of the book.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCall Smith, Alexander, [date]
The comforts of a muddy Saturday : an Isabel Dalhousie novel / Alexander McCall Smith.
p. cm.
1. Women philosophers—Fiction. 2. Fraud—Fiction. 3. Edinburgh (Scotland)—
Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.C326C66 2008
823’.914—dc22 2008018573
www.pantheonbooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-37776-0
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