CHAPTER NINE
THERE HAD BEEN PAINFUL DAYS in Isabel’s life, as there are in the lives of all of us. There had been days during her brief marriage to John Liamor when she had felt a blanket of despair about her—a dark, enveloping blanket that prevented her from doing anything, from thinking about anything other than her distress. And it brought with it self-pity, for which she had a particular distaste when she saw it in others, but which she nevertheless understood perfectly well. I shall not, she said to herself as she returned to the house. I shall not. No. But what was it that she would not do? Think Jamie capable of deception, of …? She could hardly bring herself to think the word, let alone mutter it to herself; but now she said it, the word escaping her lips in an almost inaudible whisper: Unfaithfulness. And then, the word still hanging in the air, she muttered: Affair.
She passed the photograph of her sainted American mother in its place on the hall table; her sainted American mother who, as she had subsequently discovered, had had an affair. She had learned this from a conversation with her mother’s cousin, Mimi McKnight, who had tried to protect her from the knowledge but who had had it drawn out of her. Mimi had put it as tactfully as she could, and had wanted Isabel to forgive her mother, which she had done, of course; forgiveness, Mimi pointed out, can be as powerful when it is posthumous as when it is given in life; perhaps even more so. This had intrigued Isabel, and she had realised that it was quite true: forgiveness of others allows us to adjust our feelings towards the past, assuages our anger. Our parents may disappoint us in so many ways: they could have done more, they made us neurotic, they should have insisted we learn the piano—and now it is too late; they were too strict, in big things or small; they were too poor, too ignorant, too rich and possessive. There are so many grudges we can hold against the past and for the love and approval that we did not get from it. But if we forgive, then the past can lose its power to hurt.
She looked at her mother. The photograph had been taken on a trip that she had made to Venice with a college friend whose name Isabel had now forgotten. The friend was in the background, clutching at a straw hat she was wearing; there was a breeze and there were flags fluttering in the background; St. Mark’s Square, and the outside of the Caffè Florian, which had been such a favourite with Proust, and had been portrayed in a glorious Scottish Colourist painting. She looked at her mother’s face; she was smiling, and now it seemed to Isabel that the smile meant, My dear, life is like this; there are so many disappointments; so many …
Isabel turned away. Charlie, whom she had taken out of his pushchair in the outer hall, was niggling. He was tired and would settle quickly, but now nothing would satisfy him. She picked him up as Grace came out of the kitchen, a tea towel in her hand.
“I heard you come in. I’ve just made tea. Would you like a cup?”
“He’s so tired,” said Isabel. “Tea? No thank you.”
Grace approached Charlie and picked him up. “Little darling. Tired? Tired now and ready for a nap?”
Charlie made a fist and struck Grace across the chin.
“No!” Isabel’s voice was harsh, and Charlie looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment.
“That’s all right,” said Grace. “Didn’t hurt.”
“It’s not all right,” said Isabel testily. “Don’t tell him it’s all right to hit people. Just don’t!”
Grace looked at Isabel, registering much the same surprise as did Charlie. “He didn’t mean it.”
Isabel half turned away. “He did. He hit you.” She turned back and looked at Charlie. “You mustn’t hit people, Charlie. Wrong. Bad.” She thought, inconsequentially and absurdly: I speak as the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics, not just as your mother. Wrong. Bad.
Grace was stroking Charlie’s cheek, and the little boy was smiling in response. “Grace put you to bed?” said Grace. “Grace tuck you up?” She looked to Isabel for confirmation.
“Yes,” said Isabel. “If you wouldn’t mind. I have …” She gestured towards the study door. “I have work to do … Or rather, I have to …”
“If you need to go out,” said Grace, “I’ll look after our wee friend here. I’ve done all the ironing—it’s all stacked away. I could take him to Blackford Pond later on.”
“Ducks,” shouted Charlie.
“You see,” exclaimed Grace. “Clever boy. Clever, clever boy! There are indeed ducks in Blackford Pond.”
“On it,” muttered Isabel.
“What?”
“On the pond. There are ducks on the pond. There are fish in it.” Even as she spoke, Isabel had no idea why she was being so pedantic, and she looked at Grace apologetically. But Grace, perhaps not noticing the correction, in her turn simply corrected Isabel. “There are no fish left,” she said. “The ducks have eaten them all.”
“I don’t think ducks eat fish,” said Isabel, her testiness returning. “They eat weed and things like that. Bits of … of sludge.”
Grace was tight-lipped. “I’ll take him upstairs.”
“Thank you,” said Isabel. “And look, I’m sorry. I’m upset about something.”
Grace looked at her with concern. “Is everything …”
“It’s fine,” said Isabel. “I’m just trying to deal with something that’s worrying me.”
“What is it?”
Isabel shook her head. “A private thing. You know how we all have worries—silly things. But they worry us.”
“And they usually are silly,” said Grace. “Aren’t they?”
Isabel nodded silently. Not this one, she thought. This is not silly.
“Go shopping,” said Grace. “Treat yourself. Go to Jenners. Buy something.”
Isabel smiled weakly. “Retail therapy?”
“Precisely. It always works.”
Isabel shook her head. “Not for me. It makes me feel guilty.”
Grace started to leave the room, carrying Charlie, who was waving a small hand at his mother. “You feel guilty about far too much,” came her parting shot. “It’s all that philosophy. How guilty they must all have felt, those people. Plato. Old what’s-his-name. And the other one, the one who couldn’t.”
She left. Isabel pondered: Which was the one who couldn’t? It occurred to her a few moments later. Kant. But she could not smile at the thought, as she normally would have done. She couldn’t.
THE GATE OF WEST GRANGE HOUSE was open. Isabel, who had walked over from her house, looked up the gravelled drive and saw that Peter Stevenson’s car was parked at the front door. But as she began to walk up the drive, Susie came out of the house holding a plastic shopping bag. She had clearly not been expecting a visitor, and gave a momentary start before she recognised Isabel.
“You’re going out,” said Isabel. “Sorry—I should have phoned.”
Susie went forward to meet her. “Not at all. I was just nipping out to the supermarket and I can do that any time. No, I mean it. Come in.”
Reassured, Isabel followed her back into the house. Susie said that she would make coffee and they should both go into the kitchen. “Peter’s in there. He’ll be pleased to see you.”
“I’m sure you’ve both got things to do,” said Isabel.
“We haven’t.” They were making their way down the corridor that led to the kitchen, and Susie suddenly stopped. Lowering her voice, she asked Isabel if everything was all right. “Is there anything …”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “There is.”
“I could tell,” said Susie. “There was something in the way you looked.” She gestured towards the door that led into the drawing room. “Would you prefer to be in there?”