The Comfort of Saturdays

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘Are you all right?’ whispered Catriona. ‘Simon said you were feeling a bit low.’

  Far more now, thought Isabel. ‘No, I’m all right. A bit tired.’

  ‘I won’t notice if you drop off,’ said Catriona.

  There was little chance of that, thought Isabel. Where was he seeing him? And why had Jamie not mentioned it to her? She went over in her mind exactly what he had said about this evening. She had assumed that he was coming back to the house – he usually did on a Wednesday. In fact, he spent few evenings at his flat these days; sometimes he went there when he taught late at the Academy or when there was a concert on that side of town, but that was rare.

  From where she was sitting she could, by leaning forward, see into the orchestra pit. She had not done so before now, because she had been reading the programme. Now she did, and she saw him sitting almost under the ledge of the stage. He looked up, but he could not see her; looking up into the theatre from down there one would see only black, just a sea of darkness behind the lights shining down upon the stage. He moved the neck of the bassoon, swivelling it round, and slipped the reed into his mouth to soften it. She saw all this. You are mine, she thought. You are mine.

  After the performance she lingered in the glass-fronted foyer at the entrance to the theatre. There was a large throng of people; off to the side, the bar did roaring business. People were talking, laughing at shared jokes, struggling into coats. Taxis lined up in the street outside; the occasional chauffeur-driven car, its engine purring, its driver casting his eye anxiously over the crowd; a bus to take a group of people back to Stirling; a school outing congregating just outside the door, shepherded by a pair of teachers who had the look that teachers always have on such occasions – that counting look.

  Isabel suddenly felt very lonely. There was nobody else, she thought, standing by herself; everybody was with somebody. She looked at her watch, more to give herself something to do than to find out the time. Jamie had said nothing about meeting her afterwards, and yet they usually did. He would suddenly materialise, carrying his bassoon case, and they would leave the concert hall together; except last time at the Queen’s Hall, when he had gone for a drink with Nick Smart, and this time, she assumed, when he was planning to do the same.

  She made up her mind. She would not wait for him; she would go home and relieve Grace of her babysitting duties. She had been carrying her coat over her arm, and now she slipped into it and began to button it up.

  ‘There you are.’ It was Jamie. He looked flushed, as if he had run round from the stage door at the side of the theatre.

  She was not sure what to say. She was relieved to see him, but what about Nick?

  He put his bassoon case down on the ground and reached forward to kiss Isabel on the cheek. ‘I hope you liked it. I thought that it was the best performance of it they’ve done. That Russian has a fantastic voice.’

  She agreed. He did.

  ‘Look,’ said Jamie, glancing at his watch. ‘I have to see somebody about something. Do you mind? I’ll go back to my flat afterwards, as I’m teaching down there tomorrow morning.’

  She had that feeling again. It was somewhere in her chest. ‘See somebody?’

  He reached down to pick up his bassoon case. So that he does not have to look me in the eye, she thought. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Nothing important. Music stuff.’

  ‘Of course.’ She tried to keep her voice even. How well do I really know him? Not well. ‘I’d better go. Grace is looking after our son.’ She stressed the last words, which was petty, and not what she had intended to do. He noticed, though.

  ‘Isabel . . .’

  ‘No. It’s all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She moved towards the door. She hoped that he would run after her, would stop her leaving, but he did not, or not immediately. She had walked only as far as Nicholson Square, though, when he caught up with her.

  ‘Isabel!’

  She continued to walk, but he grabbed the sleeve of her coat and pulled her towards him. The strength of his tug almost made her trip, but she righted herself.

  ‘Please leave me.’

  ‘No. I won’t. What’s wrong?’

  She drew in her breath. ‘Leave me, you have to go and meet Nick Smart.’

  He stared at her in astonishment. ‘Who?’

  ‘Nick. That composer. The one we met at the Queen’s Hall.’

