Isabel wondered why. The outgoing principal, she had been told, had nothing to do with the appointment of his successor, and so it was difficult to see what difference it could make for her to meet him. But she was keen to see Abbotsford again after so many years, having visited it last as a schoolgirl when the sisters were still in residence. These sisters, direct descendants of Scott, had kept the house going as best they could, but a roof so large and walls so rambling had eventually defeated their resources. Living in Scotland was like that: a battle against the elements; against the rain that would eventually wash away even the hardest stone; against wind that could lift the heaviest slate and curl the thickest roofing lead; against cold that would shrink the snuggest mortar.
Jillian now led Isabel to the other side of the room. Her husband, a tall man with aquiline features, emanated an energy that impressed itself immediately. Committee man, thought Isabel; a natural chairman.
Alex met her gaze as they shook hands. She noticed his eyes, which were pale blue, filled, it seemed, with an intense light. It was curious how it happened, and she had sometimes wondered about it: some eyes appeared to have the light within them rather than without. And yet eyes should reflect rather than emit light.
He drew her aside, leading her to one of the large windows that looked out over Scott’s grounds.
“We obviously won’t have the opportunity to talk very much,” he said quietly. “Not with this mob.”
A mob of donors, she thought. That could be the collective noun. Or should it be a prospect of donors? Or a wealth of donors? The latter—clearly.
“Jillian has filled me in,” he continued. “So I understand you—how shall I put it?—look into certain matters for people. Delicate matters. Jillian has convinced us that one of those firms, you know, who look into fraud and such things, would be less discreet, and all this could somehow get out.” He paused. “So we need somebody tactful. Like you.”
She looked down at her glass. He saw her do this.
“That sounds a bit like parody,” he said. “Sorry. But then parody often makes exactly the point one wants to make.”
She realised that she had misjudged him. Alex Mackinlay was not a typical bluff businessman, full of clichés and superficialities; there was a subtle intelligence at play.
“I understand,” she said. “And I’m happy to help.”
He looked at her appreciatively. “I’m very grateful. Although I must say that it crossed my mind to ask you why.”
It was a well-tried technique. If there was something that one wanted to know but did not want to ask directly, then the simplest thing was to announce that this was a question that one had no intention of asking. It always paid off; just as it worked when politicians said that the one thing they were not going to raise about a candidate was his past. That put everybody on notice to look for scandal.
“I do this sort of thing because I can’t find it in myself to refuse,” said Isabel. “That is my weakness. I freely admit it.”
Alex smiled. “Well, at least that’s honest. I’m not sure I would own up to my weaknesses quite so freely.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Of course I shall resist the temptation to ask you what those weaknesses are.” It was his service returned.
He did not answer. “Those three names,” he said. “As Jillian will have told you, we fear that one of them is not quite what he claims to be. Or is otherwise unsuitable for appointment. But we don’t know which one it is.”
Isabel thought about this. If he was as shrewd as she thought he was, then surely he would have his views on who the rotten apple might be. If the apple was rotten, of course.
She asked him directly. “Who do you think it is? You must have your suspicions.”
He thought for a moment. “I’m very reluctant to say.”
“Because you’re unsure?”
He nodded. “Yes. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have a view, but I’m afraid I’ve learned not to trust my own judgement when it comes to people.”
This surprised her. “But how can you not? You’re a businessman, I believe; you must have to form an opinion of people every day of the week. You must trust your own judgement.”
He was adamant. “Not people. Facts and figures—yes, especially balance sheets. But when it comes to people—I’m just not sure. I used to think I could tell, but not any more.”
“You’ll have to tell me why,” Isabel said. “You can’t leave it at that.”
He hesitated, but then he decided. “All right. I’ll tell you. I used to be chairman of a company based in Glasgow. We had a problem with embezzlement—money went missing. We didn’t want to get the police involved, and so we tried to sort it out ourselves. I asked the manager to give me his views on who was doing it. I had a high opinion of him and I thought that he would probably have a fairly good idea of his staff and what was going on. So he gave me a name, and I called this chap in. I looked at him and I decided that he looked dishonest. So I asked him outright if he knew anything at all about the missing funds. He was all over the place. He mumbled. He looked up at the ceiling. He avoided eye contact.”
“You decided it was him?”
“Yes. I did.”
“So what did you do?”
Alex looked down at the floor. He was himself avoiding eye contact, thought Isabel. “I had no proof, and so I just warned him and said we were watching him. I didn’t say anything more than that—I couldn’t, and so I left it there. He left the room, and that was it.”
“And?” asked Isabel.
“And he went away that night and threw himself off the Erskine Bridge. That was it. Left three children, and one on the way.”
Isabel winced. “These tragedies happen,” she said. “Guilt can be very powerful.”
“Except he wasn’t guilty,” said Alex, looking back at her again. There was no light in his eyes now. “He was completely innocent. I’d made a huge error of judgement, hadn’t even realised that he was suffering from very serious depression. I mishandled it totally. A few weeks later the manager was caught more or less red-handed. I’d misjudged him too—as well as that poor man who jumped off the bridge.” He paused. “There you have it.”
