Now she was able to fill in the gap in memory. “On Schopenhauer.”
“Of course, of course.” He paused, and gestured towards Robert Lettuce. “You know Professor Lettuce, it seems. And Christopher Dove too.”
Isabel moved towards a vacant chair and sat down. She noticed that Lettuce had shot Dove a glance, an exchange so brief, a message so telegraphed, that it could easily have been missed. Dove had looked away, as if wanting to conceal, or even deny, whatever complicity the glance implied.
“We’ve met on a number of occasions,” said Isabel. “Here and in London.” She paused. Lettuce was smiling in a sickly, slightly pained manner, as if he were an Edwardian clergyman being obliged to spend time in the company of somebody vaguely beneath him.
“What brings you to Edinburgh?” she asked.
Again Lettuce looked at Dove, and then lowered his gaze. He did not look at Isabel as he answered. “A purely social visit,” he said airily. “We have old friends up here.”
Isabel swallowed. She hated the expression up here that people from the South of England sometimes used when talking about Scotland. Up had to be up from somewhere—presumably what they regarded as the centre. From her point of view that was down, but she did not say down here when she was in London.
She tried not to stare at Lettuce’s nose. He had a fleshy face and yet the nose succeeded in establishing its salience, rising distinct above the surrounding features, as a mound of rocks will rise above the moraine of a valley. They were not here for a social visit—that was a lie, and his ample nose might rise even further.
“I’ve said something amusing?”
Lettuce was staring at her, and she realised that her reverie had lasted longer than it should have done and she was smiling.
“No,” she said. “I was thinking of something else.”
Lettuce pursed his lips. “Dare I ask what?”
“Who nose,” she said. She could not resist it. Yes, it was childish to make secret puns, but the irredeemable pomposity of Professor Robert Lettuce seemed to call for it.
Now Dove spoke. “And the Review?” he asked. “Is it still going strong?”
She turned to face him. Christopher Dove was a tall man who dressed with style and acted with an easy urbanity. He always spoke with a slight sneer in his voice—or so it seemed to Isabel—and he did so now. He was pretending, thought Isabel, that he did not know whether the Review was still being published, the implication being that he did not deign to notice it. And yet Isabel remembered that he had a current subscription because she had updated the subscription list only a couple of weeks earlier and had seen his name on it.
She struggled to control herself, and failed. “But you’re a subscriber, Christopher,” she said. “Is your copy not arriving regularly? I shall start enquiries—the copies are sent off directly from the printer—they offer a service that does all that for the journals they print. I’ll check with them tomorrow.”
Dove appeared flustered. “My secretary,” he muttered. “I expect that my secretary deals with it and then sends it over to the department.”
Lettuce shot Dove another glance—a different one this time. Isabel interpreted it as saying: Secretary? You don’t have a secretary. It was a further lie. Two lies in four minutes, and therefore thirty lies an hour, or seven hundred and twenty lies a day—a cascade of lies, or was the collective name for lies a mountain? It was a mountain. In this case, then, it was a Ben Nevis of lies, Ben Nevis being the name of Scotland’s highest mountain.
Lettuce cleared his throat. “I must say I enjoyed your special issue on humanitarian intervention,” he said. “That strikes me as being a very difficult issue for all of us.” He took a sip of his coffee. “When do we intervene to stop some dreadful injustice occurring in some foreign country? I find myself very torn on that issue.”
Isabel shrugged. “When we can get away with it,” she said, and then qualified her answer, “That is, if your question was purely descriptive rather than normative. If you’re asking when we should intervene, that’s another matter altogether.”
Lettuce looked slightly disapproving. “That’s what I meant. I’m sorry if I didn’t make my meaning clear enough.”
“Then I think it’s a balancing act,” said Isabel. “You balance the good you can do in terms of lives saved against the harm you do by destabilising the international order. We can’t have people intervening left, right and centre in the affairs of other sovereign states.”
