They had reached the point where the road dips down to the Dean Village, at the old millpond, and the path along the river begins. High above them were the soaring stone arches of the Dean Bridge, at the end of which a private house, built into the rock, acted as the bridge’s anchor to the wall of the valley. It was one of Edinburgh’s astonishing architectural details; a house which had been lived in for many years by a prominent psychiatrist, who used to joke that since the Dean Bridge had traditionally been the bridge of choice for suicide, like the Golden Gate in San Francisco, his house should have borne the sign LAST PSYCHIATRIST BEFORE THE DEAN BRIDGE. Some had frowned at this, but Isabel had appreciated the joke; doctors needed their moments of dark humour amidst all the human suffering of their day. She looked up. How long would it take to fall—should the psychiatrist’s counsel prove ineffective—and what would one think on the way down? The Roman Catholic Church used to be charitable in such matters and had been prepared to concede that people probably changed their minds on the way down from these great heights, that the desire to die became a desire to live once the descent began. Repentance, then, could be assumed, and in this way one went up rather than down, in the metaphorical sense; once, that is, that one had come down. Did the Vatican still think this, she wondered, or was it no longer necessary to make scholastic distinctions of this nature, if Hell had been abolished in Catholic teaching, as it had been by liberal Protestantism? She had never been able to understand how anybody could reconcile the existence of Hell with that of a merciful creator; he simply would not have embarked on us in the first place in order to send us to some Hieronymus Bosch–like torture chamber or its more modern equivalent (a place of constant piped music, perhaps). Hell might be an airport, she thought, lit with neon lighting and insincere smiles. No, she told herself; she was prepared to accept the possible existence of a creator, in the same way that she was prepared to accept curved space, but he or she would not invent Hell, whatever twists and turns on the subject of free will and choice were resorted to by the concept’s apologists. Why would a creator want us to have free choice in the first place if we were bound, imperfect creatures that we are, to abuse it? And yet, she thought, who amongst us does not want there to be justice; does not relish the idea that when Stalin took his final breath what he was shortly to encounter was at least some measure of punishment for his countless murders, rather than forgiveness? We should be careful, she decided, about abolishing Hell, even if we have no proof of its existence; and yet, and yet…was it not a part of growing up to understand that much as we may yearn for a universe ruled by perfect justice, this was not the way the world would ever be? The wicked got away with their wickedness more often than not, and became incorrigible as a result; the robber barons became richer; the swaggering bullies never met anybody stronger than themselves. The most that many could hope for was that justice had the occasional victory, and that they would see it, and be comforted.
She looked away from the bridge. It made her dizzy to look up, even more so than looking down. I could never live up in the air, she thought, like people who inhabit high apartments, with nothing below them but an almighty drop, with eagles for company.
Peter’s question needed to be answered. “I’m sure that he’d like to come,” she said. “It’s just that—”
There was an edge to Peter’s interruption. “It’s just that what, Isabel?”
It was not easy to explain. She was sure she was right in thinking that Jamie would not want to feel taken over; what young man would? “It’s a little difficult,” she began. “I don’t want him to think that he has to tag along with me.” Even as she spoke, she knew that it sounded unconvincing, and the way that Peter and Susie were looking at her confirmed this. Peter was frowning, in an effort to see what exactly Isabel was driving at; Susie looked sympathetic, but it was evident that she did not agree. And that was when Peter told her to stop thinking about the age difference.
For a while she was silent. They had continued on their walk, leaving the bridge behind them. The river, which was in full spate, was louder now, and she had to raise her voice to be heard above the sound of the water.
“Easier said than done,” she said.
Peter thought about this. “All right,” he said. “Advice is always easy to give. But that doesn’t make it any less relevant.” He looked at her quizzically. “Don’t you realise that Jamie probably feels about you exactly as you feel about him? Hasn’t it occurred to you that he can probably hardly believe his luck—to have found an attractive, intelligent…I could go on…witty woman like you? What would his alternatives be? Any other woman I can think of would be boring by comparison with you, Isabel. So stop it. Right? Just stop it. Subject closed.” He drew a breath. “Except for one final thing. You’re—what are you?—forty-something? Forty-three? That’s still young…ish. And it’s not all that much older than him. Fourteen, fifteen years? So what?”
“So does that mean we’re to come to dinner?” Isabel asked.
All three laughed.
“Yes,” said Peter. “It does.”
They continued with their walk. Then, as they drew level with St. Bernard’s Well, with its small stone temple to Hygena, she saw a figure ahead of them. He had been walking towards them and now he suddenly turned and walked the other way, back towards Stockbridge. She had not been paying attention; there were a few people on the path and he was just one of them. But then she realised who it was. Nick Smart.
She stared after the retreating figure; he was a swift walker. Peter noticed.
“Seen a friend?” he asked.
“No,” said Isabel.
They stopped to admire the temple. Isabel glanced down the path; Nick Smart must have let himself into Moray’s Pleasure Gardens, as he had disappeared from sight. She felt vaguely puzzled. Did he live there, in Moray Place or Doune Terrace? The gardens were private, and one needed to be a key-holder to get into them. And had Jamie not said something about his living over in the Pleasance somewhere, quite a different part of town.
“People used to come and take the waters here,” said Peter. “Apparently the water tasted foul. Full of iron.”
“But that would have been a plus,” said Susie. “Smelly mineral water was always thought to be better for you. More potent.”
Isabel remembered visiting a spa in France where the water was traced with arsenic, and much sought-after for that reason. We like our pills bitter, she thought.
Peter had remembered something. “We visited Vichy once,” he said. “I remember that it was at the end of the season and there was an orchestral concert in the public gardens. The mayor made a speech at the concert and concluded by saying that he hoped to see all the curistes back again next year. Which I thought was rather tactless.”
Isabel asked why, and Peter explained. “Because presumably they hoped to be better,” he said. “And if they were better, they wouldn’t need another cure the following year.”
Isabel felt foolish. “I see. Of course.”
Peter looked at his watch and suggested that they walk back to the gallery, where they had left the car. As she walked, Isabel wondered about Nick Smart. Why had he turned round so suddenly? Had he seen her coming? And if he had, then why should he wish to avoid her?
STELLA MONCRIEFF had said: “He said that he’ll see you. At first he said no. He was adamant—you know how stubborn men can be. But we can be stubborn, too, can’t we? And I insisted. I begged him. I said that he should see you if only for my sake. And eventually he said that he would.”
Isabel did not particularly like the idea of anybody being forced to see her; the position, she thought, that dentists must find themselves in when a young and nervous patient is led to the chair. Dentists, of course, could console themselves with the fact that the encounter was in the patient’s best interests, whereas she was not so certain that her seeing Marcus Moncrieff would do him any good. She had agreed to the meeting because Stella had pleaded with her and because she felt that it was her duty to respond, but that did not mean that her heart was in it. In fact, right up to the moment that she left the house at eleven o’clock that morning she had hoped that Stella would call and say that the whole thing was off. But she had not, and Isabel had set off on foot for the Moncrieff flat in Ramsay Garden.