The Geometry of Holding Hands

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Isabel turned away, and did not see the look that accompanied this last remark. This was ancient business, a combination of unresolved jealousy and resentment; quite impervious, it seemed, to the healing effect of time. It was about something very dark and elemental. It was poison that had not been released by any lance and only now was making its toxic presence felt.

  Isabel wondered how to respond, but decided that there was little point; already Eddie was beginning to look in their direction in a worried way. Did he suspect that something was in the offing? Cat would have to tell him, thought Isabel. That was one piece of dirty work she would have to do for herself. And Isabel had just arrived at a more wide-reaching conclusion: she could not take the troubles of the world on her shoulders. She was going to simplify her life by doing what Jamie had long urged her to do. She would get in touch with Iain Melrose and ask him to release her from the obligation she had assumed. If he declined, which she thought rather unlikely, she would do what she had promised to do for him, but she did not see how he could hold her to an undertaking that she now so strongly wished to abandon. And she would disentangle herself, too, from Cat’s affairs in general, and from the delicatessen in particular. That would leave Eddie at Cat’s mercy, of course, and she was unhappy about that. But what could she do? Where were the boundaries of your moral responsibility for others? Draw those too generously, and life became impossible because you simply could not cope with the demands, emotional and practical, placed upon you. Draw them too narrowly, and your world became a cold and constrained place.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ISABEL DECIDED to stay a further half an hour before informing Cat that she would not be staying to help during the lunchtime rush. It seemed that Cat half expected this, as she said that she had spoken to Leo, who would be happy to lend a hand. Isabel sensed that Cat was experiencing some regret over their earlier exchange, as her tone was placatory. There was even an apology—or semi-apology—when she said, “I spoke a bit hurriedly this morning. I shouldn’t have. But I know you understand.”

  Isabel made a non-committal reply, and then, shortly after twelve, hung up her apron and prepared to leave the deli.

  Eddie was concerned. “Did she say something to you?” he asked. “I saw the two of you having a go at each other.”

  “There was a disagreement—that’s all,” she reassured him.

  “She can be really crabby at times,” Eddie said. “And I think he makes her worse. He’s so pleased with himself.” He paused. “I think they’re planning something.”

  Isabel busied herself with the removal of her latex gloves.

  “Do you know what it is?” Eddie pressed.

  Isabel had one glove off; now she tackled the other.

  “You should use talcum powder,” said Eddie. “They’re meant to have it inside the gloves, but they never seem to have enough.”

  Isabel did not answer his question. She did not have the heart to tell him, and yet she knew she should—particularly if he asked a direct question to which she knew the answer.

  “Do you think they’re going to sell up?”

  Isabel did not meet his gaze at first. But then she turned to him and said, “What do you think?”

  “I think they are,” he said. “They had some guy in the other day who measured everything with one of those electronic tape measures—you know, the type you point at things and get a reading. He went over the whole place.”

  Isabel swallowed hard. “I think they might, Eddie. In fact, I think it highly likely.”

  She watched for his reaction. He was staring at his hands. She waited.

  “I’m finished if they do,” he said.

  “Oh, Eddie, don’t say that.”

  “No, I am, Isabel. I’m finished.”

  She reached out to touch his forearm. He pulled away.

  “You don’t know what’s going to happen, Eddie. And anyway, you could always get another job. There are all sorts of things you could do.”

  “I don’t think so. You go and speak to people looking for jobs at the moment. They write hundreds of applications—hundreds—and they hardly get any replies.”

  She waited a few moments before saying anything further. “I’ll make sure you get something, Eddie. You aren’t alone, you know.”

  She thought: I’ve just assumed responsibility for Eddie. But he said, “You won’t be able to. You can’t make jobs out of nothing.”

  “If needs be, I’ll help you look for something. I promise you I will.”

  He moved towards the counter. “I hate him,” he said. “It’s his fault. She wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for him. I hope he dies.”

  “Eddie!” whispered Isabel. “You should never say that. Because you don’t really, do you?”