“That’s rather interesting,” said George Herrithew. “I’m a classicist, as you may know, and if you look at the roots of just war theory in ancient philosophy you see that they’re rather gung-ho when it comes to justifying war. Aristotle expresses the view that you can wage war to subjugate people whom you think should be governed by you.”
Dove laughed at this—a sneering laugh, thought Isabel. “Not far off the views of some of our own recent leaders,” he said. “They may not say that people should be governed by them, but they do say that they should be governed by their system.”
“What about slavery?” asked Edward.
Lettuce looked up at him. “Would you wage war to free slaves?”
Edward explained politely that this was precisely what the United States—or a large part of the United States—had done. “We had a civil war over it,” he said.
“A long time ago,” said Lettuce.
“Not so long,” said Edward.
Isabel saw Lettuce’s eyes narrow very slightly. “Of course we fought our own war against that sort of thing,” he said. “We started in 1939 and fought on until 1945.” He paused. “For much of that time we were unaided.”
Isabel bristled. Gratitude should not be expressed with a snide qualification. You did not comment on the timing of help, whatever you thought. “And how grateful we were,” she said. “For everything.” She directed her gaze at Lettuce. “The Marshall Plan, for instance.”
A mischievous smile flickered about Lettuce’s mouth. “Of course, I was talking about the Soviet Union,” he said airily. “Our Russian friends go on about their Great Patriotic War, as they call it, but they omit to mention the non-aggression pact with the late Adolf Hitler, and their somewhat tardy arrival at the party.”
Lettuce reached for another biscuit. “Oh well,” he said. “Nobody’s perfect. For my part, I can’t resist shortbread. One of the things that you Scots invented. The greatest, perhaps.”
“Along with television, economics and so on,” said Isabel.
Lettuce seemed to pay no attention. He had selected his piece of shortbread and was eyeing it enthusiastically. Isabel was conscious of Edward’s looking at his watch. “Yes,” she said. “I must dash too.”
Lettuce gave her an unctuous smile. “So nice to see you, Miss Dalhousie, even if so briefly.”
“Yes,” she said. “And I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit.”
Dove inclined his head gravely. “We shall,” he said. “And perhaps you’ll come down to London to give a lecture some time. If we can lure you that far south.”
Lettuce took up the suggestion. “That would be most enjoyable,” he said. “I’m on the board of the British Institute of Philosophy, as it happens, and we have a lecture series. I’m sure that I could squeeze you in somehow.”
“I wouldn’t want to squeeze anybody out,” said Isabel.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Lettuce. “We could use one of the smaller rooms for your lecture. I’m sure it would be adequate.”
The implications of this remark only struck Isabel several minutes later as she started to walk back across the Meadows. She stopped in her tracks, standing still for a moment while a wave of indignation passed over her. That great slug, she thought. That great, self-satisfied, condescending slug. The mere thought improved her mood considerably. But then, as she crossed the road that divided the slowly rising Bruntsfield Links from the flat expanses of the rest of the park, she started to dwell on possible reasons for the pres
ence of Dove and Lettuce in Edinburgh. They had some ulterior purpose; that was obvious enough, but they had not disclosed what that purpose was. That meant that they thought she would not approve, and in that respect they were quite right. Whatever they were planning to do will not suit me, she thought. And with that, her mind drifted away from the unpleasant subject of Dove and Lettuce and their schemes; she had noticed two dogs careering around on the grass. Their joy was unmistakable as they leapt up and barked, chasing each other in the tight circles that dogs delight in describing. The sight immediately lifted her spirits. Dove and Lettuce were minor irritations in the face of all that was positive about being there, at that particular spot, in a city so heart-breakingly beautiful, with those dogs cavorting with sheer delight. That was what counted, she told herself: those unexpected moments of appreciation, unanticipated glimpses of beauty or kindness—any of the things that attached us to this world, that made us forget, even for a moment, its pain and its transience.
SAM ARRANGED THE MEETING that took place that afternoon. Isabel had suggested that they meet at Cat’s delicatessen, where there were several tables at which coffee was served and where they could talk without being overheard. Eddie would put a Reserved sign on one of them as the delicatessen could be busy at that end of the afternoon.
