Highly unlikely, another member of the editorial board had written to Isabel. Should we not concentrate on the problems of the real world?
And Isabel had replied:
I’m sorry to have to take issue with you on this, but I assure you that these questions have arisen in the real world. The case of the Mignonette was very well documented, and it is just one example. A small group of sailors was shipwrecked and found themselves in a lifeboat with the cabin boy. They drifted around for some time, becoming hungrier and hungrier, and eventually, in sheer desperation, two of them decided to kill and eat the cabin boy. This they did, and then, as luck would have it, help steamed over the horizon. The sailors were taken back to England and charged with murder. They argued that they were driven to do what they did through sheer necessity, but the criminal courts took a different view and they were convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Fortunately they were not hanged, and had to serve only short prison sentences. That happened.
This had drawn a swift response. You said “fortunately” they were not hanged, wrote her correspondent. Aren’t you justifying murder? By what principle can I kill an innocent person to save my own life?
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I am not saying that, Isabel replied. I said that it was fortunate that they were not hanged because I have a very strong objection to the death penalty. Killing another as a punishment is an act of barbarism. It’s as simple as that. And it also shows a terrible lack of forgiveness. That is why I said that it was fortunate that those two men were not hanged.
The reply came. I see. I stand corrected. But the point remains: Can you kill another to save your life even if your victim is not responsible for creating the threat to your life in the first place? That’s the question.
The lifeboat issue had grown, and had eventually become two issues of the Review. And the focus moved from real lifeboats, which were, fortunately, manned by sailors rather than by philosophers, to the earth as lifeboat, which it was, in a way.
And here the issues became very much ones of the real world, Isabel thought, because real people did die every day, in very large numbers, because the resources of the lifeboat were not fairly distributed. And if we might feel squeamish about throwing a real and immediate person out of a real lifeboat, then we had fewer compunctions about doing those things which had exactly that effect, somewhere far off, on people whom we did not know and could not name. It was relentless and harrowing—
if one ever came round to thinking about it—but most of our luxuries were purchased at the expense of somebody’s suffering and deprivation elsewhere.
She stopped work at twelve. The house was quiet, as Grace had the day off and Joe and Mimi were not due back from Tarwhinn House until that evening, having spent an extra night there. Isabel had returned with Jamie late on Sunday afternoon, driving back to Edinburgh in her green Swedish car in silence.
It was not an awkward silence, though; neither, it seemed, felt 2 2 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h the need to talk. Jamie had reached across and touched her lightly on the arm, and smiled, and she had smiled back at him; everything that they wished to say had been said earlier that weekend and it was as if they were replete.
But now Isabel felt restless. She could stay and have lunch in the house, but she did not relish the thought of sitting there by herself. What she wanted to do was to phone Jamie, just to hear his voice, but she could not do that as he was in rehearsals all day. And she thought, too, that it would be the wrong thing to do. She should not appear too keen . . . She stopped, and smiled. When had she last thought like this? Fifteen, sixteen—
the age at which one spent hours pondering the reactions of boys to one’s tactics. No, of course it was different; this was mature reflection, this was realism. Jamie would not want to feel crowded, and she would not crowd him.
She decided that she would have lunch at Cat’s delicatessen. It was often quiet during Monday lunchtime for some reason, and she was sure to find at least one of the tables free.
And she could offer to lend a hand in the early afternoon if Cat wanted a break; when she had run the delicatessen while Cat had been in Italy she had developed a taste for it and was happy now to help out when she had the time. Of course, Cat’s new employee, Miranda, might be there, so there might be no need.
Miranda was there, standing behind the counter serving a customer while Eddie sliced ham with the electric slicer. He looked up and Isabel’s blood ran cold; she hated that slicer, with its whirring circular blade, and she cringed each time she saw it.
It had the same effect on her as the sound of chalk on a black-board will have on others, or pumice stone on the surface of a bath: a chilling, nerve-wrangling effect. Eddie should not take his eyes off the ham, he should not; although the slicer had a 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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protective device which meant that it would be difficult to remove a whole finger, it could still remove a top if one were not careful. She winced. When she was young there had been a butcher in Morningside Road who, as was common with butchers in those days, had cut off two fingers. He used to amuse children by placing the stub of one of them into his ear, or occasionally at the entrance to a nostril, and this caused boys to laugh with delight and girls to squeal with horror and disgust.
There were no butchers like that any more; a lesson, somewhere, had been learned; the state had intervened.
Isabel pointed to the slicer and grimaced. “Careful,” she mouthed.
Eddie smiled and returned to his work, sending shavings of Parma ham down onto a square of greaseproof paper below. The customer whom he was serving watched the process intently.
When she had finished serving the customer, Miranda came over to the table where Isabel had sat down and greeted her warmly.
“I’ve worked here two days already,” she said. “And it’s great.
Cat’s a great boss, and Eddie’s a sweetie, he really is.” She lowered her voice. “At first I thought that there was something wrong with him, I really did. Then I think he realised that I wasn’t going to bite his head off and he was really nice to me.