  He frowned. ‘But I’m not. I’m meant to be seeing Tom Martin. He’s got the music for a recording we’re doing for Paul Baxter. Delphian Records. You’ve met him.’

  She tried to remember what Nick had said. ‘I’m seeing him later.’ Later that evening, or . . . People used the word later in different ways. Later could be next week, for all she knew.

  She turned to him. Jamie was looking at her with a puzzled, almost hurt expression, and she knew at once that she had made a mistake.

  ‘I’m sorry—’ she began.

  But he interrupted her. ‘Why did you think I was going to meet Nick? What gave you that idea?’

  She realised that there was an implicit accusation in what she had said; an accusation that could be devastating.

  ‘He spoke to me before the curtain went up,’ she said. ‘He said he’d be seeing you later.’

  He said nothing for a moment. He had been carrying his bassoon case, but had put it down when he had seized her. Now he picked it up with one hand and linked his other arm through hers.

  ‘Let’s walk.’

  She pointed at the case. ‘You can’t carry that all the way across the Meadows.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  They walked past the entrance to the Faculty of Music. A light was burning inside, in a high window; a practice room perhaps.

  ‘If Nick said that he was seeing me later,’ Jamie said, ‘he didn’t mean tonight. He meant some other time.’

  Isabel affected nonchalance. ‘Oh, I see.’

  Jamie looked at her enquiringly. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  She hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t choose him as a friend.’

  ‘For me or for you? A friend for me or for you?’

  She had to be careful. ‘I wouldn’t want to choose your friends for you. They’re your business, not mine.’

  He took a few moments to ponder this. ‘Nick may not be easy,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to be unkind to him. And he’s helping me with something.’

  She waited for him to continue.

  ‘You know I’m a hopeless composer,’ he said. ‘I’ve studied composition, of course. We all had to. But it’s just not something that I’ve ever really had a talent for. And so I asked him to help me with something that I’d been working on for months, but getting nowhere with. And he did. He’s been knocking it into shape for me.’

  She glanced at him. He was transferring the bassoon case from one hand to the other. ‘Let me carry it just for a little while.’

  He rejected her help with a shake of the head. ‘It could be worse,’ he said. ‘It could be the contra.’

  She felt relieved by what he had said about Nick, but her curiosity was still nagging away at her. She had once heard something that he had written, a small bassoon solo, and she had liked it. But it had had no end, and he had explained that he could not think of how to resolve it. ‘There are rules for resolution,’ he said. ‘But they don’t seem to be working.’

  ‘What are you writing?’ she asked. She tried to make the question sound casual.

  Jamie sighed. ‘I didn’t want to tell you. But I think that since you appear to be . . . well, a little bit jealous, I suppose I should.’

  ‘I’m not jealous.’ It sounded unconvincing, and that, she decided, was because she was jealous. ‘Well, I am, actually.’

  He smiled. ‘And do you know something? I’m glad that you’re jealous. I’m glad that you resent my spending time with other people. It’s nice to be . . . to be wanted like that.’

  She was surprised.
She had imagined that he would resent possessiveness on her part; instead, it seemed that he was flattered by it. She had misread everything – again. She had imagined that Nick Smart had some sort of appeal for him, but it was just Jamie’s kindness, that was all. Then she had been so careful, all along, right from the beginning of their relationship, not to appear as if she wanted to monopolise him, and now he said that he rather liked the idea of her wanting him all to herself. One can be wrong, she thought. One can be wrong about so much.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jamie continued, ‘I’m going to tell you. I’ve been working on a piece for you. An Isabel piece. For the second anniversary of our . . . our getting together. That’s what.’

  Jamie’s resolve to carry the bassoon all the way back weakened at the edge of the Meadows, when they reached the point where the drive bisected the park. In the distance, the reassuring yellow light of a taxi wove its way towards them, and he made the decision; Isabel, who was herself tired, did not object. Within five minutes they were back at the house and Jamie paid off the taxi while Isabel went to open the front door.

