A Distant View of Everything

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The house itself was a two-storey building of the sort favoured by the well-heeled edges of Scottish cities—spacious and well set, with an oak front door and oak window casings. The garden surrounding it was tidy, but perhaps rather too orderly for Isabel’s taste. There were none of the rhododendrons that Isabel liked but, rather, lines of lavender and juniper flanking well-tended herbaceous beds. Isabel assumed that there was a professional gardener—certainly it had that feel to it.

  She rang the bell and heard it sounding somewhere within the house. She waited; there was no response. Then she rang again, and from inside there came the slamming of a door. A few seconds later, the front door opened.

  Andrea Murray was younger than Isabel had imagined she would be—there were ten years between her and Rob, Isabel thought. Rob was in his early forties; Andrea must have been in her early thirties.

  She was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones and bright, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was clear, and there was an air of health and vigour to her—not something that Isabel had expected. Having heard the reports of Andrea’s attempted suicide, she had imagined somebody who looked more drawn. Not this bright-eyed woman standing before her.

  Andrea waited for Isabel to introduce herself.

  “My name is Isabel Dalhousie. I know Rob McLaren. He suggested I should come to see you.”

  “Rob McLaren? Well…” There were a few moments’ hesitation before she invited Isabel in. “I’m in the kitchen,” she said. “I’m pickling things, so there’s a rather vinegary smell. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Isabel mentioned the dill pickles she had put into the jar two weeks ago. “The jury is still out,” she said. “We have yet to try them. My husband has a weakness for them.”

  Andrea led the way into the kitchen. This was on the other side of the house, overlooking the weir that halted the Water of Leith on its journey to the sea. Isabel remarked on the view.

  “I look out on rhododendrons from my kitchen,” she said. “Rhododendrons, and occasionally a fox.”

  Andrea laughed. “I can watch the river for hours—especially when I’m meant to be doing something else.” She switched on the kettle and then turned to Isabel. “Distractions…Do you mind my asking…”

  “Why I’ve come to see you? No, not at all.”

  “You said you were a friend of Rob McLaren’s?”

  Isabel nodded. “Well, I know him. Not very well, but I’ve met him recently.”

  There was something in Andrea’s look—something Isabel was not quite able to interpret. It could have been a look of amusement, she thought—or was it something else?

  “But I haven’t come to talk about Rob.”

  Andrea was impassive.

  Isabel had decided to be direct. “There’s a man called Tony MacUspaig.” She paused, waiting to gauge the effect of her mentioning the name. She was half expecting a dramatic reaction, or at least a shadow to pass across Andrea’s face, but this did not happen.

  “Tony?” said Andrea. “You know him too?” The tone was bright, and there was nothing to suggest anything other than mild surprise.

  “I haven’t actually met him,” confessed Isabel.

  Andrea waited politely.

  “You might be wondering why I wanted to talk about somebody I haven’t met,” said Isabel.

  Andrea laughed. “Well, I’ve been wondering about why you’re here at all,” she said. “I’m all for social visits, but it’s not every day somebody comes to see me to talk about men…”

  If tension had been building up, then this had the effect of dispelling it. Isabel now began her explanation, telling Andrea about Bea’s concerns over unfortunate matchmaking and her doubts about the suitability of Tony MacUspaig. She did not raise any question, though, of the doctor’s monetary motives.

  After she had finished, Isabel looked at Andrea expectantly.

  “But what’s this got to do with you?” asked Andrea. “Sorry to sound rude, but what business is this of yours?”

  “Bea asked me to help.”

  Andrea looked doubtful. “Why can’t she do it herself?”

  Isabel shrugged. “Embarrassment, perhaps.”

  This did not impress Andrea. “She started the whole thing. Surely she should clear up her own mess—if it’s a mess, which I don’t think it will be.”

  This interested Isabel. “Oh? Why not?”

  They had been standing during this conversation, and now Andrea gestured to two chairs at the kitchen table, inviting Isabel to sit down. As she did so, Isabel noticed a magazine on the table. The cover was familiar, and she saw that it was one that she herself received from time to time, the magazine of a Scottish child charity. A picture of a young boy on the cover, a bit of an urchin, his face smeared with what looked like jam, gazed out at her. URBAN POVERTY, the inscription below read in large red letters.

  “I don’t think it’ll be a mess,” Andrea explained, “because I can’t see why anybody should think Tony unsuitable for”—she made an expansive gesture—“for anyone.”

  This was not what Isabel was expecting, and she frowned. “I heard you and he were together.”

  “Yes,” said Andrea evenly. “We were. Then we parted.” She looked up at the ceiling. Isabel thought she looked wistful rather than evasive or regretful. Cat, by contrast, closed her eyes whenever the name of a former boyfriend was mentioned—a form of denial, Isabel had decided. There was no denial here.

  “I see.”

  “Yes,” Andrea continued. “I decided that I was better on my own. You know how it is? You sometimes feel that…well, that your life is less complicated if there’s just you.” She paused. “Do I sound selfish?”

