“There,” said Jamie. “Basil Phelps. Sitting next to that woman in red.”
This ended thoughts of Gibbons as she stared at the back of Basil Phelps’s neck. But then, when he turned round, she recognised the organist. “Yes, it’s him,” she said.
Jamie tapped her lightly on the sleeve. “Not here,” he said, his voice lowered.
“Of course not,” she said. And then added, in reproach, “Do you really imagine I’d...”
She did not finish. The singers were coming onto the open stage and the audience was applauding. The accompanist was a lutenist, and he was taking his seat near the front of the stage, the five singers standing immediately behind him. Isabel saw Jamie’s expression of rapt interest and she reached out and touched his arm; she knew what this music meant to him. He placed his hand lightly upon hers in a gesture of shared anticipation.
The programme followed a chronological course, starting with the music with which James would have been familiar in his youth in Scotland before moving on to the music of the London court. Isabel followed the words printed in the programme. The theme, she thought, intentional or otherwise, was loss. Love and loss—two things that went together, it seemed, with a poignant inevitability; we loved, knowing that we would lose, but loved nonetheless because...She stopped. Yes, because we did not choose to love; we loved because we had to. Love was something that happened to us; it was never planned, even if we knew that some day, at some moment, it might alight upon us and—we hoped—change everything.
“This next one,” whispered Jamie, pointing to the programme. “I know this song. It’s Scottish. I really love it.”
One of the singers, a tenor, moved to the front of the stage. He nodded to the lutenist, and the song began. Isabel read the title: “Remember me, my deir.” The old spelling added to the charm. My deir. The song went on to refer to my deir hart. She glanced at Jamie and thought, My deir. And then, curiously, the question crossed her mind: Was it possible for thoughts to have idiosyncratic spellings?
The song finished. Engrossed in her reflections on the expression of thought in language, Isabel had hardly listened—nor had she read the words in the programme. Nor did her concentration improve as the evening went on. Now she found herself thinking of Antonia and Claire, of what she should say to them—if anything—and of whether it had been a bad idea to disturb the delicate ecology of the house by bringing in strangers. Antonia obviously had an eye for young men and risked hurting Eddie, of whom Isabel was very fond. He was bound to be hurt, she thought; she was playing with him, and he, poor boy, believed her. The thought distressed her, especially since she felt responsible for creating the situation in the first place. Then there was Claire: she would have to speak to her about Professor Lettuce, and that would not be easy. If her intuitions were correct and the two of them were having an affair, then Claire would not take kindly to any criticism of Lettuce, and even less to any request that she not invite him into the office. These were difficult matters, and they kept intruding in Isabel’s mind, a nagging overlay to the Jacobean songs.
At the end of the concert, Jamie suggested that they call in at the bar, a large room at the back of the hall and a popular place for concert-goers to catch up with friends. It was usually a place where Isabel would recognise at least a few friends, while for Jamie there would be even more acquaintances, it being a favourite haunt of musicians. And that evening, even before they ordered drinks, Jamie was waylaid and taken off to the green room to meet the lutenist. Isabel said that she would order him a drink and keep it for him until he came back.
She took the two glasses of wine she had ordered to a free table she had spotted. As she approached the table, she had to negotiate her way round a small knot of people huddled around somebody recounting some apparently compelling anecdote. One of them turned round, and she saw it was Basil Phelps. He smiled at her.
“It’s Isabel Dalhousie, isn’t it?”
Her surprise must have shown, because he smiled again, clearly thinking that she was unable to remember his name.
“Basil Phelps,” he said.
“Of course. Sorry.” She had a glass in each hand and she nodded in that direction. “These aren’t both for me. I’m not being greedy.”
He reached out. “Let me help you. I can put one of them down for you.”
He took the glass from her and placed it carefully on the empty table. “You’re a friend of the Museum, aren’t you? I think we met there—at the Friends’ Dinner.”
“Yes, I remember that,” said Isabel. “And then at a concert, I think—a few weeks ago.”
Basil asked her if she had enjoyed the Jacobean songs. She had, she said, although her mind had been active and she had been a bit distracted. As it was now—with thoughts of whether she should do what she felt she had to do, or whether she could take the easy option and simply continue with small talk until Jamie returned from the green room. I have to, she told herself. I have to. If I don’t do it now, I’ll put it off indefinitely. I have to.
She had not prepared herself for this encounter, and now that it was occurring she found that she had no idea of how to broach the subject. She took a sip from her glass of wine. It tasted unfamiliar; it was too sweet for her palate.
“Your son and my son,” she said, “are friends.”
The unplanned words spilled out. They sounded stilted, and she immediately regretted them.
Basil Phelps looked at her impassively. For a few moments she thought he was not going to react at all, but then she saw the knuckles in his right hand tighten against the stem of the glass he was holding. So might a skilled interrogator, accustomed to detecting the slightest chink in a suspect’s demeanour, spot the tell-tale sign of vulnerability.
