The Novel Habits of Happiness

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Isabel nodded. A burn was a small Scottish stream; a house in that part of the world might well be close to a burn, for its water supply. “It sounds as if he had a very clear idea of wherever it was.”

  “Yes. And he gave me even more detail. He spoke about having a brother. And then he spoke about his other mother. That was hard for me to take. His other mother. I’m his mother.” She paused before continuing. “He even had a name for them. He said they were called Campbell.”

  Isabel was silent.

  Kirsten looked apologetic. “Sorry to go on. This is probably boring you.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t. Not at all.”

  “I thought that this was just a bit of childish nonsense—you know how they make things up. I thought he would forget about it in a couple of days, but no, it went on. He spoke about it every day—every single day—and he still does.”

  “That can’t have been easy.”

  “It wasn’t. I went to speak to people at the school, and they put me in touch with some sort of counsellor. I don’t know who she was. I didn’t like her much, I’m afraid. She said it would pass, but it didn’t, and so I went back to see them, and this time they told me to go to my doctor. I did that, and he arranged for us to go to the Sick Kids’ Hospital to see one of the doctors there.

  “We went, and I saw this doctor called MacDonald. She’s a child psychiatrist. She was very kind and she spoke to Harry on several occasions, sometimes with me there, sometimes by himself. At the end she called me in and told me that in her opinion there was nothing wrong with him. She said that children have fantasies and these fantasies are usually forgotten about when they get interested in something new. She said that they made up all sorts of things, and if we paid too much attention to them, then they sometimes used them as a sort of weapon against us. I think that she meant that they would use them to get their own way because they knew we got all hot and bothered about them.”

  Kirsten sat back in her chair. She had been tense while telling the story; now the tension seemed to abate.

  Isabel waited for a few moments before speaking. She was wondering how she could possibly add anything to what the psychiatrist had said. “She’s probably right,” she said. “This Dr. MacDonald will know what she’s talking about. Perhaps you should do as she says—just ignore it for a while.”

  The suggestion made Kirsten lean forward in her chair. The tension returned. “I can’t,” she said, her voice rising. “Because he’s said something else. There’s another thing altogether.”

  Isabel felt a surge of despondency. This other thing would be dark. Abuse?

  Kirsten now lowered her voice to not much above a whisper. “A couple of weeks ago he started talking about going back. He said that he wanted to go back to this other family and see them. He said that they would be wondering where he was—what had happened to him.

  “I asked him how he would do that, and he said that he thought that if he died he would go back. Then he could come back to me a bit later.”

  Isabel caught her breath. “Oh…”

  Kirsten’s voice became uneven; she was now close to tears. “I said that it would be a long time before he was dead, but he just looked at me and said, ‘Not if I make myself dead.’ ”

  Isabel closed her eyes. “Oh no.”

  “He said it again later that day. I told him that he should never talk like that, but he just clammed up and said nothing. I was pretty upset—obviously—and went to see my GP. He called the social work people, and we had a psychiatric social worker come round. She spent almost an hour with Harry and then she said to me that children said things they didn’t mean. But she said that I should keep an eye on him, and that I should call her if he started behaving oddly. And that was it. That’s all she suggested.”

  Isabel waited until she was sure that Kirsten had finished. What Harry had said amounted to a threat of suicide. It was childishly put, of course, but that was what it amounted to. Did children that young actually kill themselves? She was not sure. Teenagers did; one read about it in the newspapers. There had been a recent case, now that she thought about it—a case that involved, as many of these cases did, bullying. Would a child as young as Harry intentionally do something like that? It was an appalling prospect, and an unlikely one, but he had said he could “make himself dead.” No mother, no adult, could ignore a comment like that.

  She leaned forward. It was clear that Kirsten had been given a hearing by various people, but she clearly felt that nobody had really listened. “I can imagine how worried that made you. I can understand how you feel. But I’m not at all sure…” She intended to go on to say that it was hard to see how she could help. This was a psychiatric matter, and a delicate one at that; it was not territory for amateurs, even for amateurs who had been explicitly asked for help.

