The Cleverness Of Ladies [Quick Reads]

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Fabrizia was pleased by this flowering of friendship, and over the months that followed the wedding she and her father returned to their earlier closeness. Alessio even permitted himself to make a remark about grandchildren, and how he felt ‘just about ready’ for a grandson. As he said this, he thought even if he ends up being called Pasquale, but he did not say this, of course; he just smiled at the idea.

  Then he noticed one morning that Fabrizia seemed upset about something. She was moody and snapped at a customer, which was something for which he would normally have told her off. But now he held back. Something was wrong.

  Fabrizia’s mood seemed to pass, but a few days later he came upon her sitting in her office, her head sunk in her hands.

  ‘There’s something wrong,’ he said, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘I can tell. There’s something wrong.’

  She did not look up. She was silent.

  ‘You can confide in your father, surely?’ he said. The thought occurred to him, with a sudden feeling of dread, that she was having difficulty becoming pregnant. Perhaps there was not going to be a grandson after all?

  He wanted to say something reassuring to her but he could not find the words, and so he remained silent, as did she. But he felt, through his hand upon her shoulder, that she was sobbing, quietly and privately.

  Salvatore seemed unchanged. Perhaps it is easier for a man to come to terms with this, thought Alessio. Or perhaps he is just braver; and his admiration for his son-in-law increased. He now found himself embarrassed by the memory of his earlier opposition to Salvatore, and marvelled at the young man’s ability to rise above it, to forgive him for his barely hidden hostility.

  Then one evening Fabrizia came to Alessio’s house. She let herself in with her key and found her father in his sitting room, his feet up on the leather footstool in the shape of a pig which his wife had found for him and which was one of his favourite mementos of her.

  Fabrizia stared at him, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere.

  ‘Salvatore …’ she began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s seeing other women,’ she said, and then she began to sob.

  He stood up and placed his arm around her.

  ‘Surely not?’ he said. ‘Surely you’re imagining this?’

  ‘He is,’ she sobbed, shaking her head. ‘He is. A wife knows.’

  He stroked her hair gently. ‘But have you any proof? Have you?’

  It became clear that she did not, and he told her, in a reassuring tone, that she should not assume that just because some Southern men carried on with other women Salvatore would do the same. ‘He is a fine boy,’ he said. ‘I can tell. I can judge the character of men. I know that he is a good husband to you.’

  She stared at him. ‘But you …’

  ‘You should not judge a man on the basis of where he comes from,’ he said. ‘Forget about this. A suspicious wife can drive a man into the arms of another woman. I’ve seen it happen.’

  Over the next few weeks, nothing more was said on the subject. Alessio began gently to raise it with his daughter on one occasion, but her look made it clear that she did not wish to discuss it. Then, on a Saturday morning, when they were both working in one of the shops, Salvatore drew up at the front door in an expensive new car. It was a surprise to both of them, and they went out to inspect it. Salvatore smiled and gestured proudly at the gleaming bodywork.

  Alessio reflected, later, on what a car such as that must have cost. It was family money, perhaps; there was a wealthy uncle somewhere down there, he had heard. But Fabrizia had different views.

  ‘Can’t you see?’ she said to her father. ‘He’s stealing the money from the business. He’s stealing the money from you!’

  He was shocked by the suggestion and turned on her, accusing her of being unfair to her husband, betraying him. ‘Don’t imagine that everybody from down there is dishonest,’ he stormed. ‘Don’t make that mistake.’

  She looked at him open-mouthed. ‘I should not make that mistake?’ she said. ‘I ?’

  But Alessio had walked off, dismissing his daughter with a wave of his hand. Fabrizia stood quite still, and then shrugged. She muttered something, but he did not hear what she said, and he was not interested.

  Two days later, Salvatore drove off in the expensive car, a young woman in the passenger seat beside him. He was heading south. The husband of one of Fabrizia’s friends, a police officer, saw him as he drove out of town, and told them about it. Fabrizia immediately checked the main business bank account – an account to which Salvatore had been given free access. It had been emptied.

  She went into her father’s office.

  ‘My dear,’ he sighed. ‘I’m so sorry. I tried to warn you, didn’t I? I really tried.’

  Namaqualand Daisies

  1

  He was called the Captain, although he did not like the title and had asked people not to use the rank to which he had been briefly entitled because of his service in Hong Kong. That had been in China, and was back then. This was Africa, and this was now, 1956, and he was a plain district officer in Basutoland – nothing special. Just ordinary Mr Andrews. But someone had seen the letter addressed to him as Captain, and it had got about that this was what he was. In colonial society, particularly one tucked away in a mountain kingdom, anything that suggested a rank or a title was welcome. Such places were full of wartime majors and the like, hanging on to what remained of their authority and importance. The Captain was far too young for that; he was barely thirty-five, and his wife was even younger. She had laughed when she first heard him addressed as Captain.

  ‘It makes you sound like one of those old salts,’ she said. ‘It makes you sound ridiculous.’

