She turned to go, and at that moment a young woman emerged from a door beside the noticeboard. Looking down at the floor, she failed to see Isabel, and the two of them collided. A plate that the young woman had been holding, on which there was a number of freshly buttered scones, fell to the floor, the scones dispersing over a considerable area, several of them butter-side down.
Isabel gasped. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t...”
The young woman looked up. “No. No. It was me. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She looked down again, at the scones. Her face fell. “What a mess.”
Isabel stooped down to retrieve the plate while the young woman scraped the scones off the floor.
“Isn’t there a rule,” Isabel asked as she straightened back up, “about buttered things falling face down? Doesn’t it happen more times than not?”
Attending to the last of the fallen scones, the young woman laughed. “Yes. I’ve heard that about toast. It obviously applies to scones too.” She stood up, tossed the scone into the nearby waste bin and took the proffered plate from Isabel. “Thank you. That really was my fault.”
Isabel looked at her. The young woman, dressed in a casual white linen top and blue trousers, had a certain elegance to her. And she was strikingly beautiful. Why do we feel we want to talk to beautiful people? The question came to Isabel’s mind unbidden. And the answer followed immediately: Because so are we attracted to beauty, as moths are to the flame.
“Are you on the staff here?” Isabel asked. And then, before a reply could be given, she added, “My name’s Isabel, by the way.”
The young woman dusted the crumbs from her hands. “I’m Claire. And no, I’m one of the PhD people. I do some tutoring, but I’m not permanent staff.”
Isabel nodded. “That’s what I used to do,” she said. “Years ago.”
“In philosophy?” asked Claire.
“Yes. Mostly moral philosophy—in fact, entirely moral philosophy. I edit a journal now. I publish it too, I suppose.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Which journal?”
Isabel told her, and Claire’s face broke into a broad smile. “The Review of Applied Ethics? I read it. Every issue—sometimes a bit late, of course.” She paused. “I never noticed that it was published here in Edinburgh. Shows how observant I am.”
Isabel smiled. “Nobody notices that sort of thing. They read the articles—I hope—but pay no attention to the fine print.” She hesitated for a few moments before continuing. “Look, is there still a coffee bar down in the basement?”
Claire nodded. “Yes, there is.”
“Would you like to join me?”
Claire looked at her watch, and then at the empty plate. “The scones were for the professor.”
“For Professor Lettuce?”
Something passed between them; something unspoken. After a few moments, Claire nodded. “Yes. He...he likes scones.” Then she said, “But why not? Give me a sec to put this plate away.”
She went back through the door from which she had emerged. Isabel waited. She was not sure why she had invited Claire to join her for coffee. Did she want to ask her something? Or did she just want to spend more time with this intriguing, beautiful young woman? Some people have qualities that we feel will somehow rub off on us if we spend time with them. Wisdom, aesthetic sense, beauty, youth; we want to be with such people because we would like to be them, or at least a bit more like them. Dangerous, thought Isabel. Foolish. Impossible.
Claire came out again, looking apologetic. “Actually, I’d better not. Do you mind? I promised Professor Lettuce I’d see him, and I’d better not keep him waiting.”
Isabel searched Claire’s expression for something—but it was not there. “No, of course not. Perhaps another time.”
“Yes,” said Claire. “Another time.”
Isabel felt embarrassed as she said goodbye. Had Claire misinterpreted her invitation? It was possible; good-looking people must be used to this sort of thing—to unwelcome attention. Had she thought that? She decided that she had not; Claire was due to see Lettuce—that was all there was to it.
She made her way down the stairs and out into George Square. A group of students, fresh from the examination hall, were huddled together, discussing their recent ordeal and where they might have gone wrong. Isabel remembered doing that, a long time ago now, pre–John Liamor, pre-Jamie, pre–Charlie and Magnus—before everything, really, that made up her current life. She smiled at the memory. They used to discuss the papers and then go home, watch mindless television over numerous cups of coffee, and try to forget about their mistakes.
While she was walking across the Meadows the thought came into her mind: By what right does Lettuce have his scones buttered for him by a member of his staff? It was a petty question—and Isabel realised that. Lettuce brought the worst out in her; he was like a red rag to a bull. I shall not let him do that, she told herself; I shall not. But she still felt annoyed, and remained annoyed all the way back across the Meadows, until she saw a child flying a kite on the Bruntsfield Links and heard his cries of delight and joy as the breeze took the flimsy paper construction up into the sky; and Isabel put Professor Lettuce and his posturing out of her mind, to share in the pleasure of the wind, and the things that the wind can do.
CHAPTER SIX
JAMIE SAID, “What lies ahead?”
It was one of their private expressions—the set way of saying things that married couples develop—shibboleths for admission to their private world. Either of them would ask, usually over breakfast, what lay ahead, and the other would say something about the day’s plans before enquiring, in return, “What lies ahead for you?”