  Grace was full of indignation. She had been watching a television programme in which the expenses claims of a random group of parliamentarians had been scrutinised. One claimed, quite within the rules, a substantial sum for the removal of algae from his garden pond. Another had employed a number of relatives, none of whom struck her as being particularly qualified for their jobs.

  ‘Our money,’ snapped Grace.

  ‘I think the removal of algae sounds ridiculous,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Of course to admit to algae is something,’ Isabel mused. ‘I’m not sure that I’d actually admit to having algae.’

  Jamie’s face broke into a smile. It was a typical Isabel remark, and he found it very funny. He had no idea why it should be in the slightest bit amusing, but it was. Grace did not think so.

  ‘It wasn’t him that had the algae. It was his garden pond,’ she said. ‘But I don’t see why the taxpayers should pay for that.’

  The conversation switched to Charlie. He had been as good as gold. She had read him the story about the caterpillar that consumed everything in sight, and he appeared to have understood it. He had grabbed the book and torn one of the pages, but she had stuck it together again. Then he had gone to bed and went off to sleep without protest.

  Isabel said goodbye to Grace at the front door and returned to the kitchen, where Jamie was standing in the middle of the floor, his arms stretched up, yawning. He lowered his arms and embraced her.

  ‘I was having a stretch,’ he said. And then, ‘You’re the most wonderful woman, you know.’

  She felt his arms about her. He was lithe like a sapling; spare. He was everything she desired; so beautiful in this and every light; so tender.

  He kissed her and ran his hand down her back.

  ‘Upstairs,’ she said.

  He switched off the kitchen light and they moved, hand in hand, to the foot of the stairs. Then Charlie started to wail, the sound drifting down from upstairs, a piercing, insistent howl.

  She looked at Jamie and began to laugh.

  ‘As between the claims of passion on the one hand,’ she said, ‘and on the other the claims of a child’s crying – which are we programmed to respond to first? Which is the most urgent?’

  ‘Passion?’ ventured Jamie, but not seriously.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Isabel. Her answer was the one that any woman would give, but not, she thought, any man.

  11

  Of all the tasks involved in running the delicatessen, Isabel most enjoyed preparing Cat’s Special Mixture. This was convenient, as Eddie disliked anything to do with fish – ‘Why don’t they close their eyes when they die?’ he had said, in serious objection – and Cat’s Special Mixture involved that fishiest of fish, anchovies. It was largely composed of olives, though: green olives that were pitted, chopped in half, and then mixed in colourful promiscuity with strips of red and yellow pepper. The whole was then marinated, with the anchovies, in extravirgin olive oil, and the resulting mix was placed in a large bowl. It was not to everyone’s taste – and certainly not to Eddie’s – but Isabel enjoyed both making and eating it. And it helped her to think, she decided, sitting there with her hands covered in oil and the smell of anchovy in her nostrils.

  It was now Wednesday, and she had three more days in the delicatessen, including Saturday, which was always extremely busy. Cat would be back late on Sunday and, feeling guilty, would insist on returning to work on Monday morning. She had already been in touch from Sri Lanka, having sent a message to Isabel telling her that the villa had exceeded her expectations and that she would not be coming back. That’s a joke, she added, but yes, I could stay here for ever. Did you know, Isabel, that this country was called Serendip? I suppose you did, as you know so much. I didn’t. But imagine living in Serendip.

  Isabel wondered what would happen if Cat for some reason really did fail to return. Would she be landed with responsibility for the delicatessen, or would Eddie somehow rise to the occasion? Cat was adamant that he could not run the business by himself, but had anybody ever asked him? Even Isabel had assumed that he would be too anxious to manage by himself, but did these assumptions only serve to reinforce whatever anxieties he felt? She wondered whether it was not a bit like learning to swim: if one was expected to hang on, then one did; if one was expected to strike out by oneself, then that is what one did.