She was silent for a while. It was an appalling story, and she could not ask him again to give his views. But now he did. “Tom Simpson,” he said. “The third name on that list of yours. There’s something about him that makes me suspicious.”
Isabel thought: A guilty look? Wrong colour of tie?
“Stupid,” said Alex. “He’s stupid, that man. Nobody else at the interview thought so—nor did his referees. But I think he’s not very bright.”
“But he could be a good administrator,” suggested Isabel. Did principals of schools have to be intellectuals? Surely what counted was the ability to motivate staff and students—and keep the parents happy. None of that relied entirely on intellectual ability.
Alex smiled. “Yes. They used to have school heads like that, but not any more. It’s changed a lot since our day. No, what worries me is that he claims to have a first-class honours degree—and a master’s with distinction. I somehow feel that’s just not possible.”
“You could check,” said Isabel. It would be a simple business to get in touch with the universities in question and ask.
“I have,” said Alex. “I took it upon myself to contact the registry of the University of Bristol. They said that he’d been there, but they wouldn’t reveal the class of his degree—something to do with data protection. You know how people won’t tell you what time of day it is because of data protection.”
Isabel laughed. “I heard of somebody who refused to give his name when asked. He said it was on the grounds of privacy.”
“Some people are strange,” said Alex.
“Very.” She paused. “And the others? Gordon Leafers and John Fraser?”
Alex shrugged. “I met them at the interview. John Fraser I knew slightly anyway. We had a couple of mutual frien
ds.”
“That’s useful, isn’t it?” said Isabel. “What do they say about him?”
“They admire him. But they say that he’s rather gloomy. That was the word they used: gloomy.”
As well he might be, thought Isabel; with the life of that other climber on his conscience, he might well be gloomy.
“And Gordon?”
Alex’s answer came quickly. Gordon, in his view, was above reproach. “Everybody likes him,” he said. “An immensely attractive character.”
Yes, thought Isabel. Too attractive, perhaps? Or too attractive to married women?
A woman came into the room from a side door and signalled to Alex. “That’s dinner ready,” he said. “I believe Jillian has put you next to the current head. Harold Slade. You’ll like him.”
THEY FILED THROUGH to the dining room and took their places. When everybody was seated, Alex tapped his knife against a wine glass and stood up to speak. He was grateful to them all for coming, he said, and he hoped they would enjoy what they saw of Abbotsford. Scott would come back into fashion, he thought, and claim the imagination of a new generation. He was pleased to play a small part in this, and they could too.
Isabel frowned involuntarily; would an electronic generation, brought up on a diet of quick-fire humour and pyrotechnic cinematic effects, embrace somebody like Scott, whose stories could be weighed in pounds? And yet writers who wrote long books still survived: people still read Dickens and Stevenson; they still read Proust, for that matter, or claimed that they did.
“As long as people are interested in Scottish history,” said Alex, staring down the table as if to challenge those who were not, “then Scott will have his public.”
There were nods of agreement, and Isabel found herself joining in. The year before, there had been a gathering of the clans in Scotland and people had flocked from every corner of the globe to join in. These were people who lived in distant modern cities, in the Cincinnatis and the Canberras of this world, but who felt the pull of Scottish ancestry, even now; they had come to Edinburgh and watched Highland dancing and displays of every sort of Scotticism, lapping up the riot of tartan. And why not? People felt the need to come from somewhere, even if it was a long time ago and they were not sure exactly where it was and when. Blood links, she thought; that was what it was about. However tenuous such links were, people regarded them as standing between themselves and the void of human impermanence. For ultimately we were all insignificant tenants of this earth, temporary bearers of a genetic message that could so easily disappear. We had not always been here, and there was no reason to suppose that we always would be. And yet we found such thoughts uncomfortable, and did not like to think them. So we clung to the straws of identity; these, at least, made us feel a little more permanent.
Scott was part of that; this wonderful house, with all its reminders of the Scottish past, was part of it. Keep me from the pain of nothingness. The words came to her mind from somewhere, but she was not sure where: Timor nihil conturbat me, a play on that line of William Dunbar’s. It was not becoming nothing—death—that we must fear but being nothing.
This line of thought distracted her, and she did not hear Alex’s final observations before he sat down. Something further about Scott, and his feeling for Abbotsford. The speech over, in the outbreak of conversation that followed she turned to Harold Slade, seated beside her. They shook hands, and he announced that she had been pointed out to him by Alex Mackinlay as somebody who might come to the school one day and talk to the boys about doing a degree in philosophy. “If you think that’s a good idea, of course,” he said. “One of the interesting things that I have found in the past is that people don’t necessarily believe in what they do.”
Isabel laughed. “Oh, I believe in philosophy, Mr. Slade.”
“Harry, please.”
“Philosophy is something that you have to believe in,” she continued. “The moment you begin to think, you engage with it.” She paused. She was sounding pedantic, and did not want to. “I’d be happy to talk to the boys, Harry.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you. Perhaps you could manage it before I hand over. I’m going, you see.”