“I won’t stay,” Sam said. “I’ll introduce you, but I won’t stay.”
Isabel reassured her friend that she did not mind, but Sam was adamant.
“Kirsten’s a shy woman,” she said. “My presence will only make it hard for her to talk.”
They agreed on a time, and Sam consulted Kirsten about it. This suited the other woman; her son, she said, would be at soccer practice after school today, which would give them over an hour.
Isabel had not seen Cat since her return from Paris that morning, and so she made a point of arriving at the delicatessen ten minutes before the agreed time. But when she arrived she saw that Sam was already there, seated at the table with a woman who was obviously Kirsten. Cat was busy with a customer, and so she merely waved to Isabel across the counter, mouthing the words Later on. She seemed cheerful, and Isabel thought: Paris. Also behind the counter, where he was slicing a large Parma ham, was Eddie, who caught Isabel’s eye and smiled. Isabel returned the smile; Eddie was sensitive to Cat’s mood, and cheerfulness on her part always lifted his own spirits markedly.
At the table, Sam made the introductions. Isabel shook hands with Kirsten and made a quick appraisal of the other woman. Her first impressions were favourable: Kirsten had the expression of one who is prepared to like those whom she meets—an openness that encouraged warmth. Isabel guessed at her age—a bit younger than she herself was, perhaps early thirties. She noticed the rings on her left index finger: a flash of light from a tiny diamond, and a yellow wedding ring; and her clothing, too—a pair of jeans that was functional rather than fashionable, and a casual fleecy top still kept zipped up.
Eddie, who had finished with the Parma ham, came over to the table and took an order for coffee from Isabel and tea from Kirsten: Sam said that she could not stay, as she had to get to the supermarket. Her excuses given, she turned to Kirsten and asked her whether she minded. “I just have to get things in for this evening,” she said. “I have people coming for dinner and there isn’t a scrap of food in the house.”
“No,” said Kirsten. “I don’t mind. I often leave things to the last moment.”
Isabel had difficulty placing the accent. It was not Glasgow or Edinburgh, but came from somewhere further north, she thought—somewhere like Inverness.
“Then I’m going to dash,” said Sam, rising to her feet.
Isabel thought this rather abrupt, but it did not seem to bother Kirsten.
“She’s so busy,” she said as Sam made her way to the door. “She puts me to shame.”
“You have a young son,” said Isabel. “I know how much work that entails.”
Kirsten nodded. “And you do too. Sam told me. A wee boy?”
“Yes. He’s with my housekeep—” She stopped herself. She knew that their worlds were different, and she did not want to mention Grace. Yet she could not lie. “With the woman who helps me in the house.”
Kirsten nodded. “Harry—that’s my son—is at soccer practice. He loves it. He comes back covered in mud and cuts on his knees and so on, but that’s what they’re like, aren’t they?”
Isabel laughed. “Yes, they are. Boys are highly efficient magnets for dirt. And children in general are walking reservoirs of infection—every cold in circulation seeks them out so they can pass it on at school. Ask any parent about that.” She paused. The ice, such as it was, had been broken and she did not want to prolong the small talk. “Sam told me about you and Harry,” she continued. “She told me how worried you were.”
Something in Kirsten’s demeanour changed. Now Isabel noticed tension around her eyes and mouth—a guardedness.
“I find it hard to talk about it,” Kirsten muttered. “I know I shouldn’t, and that keeping it all to myself just makes it more difficult, but…”
Isabel reached out instinctively, placing her hand on the other woman’s. She kept it there for a moment, and then withdrew it. “But you mustn’t feel that way,” she said. “I’m very happy to listen.”
Kirsten looked up, and their eyes met. “I’m sorry,” said Kirsten. “I’ll tell you. But it’s…it’s not easy.”
Isabel waited.
