Think of it that way.”
Isabel told Jamie about this remark and they both laughed.
Then Jamie looked up at the ceiling, as if to detect signs of imminent collapse. “What about that flat in St. Stephen Street?”
he asked. “What’s happening about that? Have you put in an offer?”
Isabel did not respond immediately. She looked into her glass of wine. New Zealand white. “Cloudy Bay,” she muttered.
Jamie held his glass up to the light. “And so clear,” he said, smiling. “But the flat—are you going to go for it?”
“Do you think I should?” she asked.
“Of course. If you really want to get a place for Grace, then that seems to me to be perfect. It’s really nice. She’ll love it. And it’s not far for her to toddle up the hill to those spiritualist meetings of hers. Ideal.”
Isabel plucked up her courage. “Something has happened,”
she said cautiously. “Since you ask. My lawyer was in touch. We had noted an interest with her lawyers, and they had contacted us. They said that Florence Macreadie wanted me to have the flat and that she would take an offer, from me, of the asking price . . .” She paused. Then, “Less ten thousand.”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “Ten thousand under? Is she desperate or something? If it goes to bids then somebody’s bound to offer at least ten thousand over. Maybe that’s what she said, and they got it wrong.”
Isabel shook her head. “They didn’t,” she said. “Ten thousand under. There’s a reason.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” said Isabel. She had decided to tell him, but how was T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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she to put it? Although everything had changed for her, he was behaving as if nothing had happened the other day in his flat.
She felt slightly injured by this because it implied a certain indifference on his part, and she wanted to talk to him about it, to see what he had meant. But if she did so, then he might take fright, or he might be embarrassed, or he might . . . There were any number of ways in which he might respond.
She steeled herself. “Apparently Florence Macreadie thought that we were planning to buy the flat together.”
She looked at Jamie. But all he did was shrug and take a sip of wine from his glass. “So?” he said. “I was helping you. I can see why she thought that. People take friends to look at places they’re buying.”
“No,” said Isabel. “You’ve got it wrong. She thought that you and I were going to live in it. Together.”
Isabel was surprised by Jamie’s reaction. He smiled. “As flatmates? Would you do your share of the washing-up, Isabel?”
“As lovers,” she said quietly.
Jamie was silent. Isabel glanced at him, but he did not look at her. “I see,” he said.
“It’s ridiculous,” Isabel said. It was a ridiculous misunderstanding, that is; it was not ridiculous that she and Jamie should be lovers. Not now.
Jamie looked up, and for a moment she saw something in his eyes. She was certain of it. “Is it all that ridiculous?” he said quietly.
“Well, no . . .”
He seemed to be thinking of something for a moment, and she waited anxiously, but then he said, “Have you put in the offer?”
Isabel sighed. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t let her sell it to me 1 1 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h on the basis that we’re going to live there when we aren’t. It would be wrong. It really would.”
Jamie thought about this for a moment. “No. No you can’t. I can see that—now that I think about it.” He put down his wineglass. “I once bought a bassoon from a man who was drunk,” he said. “He had put an advertisement in the paper saying that he was selling a load of old musical instruments. I went along to his place, and he showed me a room with about seven old instruments in it, all in fairly sick condition. He had bought them, he said, at a garage sale. Some instrument-repair man had died and his family had sold the contents of his workshop. They were his project, but he died before he got round to restoring them.”
“And the man who advertised was drunk?” asked Isabel.
“Yes,” said Jamie. “It was about seven in the evening, and he had been in the pub with his friends. He told me he had. But he must have been there for hours. He was pretty far gone.”
Isabel became the philosopher. “A very nice problem,” she said. “Is a drunken agreement a proper agreement? Very nice. I suppose that drunk people can still know what they want. In fact, sometimes the fact that they’re drunk reveals to them even more clearly what they really want. In vino veritas. ”
Jamie said that this was true, but in this case there was a complication. “There was a bassoon on the ground. I recognised the model immediately. Quite a nice one. It needed a bit of work, but it would make a very nice instrument. So I asked him what he wanted for it, and he said, ‘That clarinet?’ and he quoted a really low price.”
Isabel laughed. “So you bought it as a clarinet?”
Jamie looked for a moment as if he was ashamed. “I’m afraid I did.”
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Isabel wanted to reassure him. Those who entered the market did so at their peril; it was caveat venditor as well as caveat emptor. But what was the difference between buying an antique from an elderly person who was unaware of its value—which she was sure was not right—and buying something from an ignorant drunk? There was really no difference except for the fact that we felt sympathy for the vulnerable and we did not for the drunk. But that was not enough to make a moral difference.
That was the problem with morality; it required a consistency and evenhandedness that most of us simply did not possess.
Or some schools of morality required that; and the more she thought about it, the more Isabel came to believe that such requirements were simply inhuman. That was not the way we worked as human beings. We were weak, inconsistent beings, and we needed to be judged as such.
Jamie looked at his watch. “They should be arriving soon,”
he said. “Tell me something about them. Tell me who these people are.”