  ‘I didn’t ask anybody to call me that,’ said the Captain. ‘It’s like a nickname, you know. You can’t stop people from calling you by a nickname. You just can’t.’

  2

  The Captain’s wife did not like the country. She had tried to create a garden in the grounds of their house in Maseru, but had been defeated. There were white ants that ate the fruit trees she planted; there was not enough rain; the sun was too hot.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stick this out,’ she wrote to a friend. ‘This place is so far from everywhere. South Africa is just over the border, but you have to travel for miles and miles before you come across anybody who speaks English. They’re all so insular. So petty.’

  Her friend wrote back: ‘Darling, you sound awful. What you must ask yourself is this: are you prepared to throw your life away for Hugh’s sake? I know that he’s frightfully good-looking and, well, I can understand that side of things, but are you sure? Are you really sure?’

  Of course, once she asked herself whether she was sure, she realised that she was not. She was bored with their life. She was bored with this life where she knew every face she was likely ever to meet, and where there was nobody who had anything new to say.

  She looked at the Captain and thought: I don’t want to hurt him. He’s a kind man. But I can’t bear this any longer.

  The Captain, gazing back at his wife – the wife he feared he barely knew – understood what she was thinking and realised then that he had lost her.

  3

  After his wife had gone, several people took pity on the Captain. There was the widow of a Scottish cattle-trader, a woman who had been in the country for thirty years and who spoke fluent Sesotho. There was the wife of the judge, a woman who moved in a cloud of scent and cultivated large beds of Namaqualand daisies in her garden. These women, particularly the cattle-trader’s widow, invited the Captain to dinner once or twice a week.

  ‘Poor man,’ said the judge’s wife. ‘That young woman was obviously never going to cope with the life here. People like her shouldn’t marry men like the Captain. She should have stayed in Suffolk, or wherever it was that she came from.’

  ‘She had a roving eye,’ said the cattle-trader’s widow.

  The judge’s wi
fe seemed surprised. ‘Oh? How could you tell?’

  ‘I just could,’ said the cattle-trader’s widow. ‘I find that I can always tell. I’m very rarely wrong about these things.’

  They invited the Captain to play bridge twice a week. He usually partnered the cattle-trader’s widow, and the judge’s wife played opposite her husband, a man of few words who always seemed to be staring off into the distance, even when the cards were in his hand. People said that this was because he was unhappy in his job, and that he thought of the men he was obliged to sentence to prison.

  ‘He’s too sensitive for the work he does,’ said the cattle-trader’s widow. ‘An empire is a brutal thing, you know. I remember my husband saying that. Brutal.’

  4

  The Captain received a visit from a boy, who was a cousin of his wife. This boy was eighteen and was wandering around before he went to university. He wrote to the Captain and asked him whether he could stay for a few weeks. His ship was due to arrive in Cape Town, and he would come up from there to Basutoland straight away.

  The Captain was pleased to discover that the boy was a good cricketer. The cricket team in which the Captain played was in need of a bowler, and the boy fitted the bill perfectly. During the day, the boy went to a local school and taught cricket there. This was done at the suggestion of the Captain, who thought that it was better for the boy to be doing something rather than sitting about the house all day.

  He took the boy with him on a trip down to the south of the country when he had to visit his junior administrators. They went into the mountains on Basuto ponies and set up camp near a small river, which tumbled down the hillside. From this camp the night was a dark blanket under a sky that was filled with sparkling constellations of stars. It made one dizzy to lie back and look up into the heavens. ‘That way,’ said the Captain, ‘that way, down there, is the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘I know,’ said the boy.

  5

  After the boy had stayed for three months, the Captain said to him that it was time to consider moving on. The boy held the Captain’s gaze for a few moments, then looked away, in the direction of the hills. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Not just yet. I’m helping that cricket team to improve. I’d like to stay longer. I take it that’s all right with you.’

  It was not a question, it was a statement. The Captain opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw the boy staring at him. He turned away in silence.

  Some days later, the judge’s wife gave a party. The boy arrived late; nobody was sure if he had been invited. There was whisky available, and many of the guests drank more than was wise. At one point in the evening, the boy was seen talking to the cattle-trader’s widow. The boy said something and then leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She recoiled sharply and then – although few people saw this – she slapped the boy across the face and walked away. The Captain did not witness this incident; nor did the judge’s wife. The judge saw it, though, looking over the top of his whisky glass. He frowned and turned away, staring up at the veranda ceiling, as he often did when they played bridge out there because of the heat.

  The cattle-trader’s widow did not speak to the Captain about what had happened at the party. But she was worried; she was very fond of the Captain’s company, and she would be devastated if there were any scandal and the Captain were obliged to go away. It would be the end of her world, she thought. No more bridge. No more dinner parties. It would be the end of everything.

  The judge’s wife spoke directly. ‘There’s something going on,’ she said. ‘That boy is blackmailing the Captain. It’s pretty obvious, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘We need to get rid of him,’ said the cattle-trader’s widow.