But it was Charlie who answered this morning. He was eating—or spreading, rather—his boiled egg, and he looked up from this task to say, “I’m going to play with Basil.”
Jamie glanced at Isabel and smiled. “That’s very exciting, Charlie. Are you looking forward to it?”
To which Charlie replied, “Eggs.”
“You’re eating an egg,” said Isabel. “Boiled egg. Your favourite.”
“Kind hens,” said Charlie. “They’re very kind to give us eggs, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Charlie!” said Jamie. “It’s very kind of them.”
Isabel thought, Actually, we steal them, but did not say anything. And Charlie, too, became silent; the eating of the egg was now a task that required too much attention for him to participate further in a conversation that was clearly not going anywhere.
“So,” said Jamie, “what lies ahead?”
Isabel sighed. “More of the same. I’m going to have to spend most of the morning working if we’re to meet the printer’s deadline. They’ve become very insistent on that, for some reason. I think they’ve expanded and have taken on too much work.”
Jamie was sympathetic. He knew how hard Isabel worked to get each issue of the Review ready for printing. For some time he had felt that the job she was doing was just too much for one person, and that she should appoint an assistant.
“And I must spend some time with Magnus,” Isabel continued. “I want to spend time with him. He needs me.”
Jamie reached out to take her hand. “I know,” he said.
“Because I’m a mother first and foremost,” said Isabel.
“Yes, you are.” He paused. “And you’re a very good one.”
She stared at the tablecloth. It needed washing, as the detritus of Charlie’s meals had been spread wide.
“I sometimes feel that I’m indulging myself,” Isabel continued. “I’m not working for money—as most working mums have to do. I’m working because...because...” She shrugged. Why did she do what she did? Because she had somehow got herself entangled in the Review and had been rash enough to buy it when it had come up for sale? That was the way in which so many human complications star
ted; people did things on impulse and then found themselves burdened with unsupportable obligations that were just too much for them.
She looked at Jamie. He understood; she knew that. He played a full part in the parenting of their children—far more than many other men did. He never complained or tried to avoid his share of the work of the household. He tidied up; he cooked; he dealt cheerfully with all the smelly tasks of looking after babies and small children. And he never once had said to her that she should not have a career; nor did he suggest, or even imply, that his own career was more important than hers. Yet, should she take all that for granted? Should she actually ask him whether he felt that she was trying to do too much, in being a mother and the editor—and publisher—of an important academic journal?
She decided to ask.
“Should I give up?”
Jamie frowned. “What? Give up what?”
“Give up trying to run the Review. Give up all this worrying about whether everything’s going to be ready for the printer. Give up spending hour after hour sorting out what’s going to appear, and how it’s going to be footnoted, punctuated, whatever. Give up dealing with difficult authors all over the world who expect me to be a mind-reader, nursemaid, ally in their petty squabbles. Give up all of that. The whole lot.”
He shook his head—vehemently. But she continued: “Give up thinking that I can be in two places at once and be two things at the same time. Give up pretending that being a mother isn’t a full-time job. Give up—”
He stopped her. “It can’t be a full-time job. If it were, then—”
“It is a full-time job. Look at it. You have to give your full attention to a small child. They demand it.”
Jamie sighed. “That’s why it’s shared, Isabel. And it has to be—otherwise women couldn’t have a career. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She did not have to answer. He was right, she thought; it was unthinkable that women should go back to how things were before—back to the kitchen, to the domestic sentence under which countless generations of women had been buried before.
“So, we delegate?” she said. “Is that what you’re saying—we delegate?”
“I’d call it sharing. But you can talk about delegation if you like. It’s the same thing.”
She waited for a moment. Then, “But we already share. You do so much.” She reflected on how they divided the task of looking after Charlie and Magnus. He did at least half, if not slightly more, she thought; at least. “You do more than your fair share. More than half.”
“But I enjoy it.”
From the other side of the table he had been holding her hand; now he let go of it and stood up. He came round to stand immediately behind her, his arm around her shoulder. Charlie watched impassively. “Daddy hugs Mummy,” he said.
“Absolutely right,” said Jamie, grinning. “Daddy hugs Mummy lots and lots.”
She reached up and took his hand. “Mummy hugs Daddy back. One hundred times.”
“One hundred times,” echoed Charlie, and then added, “Eggs again.”
“Eat your egg all up,” said Jamie. “Then you’ll be strong. Eggs make you strong.”
“Hens aren’t,” muttered Charlie.
Isabel gave an involuntary chuckle. “Did I hear correctly?” she asked.
“A very witty child,” said Jamie. “Clearly he takes after his mother.”
Jamie sat down. “But, seriously, you need to do something, Isabel. We’ve had this conversation before, you know. We’ve talked about how you’re too busy. You need to do something about it rather than just talk about it. Seriously. You do.”
She drew in her breath. Again, he was right. “If I could find somebody suitable,” she said. “And even then, the Review couldn’t afford a full-time salary. It barely keeps afloat—as you know.”
