The Charming Quirks of Other

by Alexander McCall Smith

  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 th
is 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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SHE HAD TO ACT. Issues were piling up: the school enquiry, with all its complexities and uncertainties; Lettuce's piece on Dove's new book--which would arrive at any moment; a slew of indigestible books that would have to be sent out for review--why were philosophers so prolix?; Prue; her wedding, even--if it was to take place. She had to act.

  She arrived back late from the delicatessen, tired and looking forward to changing out of her clothes and having a long, relaxing bath. Working with food made one smell of food--and by the time she reached home that Saturday evening she had become convinced that she had about her a distinct aroma of strong Italian sausage. Jamie kissed her as she came in the front door, and she was sure that she saw his nose wrinkle slightly, as it might if one were called upon actually to kiss a salami or a parcel of ripe French cheese.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "It's handling all those sausages and French cheeses and things. It rubs off."

  He leaned forward to kiss her again. "There's nothing wrong with garlic."

  "Maybe not," she said. "But I need a bath."

  She listened to him as he told her that Charlie had been exhausted and had been put to bed early. He had dropped off to sleep immediately, Jamie said. She was disappointed; she always had enough energy for Charlie, even when at the end of her tether. But she would not disturb him--and so she went straight to the bathroom off their bedroom and cast off her delicatessen clothes. Was every day like this for Cat? She sympathised if it was. And she did smell of salami, or at least of the garlic which infused their particular brand.

  Naked, she walked to the bath and felt the temperature of the water. They had an old-fashioned boiler in the house, an arrangement that made Alex, their plumber, smile and make references to museums of industrial technology. "But it delivers oceans of hot water," she had protested, and he had refrained from modernising it. Now those oceans were filling the tub and sending up clouds of steam, as in a Turkish bath. The water was soft to the touch--straight from the Pentland Hills. How they would love this water in London, where their own supply was so hard, so laden with calcium and other things. They might have opera and theatre in abundance in London, but when it came to water ...

  She turned off the taps and lowered herself into the tub, with its ample, Victorian proportions. They were not mean, the Victorians, at least in bathroom matters, and this bath could easily accommodate ...

  Jamie. He had followed her upstairs and was standing in the bathroom doorway. He was watching her, smiling. "Would you mind?" He nodded towards the bath.

  It suddenly occurred to Isabel that they had never shared a bath. There was no reason why they should not have--no inhibitions, no reserves of prudery--but they had never bathed together.

  She gestured towards the other end of the tub. "There's plenty of room."

  He began to remove his clothes. He was just wearing a tee-shirt and jeans, and in a few moments he was divested of them. She looked up at him and then looked away, back at the water, which, for reasons of light reflected off tiles, was light green. She moved so as to lean against the back of the bath. The enamelled surface was warm to the touch.

  He moved forward, the soft light upon his skin. He carried no spare flesh; had never done so. He was lithe; muscled, as in a sculpture by Praxiteles. I, she thought, am soft and pliant; Eve's flesh.

  "Jamie," she said.

  "Yes?"

  She spoke what she was thinking; private, ridiculous thoughts. "Please don't ever change."

  He laughed as he lowered himself into the water, facing her, his knees drawn up. "Everybody changes."

  "Not you. The rules don't apply to you."

  He sent a small splash in her direction. A wisp of steam rose from the point where he had disturbed the water. "When did you last share a bath?"

  She closed her eyes. "I can't remember. When I was small, I suppose. I had friends to stay over and we used to share baths, I think. I must have been eight or nine." She opened her eyes. "And you?"

  He looked away. "I can't remember. It's so long ago."

  She felt he was saying to her that he did not want to talk about it. She sensed that, and stopped. She reached out and touched the side of his leg. She moved her hand against him. They did not speak. He turned on the cold tap, briefly, and let the cooler water mingle with the warm. She closed her eyes. It was a delicious sensation, that drop in temperature followed by a slow warming as he turned the hot tap on again. It took her back, far back, to a place of memories and longing. Why? she thought. Why should I feel this way? Because it is a return to our earliest memory, the memory of the comfort of the womb, when we are surrounded by warmth and liquid and there is no light to impinge upon the comfort of darkness.