He showed me where everything is and he . . . Well, he was just very helpful.”
“He’s a bit shy,” said Isabel. “But we like him very much.”
“Has he got a girlfriend?” asked Miranda.
Isabel was slightly taken aback by this question. Was Miranda interested in Eddie? That seemed a bit unlikely; she could hardly imagine Eddie with this outgoing Australian, but then perhaps that was what Eddie needed—a girl who would make 2 2 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h the first move. She could not imagine his making the first move, or indeed any move. Or was there another reason for the question: a veiled enquiry as to whether Eddie was interested in girls at all?
Isabel glanced across the room. Eddie had finished with the ham and was busy measuring out stoned black olives into a small white tub. She had felt that she had got to know Eddie better when they had worked together, but when she asked herself what she knew about him—about what he did in his spare time, about who his friends were—she came to the realisation that it was very little. He sometimes went to the cinema on Lothian Road—he had mentioned that once or twice—and there was a band that he liked to follow—Isabel could not remember its name and had called it the Something Somethings when she had asked him about it. But that was all she knew about him; that, and the fact that there had been some traumatic incident some time ago. She would not tell Miranda about that, though, as it had nothing to do with her.
“I don’t know about girlfriends,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t talk about his private life. And I don’t think that he likes us to ask.”
Miranda looked thoughtful. “That’s what he needs,” she said. “He needs a girlfriend to give him confidence.”
“It may not be so simple,” Isabel objected.
<
br /> Miranda looked over her shoulder to check that nobody was waiting at the till. “Every boy needs a girlfriend—or a boyfriend, depending, you know.”
Isabel nodded. “Having somebody else is important.” She looked at Miranda, at the fresh, open face, at the optimistic expression. That was what she liked about Australia and Australians; there was no angst, no complaining, just a positive 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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pleasure in living. And there was such friendliness, too, embodied in that rough-edged doctrine of mateship that they liked to talk about. That had even found its way into the Australian Philosophical Review, where Isabel had found a curious paper called “What Is Mateship?” And mateship, it appeared, was a philosophy of looking after one’s fellow man, and sharing in adversity. She had been doubtful that Australians had any monopoly on that idea, but then she had gone on to read about how mateship had saved lives in the Second World War when captured Australian servicemen coped much better with the privations of the camps because their officers had shared with the men and taken a greater interest in their welfare than had the British officers, with their insistence on separation and privilege. British officers might have something to say about that, she thought, but it was interesting. Of course, mateship had its negative side: one had to take one’s mates’ side in any argument with the authorities, which was immature, thought Isabel—she had never understood why people found such difficulty in accepting that their friends might be wrong. I am often wrong, she thought, often, and I assume my friends are too.
Miranda was staring at her. “You’re a philosopher, aren’t you? Eddie was telling me.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “That’s what I do.”
“I might have guessed that,” said Miranda. “Even if I didn’t know. You seem to think so hard about things. Just then you were sitting there and thinking about something, weren’t you?”
Isabel laughed. “Yes, I suppose I was. I find myself thinking at a bit of a tangent. I think of one thing and then I go on to think about something connected with it. And so it goes on.”
“And you get paid to do that?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. Philosophy doesn’t pay very well.”
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Miranda was looking at her quizzically. “And yet Eddie says that you’re rich. He told me that you live in a large house and that you have somebody who works for you there.”
There was no malice in the observation, and Isabel found that she did not resent it. “I’m very fortunate,” she said. “I’m well-off. I was left money. That’s where it comes from. But I try not to splash it around, I assure you. I don’t live in great splen-dour or anything like that.”
“Pity,” said Miranda. “I would, if I had money.”
“You don’t know that. You might find that it made no difference. And it doesn’t, you know. Once one has the minimum required for reasonable comfort, any more makes no difference to how you feel. It really doesn’t.”
It was clear that Miranda did not believe this, but the conversation came to an end as Cat came in the front door. “The boss,” said Miranda. “When the Cat’s away the mice will play. I must get back to work. Nice to talk to you, Isabel. And thanks again for getting me this job.”
Cat moved over to the counter and said something to Eddie before she came over to Isabel’s table and sat down opposite her aunt. Isabel could tell immediately that there was something wrong. Cat was tense, and her greeting of Isabel verged on the cold. Patrick trouble, she thought. This was how Cat behaved when her emotional life became complicated; it had happened with Toby and with the others, and although it tended not to last long, it was uncomfortable for everybody.
“Had a good weekend?” asked Cat.
Isabel hesitated. “Yes. I did. I—”
“I’ve just seen Mimi,” said Cat. “I bumped into her in the post office.”
Isabel suddenly thought: Jamie, and she experienced a 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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moment of panic. She had not considered this, but of course she should have. “I thought that they weren’t going to come back until later this afternoon,” said Isabel. “We spent the weekend in the Borders. A house near Peebles.”
