The Careful Use of Compliments

by Alexander McCall Smith

  There were twelve telephone messages awaiting Isabel on her return the previous evening, and she had delayed dealing with them until the morning. Three were from the same person, a distant acquaintance with whom she had promised to have lunch and who was now wanting to make an arrangement. Isabel slightly regretted the original promise; she had not really intended it but it had been taken seriously by the other person. This was a cultural misunderstanding. The acquaintance was a New Zealander living in Scotland, and New Zealanders meant what they said, much to their credit, and thought that everybody else did too. As a general rule, Isabel certainly meant what she said, but she was as guilty as everybody else of using language which was really intended to be no more than an expression of general goodwill. Suggesting a meeting for lunch might be a real invitation or it might not, depending on the tone of voice used, and the context. She remembered the late Professor Glanville Williams, whom she had met at Cambridge, once saying to an Italian visitor that they should meet for lunch. Whereupon the Italian had fished in his pocket for his diary, opened it, and said, “When?” Glanville Williams had been quite shocked, in the same way in which those who automatically wished one to have a nice day would be shocked if they were asked in what way they thought this might be achieved.

  Isabel returned the telephone call, arranged the lunch, and then went through the remaining messages, skipping over several until she found the one she was waiting for, the voice of her lawyer, Simon Mackintosh. “You asked me to act quickly, Isabel, and I have. And a good result too, I’m happy to say. Could you please get in touch when you get back?”

  She played the message and then replayed it. The news made her feel elated but concerned at the same time. She had acted impulsively before she had left for Jura, and she had not really expected a result so quickly. But now, when she reflected on the instructions she had given Simon, she experienced that curious feeling, that mixture of elation and dread, that comes from having done something very significant.

  She replaced the telephone handset and said to herself, I own it; it’s mine. And that thought occurred to her again when she found herself in the waiting room at Turcan Connell, in their offices at Tollcross, waiting for Simon to appear and lead her into the small conference room which the firm used for clients and lawyers to talk. Tea was served, and shortbread biscuits, and Isabel had already poured herself a cup by the time that Simon arrived.

  They exchanged small items of news. Simon’s wife, Catriona, an artist, had just finished a successful show, and there was news of that, and Isabel reported on Charlie’s sleeping habits. Then Simon opened a blue cardboard folder and took out a page of notes he had made on a sheet of paper.

  “Now then, Isabel, those instructions of yours.” She wondered whether he was reproaching her, but it was not reproach—just surprise. “What you asked me to do was, how shall I put it? Fairly unusual. At least it’s unusual to do something like this so quickly. In fact, the whole thing…well, I suppose it’s just a case of doing something in record time.”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes…”

  He smiled. “Yes, sometimes there are things that one feels one has to do. And lawyers should always assume that their clients know what they want, even if sometimes, on rare occasions, it may not seem that way. But I’ve never thought that of you.”

  Isabel laughed. “I did think about this, you know. It didn’t come totally out of the blue. I thought about it for at least”—she blushed—“an hour or so.”

  Simon wagged a finger playfully. “Well, I did what you asked me. And thank heavens we were dealing with a small private company. They proved very easy to negotiate with. And very quick. Of course we still have to do various things before the contract is finally signed—warranties, indemnities, that sort of thing—but we’ve got agreement in principle.”

  “They’re nice people.”

  Simon agreed. His conversation with the chairman had been brisk and to the point, and there had certainly been an air of civility about it. “When I asked them what sum they had in mind, I must say that I was pleasantly surprised. It was considerably less than the limit you had suggested. Sixty thousand pounds for the title and the goodwill.” He paused and consulted a printed sheet in the file. “And I suppose we have to accept that, even if last year the Review made a profit of a grand total of four hundred pounds…and eight pence.”

  “They wanted rid of it,” said Isabel. “I thought they might hold out for more.”

  “Not when they knew I was offering on your behalf,” said Simon. “They think very highly of you. And so there we are, you’re the new owner of the Review of Applied Ethics. Congratulations!”

  Isabel looked at her teacup. She had shamelessly used her superior financial position to deal with Christopher Dove and his machinations. Did she deserve congratulations for that? She thought she did not, but if she were to try to explain her feelings to Simon, she was not sure whether she would be able to convey to him the guilt that she felt. She had done nothing wrong. Things were for sale or they were not, and the Review, as she had suspected, was for sale if one were to pay enough. Money, she realised, was an instrument of crude power; a conclusion that she had always sought to avoid, but which was demonstrably and uncomfortably true.

  Simon was studying her with a slightly bemused expression. “I know you can well afford this, Isabel,” he began. “But do you mind my asking, why do you want to own it? Wasn’t it enough just to be the editor?”

  For a moment, Isabel did not reply. Now she looked up and met Simon’s gaze. “To set right an injustice,” she said simply.

  Simon slipped the piece of paper back into the file. “Ah,” he said. He thought for a moment, fingering the edge of the blue file. “That’s a very good reason for doing anything. Well done.”