“It doesn’t have to be full-time. Part-time would be fine.”
“Mornings only?”
Jamie nodded. “Something like that. And this new person, whoever he or she would be, could do things like proof-reading. That takes you ages, doesn’t it?”
It did. And she disliked that job intensely because her mind kept wandering as she read. Being a proof-reader and being a philosopher were fundamentally incompatible, she thought. But at the same time, she would need somebody who could do philosophy, who would know how to handle the issues around which the Review ultimately revolved.
Jamie reached out to retrieve a piece of egg yolk that Charlie had flicked across the table. “Don’t waste your food, Charlie,” he said, automatically. This was something that parents said day in, day out, like long-playing records stuck in a groove. Don’t waste your food; say please; say thank you; have you washed your hands? There were years and years of those refrains ahead, and then, almost miraculously, at the end there would be a responsible human being who did not waste food, who always said please and thank you, and who did wash his or her hands. It worked; it was the only way.
He turned to Isabel and was about to say something, but she looked as if a solution had occurred to her. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“I met somebody yesterday,” she said. “I went to see Professor Lettuce, as I told you.”
“Him,” said Jamie. There were few people of whom he actively disapproved, but Lettuce was one of them.
“Yes,” Isabel continued. “There was a young woman, a teaching assistant in the department. She might...” Isabel trailed off. She was thinking. They had parted on slightly unsatisfactory terms, with Claire declining her invitation to coffee, but Isabel did not think that meant very much. She had her appointment with Lettuce, and surely it was to her credit that she would not keep him waiting. Pacta sunt servanda. Surely this was to her credit, and suggested that if she took the job—which was mere surmise at this stage—she would be reliable.
Jamie brightened. “Do you think she’d be interested?”
Isabel shrugged. “I could ask her. She’s doing a PhD, I gather, and she also does some teaching in the department. Professor Lettuce may be paying her, or may not—I don’t know—but she won’t be earning very much. This might suit her down to the ground.”
“Well, there you are,” urged Jamie. “Why not just see whether she’s keen? You’ve got nothing to lose.” He paused. “And I have another suggestion. Two suggestions, in fact.”
She waited.
“Get an au pair,” he said. “Get somebody to help around here.”
“But we have Grace.”
Jamie sighed. “Grace is great—I’d never say that she wasn’t. But...”
They exchanged glances, and Isabel knew that they were both thinking the same thing. Grace was a law unto herself, and since the arrival of Magnus she had interpreted her role as being mainly to help with the children. This meant that the cleaning of the house was being sadly neglected. Shelves went undusted, windows uncleaned; rings were left on baths and sinks; nothing looked as clean as it used to.
“I doubt if Grace would approve,” said Isabel.
“She might, or she might not. Grace is unpredictable. But whose house is it?”
“Ours,” said Isabel. “And I suppose that if we want an au pair, then we’re entitled to get one.”
“Good,” said Jamie. “Let’s contact an agency today—this morning.”
Isabel nodded. She would do both; she would telephone Mrs. Balvenie and get Claire’s contact details. Then, after she had sounded her out, she would get in touch with an au pair agency. She felt decisive. But Jamie had said he had a further suggestion. She asked him what this was.
“The deli,” he said. “Look at what’s happening there. Cat keeps asking you to help. How many times were you there last week?”
“Three times,” replied Isabel. “But she had to go to Glasgow, and then—”
Jamie stopped her. “Oh, there’s
always a reason. It’s going to Glasgow, or stock-taking, or a dental appointment. There’s always a reason, but it goes on and on, doesn’t it?”
Isabel shrugged. “I don’t mind too much. It’s different. I meet all sorts of people.”
“And she doesn’t pay you,” Jamie pointed out.
“Perhaps not.”
“No, definitely not. You’re unpaid labour.”
Isabel pointed out that Cat was her niece; one had obligations to one’s niece.
“Not to that extent,” he said.
“What would you have me do, then? Refuse to help altogether?”
He said that he did not envisage that, but she might set some limits to the frequency of her sessions behind the counter. “Try saying not more than once a week,” he suggested.
“I could, I suppose.”
“Good. Then that’s settled everything, hasn’t it? A new life ahead.”
“Sort of new,” said Isabel.
She rose to her feet, so she was standing beside him. She kissed him, lightly, on the lips, and then started to wipe crumbs off the table.
Jamie turned to attend to Charlie, but then remembered their unfinished conversation about the day ahead. “So, work this morning and spend some time with Magnus,” he said. “And the afternoon?”
Isabel looked guilty, and he knew immediately.
“There’s a farmers’ market in Fife,” she said. “Cat wanted to go and speak to some suppliers. Just for a couple of hours.”
“You see,” said Jamie, trying not to sound triumphant.
“I can’t say no,” said Isabel.
“No,” said Jamie. “You can’t.”
The Quiet Side of Passion Page 7