The Lost Art of Gratitude

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IN HER DREAM, her aunt from Mobile had told Isabel to finish what she began. Isabel realised that this was wise advice, of course, of the sort that we started to give to children the moment they understood what the words finish and begin meant. She realised, too, that the advice given to us by people inhabiting our dreams was really advice from ourselves to ourselves. Somewhere within herself, then, was a self that wanted to advise another self about what to do—which suggested that the self was bifurcated, split between the wise self, cautious and prudent, and another self, lazy, flawed, headstrong perhaps.

No, she thought, I shall not be drawn into that. There were conflicting desires—that was all; there was only one Isabel Dalhousie, one self, but it had to weigh options and make choices. Any other view would take one down some ridiculous and dangerous path of multiple personalities, and Isabel was not going in that direction. Although … although how convenient it would be to have two personae and to be able to choose to inhabit one at this time and another at that time. We are all compartmentalised to an extent: there was the private self, the person we were when there was nobody about, and then there was the public self, the person we were when others were watching. For most, the differences between the two were small—ideally the two selves should be exactly the same—but for others there was usually some distinction. Even a saint might in private be irritable, or might swear sotto voce should he stub his toe; even the great and dignified might be silly at times when not in the public eye, might give the inner child the chance to romp.

Driving out that evening to Minty Auchterlonie’s house off the Biggar Road, Isabel told herself that at least she was finishing what she had started—or planning to do so. She knew that not only was this the correct thing to do, it was what Jamie wanted as well. He was right about that, as was her aunt in her dream; Minty was a ghost that had to be laid to rest. And yet she was not quite sure what she should do. Should she tell Minty that she knew that she had been used, and then demand an apology? Or should she simply upbraid her, thus showing her that she—Isabel—would not tolerate being implicated in whatever proxy lies or threats Minty might resort to in order to get out of difficulties? A third possibility presented itself—that she should drive as far as Nine Mile Burn and then turn round and head back to Edinburgh, forgetting about the whole thing. She almost did that; almost, but then Nine Mile Burn flashed past and she had not even slowed down very much and a new stretch of country revealed itself; at the edge of it was Minty’s house, now to be glimpsed, just, in the distance, a small block of white put down amongst the folds of the landscape, and beyond it the blue of the distant hills, and more blue.

Minty knew that she was coming, as Isabel had telephoned in advance. As Isabel made her way up the drive, the car wheels crunching the expensive gravel mix below—pink and grey—she saw Minty appear at the front door. She was carrying something in her hands, a magazine or a sheaf of papers—it was difficult to tell at that distance. She went back in, deposited the papers somewhere, and came out again just as Isabel brought the car to a halt in front of the house.

Minty’s manner was warm. “I know better than to offer you something to drink,” she said. “That’s one thing about living in the country—people have to drive out to see you and so your drinks cupboard rarely has to be stocked up.”

Isabel smiled weakly. “I like tea,” she said, “if that’s on offer.”

“Of course it is. Anything.”

Isabel instantly regretted her request. She did not want her visit to be transformed into a social meeting conducted over a cup of tea. She knew that this would be a danger with Minty, who would use her considerable skills to forfend any threat to her command of a situation. “Actually,” she said, “I’m not sure that I even want a cup of tea.”

Minty started to frown, but obviously thought better of it, and the incipient frown became a smile. “It would be no trouble.”

They were still standing outside, and Isabel, sensing that Minty was about to invite her in, looked over her shoulder at the expanse of rough-cut grass behind her. “It’s such a warm evening,” she began. “Couldn’t we go for a walk down there? The view must be stunning.”

Minty looked over Isabel’s shoulder, towards the hills. “It looks like rain’s heading our way.”

Isabel was insistent. “But not just yet. Come on.”

Minty conceded, and they began to stroll over the grass towards the bank of shrubs at the end of the garden. Beyond the shrubs there was a field, and beyond that more fields, woods, and, in the distance, the hills themselves.

“I hope you’ll hear me out in what I have to say,” Isabel said. “You may not like it.”

Minty was all innocence. “Not like it? Why? What could you say that I wouldn’t like?”

