She made her way to Stockbridge slowly, walking across the Meadows and down Howe Street, stopping to look into shop windows, and to think. While looking at a display of Eastern rugs in Howe Street, marked down in price, now irresistible according to a placard in the window, Turkish delight, in fact, she reflected on the fact that when she had last walked past this shop, a week ago, and had briefly glanced at the rugs in the window, she had been a different person. She had been Isabel Dalhousie, of course, the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics and resident of Merchiston; those aspects of identity, the externals, had not changed, but others had. A week ago, she had believed in the saintliness—whatever that was—of her mother; now she 1 2 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h was a person who knew that there were no saints and that her mother had been a woman with human failings, and a younger lover. And a week ago she had believed in her own ability to resist temptation; now she knew that she, like everybody else, was too weak to do that. Two sets of scales, she thought, had fallen from her eyes. It was rather like growing up; the same process of seeing things differently and feeling different inside.
Mimi’s disclosure of her mother’s affair had raised conflict-ing emotions in Isabel. She had even felt cross with Mimi, in a shoot-the-messenger sense, but these feelings had not lasted long. She knew that she had given Mimi no alternative but to disclose what she knew, and indeed if anybody deserved censure for that it was Isabel herself. Ordinary consideration for the autonomy of others dictates that we should not browbeat information out of those who don’t want to give it. What we know, and what we think, is our own business until we decide to impart it to others. Secrecy about the self may seem ridiculous or unjustified, but it is something that we can choose if we so desire. And this is true even if the information is something of very little significance. Isabel had read of an author of naval histories who had considered questions from journalists as to his date of birth to be unpardonably intrusive. That had struck her as being absurd—unless he was unduly sensitive about his age, which might have been the case, as that particular author had invented an entirely fictional boyhood in Ireland for himself. In which case, one might learn to be wary of those who did not offer their age: had they invented a past?
It had been wrong, she felt, to press Mimi to tell her. The information she had elicited had not been all that unusual—
there were plenty of adulterous mothers—but what had shocked Isabel was that it showed that her mother had been just like she T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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was. That was the information that she had found difficult and had led to several nights of sleeplessness. Her mother had had an affair with a much younger man, which was precisely what Isabel wanted to do. I am like my mother in that respect. It comes from somewhere, and that is where. And somehow the thought that an ingrained biological drama was playing itself out in the next generation made her friendship with Jamie something less individual, less personal. This was not something which had arrived as a gift; it was simply tawdry behaviourism.
She moved away from the rug shop. A man inside, anxiously waiting for customers, had seen her and had been watching her. Isabel had looked through the glass, beyond the piles of rugs, and had met his gaze. She was sensitive to such encounters, because in her mind they were not entirely casual. By looking into the eyes of another, one established a form of connection that had moral implications. To look at another thus was to acknowledge one’s shared humanity with him, and that meant one owed him something, no matter how small that thing might be. That was why the executioner was traditionally spared the duty of looking into the eyes of the condemned; he observed him by stealth, approached from behind, was allowed a mask, and so on. If he looked into the eyes, then the moral bond would be established, and that moral bond would prevent him from doing what the state required: the carrying out of its act of murder.
Of course that was a long way from looking through the plate-glass window of a rug shop, but salesmen knew full well that once you engaged your customer in that personal bond, then the chances of their feeling obliged to buy were all the greater. Rug salesmen in Istanbul in particular understood that; their little cups of coffee, half liquid, half sludge, offered on a 1 2 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h brass tray, were intended not only as gestures of traditional hospitality, but also as the constituents of a bond between vendor and client. So, as Isabel retreated from the window and looked fixedly down the street, she felt the tentative bonds snapping like overstretched rubber bands. And then she was free, looking down the road towards St. Stephen Street, and only five minutes early for her meeting with Florence Macreadie.
Florence had returned only a short while before Isabel knocked at her door. Isabel noticed the coat that she was wearing, a dark-blue macintosh that was beginning to fray around the cuffs. Yet its cut was good and it had in its day been fashionable, or at least in good taste.
“I’ve just come back,” she said. “I haven’t had time to make coffee or anything.”
“I gave you very little warning,” said Isabel apologetically.
Florence gave a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I don’t stand on ceremony,” she said. “Anybody can come to see me any time.
Not that they do, of course. But they could if they wanted.”
She led Isabel through the hall and into the kitchen. The house was slightly untidier, Isabel thought, than it had been when she had been there last. But that had been during a viewing time, when everything was on show. One had to be tidy, the estate agents advised; and ideally there should be the smell of newly baked bread when prospective purchasers came in—it made them feel positive about the place.