“So she told me,” said Cat. “And you had a good time?”
There was no doubt in Isabel’s mind now that Cat knew—
her tone of voice was unmistakably sarcastic.
“Cat,” she said. “I was going to talk to you. I was going to . . .”
Cat leant forward slightly and lowered her voice. “How could you? How could you do it?” she half whispered, half hissed.
Isabel drew back. “What did Mimi tell you?”
“That Jamie was there.”
Isabel wondered whether she should deny Cat’s inference.
Mimi would certainly not have told her about what had happened—and she had not discussed anything with Mimi. As far as Mimi was concerned, Isabel and Jamie were still just friends. But a denial on her part would be, quite simply, a lie, and one could not lie.
“Yes, he was. Jamie was there.” She left it at that. She was not obliged to account to Cat, even if Jamie had once been her boyfriend. Cat had rejected him and made it very clear that she had no intention of taking him back. In the circumstances, then, she could hardly complain if Jamie became involved with somebody else. But then, that somebody else was Cat’s aunt.
“Isabel,” whispered Cat, “I can’t believe that you would do it. That you would go off with Jamie. He was my boyfriend, for God’s sake. Mine. I knew that you saw him, but I fondly imagined that it was just a nice little friendship—not this.”
Isabel sighed. “I’m sorry, Cat. I really am. It was just a 2 2 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h friendship to begin with—I promise you that. I had no idea that you would be jealous of him. You knew that Jamie was head over heels in love with you. You knew that. But you’re the one who got rid of him and you shouldn’t really be jealous of him. That’s hardly fair, is it? To him or anybody else for that matter.”
Cat gave Isabel a look which disturbed her greatly. If it was not quite hate, it was close to it. “Jealous? Jealous?” She spat out the words. “I am not in the slightest bit jealous.”
Isabel spoke calmly. “You must be. Otherwise you wouldn’t behave like this.”
“It is not jealousy,” said Cat. “It’s disgust.”
Isabel was silent. Miranda and Eddie, from the other side of the room, had picked up that an argument was in progress and were looking in their direction with curiosity. She averted her gaze. Suddenly she felt ashamed. Disgust. That was what Cat felt about her conduct. Her own niece felt that.
“Think about it,” Cat went on. “He’s twenty-eight and you’re forty-two. You could be his mother.”
Isabel looked up. “Hardly,” she said. “I was fourteen when he was born.”
“So what?” Cat said abruptly. “He’s much younger than you are. Much. And anyway, don’t you think that there’s something a bit disgusting in an aunt taking her niece’s boyfriend into her bed? Or did you climb into his bed? Did you? Is that what happened?”
“You have no right to talk to me like that. You don’t know what you’re saying, Cat.”
Cat sat back in her chair. The anger now seemed to drain out of her expression and Isabel noticed that there were tears welling in her eyes.
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“Cat,” she said, reaching out to her. “Please don’t be upset.
Please.”
“Go away,” said Cat. “Just go away.”
Isabel reached for the shopping bag that she had placed on the floor below the table. Cat kicked it, and the bag fell over, spilling the contents on the floor.
Eddie watched from the counter. Then, when Cat rose to her feet and went silently into her office, he walked over to Isabel’s table an
d bent down to retrieve the items that had fallen out of the bag.
“She sometimes gets into a bad temper,” he whispered to Isabel. “Usually it’s when her boyfriend is being difficult. She gets over it.”
Isabel tried to smile as she thanked Eddie, but it was difficult. What had she done? When she had entered the delicatessen that morning she had still been feeling elated over Jamie. Now that had changed. She simply had not thought about the impact her affair with Jamie might have on Cat. It was remiss of her; she spent so much time thinking about other things, about the moral ramifications of every act, that when it came to something so close to her, something as important as her relationship with Cat, how could she not even have thought about the implications?
But then she thought: Why should I feel guilty? I should feel elated, not guilty; elated that I have the affection of somebody like Jamie; elated that I have been the recipient of such an unexpected gift. That is how she should have felt, but did not.
Guilt over Cat put a stop to it.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y
E
ISABEL?”
She had answered the telephone in her study. In front of her, a particularly impenetrable—and dull—manuscript bore the markings of her blue pencil. “The Ethics of Tactical Voting”
was not easy reading. Was it acceptable to vote for somebody you did not like in order to prevent somebody else from winning an election? Of course it was, thought Isabel, because in those particular circumstances you did like the person for whom you voted; you liked him more than you liked the opposition. So the fundamental premise that you were indicating approval where you really felt disapproval was false: that was not what your vote meant. Normally, this paper would have been rejected, but it had been written by a member of the editorial board and comity had to be borne in mind. The telephone call was a welcome diversion, and indeed Isabel had been on the point of getting up to make a cup of tea—her third that morning—in order to give herself an excuse to stop reading. She was also distracted, of course, by the row with Cat. That had been terrible, and she had tried to put it out of her mind, but it was there nonetheless, a background feeling of dread. And Jamie had not telephoned.
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