“I don’t have the opportunity to see him,” he said. “It’s the way of things, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He looked away. She noticed that his right hand was shaking, making a small splash of wine fall against the fabric of his jacket. He brushed at it with his other hand, but only succeeded in spilling more.
“I know the background,” she said. “I’ve heard about what happened.”
He brought his gaze back to her. His expression was pained.
“I suppose everybody knows,” he said quietly. “Edinburgh’s that sort of place. People talk.”
She wondered whether there was reproach in this. People talk.
“I can’t help wondering,” she said, “whether there might be a mistake. There must be cases where a person is made to pay for the upkeep of a child who isn’t really his.”
He tensed. “I’m not with you, I’m afraid.”
She had gone too far. Now there was no going back.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I saw Patricia with a man who looked...well, he looked so like Basil. Freckles, you see. I thought—”
He cut her short. “Excuse me,” he said. “I know very little about you. You come up to me here—in public—and you start talking about...about my private business. What makes you think you can do that?”
Flustered, she tried to explain. “I felt I had to say something. I didn’t want to. I felt—”
He interrupted again. “May I suggest you mind your own business?”
She looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
He had begun to turn away, but he seemed suddenly to have second thoughts. “I’ve been rude,” he said. “Please forgive me for that. But it really is nothing to do with you, is it?”
“I’m the one who’s been rude,” said Isabel quickly.
He seemed to be weighing her apology. Then he said, “All right. Let’s forget it. I’d better get back to my friends.”
Jamie returned from the green room a few minutes later. He saw from Isabel’s demeanour that something had happened. Looking around the room, h
e saw Basil Phelps with his friends. Basil turned briefly and looked in their direction, and Jamie knew immediately.
Jamie looked unbelieving. “You didn’t, did you?” He groaned. “Surely not here.”
Isabel shrugged. “I had to.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “What happened?”
“He told me to mind my own business.”
Jamie sighed. “I’m not going to say it.”
She knew what it was that he was not going to say, and she thought: He’s said what he’s not going to say before—many times. He did not need to say it. He did not need to say what he was not going to say.
“ ‘I told you so’?” she said.
“Words to that effect,” said Jamie.
Isabel steeled herself for further criticism, but none came. Rather, Jamie reached for his glass of wine and raised it to hers. “To my deir hart,” he said. “Obstinate, interventionist, nosy, yet...yet one who does the right thing—where lesser mortals”—and here he pointed at himself—“where lesser mortals fear to tread.”
She replied, “My deir hart.” He was; that was what he was, and she dwelled on the thought of her good fortune—so complete, so undeserved, so hard to believe.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CAT’S TELEPHONE CALL came the next morning while Isabel and Jamie were having breakfast with the boys. It was a Saturday, a day on which Jamie often had playing commitments, although that day he was unexpectedly free. He watched Isabel as she took the call, and when she rang off he guessed correctly what Isabel would say.
“Crisis?”
Isabel, switching off her mobile, nodded. “Yes, crisis.”
Jamie, who was feeding Magnus with his favourite soldiers—strips of toast dipped in soft-boiled egg—sighed. “Requiring your presence?”
Again Isabel nodded. “Yes, requiring my presence.”
Jamie’s frustration showed. “Can’t Antonia do it? She’s been spending a lot of time there. Can’t Cat just leave you alone for once?” His voice rose. “Just for once, for heaven’s sake.”
Isabel’s answer took him by surprise. “The crisis is to do with Antonia, apparently. And Eddie.” She had told Jamie about her conversation with Eddie, and he had expressed concern but had told her to stay out of it.
“Did she say what?”
Isabel shook her head. “She just said that it was to do with my au pair. That’s how she referred to her—as my au pair.”
“Suggesting that it was somehow your fault.” There was now an unmistakable note of anger in his voice. This was unusual for him; Jamie was rarely anything other than calm. “You know something, Isabel? With Cat it’s always about her, isn’t it? Always.”
Isabel was loyal to her niece, but she could not disagree. Cat was selfish, and always had been. The giveaway test, in Isabel’s mind, was whether somebody ever asked about you. She never did. Whenever she saw Cat, there were never any questions asked as to what she had been doing or how she felt about things.
“Perhaps she’ll learn one day,” said Isabel. “People change.”
Jamie looked sceptical. “Do you really think so?”
“Everybody does—to a greater or lesser extent. As you get older, you become more...”
“Crabbit?” suggested Jamie. Crabbit was one of those Scots words that captured certain qualities in a way that ordinary English words could not. Crabbit meant cantankerous and difficult.
“Sometimes,” said Isabel. “But sometimes you become more tolerant. Less bound up in yourself.” She paused. “I’ve changed, I think. I don’t know about you, but I think I have.”
Jamie looked at her quizzically. “How?”
“How have I changed?”
“Yes.”
She thought for a moment. “I hope that I’ve become a little bit less disapproving. I used to disapprove of things—and people—I didn’t like. Then one day a friend said to me, ‘Can’t you be a bit more charitable?’ And I felt so ashamed of myself.”
“But you are charitable,” said Jamie. “You’re one of the most charitable people I know.”