Isabel also looked at the time. The moment, she realised, had been lost. They had skated round the issue, but at least she had seen something in his eyes and he had implied that it was not ridiculous that they should be more than friends. So now she knew that, and that was something.
“ TO M B R UC E .”
Isabel took the hand that was extended to her. It was a firm handshake, of the sort that Americans give, a token of direct-ness and no nonsense.
“And this,” he said, “is Angie.”
1 1 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel was in the hall, with Mimi and the guests. She turned to Angie, noting the low-cut cocktail dress and patent-leather shoes. “We’ve actually met,” said Isabel. “I’m sure that you won’t remember, but it was in a gallery in Dundas Street, a week or so ago. We spoke . . .”
“Of course!” Angie smiled. “Of course I remember.” She turned to Tom. “We were buying that picture by . . . What’s his name again, hon?”
Tom looked flustered. “Cal . . . Cal . . .” His words were distorted by the twisting of his mouth.
“Cadell?” suggested Isabel.
Tom looked at Isabel with gratitude. “Yes, that’s him.”
“One of our most distinguished painters,” said Isabel. “My father had one of his paintings, but gave it away. That was before they became so expensive. I’ve often wondered whether I could ask for it back.”
“Tom adores Scottish art,” said Angie. “In fact, anything to do with your country. He’s Scottish, of course. That name.
Bruce. Descended from Robert the Bruce.”
Tom’s embarrassment was palpable. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “It’s a possibility that we’re looking into. I’ve got somebody doing the research and he says that there ar
e interesting things coming up. He thinks that it might be the same family. But I’m sure it’s only a remote possibility. We’re east Texas really.”
“But if it were true,” said Isabel, “that’s a royal connection.
Think of that. Of course, the Scottish throne has gone south now, with the Hanoverians. Some people still resent that, you know.” She led them into the drawing room, where Jamie was waiting, talking to Joe. Introductions were made while Isabel poured drinks for Tom and Angie.
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“Talking of Scottish kingship,” said Isabel as she handed Tom a glass of wine, “Jamie here has Jacobite sympathies.”
Tom and Angie turned to look at Jamie. Isabel noticed that while Tom turned away, Angie continued to look at him, as one watching. Jamie raised a hand in protest. “Not really.”
“Well, I suspect that he has,” said Isabel. “He seems to know a bit about the Stuarts and he sings Jacobite songs.”
“You don’t always believe in what you sing,” Jamie said, looking to Joe for support.
“No,” said Joe.
“Sometimes lost causes have all the best songs,” said Isabel.
“And the best poetry too. Look at the Spanish Civil War. The Republicans had all the poetry. Lorca, for instance.”
“Who are the Jacobites?” asked Angie, turning to face Tom.
“Followers of the Stuart kings,” said Isabel. “Jacobus is James in Latin, and a lot of the Stuart kings were called James.
Bonnie Prince Charlie was a Stuart.”
Tom tapped Angie on the shoulder. “The house we’re staying in, my dear. Remember, I told you that it was associated with the Jacobite cause. And there’s that bedroom . . .”
Angie brightened. “Oh yes! The Prince’s bedroom.”
Tom took the explanation further. “Legend has it that Prince Charlie stayed in it at some point. Just one night, apparently, and then he had to move on.” He looked at Joe. “We thought that we might put you and Mimi in it when you come out there.”
“As long as you don’t mind a ghost,” said Angie, giggling.
“I thought I saw him the other day. He was sort of white—
insubstantial . . .” She trailed off, and then suddenly turned to Jamie. “Do you believe in ghosts, Jamie?”
Jamie laughed nervously. “I haven’t thought about it very 1 1 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h much . . . But, no, probably not. I haven’t seen any evidence. Or any ghosts, for that matter.”
“Grace is the person,” said Isabel, glancing at Jamie. “My housekeeper. She doesn’t call them ghosts, of course. She’s a spiritualist. She talks about ‘the other side.’ ” She felt vaguely disloyal, talking about Grace in this way, and her voice dropped at the end. It was true, though, Grace did go to seances, which had always struck her as being so out of character, given Grace’s good sense in everything else. We all have our weak points, she thought. Mine . . . This was no time for self-evaluation, though; she would change the subject of the conversation, she decided.
But then she remembered Mobile, which was said to be the city of ghosts. That had always amused her. “Mobile is the place for ghosts, isn’t it?” she volunteered.
Mimi looked up. “So we’re told,” she said. “Though why there should be more ghosts there than anywhere else, I don’t know.”
“Perhaps they move down from the North,” Joe observed drily. “People move to Florida in their retirement. Ghosts move to Mobile.”
It was typical of Joe’s dry humour, and Isabel looked at him in appreciation. Angie, however, seemed puzzled. “Do ghosts move?” she asked.
“That’s something we can’t tell,” answered Isabel. She turned to Tom. It was kind of him and Angie to issue the invitation for the house party, and she thanked him. On the contrary, he said: it was good of Isabel and her friends to fill the house for them.
They were spending almost three months in Scotland and knew very few people. It would be pleasant to have some company.
You have each other, thought Isabel. But was that enough?