“I’d heard that. Singapore, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
She looked at him, taking in the details: the lines around the eyes, the strong chin, the slight fraying of what must be a favourite, over-used shirt. He was an imposing-looking man, and she could imagine him encouraging the rugby team on the touchline; there was a certain unabashed masculinity, a simplicity of spirit, that one found in people who spent their lives in boys’ schools. But that apparent simplicity, she thought, was probably misleading. His charm, she suddenly decided, was dangerous.
“And are you looking forward to the change?”
“I shall be doing much the same thing, I imagine. But in a rather different place.” He smiled at her. “I like Singapore. It’s very well-ordered. We’re becoming so slipshod and chaotic here; they aren’t.”
She agreed that there was something to be said for social order. “Who amongst us likes nastiness, brutality and shortness?” she said.
“Indeed.” He paused for a moment, breaking a small bread roll that had been placed on his side plate. “They’re very well-mannered in Singapore, you know. Courteous. You never see public drunkenness or fighting.”
They were, she said, but she wondered whether the atmosphere could become a bit … Order could be taken too far perhaps … She did not finish what she was saying. “My wife thinks that,” he said, looking down the table. “She’s not too keen to go, I’m afraid. But I’ve persuaded her to give it a try. We’re prepared to run separate establishments for a few years if push comes to shove. She could stay back here.”
“People do that,” said Isabel.
“It must be said that she’s not keen, though,” he said. “I feel a bit bad about it.”
He looked down the table again. Following his gaze, Isabel glanced at the thin, rather bony-looking woman who was sitting several places away from her. The woman looked up and, as their eyes met, Isabel saw something unsettling: jealousy. For a few moments she was uncertain what to make of it. What woman would resent her husband sitting next to another woman at a dinner? Only one who felt insecure in the man’s affections. A possessive wife, Isabel thought. But then she stopped. I know nothing about her, she said to herself. All that I know is that she does not want to leave Scotland; that she wants to stay where she is. But then she realised: with that small bit of information, I know everything.
She looked down the table again. Christine Slade was staring into the bowl of soup that had been placed in front of her by the same young man who had served drinks before dinner, the shepherd. She looked miserable, and Isabel felt a sudden surge of sympathy for her. How many wives were there, she wondered, whose lives were ruined by the career ambitions of their husbands? Who lived in their shadows and never complained? Who endured the loss of friends and family because they were obliged to move from pillar to post? And might one say the same thing about husbands in a similar position, who sacrificed themselves to their wives’ careers? One might, except for one major difference: one did not have to say it very often because there were so few of them.
She turned to Harold. “Perhaps you should think of staying in Scotland if your wife is so unhappy about moving.”
He looked at her in surprise. “But she’ll get used to it,” he said. “I’m not worried about her.” And then he added, “People adjust, you know. They get used to anything.”
Isabel mulled over his words. I’m not worried about her. No, she thought, you aren’t; you take her for granted. And then she thought: This is a ladies’ man, used to the affection and interest of women.
She looked across the table. Jillian, who was seated directly opposite, was staring at Harold. Isabel saw the other woman’s lips move, mouthing a word. She snatched a glance at Harold; he had intercepted the unspoken word and was smiling back at Jillian. Isabel
felt uncomfortable, as an unwitting stranger must feel on stumbling upon something, some intimate exchange between friends.
After dinner they drank coffee in the drawing room, and Isabel was able to make her way over to where she saw Christine Slade standing. She reached her just as she was about to strike up a conversation with a man who was paying close attention to a painting on the wall. Isabel introduced herself. “I enjoyed your husband’s company at dinner,” she said. “He was telling me about Singapore.”
The woman smiled, but her smile seemed weary. Her eyes moved over Isabel without interest. “Yes,” she said. “Singapore.”
Isabel sipped at her coffee. It was cold. “These international schools must be fascinating,” she said. “All those different nationalities.”
“This one is very British. Cricket. Prefects. All that.”
Christine’s tone bordered on the dismissive: there were ways of pronouncing cricket that indicated disapproval.
Isabel smiled. “Such an odd game. Moments of great excitement and then hours in which nothing happens. Like life, perhaps.”
Christine looked at her vaguely, as if conscious of the fact that something witty had been said, but not quite sure what it was. “Maybe.”
Isabel searched for something to say. “Will you live in a house or a flat?” Even as she asked the question, its dullness struck her. What earthly interest did she have in knowing whether these people, whom she had just met, would live in a house or a flat? Most people in Singapore lived in flats, she imagined, although some would live in houses. But what did it matter?
The question, though, seemed to spark some interest. “A house. There’s one that goes with the job. A house with a maid.”
“Ah.” Isabel racked her brains for something else to say. What would the maid be like? Would there be a drive to the house; somewhere to park the car? Would there be a car?
“It gets very hot,” said Christine suddenly. “It’s more or less the same temperature most of the year, but that’s quite hot.”
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