The Charming Quirks of Others id-7

by Alexander McCall Smith

  You silly, shallow woman, thought Isabel. You superficial … But her anger faded away in seconds; it was not real anger. Isabel would have been more outraged if it had not occurred to her at that moment that Cat was probably right. If Jamie had been as Cat described him, then it was at least possible that she would not have become involved with him; she might as well be honest with herself. But what a bleak conclusion that was: that it was the accident of looks that determined affection. Surely she was above such shallowness.

  “Maybe not,” she said.

  “Well, there you are,” said Cat.

  They had moved on from the topic of looks, and Isabel had asked whether Cat’s friend was worried about her husband-to-be being sent off on active service. “We have so many small wars now,” she said. “The life of an army officer is not what it used to be. They used to play polo and go skiing; now they … well, they have to go out and get shot at. I suspect that not all of them appreciate that when they join the Army.”

  “She says that she isn’t worried,” said Cat. “But I don’t believe her. Maybe these wars will end.”

  Isabel doubted that. “There will always be another one, and another one after that. There’ll be no shortage of wars, I’m afraid. Has there ever been?”

  At least these wars seemed increasingly to be fought by volunteers, she reflected, which was some consolation, even if not very great; and it was not a consolation that stood examination, being based on the assumption that they were real volunteers. Poverty and limited options were powerful recruiting sergeants, and neither of those burdens was exactly voluntary.

  CAT WENT OFF to the wedding in London. Isabel left Charlie with Jamie and made her way to the delicatessen shortly after eight-thirty; that would give her time to grind coffee and make other preparations before she opened the front door at nine. There was always a busy period immediately after opening, during which regulars would snatch a morning cup of coffee. If she and Eddie had everything ready in advance, they could dispense coffee at the rate of one cup a minute; she had timed it once, in a time-and-motion mood, and announced the results to Cat, who had seemed unimpressed.

  “But if you serve them so quickly,” Cat said, “then they won’t buy anything else. Their eyes will have no time to linger on chocolate and other essentials.”

  “We could ask them whether they wanted any chocolate,” suggested Eddie. “That’s what they do in that place round the corner. They say: ‘Do you want a muffin this morning?’ And you shake your head and they look all disappointed.”

  “I hate that,” said Isabel. “I hate people asking me if I want something else. If I wanted it, I would have asked. And quite frankly, I think it’s wrong in principle to implant muffin ideas in the minds of the public. For one thing, it undoes all the anti-muffin work of the government. They spend all that money on persuading us to eat healthy food and then along comes somebody asking whether we wouldn’t like a muffin.”

  “What has the government got against muffins?” asked Eddie.

  The discussion had proved inconclusive; Cat was aware of the fact that Isabel was unpaid for her help in the delicatessen, and you could hardly instruct somebody who was working for nothing, and who was, anyway, your aunt. So Isabel was left to serve coffee at the pace that she determined, and did so.

  That morning, Eddie was in talkative mood. He supported a small football team from an obscure town in Fife—an arrangement that was the result of his father’s having been brought up there. This team, which bumped along the bottom of a secondary league, was of little distinction but could count on the near-fanatical loyalty of its supporters. Now, though, this support was being tested by a scandal that had even made the national papers. The team’s goalkeeper had been found to have taken a bribe to allow a goal through. The bribe had been sexual rather than monetary, the understanding being that if he allowed the goal he would be rewarded with the sexual favours of the girlfriend of one of the players in the opposing team. He had accepted this offer, but had not been duly rewarded—the girl in question said that she had never intended to carry out her side of the bargain. This had so outraged the goalkeeper that he had told his friends that he had been duped and that the young woman in question should feel ashamed of herself.

  Isabel listened to this story with fascination. “He was perhaps a bit naive,” she remarked. “And talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Presumably that’s the end of his goal-keeping career.”

  Eddie agreed. “He wasn’t much good anyway. But he shouldn’t have trusted her, should he? He should have made sure that she … well, that she carried out her part of the deal before he let the goal through. He was really stupid.”

  Isabel, who was grinding coffee, momentarily stopped the machine. “But, Eddie, he shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

  “No, he shouldn’t. But since he did, he should have done it differently.” Eddie paused. “And now everybody’s laughing at us. That’s what really gets me.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Eddie acknowledged the expression of sympathy. “It’s her fault,” he said. “No man can be expected to resist an offer like that, can he?”

  Isabel shook the ground coffee into a jar. She glanced at Eddie. Was he suggesting that men are incapable of controlling themselves? She frowned: Was that what he really thought?

  “Do you mean that?” she asked. “Do you really think he couldn’t have said no?”

  He blushed. “I don’t mean that men shouldn’t say no to women like that. What I mean is that I blame the woman—I really do.”