  Kirsten interrupted her. “I’ve had an idea,” she said. “Can I tell you about it? If I could find this place he’s talking about, or even somewhere like it, we could take him there and show him. It could put a stop to all this, and in particular to this awful talk about going back.”

  Isabel thought about this. It was possible, she supposed, but if the place was a figment of his imagination, as she was sure it was, then she doubted whether there was anything that could be done.

  She voiced her doubts. “But this place probably doesn’t exist. There won’t be any family of Campbells. And then?”

  “It would distract him,” said Kirsten quickly. “If we told him we were looking, then he would think that something was being done. He’d stop talking about going back if there was some sort of plan to take him back there.” She hesitated. “I can’t do it myself. I don’t know where to start.” And then, “I left school at sixteen, Miss Dalhousie…”

  “Isabel.”

  “I left school way back then, Isabel. I’m nothing special. I just don’t know where to begin.”

  Isabel shook her head. “I have grave doubts.”

  “Please,” said Kirsten. “Please help me. I couldn’t bear it if I lost him. I couldn’t.” The words came to her slowly, each chiselled out with pain.

  Isabel looked into her eyes. She saw the tears. She said, “Yes.”

  WHEN ISABEL RETURNED HOME, Grace greeted her with one of her reproving looks. These came in three grades of seriousness, according to the level of offence given. The look that afternoon was strong enough to register, but only just. Isabel looked at her watch. When Sam had, at short notice, suggested the meeting with Kirsten, Isabel had asked Grace to stay on for a few minutes after collecting Charlie from nursery. Grace had agreed, but had mentioned that she did not want to be too late; she had something on that evening and wanted to be home in good time.

  “Fifteen minutes late,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was tied up with someone at Cat’s. It was difficult to get away.”

  Grace struggled with herself. She could show her displeasure at Isabel’s lateness by being tight-lipped, or she could satisfy her natural curiosity and find out what the delay had been at the delicatessen. Isabel noticed the struggle and knew exactly what it was about. She understood Grace rather more than Grace imagined; and Grace understood Isabel rather more than Isabel imagined.

  “That’s all right,” Grace said. “I know how time flies when you’re talking to somebody.” There was the briefest of pauses. “A friend?”

  Isabel suppressed a smile. “Not really. Somebody I’ve just met, in fact.”

  They were standing in the kitchen. Grace reached to pick up a dishtowel and attend to a spot on the surface of the cooker. “A friend of Cat’s?” she asked, with elaborate casualness.

  Isabel decided against a game of cat-and-mouse. “Tell me something, Grace: you’re the expert in these things, I think. What are your views on reincarnation? I was talking to this person about it, you see, and I wondered what you thought.”

  Grace was an enthusiastic member of a spiritualist group and kept Isabel informed of their lectures and séances. The group met at th
e Edinburgh College of Parapsychology. Reincarnation, Isabel imagined, would be precisely the sort of subject in which Grace might have an interest.

  Grace abandoned her polishing of the cooker. “That,” she said, “is very important. It’s a big subject.”

  “But do you believe in it? Personally?”

  “I do,” said Grace. “Though not everybody in the movement is attached to the idea. No: some are of quite the opposite view. I’ve heard them.”

  “But you’re satisfied that we…that we come back.”

  Grace turned to look out of the window. Isabel had noticed how, when she wanted to make a particular point, she would turn away from her, as if addressing some imaginary, larger audience.

  “Most, no, I’d say all spiritualists,” she said, “believe that when you die you move into the astral realm. You spend an indeterminate time there—maybe years—and then you may come back as another person. It depends on whether you’re ready.”