  “I mean it. I mean it. In fact…”

  Eddie picked up a knife from beside the cheese board. “See this, Isabel? I could stick this into him. Right in.”

  Her blood ran cold. This was exactly how it happened. Anger. A knife. A story as old and familiar as Cain’s. “Eddie!”

  “I swear I could. He laughed when he got me in the eye, didn’t he? Well, he won’t laugh when I get him back.”

  Isabel took a step forward. She took the knife from his hand. There was no resistance. “You didn’t mean that, did you?”

  He said nothing.

  “I said: You didn’t mean that, did you, Eddie?”

  Now he shook his head. “Okay, I was just thinking.”

  She approached closer and slipped an arm about his shoulder. He did not move away or resist. He felt bony—like a young boy.

  “Don’t think those thoughts, Eddie. Promise me: don’t think them.”

  His voice was almost inaudible. “I won’t.”

  “Good. Now, I have to go, but I’ll drop in and see you on Monday, all right? And if you want to phone me over the weekend, you can do that.”

  “I won’t need to.”

  “All right. But if you feel at all low, or upset—anything—just call me.” She gave him a look that she hoped would impress upon him the fact that she meant what she said. “And I’m sure that Cat is going to talk to you about what’s planned. It may not be as bad as you feared.”

  She went into Cat’s office without knocking. Leo was standing near the filing cabinet, supporting Cat, who was hanging on to his neck, her legs wound round his trunk. When Isabel entered, Cat looked over her shoulder and slowly lowered herself. Leo smirked.

  “I think you should talk to Eddie,” said Isabel. “He’s tumbled to what’s going on.”

  Cat frowned. “Did you tell him?”

  “I did not,” said Isabel. “He’s no fool. He’s put two and two together.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” offered Leo.

  “I don’t think you should,” said Isabel. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “I’ll talk,” said Cat.

  “All right,” said Isabel, and turned to leave, closing the door behind her. She heard laughter.

  * * *

  —

  SHE HAD TELEPHONED Jamie to tell him she would be coming home early and wanted some private time to talk. He would be back with the boys by then, he said, and he would prepare lunch: macaroni cheese for the boys, and a salad for the two of them. Magnus still had a midday sleep, and when he was off, Charlie could be entertained with a film. There was a strict screen-time policy enforced in the house, but Jamie sensed that this was an occasion for flexibility. “Is everything all right?” he asked anxiously. Isabel assured him it was, but then said, “Or not quite, but I need time to talk to you about…well, everything, I suppose. A bombshell from Cat and Leo, to start with, and then, well, my complications.”

  He knew what she meant by complications. He had introduced the word into their private vocabulary himself, to cover the situations th
at arose when Isabel agreed to sort out people’s problems. She did that time and time again, and it seemed to Jamie that although she often brought matters to a satisfactory conclusion for the people she was trying to help, it was often at considerable personal cost—and now and then, even at risk of harm to herself. He lived with this, and indeed in a sense was even proud of it, but if she was planning to extract herself from one of these complications, then he would be more than happy to support her in that.

  “Anything you want,” he said. “We can talk about everything.”

  When he saw her, he realised that things were more serious than he had imagined. Isabel looked shaken, and when he took her hands and held her to him, he felt her quiver, as if she was on the verge of tears.

  Lunch for the boys was a quick meal, made speedier by unashamed bribery. If the macaroni cheese was finished in ten minutes, Jamie promised them, there would be not one piece of chocolate, but two. And if Magnus went to his rest without any fuss, there would be more chocolate later on, and for his brother too, who would be rewarded if he watched Mary Poppins from start to finish without demur. The bargains sealed, Jamie and Isabel soon sat down to their own lunch, the salad that Jamie had prepared earlier on. Isabel toyed with it; she was not in the mood to eat.