  Isabel said nothing. Perhaps that was the way Eddie saw the world, with women as temptresses, circling about vulnerable goalkeepers. She looked at her watch and signalled for Eddie to open the door. They could return to the subject later on—or perhaps not. Of course men could control themselves, and did so. Jamie did; the girl, Prue, who had set her sights on him had found that out. Poor girl … No, she thought; unfortunate, maybe, but calculating and prepared to steal a married, or almost married, man. But then so many people seemed utterly ruthless when it came to getting the person they wanted. Would she stand back if there were one person she wanted above all else, if she felt that this person was the only person in the world for her? Would she deny herself if it happened that the person she wanted belonged to somebody else? She was not sure. And that realisation depressed her as she served coffee that morning. When it came to those currents of the heart, who amongst us would not be prepared to do virtually anything to achieve what we wanted? People behaved like that all the time; reason, restraint, conscience—these were all small defences against the onslaught of passion, small defences against the tides of raw emotion that we all knew could so easily overwhelm us. And that had always been well understood by human society, which had put up all sorts of barriers against what it saw as destructive forces. Marriage, disapproval, self-denial: all cautionary responses to our human weakness, to the inescapable facts of human biology.

  She glanced at Eddie. Eddie was no philosopher, but he understood perfectly well. She, by contrast, was a philosopher, yet she did not think she understood the world any better than he did: she knew the technical terms for life, he knew how life was when you suffered from it. And when you considered the views he expressed, it would be easy to pick holes in his remarks, in particular what he had said about blaming the woman. But perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was that young woman’s fault. Perhaps Eve was far guiltier than Adam.

  No, she could not accept such a conclusion. Eve was framed: everybody knew that by now.

  THEY WERE PARTICULARLY BUSY that morning, and it was not until well after two that they were able to take a break. The hour between two and three was usually quiet, and now there were no customers at all. Isabel looked at Eddie and wiped her brow. “Heavens! That was busy.”

  “You can sit down,” said Eddie. “I’ve got some stuff to clear up.”

  “No,” said Isabel. “You take a break. Then me. I’ll …” She was going
to clear up for Eddie when the door opened. Her heart sank. They would be on the go until six, when they closed. She would be exhausted.

  Eddie nudged her. “It’s him,” he whispered.

  Isabel turned to see Gordon Leafers closing the door behind him. For a moment she did not take in who it was, but then Eddie picked up her hesitation, whispering, “Her man. Him. Cat’s man.”

  Gordon came up to the counter. “Is Cat around?” he asked. He had clearly not expected to see Isabel, and he looked puzzled. “I hadn’t expected you …”

  Isabel wiped her hands on her apron. “A family firm. We all help out.” She gestured to Eddie. “Eddie and I are a long-established team. He’s the boss.”

  Eddie looked nervous. “Not really. She is. I’m just …”

  Isabel helped him. “The assistant manager, then. And a very good one. Cat, I’m afraid, is in London.”

  Gordon suddenly remembered. “Of course. There was a wedding. She told me.”

  Men never remember, thought Isabel. Women tell them things and they never remember. “I’ll tell her that you dropped in.” And then she added, “A coffee? Or tea?”

  He looked at his watch. He would have time, he said, for a quick cup of coffee. “I’m meant to be turning up at a cricket match. I’m not all that keen, but it’s an important match for the school.”

  Isabel gestured to a table. “I’ll join you.” She turned to Eddie. “Would you mind taking the second break, Eddie?”

  He shook his head. “No. Go ahead.” He looked unhappy, though.

  She made two cups of coffee and took them over to the table at which Gordon was sitting, looking at a copy of The List, the magazine that set out forthcoming events in Edinburgh and Glasgow. She glanced at the heading of the page he was reading: Lesbian, Gay, Bi and Transsexual. There was a boxed advertisement for gay athletic games in Queen Street Gardens. He turned the page quickly. She watched him. Was it possible that he was … transsexual? If he were, then would he be attracted to Cat? Surely if he was in the course of becoming a woman then he would, as a woman, in the normal run of things be more attracted to men. Unless he planned that his new identity as a woman would be lesbian, in which case Cat was an entirely appropriate choice, although she, of course, might not be prepared to convert a heterosexual relationship with a man into a lesbian relationship with a former man, now a woman, even if, as a man, he had already been her lover.

  She discreetly studied his features as she took a sip of her coffee. Her eyes went to his chin, where there were signs that he needed a shave; perhaps he did not bother on Saturdays. And then she saw his hands, with their thin covering of dark hair; again not a feminine feature.

  He must have noticed her staring, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Sorry,” said Isabel. “I was thinking about how we are what we are—biologically—and how difficult it must be to escape that identity.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Oh? What prompted that?”

  She could not tell him. “I find my mind wanders off at a tangent. I think of something—some odd question or hypothesis—and then my train of thought seems to acquire a direction of its own.”

  He relaxed. “Daydreaming. Everybody does it. I find I have to fight it in the classroom. Boys start looking out of the window and they’re just not there any more. They’re off somewhere altogether different.”

  She met his eyes. “Do you enjoy your job?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “At times it’s tremendously rewarding; at other times … well, I could strangle the boys. I really could.”