  DAMP, CLAD IN TOWELS, they left the bathroom and went back into the bedroom. Through the window the evening sun, even at eight, slanted across the cover of their bed, a white Ulster cambric. She loved cambric: Tell her to make me a cambric shirt / Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme / Without no seam nor needlework / And then she'll be a true love of mine. She had sung this to Charlie once and he had watched her studiously, his eyes wide, although the words must have meant nothing to him.

  Jamie stood in the middle of the room, the towel about his waist. "I forgot to wash my hair," he said. "I was going to ..."

  He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Isabel glanced at him. "Should we bother?" she asked.

  "No, we should. You never know." At odd times Jamie received requests to play; this could be one.

  He went to the bedside table on which the telephone stood and picked up the receiver.

  He answered a question she could not hear. "Yes."

  Across the room, Isabel heard the sound of a distant voice.

  Jamie lowered his voice. "No. I can't."

  Isabel turned away.

  "I told you, I can't. I just can't."

  Isabel turned round. He was holding the handset in an odd way, half cupping the top against his ear, as if to muffle the voice at the other end. But she had heard. Their eyes met.

  "Look, we can't talk. I'll ... I'll speak to you some other time. Tomorrow." A pause while something else was said, something that elicited a heated response. "I didn't. I did not say that. Sorry, but I have to go. Goodbye."

  Isabel stood quite still. She heard her heart beating hard within her; her breathing was shallow. "Who was that?" She knew, of course, but still she asked.

  Jamie moved away from the telephone. "That girl."

  "I thought so."

  "I told her not to phone me. I told her."

  Isabel felt her cheeks burning. "She's phoned you before? Here at the house? Our house?"

  Jamie sighed. "I told her." He made a gesture of helplessness. "What can I do? She's pursuing me." He paused. "She told me that she was feeling weak. She wanted me to come round to her flat."

  "This evening? Right now?"

  He nodded miserably.

  "Right," said Isabel. "I'm going to have a word with her. I'm going to go there right now. Right now."

  "Do you think ..."

  She brushed him aside. "We have to sort this out, Jamie. I know you don't want to do it. You're ... you're far too kind. And anyway, she's not listening to you. Perhaps she'll listen to
me. Women have a way of conveying this sort of information to one another." Yes, she thought--we do. And she remembered a fight she had once witnessed when walking past a bar in Tollcross years ago: two women had come tumbling out, tearing at one another's hair, scratching at each other like cats, and one had been screaming, "Cow! Cow! He's mine, you cow!" She remembered how shocked passersby had been, or most of them: one, a young boy, had shouted out his delighted encouragement until his mother put a hand across his mouth.

  "She's dying," said Jamie quietly.

  "We all are," snapped Isabel. "Ultimately, we all are. So dying is no excuse. Not for this."

  She was about to add something, and almost did. She was about to tell him about her bizarre idea that charity required of her that she share him, but she did not. She was ashamed that she had even thought it, and she would keep it to herself. Now she was angry too, and that feeling was even more inappropriate. This girl, with her astonishing gall in telephoning Jamie at home, did not deserve such concern. She deserved what Isabel was going to give her: an unambiguous warning.

  She dressed quickly. Jamie said something about being gentle with Prue, but Isabel barely took it in. She asked him the address, and he gave it to her. "It's in Stockbridge," he said. "Leslie Place. It's that narrow street that goes up to St. Bernard's Crescent." He gave her the number. He did not have to look it up, and she wanted to ask him whether he had been there before. Had he said anything about that? Then she remembered that he had.

  "I don't expect I'm going to be long," she said. "Can you wait for dinner?"

  He could. "I'll cook something," he offered. "I'll wait for you to come back." His voice sounded flat.

  She moved towards him. She was clothed now; he was still wearing his towel. There were goosebumps on his shoulders when she embraced him. She did not want to go; she wanted to stay with him. She wanted to lie down with him and forget about this girl, and about everything, really: about being the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics, about being a person to whom others came for help, about being one of whom material charity was expected. She wanted to forget all that and think only of the fact that she was a woman singularly blessed with a beautiful young lover who wanted to marry her, and who could play the bassoon, and loved their son and ...