“It’s because I’m a bit embarrassed,” Kirsten went on. “It’s that too. I’ve never had any time for this sort of thing. Never. Superstition. Rubbish.”
Isabel encouraged her. “Many people would agree with you,” she said.
“But not everyone.”
“No, not everyone.”
Kirsten sighed. “I don’t want my wee boy to grow up…to grow up mental.”
Isabel was taken aback. Mental was a word used so casually to cover so many things—odd or aggressive behaviour. It was a word that had associations for her of pain, of rage, as well as of the despair that such things brought. “Oh, I’m sure there’s no question of that.”
“You’ve never met him,” said Kirsten flatly. “You don’t know—” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.
“Mental,” she said again, and shook her head ruefully. “That’s why…It’s because I was trying to convince myself that he was all right that I wanted to find out whether there might be anything in it. I thought we could show him. That’s why I wanted to talk to somebody who might be able to help me to do that. I couldn’t do it myself…”
Isabel stared at her. It had just dawned on her that the role anticipated for her was not just somebody to listen, but somebody to do something. “So you don’t just want to talk about it? You want me to find out for you whether there’s any truth in this? Is that it?”
Kirsten seemed unabashed. “She said you would.”
“Who?”
“Sam said you’d help me. She said that this is what you did. You helped people.” She paused, and then added rather lamely, “She said that you had a reputation for it.”
Isabel had been toying with her coffee. Now she lifted her cup and drained it; it had cooled down enough. Over the rim of the cup she saw Eddie looking in her direction. He appeared anxious; he had rescued her before when she had been trapped by somebody. She shook her head slightly, and he looked away.
Isabel made an effort. She felt slightly irritated that Sam had presumed on their friendship, but that was not Kirsten’s fault. She would not reveal her irritation to this woman who so clearly needed her help. At the most, she allowed herself an entirely internal sigh—a sigh that expressed resignation. She knew what Jamie would think, even if he did not say it: Isabel, please think before you commit yourself to everybody else’s problems. Just think. But Jamie had not been asked to help—she had—and that was the difference.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
—
KIRST
EN SAID: “I should tell you that I’m mainly by myself. I’m married, and my husband is in the Army—he’s a pipe major in one of their bands. It’s an odd job—he goes all over the place with the band—military tattoos, ceremonies, all that sort of thing. He’s a good man at heart, but he was spending a lot of time away and we somehow drifted apart. It just happened.
“We were living in Army quarters up near Redford Barracks, but my aunt went into a home and her flat down here was empty. We were lucky she had it: Morningside is getting really expensive—everywhere is—and I could never afford to buy a place like that myself. She’d been there for ever—her husband bought it for five hundred pounds years and years ago. Five hundred pounds! For a flat!
“Anyway, me and the boy, we moved in, and I got a part-time job when I got him a place in a crèche. I got a job as a receptionist in an optician’s business. I like it. I help people choose frames while they are waiting for their appointment. I meet people that way.” She paused before adding, with a wry smile, “You should see some of the frames they choose. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh, I think I would,” said Isabel. “Never underestimate the bad taste of the public.”
Kirsten smiled again. “So that’s me. Then there’s Harry.”
She fixed Isabel with a gaze that revealed her pride.
“He’s a great wee boy. Everybody likes him, and he’s a great one for his soccer. They said at the school that he was the best little player they’ve had for years. And his work too—they say that his reading is coming along really well and that he’s the most advanced in his class.”
Isabel smiled. “You must be very proud of him.”
“I am. Yes, I am. Very proud. And that…” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“And that’s what made it so difficult when he started going on about all this.” Her face clouded with distaste. “This previous-life stuff. This nonsense about having lived somewhere else first, having had another family.
“You see, it started suddenly. He just said to me one day, ‘You know I used to live somewhere else.’ I didn’t pay much attention, but he brought it up again. This time he said, ‘I used to live in a house near the sea. We could see hills from it—hills on an island. And there was a lighthouse. And a burn just behind the house.’ ”
The Novel Habits of Happiness Page 8