  She told him about her conversation with Leo and her subsequent discussion with Cat. And then she told him that she had been thinking about Iain Melrose’s request and that this, on top of everything else, was just too much for her to handle. “And there’s a pile of proofs in the office, waiting for me to look at them. The printer says if he doesn’t get them by Tuesday, he can’t guarantee that we’ll meet the overseas mailing deadline. And if we miss that, then we get into trouble with the library suppliers, who say that we’ve been late twice in the last two years and…” She stopped.

  Jamie reached across the table and took her hand. “I know,” he said. “I know how much you do.”

  “And I feel that I’m neglecting the boys,” Isabel went on. “I’m their mother and I keep asking Grace to take them or do this or that with them. Or you. You have your rehearsals and concerts and everything, and I know the pressure you can be under. And yet I expect you to be on hand, ready to pick things up when I’m doing something else.”

  “Most of which,” Jamie interrupted, “is things for other people.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I think it’s part of the point,” said Jamie. “And as far as I’m concerned, it’s my job anyway. I’m their father. I’m not complaining.” He paused. “Anyway, I know how you must feel. All that I want now is for you to do something about it.”

  Isabel nodded mutely.

  “I suggest we go and see Iain Melrose,” said Jamie. “You and I together. We go to see him and get you out of that. That at least will clear the decks for us to deal with this whole Cat and Leo business. Agreed?”

  Again, Isabel nodded. “I feel bad about it.”

  “Nonsense,” retorted Jamie. “He’s the one who should feel bad—imposing on you like that.”

  “He’s a dying man,” said Isabel. “And I think he’s a good man too. He has the interests of that place up in Argyll at heart.”

  “Fine,” said Jamie. “But he needs to sort it out himself. He needs to make his own decision about these people he can’t choose between. We all have to do that sort of thing from time to time. I have to choose who gets the solo slots at the school concerts.”

  “And I take it that won’t be Mark Brogan,” said Isabel.

  The remark dispelled the tension. Jamie laughed. “Oh, Mark, poor Mark. He’s not doing too badly, actually. I think he’s been inspired by being put in the school orchestra. It’s had a positive effect on his playing.”

  “Give him a solo slot then,” said Isabel.

  Jamie laughed. “You’re not serious.”

  But she was. “Think of what it would mean to his mother. She’d burst with pride.”

  Jamie hesitated, and Isabel pressed him again. “Does it matter?” she asked. “When you look at these things sub specie aeternitatis—does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” Jamie conceded. “Apply that happiness test of yours…”

  Isabel objected. “I’m not a utilitarian. Or not in the crude sense.”

  “All right, but you have to admit that in this case it would give great happiness…People like hearing others struggling with an instrument. And the parents would like it too, as they’d all be thinking: At least ours aren’t that bad.”

  “So, it’s agreed?” said Isabel. “A solo spot for Mark Brogan at the next school concert?”

  “He’s on,” said Jamie, with a smile.

  They went on to discuss the deli. “We keep out of that,” said Jamie. “You want to simplify your life—well, you start by keeping out of Cat’s affairs. If she wants to go off to live on a boat in Oban or wherever, then that’s her business.”

  Isabel reluctantly agreed. “But what about the trust? She’s going to make another application.”

  Jamie thought for a moment. “I’d suggest that the trust comes up with the cash. A one-off. Then tell her that’s it.”

  Isabel was doubtful. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd that this massive liquidation of assets comes hot on the heels of her engagement to Leo? He’s obviously the one behind it. I think he’s probably been wanting an expensive yacht for some time and, bingo, here’s the way to get it. It’s called asset stripping, and Cat’s the one who’s having all her assets stripped.”

  Jamie said he understood that was what was occurring. “Things happen,” he said. “We don’t like all of them.”

  Isabel reflected that sometimes she liked very little of what was happening in the world.

  “But you have to accept things,” Jamie insisted. He remembered Isabel saying something about the Stoics and acceptance. “Didn’t the Stoics say, ‘Accept what you can’t influence or change’?”

  “They did, and that was my dentist,” said Isabel, with a smile. “I told you about our conversation the other day. He’d been reading about the Stoics and mindfulness.”