Florence began to spoon coffee into a cafetière. If the smell of newly baked bread was lacking, at least there was the aroma of fresh coffee grounds, as rich and tantalising. She shifted a pile of papers from one side of the table to the other. “I need to sort everything out,” she said. “But I keep putting it off. One T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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accumulates so much stuff in a place and yet it’s hard to throw it away. Or at least I find it hard. It’s like throwing away one’s past.”
Isabel glanced at the papers. They did not look like personal letters, but were old bills, letters from tradesmen, circulars. “Sometimes it’s good to do that,” she said. “It can be quite cathartic to get rid of everything.”
Florence sighed. “And yet, don’t you think that these little scraps of this and that make up our lives? Everything has its associations, painful or otherwise.” She paused, looking at Isabel with eyes that Isabel now saw were an unusual flecked grey.
“You know, when I was teaching—I was an English teacher, by the way—I used to keep the essays of some of my pupils. I still have them. I found that I simply could not throw them away. I kept them as a reminder of the young people who had written them. It’s so sad.”
“Why? Why is it sad?”
“As a teacher, you know, you frequently become very emotionally attached to the young people you see every day. How could it be otherwise? You get to love them, you know, and you miss them terribly when they go off and start their own lives.
Suddenly everything changes. You’ve been a major part of their lives for so long, and then suddenly they no longer need you. I always found that very sad.”
She finished talking and looked at Isabel, as if judging her response. Isabel realised that Florence was assessing her, as some people do when they are not sure whether the person to whom they are talking either understands or is prepared for a conversation of depth.
“I can understand that,” said Isabel. “Yes.”
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“I think it was the hardest thing about the job,” Florence said. “Saying goodbye to those young people. Although I suppose there were harder things from time to time.” She was silent, lost in memory. Then,
“I had a very promising pupil,” she went on. “He was a very nice boy. But he had one of those childhood cancers, and although they tried all sorts of treatments they knew that it was a losing battle. He just wanted to get on with life and do the same things as everybody else did. Go to parties. Play sports. And he did, by and large.”
Isabel said nothing. In the background, the kettle hissed and switched itself off. Florence left it.
“He knew what the score was,” said Florence. “But he didn’t talk about it. And we respected that. I remember when he left school. I wished him good luck and I tried not to cry but, my goodness, when he walked out that door, I dissolved in tears. I remember him standing there and smiling, and I wished him the best of luck with his career. He had his plans for university, you see. I know we all tried, but I don’t think any of us was particularly good at dealing with it. Except for the chaplain.” She stopped and looked at Isabel before continuing. “I don’t know why I’m burdening you with this.”
“It’s not a burden,” said Isabel. “Really, it isn’t.”
“I came into a classroom one afternoon, to fetch something I’d left behind. I didn’t think there was anybody there. But then I saw the chaplain sitting with this boy, and he had his arm around his shoulder, to comfort him, and he was talking to him.
And I could see that the boy had been crying. I closed the door quietly. I don’t think they saw me.
“I can’t believe in God, Miss Dalhousie. I’ve tried from time to time and I just can’t. And yet, when we need them, who are T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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the people who are always there for us? Who are the people who comfort us? Whom would you like to have at your ending? What kind of person would you like to have at your deathbed? An atheist or somebody with faith?”
Isabel thought. Were there not atheists who were just as capable of giving love and support as others? And might not it be better to die in doubt, if that had been one’s condition in life?
“I know some very sympathetic non-believers,” she said. “I don’t think we should discount them.”
“Maybe,” said Florence. “But there’s nothing in the atheist’s creed that says that he must love others, is there?”
Isabel could not let this pass. “But he may have every reason! Even if you do not believe in God you may still think it very important to act towards others with generosity and consideration. That’s what morality is all about.”
Florence’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” she said, “morality—the ordinary variety—says that you shouldn’t do anything to hurt others.
But I’m not so sure that it tells you to go further, to love them.”
She thought for a moment. “And surely most people are not going to make the effort to love others on the basis of some theory, are they? I know that I wouldn’t. We have to learn these things. We have to have them drummed into us.”
“The moral habits of the heart,” mused Isabel.
“Yes,” said Florence. “And religion is rather good at doing that, don’t you think?” She turned round and began to pour the hot water into the cafetière. “Anyway, I don’t know how we got into that! You didn’t come here to discuss theology with me, did you?”
Isabel laughed. “Not exactly, although I’m always very happy to talk about such things. I came—”
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“About the flat.”
“Yes.”
Florence began to pour Isabel a cup of coffee. “I assume that your lawyer has been in touch about my offer?”
Isabel nodded. “He has. It is . . . it is very generous of you.”
Florence sat down at the table, opposite Isabel. She placed both hands around her mug of coffee, warming them. “I’ve had so many people looking round the flat since it went on the market. Thirty, I’d say.”