  She thought: What if he had? But she said, “You never would, of course. You can’t raise a hand to them any more, can you?”

  “Strangling was never exactly encouraged,” said Gordon, smiling.

  She changed the subject. “You told me that you were applying for another job. Have you had any news?”

  “No. Not yet. As I said, I probably don’t have much chance of getting it.”

  She lowered her cup. “And why’s that?”

  “Because of the competition. I happen to know who else is on the shortlist.”

  She touched the side of her cup lightly with a forefinger, tracing a tiny pattern in the crust of milk foam. She spoke very casually. “Oh? How did you manage that? I imagined that these lists would be confidential. Other candidates …”

  “Might not want it to be known that they were applying. Yes, they should be confidential. But people talk. You know how they are.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought: The person who wrote the letter knew who was on the list. He knew … She put it syllogistically: (1) The writer of the anonymous letter knew the names of the candidates; (2) Gordon knows the name of the candidates; (3) therefore Gordon is the writer of the anonymous letter.

  That was fallacious, of course. The major and the minor premises were true, but the conclusion made a massive and unjustifiable leap. What it should have said was: therefore Gordon falls into the category of people who might have written the anonymous letter.

  She wondered whether he really knew. Information from the rumour mill was not always reliable. “Who are they?” she asked.

  He looked at her teasingly. “You won’t know them.”

  “I might. In fact, I’ve heard …”

  He cut her short. “I doubt it.”

  “John Fraser,” she said. “He’s one. And Tom Simpson.”

  He looked at her in complete astonishment. Isabel laughed. “Perhaps I listen to rumours too,” she said. I said perhaps, she thought; I have not lied to him.

  Before he could say anything more, she leaned forward and, dropping her voice, said, “John Fraser is a keen climber, isn’t he?”

  Gordon nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “And I’ve heard,” continued Isabel, “that he was involved in a couple of climbing accidents.”

  Gordon was looking at her coolly. “So they say.”

  “On Everest, for instance.”

  He was impassive. “I read about that. They lost a member of their party. It seems to happen a lot.”

  “Yes, the Death Zone.”

  She waited for him to say something, but he merely watched her silently.

  “And then there was Glencoe,” she went on. “Something happened there.”

  His features showed barely a flicker of movement. “Lots of things happen in our mountains. How many climbers do we lose a year? Half a dozen?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He picked up his coffee cup and took a final swig. “I must dash. That cricket match.”

  “Of course.”

  She watched him leave. Eddie, who had been busying himself with a task behind the counter, came over to her table and joined her.

  “I don’t like him,” he said. “I just don’t like him. He’s worse than Bruno. Far worse.”

  “But he’s not,” said Isabel. “He’s infinitely better.”

  “He never looks at me,” said Eddie. “He comes in here and looks straight through me. It’s as if I don’t exist.”

  “Are you sure? Perhaps he’s shy. And have you greeted him? Have you done anything to show friendly feelings to him?”

  Eddie pouted. “Why should I?”

  “Because people who don’t show friendliness towards others can hardly complain about others not showing friendliness to them. That’s why.”

  They left it at that; a couple of customers had come in, and they needed to attend to them. As Isabel did so, she reflected on what she had just learned. Gordon knew all about John Fraser, and, what was more, he had been cagey about this. It now occurred to Isabel that the solution was staring her in the face. Perhaps Gordon had written the anonymous letter in order to put one of his rivals out of the picture. He had the motive and he had the knowledge. But if he had done that, then why had he not revealed what he knew? He had hinted that one of the candidates had something to hide, but had not said which one it
was and what he had done. Would there have been any reason for him to be so indirect, so coy? None, she thought. And yet she said to herself: Why shouldn’t it be him? And she could think of no reason why it should not.

  That meant that there were two conclusions she should now report to the board. The first was that one of the candidates was suspected—suspected, and that was all—of an act of cowardice, and the second was that there was a possibility that one of the other candidates was prepared to write an anonymous letter in order to boost his chances of success. The board of governors could make what they wished of that information, but of one thing she was sure: Tom Simpson, by some accounts the least intellectually distinguished of the three, would get the job—unless, of course, his claim to a master’s degree proved to be false.

  She felt irritated that the school had imposed on her in this way. And she felt angry with herself for allowing it. I am weak, she thought. I should be more selfish. Like Cat. Like virtually everybody else. And then she thought: I should not think in this uncharitable way; Cat is my niece, and my friend. If I think uncharitable thoughts about her, then what shall I think about Christopher Dove, or—and here she shuddered—Professor Lettuce? The thought of Lettuce brought to mind a field of vegetables, dreary, wilting, devoid of feature. And Lettuce himself, standing glumly looking out over that field, uncertain what to do. No, she would not think about him either. Yet the process of thinking that one should not think about something requires that one think about it. She attempted an experiment. She tried not to think about coffee, and immediately it came to mind: heaps of coffee, coffee unground and then ground, its characteristic smell so evocative of morning and all its possibilities. Of Paris (for some reason). Of crisp unread newspapers and the morning sun.