  “Not at all,” Isabel said quickly. “A lot of people reach that conclusion.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” said Andrea. “If you’re single, you get used to pity, you know. People assume that you want somebody and that you can’t find him. They try not to show their pity, but it’s there—it really is. You feel it.”

  Isabel knew what she meant, and told her so.

  Andrea looked at her with interest. “Are you by yourself?” she asked.

  “No, I’m married. But I wasn’t always. I had quite a few years on my own.”

  “So you’ll know what it’s like.”

  Isabel nodded. “I’d heard something about you and Tony,” she said. “I’d heard that he’d broken up with you.”

  Andrea smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

  Isabel gave a vague answer. “You know how this city is. People spend half their time talking about one another.”

  “You could say that about anywhere,” said Andrea. She seemed to muse on Isabel’s remark. “They were one hundred and eighty degrees wrong, you know. I was the one who brought it to an end. He was actually quite upset.”

  “People!” exclaimed Isabel.

  “Yes, people. You’d think that if they were going to talk about others, they would at least get their facts right.”

  “Quite,” agreed Isabel. “But there was something else that somebody said. I feel a bit uneasy telling you about it.” Even as she spoke, she knew that this was not something you should ever say. You should never tell people you knew something unless you were prepared to share it. It was a lesson that was usually learned very early—well before the age of ten.

  Andrea looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know whether I want to hear it, but…” She trailed off.

  Isabel was now committed. “It’s nothing much, and it certainly doesn’t put you in a bad light.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Isabel swallowed. “There was some suggestion that Tony took advantage of you financially.”

  The effect of this was immediate. Andrea stiffened. “What?” she exclaimed. “Took financial advantage? Of me?”

  “That’s what I heard,” said Isabel. “I didn’t immediately assume it was true.” She felt she could say that honestly; she had had her doubts, even if they were not large ones.


  “Just as well,” said Andrea. “Because it’s utterly false. Tony would never do something like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” exploded Andrea. “I knew him very well. He’s completely honest. Completely.”

  Isabel sighed. “Gossip,” she said. “I should have known.” She held Andrea’s gaze. “So there’s no truth in the allegation that he got you to make money over to him.”

  Andrea’s voice rose. “Of course there’s no truth in it.” She hesitated. “None at all. Except…”

  Isabel waited.

  “Except for the money I gave him for medical purposes.”

  Isabel thought quickly. Tony MacUspaig was a plastic surgeon and might well have a practice in cosmetic surgery. Such surgery was not common in Scotland, where the ravages of age were accepted with a certain insouciance, but there were one or two surgeons who would nip and tuck if asked. If he were interested in money—and she had heard that he was—then that is exactly the sort of thing he would do. Burns and grafts may have been the staple of National Health surgeons, but the state system of free medicine did not pay nearly as well as the lucrative tightening of ageing skin. As discreetly as she could, she studied Andrea’s face. There was no sign of the smooth, slightly lustrous skin that followed the elimination of wrinkles. Certainly there was none of the mask-like artificiality that followed a significant face-lift. That could make people look like a masked actor in a Japanese Noh play or one of those leggy plastic dolls with which small girls played.

  “I wouldn’t want to pry,” said Isabel.

  Andrea laughed. “Oh no, not for me.” She touched her face gingerly. “Did you think I was a candidate for that sort of thing?”

  Isabel was quick to reassure her.

  “It was for a clinic he runs,” said Andrea. “A medical volunteer place.” Tony MacUspaig, she told her, was a trustee of a clinic in Marrakesh that performed plastic surgery procedures. He usually went out there twice a year—for a few weeks on each occasion—during which he would give his services, unpaid, as a plastic surgeon. He had persuaded other surgeons to volunteer, and they now had a regular roster of Canadian and Australian doctors joining their Scottish and English counterparts there. But these schemes cost money, she said, and he raised quite a large sum himself, as well as volunteering to perform the actual surgery.

  “I gave him a fairly large gift for the clinic. He had showed me a picture of a little girl whose hare-lip he had repaired.” Andrea looked incredulous. “Do you think that’s what people have been talking about?”

  “Possibly.”

  This was greeted with disbelief. “You know, when I saw the photographs of what he had done—a man who had suffered from a terrible growth on his jaw—before and after, it was amazing. That little girl standing there with a perfectly ordinary smile. I was very moved.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” said Isabel. She had made a bad mistake—again; she, a philosopher by training, had believed what she had been told without question. You had to be sure of your premise—you simply had to. After all, even the fundamental truths of physics could be questioned, let alone stories you’d been told second or third hand. Rob McLaren may have believed what he told her, but may have been quite wrong. “I can see that there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “There certainly has,” said Andrea. “Tony is the nicest, kindest, most gentle of men. I still feel very strongly about him even if I thought we should go our separate ways.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Isabel. “I’ve been misled.”

  There was now a note of anger in Andrea’s voice. “You should tell that woman, Bea or whoever she is, that she’s got it quite wrong and that anyone who goes out with Tony MacUspaig is really fortunate. Tell her that.”

  “I shall,” said Isabel, rising to leave.