Isabel said that she could imagine the disruption.
“Of course, some of them haven’t the slightest intention of buying it,” said Florence, smiling. “Do you know that there’s a type of person who goes to look at houses for sale? They have a good poke round and it’s all sheer nosiness. They look in cupboards. They remark on the decor. And so on. I was warned about these people, and I think that I spotted one or two of them. There was one woman from Clarence Street, round the corner, who didn’t realise that I recognised her. She just wanted to see what the inside of my house was like.”
Isabel tried to imagine what it would be like to have that little to do, and to have the brass neck to nose round other people’s houses. But then she thought: What about that house at the end of the road? She had always wanted to see the inside of that. If it were to come on the market, could she resist?
“I assure you,” she said lightly, “I assure you that I was seriously interested.”
Florence laughed. “Of course you were. I didn’t think otherwise. Not for a moment. I could tell.”
Isabel cleared her throat. “I feel that I should tell you something,” she began. “When I came the other day—”
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Florence raised a hand. “Please,” she said. “It was not for me to say what I said to my lawyer. I’ve felt a little bit embarrassed about that. And now she tells me that you and . . . and that young man are not intending to live here after all.”
“No,” said Isabel. “We aren’t.”
“But that doesn’t really make any difference,” said Florence.
“My offer stands. You can still have it for the figure I suggested.”
She paused, taking a sip of coffee from her mug. Isabel saw that she was looking at her over the rim. The look was that of a schoolteacher observing a favourite pupil who has perhaps just a touch too much character: a mixture of approbation and envy.
“May I ask why you want me to have it?” Isabel asked. “I hope that I don’t sound rude, but I really would like to know.”
Florence put down her mug. “Because I like you, Miss Dalhousie,” she said. “That’s one reason. I just do.”
Isabel shook her head. “But you hardly know me. I really don’t see how you can come to any conclusions about me on the basis of . . . on the basis of not much more than one meeting.
And, anyway, your idea of my circumstances is, I’m afraid, wrong. That young man—”
“Is just a friend. Oh, I imagined that might be the case.
After the lawyer came back to me and said that you had been to see her. She said that . . . Well, I’m sorry to have to say this. She said that she didn’t believe what you told her—that you were, in fact, having an affair with that young man.”
It is not easy to hear the news that we have been spotted in our lies, and Isabel’s reaction, a simple human reaction, was to blush. This was burning shame, made physical, and Florence, seeing it, immediately regretted having said what she had.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have told you that. I made 1 3 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h it sound more serious than it was. And I’m sure that she mis-understood what you said. I’m sure that you didn’t deliberately mislead her.”
“I did,” said Isabel plainly. “I told her that Jamie and I were in a relationship. Those were my exact words.”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t know exactly why I did it,” said Isabel. “Pride, probably. Perhaps I was just fed up with being condescended to by married people. You know how it can be sometimes.”
Florence reached across and placed her hand on Isabel’s arm. “I’m single,” she said. “I know what you’re talking about.”
Isabel looked down at the design of the waxed tablecloth on the table. It looked French: a series of little pictures of a cornucopia disgorging its contents before a group of surprised picnickers: Déjeuner sur l’herbe transformed.
“It’s so ridiculous,” said Isabel. “A week ago my life was all very straightforwar
d. Now it seems that I’ve talked myself into a whole web of misunderstandings and deceptions. All over nothing.”
Florence laughed, and her laughter defused the tension.
“Let’s forget about all that,” she said. “The point is this: I gather you’re buying this place for somebody who works for you. That’s reason enough for me to want to sell it to you.”
Isabel protested, but Florence was insistent. “If you could have seen some of the people who have been through this place since it’s been on the market, you’d understand how I feel.
Some of them were nice enough, but an awful lot of them were ghastly, just ghastly. Materialistic. Ill-mannered. And quite a few of them actually condescended to me. They thought, woman in her sixties. Very uninteresting. Unimportant. Practically non-existent. And then there was you, and that young man. And I T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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suddenly thought, Why should I sell this to somebody I don’t like? I don’t need the money. I’m comfortably off, with my teaching pension and the money and that house in Trinity left to me.
I don’t need anything more.”
She stopped to take a sip of her coffee. On the other side of the table, Isabel stared out of the window and thought about what Florence had said. She could see the logic of the decision and she knew that she should accept; to be able to accept is as important as to be able to give—she knew that.
“You’re being very generous,” she said. Then she hesitated, but just for a few moments, before she continued. “I can afford to pay more, you know. I’m not short of money.”
She felt the soft power of Florence’s gaze; those grey, understanding eyes. “I know that.”
But how did she know? thought Isabel. Do I seem well-off?
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