  The doctrine was stated as if it were a rule, rather like a rule of a golf club, or a game: Members should not spend too long on the green after sinking the ball, in order to allow other members to play through. Or, Passing Go you are allowed another shake of the dice. The difference, though, was how did the proponents of the rule know?

  That was the trouble with any theory about the world—or about the next world, for that matter: people claimed to know things they could never prove.

  “How do you know that?” Isabel asked the question before she had time to think about it, and she was immediately concerned that Grace would regard this as an attempt to undermine her. But Grace did not. She turned to look at Isabel again. “It’s not me who found it out,” she said. “I didn’t invent it, I can assure you. No, this comes from people who have experienced these things.” She now took on the expression of one explaining the elementary, the obvious. “That is where we get all our knowledge of the higher sphere.”

  “I see,” said Isabel.

  “In my view,” Grace continued, “we are allocated the next life on the basis of merit. What you do in this life is taken into account in the allocation of future existences. I’m sure that it’s all done very fairly.”

  Isabel thought of the bureaucratic implications. And it did sound like a bureaucracy to her—rather like the system of allocating social housing, where points were awarded on various criteria. She wondered whether there could be any appeal; if there were, then the appeal would have to be made well in advance of the actual reincarnation, and presumably in writing. Once that happened, there would be no going back.

  Grace suddenly looked reproving. “You may laugh,” she said. “I know you think this is all nonsense.”

  Isabel shook her head. “I’m not laughing, Grace. I promise you. I may be sceptical, yes, but that’s not the same thing as laughing.”

  “Scepticism is all very well,” intoned Grace. “But where does it get you?”

  Isabel was about to answer “Everywhere,” but then she realised that there was some truth in what Grace had said. Scepticism had its place, but we should not lose sight of the possibilities that some beliefs were both necessary and beneficial, a belief in human goodness being a prime example of this. There were plenty of grounds to doubt human goodness, but if one ceased to believe in it then we would lose the comfort of trust. And people needed their scraps of comfort in this world if they were to be able to deal with hardship and disappointment.

  “I don’t think you have an open mind,” Grace went on, looking pained. “I’m not being critical, but I really don’t think you do.”

  Isabel apologised. “You’re right. I haven’t been open about this.”

  “And the fact of the matter,” Grace said, “is that a very large number of people believe in reincarnation. Hindus do, for instance, but not just them. So when you think that you’re right and that everybody will agree with you, you may actually be in a minority. You may be the one who’s out of step.”

  Isabel held up her hands. “I know, I know.”

  “May I ask you something?” Grace went on. “This person you were discussing reincarnation with—has she lost somebody?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s often when something like that happens that people take an interest in these things. Look at the people who turn up for the first time at one of our meetings—as often as not it’s because they’ve lost somebody very important to them—a husband, a parent, somebody like that. And suddenly they realise that the answers they get from the usual people are empty. Grief counsellors and so on. What do they say? You’ll get over it. Cherish the memories. But do you think that helps people? I can give you the answer to that: it does not.”

  Isabel listened carefully. “Yes,” she said. “I know what you mean. But there’s such a thing as false comfort, isn’t there? It’s like telling people that something isn’t going to hurt when you know very well that it will. Or telling them that something will turn out right when you know that it’s going to be disastrous. Does false comfort help?”

  She had not expected Grace’s answer. “Yes, it probably does. And what’s wrong with it?”

  “But it means that you aren’t going to be prepared for the inevitable.”

  Grace was clearly tiring of the philosophical drift of the conversation. “Oh well.” She shrugged. “We each have our views. But going back to this person you were talking to: Had she—or he—lost somebody?”

  “No,” said Isabel. “It was a woman who has a small boy. He’s been talking about having had another life. Children do, apparently.”

  “Oh they do…” Grace trailed off. “A woman here in Edinburgh?”

  “Yes. She lives in Morningside.”

  Grace was frowning. “And the little boy? What’s his name.”

  “Harry. He’s six, I believe.”