  She reached forward and poured him a fresh cup of tea. Nothing more needed to be said about the transaction and so they spent a few minutes discussing the weather, which was perfect, and the world, which was not quite.

  Just before she rose to leave, though, it occurred to her that it might be easier for Simon to write a letter that needed to be written. “There’s one thing more,” she said. “There’s a letter that needs to be written to the chairman of the editorial board. Could you do that for me? As my lawyer?”

  “Of course.”

  She explained that the letter needed to go to Professor Lettuce. “A ridiculous name, I know, but that is his burden in life. I’ll write down the address here. Please tell him that you are acting for the new owner of the Review of Applied Ethics and that she—and please remember the she—is very grateful to him for all his services to the Review. However, it will be necessary to appoint a new editorial board, and this will be done shortly.”

  Simon made a few notes and then looked at Isabel. “Should I mention your name at this stage?”

  Isabel hesitated. One part of her wanted the satisfaction of letting them work it out; she could imagine their anxious discussions. But another saw the pettiness of this, the wrongness. Plato’s white horse and dark horse. She closed her eyes. Revenge was sweet, but it was wrong, and she should not repay them in the coin they had used on her. No, she should not.

  “Tell them who I am right at the beginning,” she said. “That would be better.”

  Simon, who sensed that he had just witnessed a great moral struggle, nodded his assent. “I’m sure that you’ve made the right decision,” he said.

  Perhaps, thought Isabel. But then she went on to think, Oh, Lettuce and Dove—you did ask for this, you really did.

  ISABEL LEFT the offices of Turcan Connell shortly before midday. Their building, a new one, was made of green and blue glass, like sheets of thinly sliced ice; looking up from the small square to its front, one could see through the upper storeys to the sky beyond. Around it, though, was the Edinburgh with which Isabel was more familiar—the stone tenement buildings, the predominant note of grey. She walked up Home Street, past the vegetable shops, the watchmaker, the sellers of che
ap ornaments, the bars. She passed the King’s Theatre and Bennet’s Bar beside it, with its elaborate stained-glass windows, where singers and musicians would meet after rehearsals in the theatre, sitting on the long red benches, reflected in the large brewers’ mirrors.

  Farther up the road, she suddenly felt hungry as she approached Cat’s delicatessen. She was in no hurry to get home; Charlie was off somewhere with Grace and they would not be returning until after lunch. There were things to be done in the house—correspondence and a long list of small chores—but she did not feel like doing anything yet. She felt awkward about going into the delicatessen now, with Cat in her current mood, but she knew that she had to persist: the ice would melt, as it always did.

  Eddie was behind the counter and there was no sign of Cat. He was slicing Parma ham for a customer and he nodded to Isabel. She picked up a copy of a newspaper from the table—somebody had left that day’s Guardian, and she would read that at one of the coffee tables until Eddie could serve her. Eddie made good focaccia and olive plates and she would have one of those when he was ready.

  She was absorbed in a Guardian article when she became aware of Cat’s presence. She lowered the paper and saw that her niece was smiling. The thaw, she thought.

  Cat looked over her shoulder towards Eddie. A couple of customers were peering into the display case below the counter, pointing at cheeses. “It looks as if he’s going to be busy for a while,” said Cat. “I’ll look after you.”

  “I was hoping for focaccia and olives,” said Isabel. “But there’s no hurry. There’s always The Guardian.”

  Cat did not think it would be any trouble. “And how’s Charlie?” she asked.

  It was the first time that she had shown any real interest in her cousin, although Isabel suspected that the interest, or curiosity at least, had always been there but had been repressed. “Thriving,” she replied. “Sleeping. Eating. Doing all the things appropriate to being a baby.”

  Cat smiled. “He’s very sweet,” she said. “He looks a bit like…” Isabel held her breath. “Like Jamie.”

  That, Isabel thought, was extraordinary progress. Isabel herself not did not think that Charlie looked remotely like Jamie, but that did not matter now: the air, she thought, was filled with the sound of shifting logjams.

  “Yes, well, perhaps he does. In some lights.”

  Cat went off to prepare Isabel’s lunch, leaving her with The Guardian. She was reading an article on the Middle East and the prospects for peace, which were slim. What acres of newsprint, she thought, what lakes of ink, had been expended on that topic; and always it came back to the same thing, the sense of difference between people, the erection of barriers of religion, clothing, culture. And yet there were differences, and it was naïve to imagine that people were all the same—they weren’t. And everybody needed space, physical space, to live their lives amongst those with whom they shared an outlook and values; which led to the depressing conclusion that the recipe for social peace was keeping people separate from one another, each in his own territory, each in the safety of fellows. She was not sure if she could accept that—and The Guardian certainly did not. The problem was that we could no longer have our own cultural spaces: everybody was now too mixed up for that and we had to share.

  She was wrestling with these issues when Eddie came across to her, bearing the plate of focaccia and olives which Cat had prepared.

  “She seems to be in a good mood today,” said Isabel, nodding in the direction of Cat, who was now dealing with a customer at the counter.