  “Good,” said Andrea firmly.

  She saw Isabel to the door. The atmosphere was now less warm, and Isabel did not want to overstay the little welcome that she had. She shook hands with Andrea at the door, and as she did so, she noticed something that she had missed earlier. On her left wrist, irregular and at an angle, were two railway-line scars.

  Isabel averted her eyes. She walked out onto the street without looking back, then made her way up the slope towards the end of Colinton Road. As she passed the boys’ boarding school, she was overtaken on the pavement by two of the students, dressed in the school’s uniform, both fair-haired boys of fifteen or sixteen, walking with their hands deep in their pockets, more or less oblivious of Isabel’s presence.

  She overheard a snatch of their conversation.

  “I said to him that I didn’t do it,” said one of the boys. “I told him.”

  “And he didn’t believe you?” asked his friend.

  “No,” said the boy. “I suppose it’s because I’d told so many lies in the past.”

  They were almost out of earshot now, but she just managed to hear the final exchange. “Poor you. It must be awful not to be believed…”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THAT EVENING, Isabel and Jamie went to a concert in the Queen’s Hall. The last time Isabel had been there—a few weeks earlier—Jamie had been playing; she had sat in the back row, paying scant attention to the music, being distracted by thoughts of Magnus. It was the first time that Grace had babysat for them in the evening—at least for Magnus—and she was experiencing the anxiety that any parent would experience in such circumstances: the first dinner à deux in a restaurant, the first cinema outing—these are not easy, relaxed occasions for any new parent, no matter the care being lavished on the baby at home. Grace, of course, was completely reliable, and had already looked after Magnus for long periods during the day. She knew where everything was, she checked up frequently—perhaps rather too frequently—on both Charlie and Magnus when they were sleeping, and she had Isabel’s mobile number should anything be required. Even in a concert, with the mobile set to silent but ready to vibrate should a call come in, Isabel checked it from time to time, just in case Grace should call her and the phone for some reason fail to alert her. Of course there had been nothing, and there had been no reason to summon a taxi at the end of the concert rather than walk back, as she and Jamie usually did.

  This evening there was no such anxiety, and as she and Jamie set off, Isabel found herself looking forward to a concert where she would listen to the music rather than sit and worry. For Jamie, too, it was something of a treat. Most concerts he attended were ones in which he was playing, and no matter how confident he felt about the music, it was still work—and demanding work at that.

  Waiting for the concert to start, Isabel ran her eye down the programme. It was Jamie who had suggested that they come to this particular performance; he knew several of the musicians in the ensemble, he said, and there was a new piece by a young composer from Glasgow with whom he had worked.

  “There it is,” Jamie said, “Butter Yellow. That’s Laurence’s new piece.”

  Isabel read the programme note. “Laurence Mave composed Butter Yellow after a trip he made to Colombia. This is its first performance.” She looked at Jamie. “So he went to Colombia?”

  Jamie glanced at the programme. “So it says.”

  “And it inspired him?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “But it must have,” said Isabel. “It says that he went to Colombia and then he wrote Butter Yellow. It must have been something he saw in Colombia. Butter, perhaps.”

  James gave her a sideways look. “Not necessarily. And I don’t think we should be too literal. Music doesn’t have to be representational.”

  “I see. So we shouldn’t think about Colombia? Or butter?”

  Jamie seemed distracted. He had seen somebody. “Probably not.”

  Isabel was thinking. “What’s that condition you get when your senses get confused? You hear something and it makes you see something. Syn…something or other.”

  “Synaesthesia,” said Jamie. “W
e had a lecture on it at music college. Some people see colours when they hear music. Or they think of numbers having particular colours. Two is green, three is blue, and so on.”

  “So perhaps your friend Laurence saw butter yellow when he wrote this new piece.”

  Jamie agreed that this was a possibility.

  “But why Colombia?” asked Isabel.

  A door opened at the side of the hall. “Later,” whispered Jamie. “We can discuss it later.”

  The musicians entered. It was a chamber ensemble, and Isabel recognised one or two of them as people with whom Jamie had worked before. The viola player was somebody who occasionally came to the house to collect a score, and the young woman who was playing the cello…Isabel struggled with the memory. She had definitely seen her before, and had seen her again recently, somewhere or other. She looked down at the programme to read the names of the players. Cello…Stephanie Partridge. Partridge…Had she met somebody called Partridge? There had been that woman called Sheila Grouse who had stood for the Liberal Democrats in the council elections and who had called at the house with an election pamphlet. Isabel had remembered her name because the day she had called had in fact been the beginning of the grouse season—the “Glorious Twelfth,” as it was known—and Isabel had been half listening to something on the radio about it. Then the doorbell had rung, and there was a woman who introduced herself as Sheila Grouse. Isabel had said, “Is it safe for you to be out in the open today?” and the woman had looked at her in astonishment. A good opportunity for a humorous remark—sent to us like manna from providence—could be wasted if the person to whom it was made did not get the reference. Your name, Isabel had thought. It’s not a good name to have on the opening day of the grouse-shooting season.