  She thought of this as she pitted the olives. On Friday she had planned to meet Stella Moncrieff for lunch. She had not yet determined what she was going to say to her, but she had a day or two to decide on that. Travelling to and from lunch, and the lunch itself, would take about two hours out of her working day. She had no compunction in asking Eddie to run the shop single-handedly for that length of time, but if he could manage for a couple of hours, then why not make it the whole day? There were other things that she wanted to do on Friday, which was an important day for her. Edward Mendelson, Auden’s literary executor, was delivering a lecture at the university in the late afternoon, and he was due to have dinner at the house after the reception that followed the lecture. Isabel had written to him on several occasions, and they had met briefly in Oxford, when he had been giving lectures at Christ Church and she had been at a conference of women philosophers at Somerville. Isabel had felt awkward about the meeting of women philosophers: would men have been allowed to convene a similarly exclusive meeting? She thought not. Nor were men allowed to have men’s colleges any more, and yet Cambridge maintained three women-only colleges, even if Somerville had now decided to admit men.

  If she took Friday off in its entirety, then she could spend the morning on the next issue of the Review, which always seemed to be due at the printer’s sooner than she imagined, and then she could have lunch with Stella Moncrieff. Edward Mendelson’s lecture was at four, and she could skip the reception in order to get back to the house to spend time with Charlie and to get the meal ready. Looked at in this way, Friday simply did not leave time to work at the delicatessen.

  She beckoned Eddie over to the table where she was dealing with the olives. She discreetly closed the jar containing the anchovy fillets: even the smell of them could make Eddie nauseated, or so he claimed.

  The young man looked at her quickly before his eyes slid away. It was like that with him; there would be a bit of progress, he would become more confident, and then suddenly he would regress, back to awkwardness and reserve. This time, she thought, the reason is that five hundred pounds; he thinks I am going to ask him about it.

  ‘Eddie,’ she said, ‘I want to talk to you about Friday.’

  His eyes still remained fixed on the floor.

  ‘Look at me, Eddie,’ she said, ‘you should look at people when they talk to you.’ I sound like a schoolmarm, she thought.

  He raised his eyes, held her gaze for the briefest of moments, and then looked away again.

  Isabel sighed. ‘Friday. I’m going to be very b
usy this Friday.’

  ‘It’s always busy on Fridays,’ said Eddie. ‘Almost as bad as Saturday. Some people start their weekend on Friday, you see.’

  His observation hardly made it easier for her. But she had made up her mind; and if Eddie could cope by himself on a Friday, then he should be able to cope at any time. She explained what she had in mind. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘And you can have the number of my mobile phone. I’ll switch it on just for you. If anything crops up and you need my advice, then just phone me.’ She paused. ‘Except during the lecture I’m going to.’

  A flicker passed over his face – anxiety, she thought, doubt. But then he shrugged. ‘All right. Will you be here on Saturday?’

  ‘Of course. It’s just Friday that’s the problem. And thank you, Eddie.’

  There was silence.

  Isabel reached out and touched him on the forearm. ‘Listen, that money, that five hundred pounds. It’s a gift from me to you. I’m not thinking about it, but I can tell you are.’

  He looked up at her now; his lower lip was trembling. ‘I wasn’t thinking about it.’

  She did not want to contradict him; he was so vulnerable, so uncertain of himself. But if people always avoided engaging with him, then she wondered whether he would ever make any progress; some boils needed to be lanced. And so she said, quite gently, ‘You were, Eddie. I think you were.’

  He looked at her resentfully. ‘I know what I’m thinking. What gives you the idea that you can tell me what I’m thinking, when I’m not . . .’ His words trailed away, and suddenly, without any warning, he began to sob. He reached down and brought the bottom of his apron up to wipe at his eyes. She thought for a moment that he was going to blow his nose on it – and he obviously thought so too, as he hesitated, but did not.

  He began to turn away, but she reached out and took hold of him. ‘You told me that you were in trouble, and you obviously are. Why not tell me?’

  He began to get control of his sobbing. ‘I lied to you. I’m not in trouble. I lied to you to get the money.’