  Eddie’s lip curled in mock disdain. “Guess why,” he said. “Have three guesses. Or shall I just tell you? She’s found a new man.”

  Isabel had a feeling that she and Eddie had had this conversation before; and they had, she decided, some time ago, when the man was…she could not remember.

  “Yes,” said Eddie. “He came in here not long ago. And he’s coming up to see her again this weekend. That’s why she’s all smiles.”

  It had not occurred to Isabel, for reasons of denial, perhaps. Or because she had thought of him as a flash in the pan—somebody temporary. Now the thought of it appalled her. She looked up at Eddie, who was grinning knowingly. “A tall man,” she said. “A tall man with blond hair slicked back like this.” She made the gesture.

  “Yes,” said Eddie. “But they all look like that, don’t they? All of her men are the same. Except for…” He looked embarrassed.

  Isabel stared down at her plate. Christopher Dove. She had imagined that the dalliance between him and Cat had been limited to the evening in Edinburgh; she had not contemplated that anything further would come of it.

  “Anyway,” said Eddie, “long may it last.”

  Isabel shook her head. “I doubt if he’s right for her.”

  Eddie sniggered. “They get along.” He took a step backwards. “I’ve got to go.”

  Isabel ate her meal in silence. Dove would know by tomorrow that the Review had changed hands, and he would realise immediately, even if it weren’t for the wording of the letter to Professor Lettuce, that he would never become editor. He would be angry, of course, and his anger would be directed at her. And if Cat heard about it—as she would—then she would assume that Isabel had fired Dove to spite her. Cat was quite capable of believing that, thought Isabel, and of course there might be people who would do such a thing, even if she was not one of them.

  She knew, of course, that she should not allow herself to be governed by thoughts of what her niece would think—particularly a niece who was growing into such an unpredictable person as Cat was. And yet she was not sure that she could face more of Cat’s moods or hostility. It would be like living with Schopenhauer, not an easy task for anybody, and certainly not for Schopenhauer’s mother, to whom the philosopher refused to talk for the last twenty-three years of her life.

  She stood up and crossed the room to pay for her lunch. At the till, Cat waved her aside. “No need,” she said.

  “But I must,” said Isabel.

  Cat shook a finger. “No, it’s a thank-you.”

  Isabel’s heart sank. “For what?”

  “For introducing me to such a gorgeous man the other day!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE QUEEN’S HALL that evening was packed, and although Jamie had tried to get Isabel a good seat, she ended up in the gallery, on one of the benches in which one could never quite relax. And there had been a purpose behind that discomfort; the Queen’s Hall had been a church, and the Church of Scotland had never been one for excessive comfort, lest it lead to somnolence during sermons. Jamie was playing in the orchestra, as he sometimes did, and he was keen that Isabel should hear this particular programme.

  “It’s a very adventurous mix,” he explained. “Fauré’s Requiem in the first half, and then new or newish pieces in the second. Various offerings from Peter Maxwell Davies, Stephen Deazley, and Max Richter. It’ll be interesting, to say the least.”

  Jamie had given Isabel a recording of Max Richter’s Blue Notebooks, and she had played it time and time again, absorbed by the haunting, enigmatic music. And then in Mellis’s cheese shop one day, she and her friend Rosalind Marshall had seen the composer himself, who lived in Edinburgh; he had come in to buy a piece of Dunsyre Blue, and, recognising him from the sleeve of The Blue Notebooks, Isabel had said, “You don’t know me, but The Blue Notebooks…” She was not sure that he had heard her, in fact she thought that he had not, as the cheese-monger had started to speak, extolling the virtues of a particular cheese, and then somebody else had come in and it was too late.

  “I’ll talk to him some other time,” Isabel said to Rosalind.

  “Yes, perhaps,” said Rosalind. “I almost had a conversation with the prime minister once. He was paying a visit to the Portrait Gallery and I said something to him about one of the pictures, but he was distracted by somebody else and so I’m not sure he heard me.”

  Isabel smiled. “There are probably many of us in Edinburgh w
ho have almost conversed with prominent people, but not quite.” She paused, remembering something that had been said to her some time ago. “I was in Ireland, once, staying at a place called Gurthalougha House, near Shannon. And the woman who ran the hotel had an aunt, or so she told me, who had been walking in the Black Forest in the nineteen thirties when she met a small walking party coming along the path towards her. And she recognised the man in front—it was Adolf Hitler. So apparently she said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Hitler,’ and he just nodded and continued on his way.”

  Rosalind shook her head. “What a strange story. I’m not sure what we can take from that, but it certainly is rather strange.”

  “Had her aunt been armed,” mused Isabel, “she could have changed the course of history, for the better.”

  “By murdering Hitler?”

  Isabel hesitated, but only briefly. “Yes. Although I’m not sure that I would use the word murder there. Murder is intrinsically wrong, isn’t it? The word carries a lot of moral baggage.”

  “So what should we call it? Execution? Assassination?”