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Even when one was in love, it was not really enough just to have the other person—not if one needed stimulation. The company of just one person could be reassuring, could stave off loneli-ness, but would it be enough for three months?
Angie had been talking to Joe and Jamie, and so she said to Tom, “We need to see people, don’t we? I sometimes have to get out of the house just to do so—not necessarily to talk to anyone, just to see them. We have some shops nearby. I drive round there and have a coffee. See people.”
“Yes,” he said. “I guess that’s why we come into Edinburgh a lot. I thought that we might just stay out in that house, buried in the country, but we need to get in.”
Isabel nodded. She could imagine what it would be like to be stuck in the country with Angie. But then she had no interest in Angie, and he did. He must find her exciting. Sexually?
Strange.
She stole a glance at Tom. What would his face have looked like before the Bell’s palsy? He must have been good-looking, with those strong features, the regular nose, the fine eyes; only the mouth was wrong, twisted into its grimace by the condition.
And his physique was impressive too. He must be in his fifties, but there was no spare flesh and he was well put together. If one looked beyond the grimace, one saw a fine man; as Angie must have done, unless she was looking at something else: at the house in Preston Hollow, at the staff who presumably looked after him—the Mexican maid, the groundsman, the driver.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Tom asking her what she did. Isabel explained about the Review and he listened attentively. He had done several courses in philosophy at Dartmouth, he said. They discussed that for a while and then Mimi caught 1 1 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel’s eye and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. It was time for dinner.
Isabel had left the seating plan to Mimi, and she found herself next to Tom; Jamie, across the table, was on Angie’s right.
Isabel watched as the evening wore on. Each time she looked across, she noticed that Angie was deep in conversation with Jamie and she heard odd snatches of what she said. Tom’s been so kind to me . . . We toyed with the idea of Paris, but Tom’s so interested in Scotland . . . You don’t know Dallas? You should . . .
some time . . . And then, would you believe it, she shot him. Everybody knew it wasn’t an accident, I certainly knew . . .
Why, Isabel wondered, had she shot him? And who was she? Women shot abusive husbands, in desperation, or husbands who went off with other women, in fury. It seemed unlikely, but she was talking about Texas, where guns, shamefully, were part of the culture. And that was an absurdity, she thought, and such a blot on American society, this little-boy fascination with guns and toughness. Something had gone so badly wrong.
The dinner finished reasonably early, as Tom and Angie had to drive back to the house outside Peebles where they were staying. In the hall outside, Angie said, “Now, Jamie. Everybody here is coming out to see us in a week’s time. They can’t leave you here in Edinburgh. Will you be our guest too?”
Tom looked up. He was slightly surprised, thought Isabel.
“Yes, why not?” he said. “It would be very pleasant. There’s plenty of room.”
Jamie looked uncertain. He glanced at Isabel, who smiled at him. “It would make the party,” she said.
“Thank you. I’d love that.”
After they had left, Isabel insisted that she and Jamie would T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
1 1 9
clear up as Mimi had prepared the meal. In the kitchen with Jamie, she closed the door behind her. “Well,” she said.
Jamie’s expression was passive.
“Well,” said Isabel again. “That was Tom and Angie.”
�
��Yes,” said Jamie, putting a plate into the dishwasher.
“That was.”
Isabel reached past him to put a couple of glasses on the top rack of the machine. “You seemed to get on well enough with her.” She picked up another glass and threw out the dregs. “I couldn’t help but hear something she said. Something about some woman shooting a man. What was that about?”
Jamie shrugged. “Some Dallas story,” he said. “Somebody who married somebody else. Some oil man. Then shot him. So she said.”
“Shot for his oil,” mused Isabel. “Tom had better be careful.”
For a moment Jamie said nothing. He stacked a few more plates and then turned to face Isabel. “Isabel,” he said, softly.
For a minute, Isabel thought that he was going to embrace her. It was the right moment; they were alone; he was standing close to her. Her heart raced in anticipation. But then she saw that he was shaking a finger at her in mock admonition.
“You have an overactive imagination,” Jamie said.
She turned away. She was tired, and he was right. Her imagination was overactive—in every respect. She imagined that people might dispose of one another for gain. She imagined that this young man, who could presumably have any girl who took his fancy, would choose to get involved with her, a woman in her early forties. She should rein in her imagination and become realistic, like everybody else. And you don’t need the complica-tions that would follow any deeper involvement with Jamie; that 1 2 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h is what she said to herself. Why spoil a friendship for the sake of the carnal? And the carnal inevitably spoiled friendships. It took friends to another land—away from their innocence, to a place from which they could not return to simple friendship.
And yet, remember, she thought, none of us is immune to shipwreck. Come, beckons the fatal shore: come and die on my white sands, it said. And we do.
C H A P T E R E L E V E N
E
THE FOLLOWING MORNING she made the decision to visit Florence Macreadie. There was an F. Macreadie listed in the telephone directory for St. Stephen Street and a quick call from Isabel established that she would be at home after eleven that morning—“after doing the messages”—and would be happy to see her; Isabel approved of the old Scots expression and liked Florence Macreadie all the more for using it. One did not go shopping in Scots; one went for messages.
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