“I doubt it.”
“No,” he said. “You are. You’ll go to any lengths to help people. You’d give most of your money away if you had the chance. You’re kind about people.”
Isabel blushed. “No more than anybody else,” she said.
“Except Cat.”
“Let’s not talk about poor Cat—she’s stressed. She has too much on her plate.”
Jamie felt that Isabel had just proved his point. “There you go,” he said. “You’re making allowances for her again.”
Isabel raised her eyes towards upstairs. “Is Antonia in?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”
“Not since yesterday morning,” replied Jamie. “Didn’t you tell her she could have the weekend off?”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “I was just wondering. Did she say anything about her plans?”
Jamie shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to her very much. She seems shy when I’m around. I don’t know why.”
Charlie had been listening. Now he surprised them. “Antonia’s going to bite you, Daddy. I heard her. Talking on her phone.”
“Really?” asked Isabel.
Charlie continued. “She said she could eat Daddy up. She said that. You must be careful, Daddy.” He looked beseechingly at Isabel. “Don’t let Antonia eat Daddy, Mummy.”
Isabel and Jamie looked at one another. Then Jamie laughed. “Her grasp of English might be imperfect,” he said.
“True,” said Isabel. “But it gives one pause for thought.” And to Charlie, she said, “I won’t let that happen, darling.”
“Good,” said Charlie.
* * *
—
CAT GREETED HER with a nod when Isabel arrived at the deli. There were two customers at the counter, but Isabel saw that Cat was not single-handed—standing behind her, wrapping sliced meat in greaseproof paper, was Leo. Isabel did not disturb them, but made her way directly to the office, where clean aprons were hung up on a line of pegs. Choosing her favourite, a red-striped one, she slipped it on. Then she washed her hands in the basin in the corner of the office; she was scrupulous about that, although Eddie, and sometimes even Cat, seemed not to bother. “You can’t get rid of every single germ,” Eddie had observed. “You’d spend all day washing your hands and you’d have no skin left. Then what? You’d end up giving people your own germs from your blood and from all the bits of skin. No thanks.”
Her customer attended to, Cat came into the office, followed a few moments later by Leo, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. That was another thing you were not meant to do, thought Isabel: aprons were fertile breeding grounds for germs—whole colonies, whole dynasties of microbes lived on aprons. Leo gave Isabel a non-committal glance—not a smile, but neither was it a scowl.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” said Cat.
It was a grudging thanks, Isabel thought, but she nonetheless replied, “You did say it was a crisis.”
Cat perched on the edge of her desk. “It is. It’s a serious crisis.”
“Well, I’m here to help,” said Isabel. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Leo, who had sat himself down on the spare chair, answered. “That boy’s gone.”
Isabel looked to Cat for confirmation. “Eddie?”
Cat nodded. “He left a message on my phone last night. He said he was taking a few days off and wouldn’t be back until Thursday morning.”
“Just like that?” asked Isabel. “He hadn’t arranged anything?”
Leo chipped in again. “Just like that.”
“He’s never done this before,” said Cat. “So I called him back first thing this morning and he was on a bus—on the way to Skye. He said that he and that au pair of yours were going up there for a few d
ays. He said that she’s always wanted to see it, and he was going to show her. He has a tent, he said.”
Isabel struggled to take this in. “Antonia? She’s gone with him?”
“Yes,” said Cat. “She’s put him up to this. I noticed her making a play for him.”
“She’s a nympho,” said Leo. “The real thing. I’ve seen her when she’s been in here—eyeing up any likely-looking guy who came in. Undressing them with her eyes. You know what I mean. A nympho.”
Isabel turned to look at Leo. “I’m not sure many people use that word these days,” she said.
Leo seemed unabashed. “Don’t they? So what word do they use?”
Isabel thought for a moment. Nymphomaniac was a degrading word, often used in the past to condemn women who were merely highly sexed. The male equivalent—the condition of satyriasis—was rarely used because there were double standards at work here: women were not expected to have as active a sex life as men. She looked at Leo: he would not be interested in any of this.
“That’s neither here nor there,” interjected Cat. “The point is that she’s seduced Eddie. She’s turned his head and put him up to going off to Skye. In a tent, I ask you.”
“I can just see it,” said Leo, bursting into laughter. “Not much room in a tent, though.”
Cat looked at Isabel accusingly. “You didn’t know she was going away?”
Isabel shook her head. “I had no idea. This morning I assumed she was up in her room. I haven’t seen her since...” She searched her memory. “Since yesterday lunchtime, I think. She wasn’t in for dinner last night.”
“So she never told you?” asked Cat.
“No. As I said, I had no idea.”
“Where did you get her?” Leo asked. “What did her references say?”
“I got her from an agency,” answered Isabel. “And they didn’t give me any references. They said that she’d be a good worker. That’s about all.”
Cat looked annoyed. “You should have asked for references. I’m surprised you didn’t. Letting somebody into your house like that without getting a reference is asking for trouble.”
The Quiet Side of Passion Page 21