  The judge’s wife, who had been looking out of the window at her beds of Namaqualand daisies, turned round sharply. ‘But he’s refused to go,’ she said.

  6

  They all played bridge the following Thursday. The Captain arrived late – they always started at seven-thirty, after dinner, and he did not arrive until a quarter to eight. They saw the lights of his car sweep across the wall as he swung round the curve of the drive.

  ‘That’ll be the Captain,’ said the judge’s wife. ‘He’s normally so punctual.’

  The bridge game started. The Captain and the cattle-trader’s widow held all the strong cards, it seemed, but the Captain was quiet.

  The judge’s wife asked after the boy. Was he still teaching cricket at the school? ‘No,’ said the Captain. ‘He’s gone.’

  The judge looked up from his cards. ‘Probably about time,’ he muttered. ‘How long had he been staying with you?’

  The judge’s wife glanced at the cattle-trader’s widow, who was counting points in her hand. The judge’s wife had noticed that the other woman had not been surprised that the Captain was late. Had she known?

  ‘One heart,’ said the cattle-trader’s widow.

  7

  Over the next few days, the judge’s wife found it difficult to think about anything other than the Captain’s revelation that the boy had gone. It was to be expected that he would go – eventually – but she had not imagined that it would be easy for the Captain to get rid of him at this stage. She had asked the Captain about him at bridge, but she had not got much of a reply. Yes, he had gone, up to Lusaka. No, he had no idea what he was going to do up there. He had an uncle there, he thought, but he was not sure.

  She raised the matter with the cattle-trader’s widow, but she seemed unwilling to talk about it, and pointedly changed the subject. Then, at bridge one evening, the Captain suddenly produced a letter that he said had come from the boy. He fished it out of his pocket and read a few lines. The boy sent his regards to all of them.

  The judge’s wife noticed the stamp, and saw, she thought, that it had been posted in Lusaka. But she could not be sure.

  ‘I’m relieved that he seems to be so happy,’ she said. The Captain nodded, and put the letter back in his pocket. 60

  The next day, she was driving past the Captain’s house and called in on impulse. He offered her tea, which they drank on the veranda.

  ‘The cricket team must miss him,’ said the judge’s wife. ‘It is a bit odd that he should leave before their important match. I thought it was very strange, didn’t you?’

  The Captain lifted his teacup. ‘At that age, you do that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘At least, I did.’

  ‘But it seems so odd,’ she said. ‘Going off like that. Was everything all right between you and him? Sometimes I felt that, well, it was almost as if he was calling the shots.’

  The Captain did not answer.

  8

  The judge telephoned the Captain the following day and asked him to come round to the house. He was distraught, and the Captain went straight away.

  ‘My wife has gone,’ said the judge. ‘She’s left me.’

  ‘But …’ said the Captain. 61

  ‘She left a letter,’ said the judge, picking up an envelope and taking out a single sheet of paper. ‘Look, here it is. She tells me that she’s had enough of living here, and needs to start a new life. She asks me not to try to contact her.’

  ‘Just like my wife,’ said the Captain. ‘I’m so sorry. It happened to me, too.’

  The judge was staring at the Captain. ‘It’s very strange, though,’ he said. ‘This is a typed letter. My wife never typed. She couldn’t.’

  The Captain looked down at the floor, and then out of the window, past the trees on the judge’s lawn, and the beds of Namaqualand daisies, to the mountains beyond. They were blue, impossibly blue, like islands in the sea.

  Music Helps

  1

  La lived in a small town near the Suffolk coast. It was not Aldeburgh, but it was close enough, a town which had had a market, once, but which now had none of the bustle a market town has. It had an old church, built in Norman times, a thousand years or so ago, and several other beautiful buildings, including an old wool house which attracted vi
sitors. There were farms nearby, some of which were rich ones, some of which barely scratched a living.

  La came there in 1938, and started an orchestra. She was at that time in her mid-thirties, a tall, not unattractive woman, with a careful, measured way of talking. She had married young, barely into her twenties, and then had been widowed when she was thirty-two. Her husband had left her well provided for, but nothing could make up for her grief. I loved him so much, so much, she thought. I can never love another man; no man will ever be his equal. None.

  She bought a house outside the town, about half a mile down one of those quiet roads that wind through the Suffolk countryside. It was a large old house, with walls of wattle and daub, oak-beamed, and painted on the outside in that extraordinary soft pink colour that one sees in parts of the Suffolk countryside. It had large gardens, five acres or more, with lawns and a rather overgrown pond. Sheep had ruined part of the garden before she bought it, but she repaired the fence and kept them out. The sheep looked in, with grumpy expressions on their faces.

  La started her orchestra after a friend suggested that they invite an orchestra from London to entertain them with a concert. La was feeling cross with London, because another friend had made a patronising remark about people who live in the countryside.

  ‘No need to invite anybody from London here,’ she sniffed. ‘We’re perfectly able to form our own orchestra.’

  ‘Are we?’ said one of her friends. She sounded doubtful.

  ‘Of course we are!’ snapped La, now quite convinced that this was what should be done.