  Grace gasped. “I know who that woman is. I’ve met her. She came to one of our meetings. She spoke about it.”

  Isabel was silent. Kirsten had said nothing about that. She had mentioned the counsellors and the psychiatrist, but she had said nothing about the College of Parapsychology, presumably from embarrassment.

  Grace continued with her explanation. “You see, we had a session on reincarnation. It was a lecture given by somebody who came up from London. And then we had a medium who was interested in it—a woman from Glasgow—and people were invited to ask the spirit world about this. Some people wanted to know whether one of their loved ones had come back. They wanted guidance.”

  “I see. And this woman? What did she want?”

  “She told us about her son, and then she said she wanted to find out whether anyone on the other side knew anything about it. She asked whether they knew the place he was talking about and whether there were any members of the family over there.”

  “What family?” asked Isabel.

  “The family he lived with. They were called Cameron, or something like that.”

  “Campbell.”

  “That’s it,” exclaimed Grace, as if this were further confirmation of the medium’s ability. “She said they were called Campbell.”

  “And what happened? Did anybody come through from spirit?” Isabel had picked up the terminology from Grace and knew how to use it.

  “Yes,” said Grace. “There was a very helpful presence in spirit. It was a man who had drowned in the sea off one of the islands over there. He said he knew those Campbells and that there were members of their family on the spirit side. He said that what the boy claimed was true. He had lived before and he should not be scolded for talking about it.”

  In spite of herself, Isabel found herself wanting more. “Did they say where it was?”

  “They just said it was over on the west coast. I think Argyll was mentioned.”

  “But Argyll is large. They didn’t say anything more?”

  “No. Maybe she said something about the island of Mull. Maybe. I can’t remember everything that was said—these occasions are quite emotional, you know.�
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  Argyll…Mull. That, thought Isabel, was the trouble with the world of spirit: it was very inexact; they hinted darkly, but could never be pinned down. But which horse, exactly, will win the race this afternoon? It was the same with astrologers. They never said: you will receive a telephone call at 12:04, or you will meet a man called William next Tuesday at a party given by your friend Jane. It was more a case of: you’ll be getting news, or you’ll be meeting somebody—vague predictions that would almost always be true, except for those whose lives involved no news or meetings. And anybody could make such vague predictions that would lend themselves to all sorts of interpretations. The quatrains of Nostradamus could be read any way you wanted, as could his Scottish equivalent, the Brahan Seer, who, unlike Nostradamus, took a very local view. He predicted things like the fall of a particular boulder, or a very local death, and did not say much about the Second World War or nuclear power. He did, however, foresee power lines crossing hillsides as well as motor vehicles and trains, although that might have been wishful thinking, Isabel reflected; if one lived in an age in which the main way of getting about was on horseback, then it would be only too understandable if one were to say, “I wish there were such a thing as the car.” And that wish could easily be couched as a prophecy that there will be cars. The idea created the reality: that was a major issue in philosophy, not just in the world of prophets and casters of horoscopes.

  Grace had to leave. Her cousin from Stirling was coming into town and they were going shopping. “She doesn’t need anything,” she said. “But it’s an outing.”

  “A great deal of shopping is not about need,” remarked Isabel. “Needs, perhaps, but not need.”

  Grace looked at her sideways, but simply said, “Well, I’m going anyway.”

  After saying goodbye to Grace, Isabel went upstairs to check on Charlie, who was having his afternoon rest. Nursery was exhausting, she had discovered, and he usually came home tired out by all the social interaction and creative play it entailed. The afternoon rest—as sacred as a siesta to an Italian—restored him for the serious play of the late afternoon: the construction sets; the toy fort that, ever since its purchase, had been under unremitting siege from small plastic opponents; the battery-powered digger with the tiny flashing light, of which he was so inordinately proud. All of these would be in full service until Jamie gave him what he called his music lesson—a half hour of banging on drums and picking out on the piano of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and the like.