The Charming Quirks of Other

by Alexander McCall Smith

  "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 friends."

  "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."

  Isabel nodded. It was hot in Singapore. Yes, she had heard that.

  "You're not keen to go?" It was a direct question, but she wanted to get the conversation past its abysmal small-talk stage.

  Christine threw a glance across the room to where her husband was standing, deep in conversation with Alex and another man. "I don't mind," she said flatly. "It's what Harry wants. That's the important thing."

  Isabel said nothing. It occurred to her now that the situation was not quite as simple as she had imagined. Harry wanted to go to Singapore because of the job. That was clear, but ... but what if he wanted to go to Singapore because his wife, this rather dull woman, did not want to go there? If one wanted to get away from one's wife, then it made perfect sense to go to a place to which she would be reluctant to follow one. So that ruled out places like Paris or Melbourne or Vancouver, where it was no great burden to live, and ruled in certain places were nobody would like to go. Singapore, of course, was not on that list, being a rather attractive place where people led comfortable, secure lives. But some people might not like the heat or the distance from home, and, like Christine, might not wish to follow.

  Now, if Harry had decided to go somewhere far away to escape what must be a very dull home life, then he would obviously not wish Christine to accompany him. But he would have to be circumspect about it. If he made it clear that he did not want her to come with him, then that would only persuade her that she must at all costs accompany him in order to prevent his going off with somebody else.

  Of course she could be dissembling. She might secretly be rather keen to live in Singapore but not wish to give that impression. It might suit her very well for her husband to go off to Singapore and leave her in Scotland ... with her lover ... The new young sports teacher, perhaps. Isabel stopped herself. This was absurd. The situation had no such complexities: this was a straightforward case of a man taking a job in a place where his wife did not wish to live because she was set in her ways and happy where she was. However, she would follow him, and life for them would go on very much as it went on back in Scotland. There was nothing under the surface here; what you saw was what there was. Nothing more than that.

  Isabel, who had momentarily turned away, turned round again and saw that Christine was moving off towards other guests. She thinks I am boring, thought Isabel. But then she had every right to reach this conclusion after that conversation; every right. Isabel finished the last of her cold coffee and put the cup down on a table. Harry and Christine depressed her. There was no happiness there.

  She looked at her watch. She was driving back to Edinburgh and she made a quick calculation. She had had one glass of wine before dinner and half a glass during the meal. That quantity, spread over three hours, made it quite safe for her to drive. If she left now, she would be home in not much more than an hour, and Jamie would not be much later. Grace was babysitting and would stay the night.

  A few minutes later she was in her green Swedish car and heading back along the road to Edinburgh. The Border countryside could just be made out under a three-quarters moon: wide fields punctuated by dark woods; rolling hills, silhouetted against the night sky; crouching shapes like sleeping bears or humpback whales. This was the landscape of Walter Scott, and she imagined him at Abbotsford, looking out of his library window at the world he peopled with his characters; a world of desperate doings and heroic quests.

  That was not what the world was like now, and she should not allow her imagination to suggest otherwise. There were no hidden dimensions to the world of Harry and Christine. They had nothing to do with the unresolved problem of that shortlist, and in that enquiry she was no further along than she had been before, except, perhaps, she now had the knowledge that Alex distrusted Tom Simpson and wrote him off as being intellectually inferior to the other two candidates. And a fraud, of course. That changed the picture--if it could be proved. And that should not be too difficult, despite Alex's unsuccessful efforts: one either had the degree one claimed to have or one did not, and there must be some way of ascertaining that. She could try to find out, although she thought that it was probably a waste of time. It was just too unlikely a thing for a candidate to do. No, she would not bother. The real subject of the anonymous letter, she decided, was John Fraser. He was the one who had something serious to hide.

  As she came into Edinburgh from the south and saw the lights of the city laid out below her, her thoughts turned to Jamie's friend Prue. Down there, there were so many people she knew, or who knew about her. There were links and associations and relationships; there were all the tissue, the sinews, of human society. And one of these people whose light might still be burning at this hour was that unhappy, frightened girl whom she would have to see; whose heart was presumably already broken by the arbitrariness of her illness, and for whom only disappointment and sorrow lay ahead. Unless ... the thought that came to her was unexpected, and outrageous. Unless she were to share Jamie--as an act of charity towards a girl who did not have long to live. She had everything, and that young woman had nothing; was it out of the question to allow Jamie to go to her and comfort her, to give her the experience of love before she died? Most women would be appalled by the idea--yes, appalled. But that was not how Isabel felt. She felt ashamed, embarrassed perhaps, but she did not feel appalled. And how would Jamie react if she made the suggestion? She saw him looking at her with that reproachful look that he sometimes adopted. "Isabel, are you serious? Or are you out of your mind? Perhaps you are. Completely. How could you? How could you?" Or, more likely, he would just stare at her in justified shock.

  He would be right: how could she? It might have seemed an act of generosity, of sharing, but it was also an act of insouciance, an implicit statement that she did not care enough to bother if the man to whom she was about to be married had an affair with another woman. Of course she cared; of course she wanted Jamie to the exclusion of all others--what were the precise words of the marriage service, befo
re linguistic meddling had destroyed its poetry? Forsaking all others? What a powerful, resonant word was forsake. The phrase forsaking all others meant so much more, made its point so much more emphatically than its weaker alternatives. And yet the thought had occurred to her. It did not come from nowhere. It had occurred to her, and the things that come into our mind are ours. If they are outrageous, then it is because somewhere within ourselves we have an outrageous part; a dark twin in whose mind thoughts of infidelity, carnal excess, selfishness dwell with ease and naturalness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  OF COURSE SHE SAID NOTHING about it to Jamie. The following morning, over the breakfast table, as Jamie fed Charlie his boiled-egg-and-Marmite soldiers, the thought crossed her mind again, but she quickly dismissed it by deliberately thinking of something else. This, she understood, was the technique adopted by the saints, actual and aspiring, for whom impure thoughts were temptations to be put out of mind; they thought of heavenly subjects, choirs of angels and the like, and the unsettling thoughts were elbowed out. Or they flagellated themselves, which was another way of dealing with the errant mind, though not a practice one could easily adopt at the breakfast table. In Isabel's case, she thought of Christopher Dove, and imagined him sitting over breakfast, frowning at his bowl of muesli, plotting his next move. To this picture she added Professor Lettuce, sitting on the other side of the table, glancing with admiration at his younger colleague. The thought made her smile, and it worked: I have stopped dwelling on that dreadful idea of mine.

  Jamie, unaware of Isabel's mental struggle, discussed the day ahead. He was entirely free and wanted to take Charlie to the Botanical Gardens. Jamie had recently discovered the fish that swam languidly in one of the hothouse pools; they would visit them, he said, and look at a few of the more exotic plants. Charlie wanted desperately to touch a cactus, it seemed, and Jamie wondered whether he should be allowed to discover about thorns and spikes for himself. "That's how they learn, isn't it?" he asked. "How else?"