  Jamie remembered. “My own dentist says nothing about philosophy,” he reflected. “She only talks about teeth. She uses the word we for me. How are our teeth today? Have we been flossing regularly?”

  “The inclusive first-person plural,” said Isabel. “It’s well meant, but condescending because…” She paused, to think of just why the use of we should be wrong. At last, she said, “It’s because it removes autonomy of judgement. The person you address in that way is not being given the opportunity to dissent. He—or she—is being roped in to a consensus.”

  “Roped in?”

  “Yes. Have we been flossing regularly? The sub-text there is: You have no option—you have to floss regularly—and you know it because you and I are part of a greater we.”

  Jamie burst out laughing. “You can make simple things beautifully complicated—you really can.”

  “Thank you,” said Isabel. “And you can uncomplicate them.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” said Jamie.

  “And succeeding,” said Isabel.

  She rose from her place at the table, put her arms around Jamie and kissed him. “Thank you,” she said.

  She felt as if a burden had been lifted, which it had. Life was suddenly simpler, less onerous. All that was required now was a couple of conversations, a few days with the guilt pile in her study, and an uninterrupted night of sleep. There was something else, and it bothered her that she could not remember it. But then she did. The dental hygienist. Her dentist had told her to make an appointment with the dental hygienist and she had not done so.

  “Why are you smiling, Isabel?” asked Jamie.

  She told him. “I’m smiling because I’m thinking about something unimportant—or no, it’s important,
because oral hygiene is important—but which is, nonetheless, something I shouldn’t be worrying about too much when I’m trying to declutter my life. If you see what I mean.”

  Jamie kissed her. We assume, thought Isabel, that those whom we kiss have gone regularly to the dental hygienist. And then she thought: Do dental hygienists enjoy kissing, knowing what they know?

  “You’re smiling again,” said Jamie.

  * * *

  —

  IAIN MELROSE had agreed to see them at four o’clock that afternoon. “I used to play golf every Saturday afternoon,” he said, “but now it’s a bit much for me. So you’ll find me in.”

  His house was in the Braids, a broad hillside on the south side of the city, just before the Pentland Hills sweep down to the Borders. It was on a road of large Victorian houses, each surrounded by a substantial garden—houses that had been constructed in Edwardian times for Edinburgh merchants who fancied themselves as country gentlemen but who still needed to be within reach of town. The houses bore evocative names, sometimes etched in stone on the gateposts: here was Inverness House, redolent of the Highlands; here was Russell Lodge, and High Corrie and, poignantly, Ypres.

  Iain lived in Stonehaven, a rambling example of revived Scots baronial architecture. It had been well looked after, the stonework renewed here and there with the insertion of a new mullion or lintel, the sills of the windows painted fresh white, the gravel at the side of the house recently and neatly raked. He had been looking out for their arrival, and as Isabel drove her green Swedish car up the short driveway to the house, Iain was there to greet them at the front door.

  He led them into the drawing room. “I should have entertained you before this,” he said. “I’ve become…well, not as social as I used to be.”

  Isabel looked about the room. It was comfortable, rather than affluent, although there was the solidity that goes with understated wealth: the family photographs on the side table were in silver frames; the fireplace was carved Edinburgh pine of a type much appreciated by specialists in such things, with seashells, anchors and a harvest scene delicately moulded and applied to the wood. There were several paintings on the walls that she was sure were Fergussons, while one, a view of Ben More on Mull, was a Peploe. The thought came to her mind of how hard it must be to leave the small things one loves: the painting one’s become attached to and looks at every day; the favourite teacup that you’ve drunk out of at the breakfast table for years and years; our small links with the world. And how pressing, then, must become the urge to do something to perpetuate that relationship with that which is loved; to have an heir; to know what is going to happen to your possessions. Or did you accept that all these things were part of a world that you were leaving; that they were not yours in any permanent sense, because there was no such thing as permanence?