“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Because you won’t like him.”
We all underestimate Eddie, thought Isabel. “I’ll try to like him, Eddie,” she said. “I’ll really try.”
Eddie looked sideways at her. “He’s not bad, actually. 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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quite like him, you know. He’s not like the others. Not much, anyway.”
This interested Isabel. Perhaps Cat was breaking the pattern. “Why?” she asked.
The door opened and a woman with a shopping bag came in. Eddie glanced over his shoulder at the customer and gave his hands a last wipe on his apron. “I’m going to have to go,” he said.
“I’ll make you a coffee, if you like. After I’ve served this person.”
Isabel glanced at her watch. “I’m going to have to go too,”
she said. “But I’ve got time for a quick cup. And then you can tell me about him. You can tell me why you like him.”
A S I S A B E L WA L K E D B AC K along Merchiston Crescent, back to her house in one of those quiet roads that led off to the right, she thought about what Eddie had told her. In their brief conversation he had opened up more than he had ever done with her before. He had told her why he had disliked Toby, who condescended to him, who made him feel . . . “Well,” he said, “he made me feel not quite a man, if you know what I mean.” Isabel did; she knew precisely what Toby would have thought of Eddie and how he would have conveyed his feelings. And then Eddie had said, “Patrick is more like me, I think. I don’t know why, but that’s what I feel. I just feel it.”
That intrigued Isabel. It told her something—that Patrick was an improvement on Toby—that was information of some significance, but she still could not visualise him. Eddie had thought that Patrick was more like him, but she found it difficult to imagine that Cat would deign to look at somebody really like Eddie. No, what it did convey was that there was more of 2 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h the feminine in Patrick than there had been in Toby, or any of the others. Another possibility, of course, was that Patrick was simply more sympathetic than the others, and Eddie had seized on this. One can be masculine and sympathetic, and that, perhaps, was what Patrick was.
She turned the corner and started to walk down her road.
Walking towards her, having just parked his car in the street, was one of the students who attended lectures in Colinton Road nearby. Isabel caught his eye as they passed. He was masculine and sympathetic. But then she thought: I have no evidence for that conclusion—none at all; apart, perhaps, from the fact that he smiled at me, just a hint of a smile—and the smile was one of those little signals we flash to one another: I understand. Yes, I understand.
C H A P T E R T W O
E
ISABEL CALLED GRACE a housekeeper. She used that term because it was frankly kinder than the other words on offer: to call somebody a cleaner suggested that the job was a menial one—a matter of dusting and polishing and mopping up. And the words daily and domestic were adjectives used as nouns, and whether or not it was this that gave them a dismissive ring, she thought that they sounded that way. Housekeeper, by contrast, implied a job of responsibility and importance—which it was.
One kept a house, just as one might keep a zoo, or indeed a collection of paintings. To be the keeper of anything, thought Isabel, was an honourable calling; she had no time for the tendency to look down on jobs involving physical labour. Lawyers and accountants had a good conceit of themselves, she felt, but why should they consider themselves superior to bus drivers and the people who kept the streets clean? She could see no reason. So Grace, who came to Isabel’s house every day to clean and tidy and put things back in their place, was called a housekeeper by Isabel, and generously paid. Isabel’s father, for whom Grace had worked during his final illness, had asked Isabel to ensure that Grace was looked after, and Isabel had given her 2 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h word that she would be, even to the extent, now, of setting out to buy a flat for her. Grace rented, which Isabel thought was a waste of money, and subject to the vagaries of landlords. But when she had raised the matter with Grace, and offered to buy a flat, she discovered a curious inertia on Grace’s part. Yes, it would be very nice one day to have a flat, and yes, she would look, but nothing was ever done. So Isabel had decided she would do it. She would look for something suitable and set Grace up in it.
She could easily afford to do this. Isabel was discreet about her financial position, but the Louisiana and Gulf Land Company, a large part of which she had inherited through her mother, had done and continued to do well. There was no shortage of funds, as the quarterly statement of assets from the Northern Trust revealed. These statements came from an alien land—from the land of money, a world of figures, of profit-earnings ratios, of bonds, of projections that meant little to Isabel. But she understood very well this world’s siren call, and she resisted it. Money could claim one’s allegiances very quickly; this happened all the time. It was like a drug: the hit faded and more was needed for the same high. So she did not think about it, and she quietly gave away much of her income, unnoticed, uncomplimented; she was often the anonymous at the end of lists of donors; that was her.
Grace was older than Isabel, but not by much—forty-six to Isabel’s forty-two. These four years, though, were important, as they reinforced her tendency to question Isabel’s judgement from time to time. Four years’ seniority in adult life was nothing, whatever it may count for in childhood; yet these four years gave Grace the advantage of Isabel—in Grace’s view. She thought her employer’s view of the world was unduly theoretical and 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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that one day it would be moderated by experience. But that experience, she felt, was slow to come.
The next morning Isabel was eager to tell Grace about Cat’s new boyfriend, but the conversation started off in a totally different direction. Guests were expected the following week and arrangements had to be made. Grace did not like visitors to be sprung upon her; she wanted to know exactly who was arriving, why they were coming, and when they would leave. After this had been sorted out, then the details could be addressed: which room they would stay in, what meals would be required, and so on.
“You mentioned guests,” said Grace as she slipped out of her blue macintosh and hung it on the peg behind the kitchen door. “Next week, isn’t it?”
Isabel, rising from the kitchen table where she had been attempting the first few clues of the Scotsman crossword, put down her pencil. “Yes,” she said. “Mimi and Joe. And they’re coming for just under a month. They’ll be going on to Oxford for a while and then back to Dallas.”
Grace moved over to the sink and reached for her blue washing-up gloves. “Mimi and Joe? The ones who were here three or four years ago?”
Isabel nodded. Mimi McKnight was her cousin, her mother’s first cousin, to be precise, and she and her husband, Joe, had visited her some years ago. Grace had met them then and, as far as Isabel remembered, got on well with them. There was no point in having guests with whom Grace disagreed: that could be disastrous.
Grace picked up a plate from the drying rack and examined it. Isabel had washed it, and it might have to be washed again.