Isabel went straight to the point. “I know that you’ve used me,” she said. “You’ve deliberately misrepresented me …”

She did not finish. “Misrepresented?” snapped Minty. “I explained to you, remember. I told you in the café. I told you what happened.”

“And George Finesk? The letter you wrote?”

They did not stop walking. It was easier, Isabel felt, to utter these lines while walking.

“George Finesk?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

Minty hesitated. Then: “George Finesk carried out a totally unwarranted attack on our property. And I have the evidence to support that.”

“But you didn’t tell me about that,” retorted Isabel. “You led me to believe that it was Jock Dundas. Yet you knew all along that it was George.”

“So? So what?”

Isabel stopped walking. She took a step to the side so that she was now standing directly in front of Minty. “You used me,” she said again. “You forged my signature.” She was looking directly into Minty’s eyes, hoping to see the effect of truth upon them. But there was none. Minty stared back at her, bemused. She controls even her gaze, Isabel thought.

Minty spoke. “I haven’t caused you any harm, have I? I’ve had to deal with two … how shall I put it? Two little problems. And I’ve done it—with some assistance from you, I admit, for which I really am grateful.” She paused. “Two women helping one another deal with troublesome men. But if it’s payment you’re looking for, I can certainly …”

“I don’t want money,” Isabel hissed. “I want …” What did she want? “I want an apology.”

Minty did not hesitate. “Of course. Sorry. Yes, I’m very sorry if you’ve been offended by my somewhat unconventional tactics. But you must admit, surely, that they seem to have worked.”

Suddenly Minty took a step backwards. “Do you mind? I feel a little bit claustrophobic when I’m too close to people.”

“Because you’re forced to see them as real?” asked Isabel.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do. You know exactly what I mean.”

Minty looked at her watch. “Look, it’s almost eight. I really have to get on with things. Gordon …”

Isabel looked past Minty towards the house. There was a light on in one of the rooms to the front of the house, and she saw a figure move across a window, silhouetted. It occurred to her that it would be very easy.

“Gordon doesn’t know.”

Minty, who had also turned, spun round. “What?”

“I said that Gordon doesn’t know about your affair with Jock …”

For a moment Minty said nothing. Isabel saw her colour though, saw the flush of anger, or was it fear?

“You’d tell him?” Minty’s voice was small—constricted by something.

Isabel was aware of the moment’s significance. It was a strange feeling—having somebody in your power and completely at your mercy. One might relish it, if one were insecure or perverted, or simply cruel.

Minty spoke again. “You wouldn’t tell him? You gave me your word, you know.”

She had to decide, and now, at this extreme moment, she found it remarkably easy to choose. There was no self within her saying, Go on, go ahead and threaten her; all that she heard was the self that said, It would be wrong; what you have to do is forgive her.

“I told you that I wouldn’t tell him, and I won’t.”

Minty’s relief was palpable. “Good.”

Isabel watched her. “I notice that you said good and not thank you.”

“Thank you,” said Minty.

“An afterthought.”

Isabel swallowed. Her heart was thumping again, as it always did at these moments. Minty’s heart, she thought, will not be thumping, or turning somersaults, or doing any of the things that the hearts of normal people are said to do.

“One final thing,” Isabel said. “You have wronged me, but you have wronged others—George Finesk included.”

Minty stared at her. “George Finesk? Let me tell you something. That man has a dispute with me. A simple business disagreement. He’s the one who’s taken it nuclear.”

Isabel held her gaze. “But I know what happened. And it seems to me that you should have told him that you were going to sell the bank’s holding in that company.”

Minty’s expression now showed amusement. “But I did. I told him about it. There was complete disclosure.”

“He says there wasn’t.”

Minty waited for a few moments before she replied. “He’s a liar.” She paused, watching the effect of her words on Isabel. “Can’t you tell when somebody’s lying?”

No, thought Isabel. I don’t seem to be able to do that at all.

She looked away, unsure as to whether she would have the courage to challenge Minty. “People tell a lot of lies, don’t they? So what if I were lying when I told you that I wouldn’t tell Gordon about your affair? What then?”

Minty froze. She opened her mouth, but said nothing. Isabel felt her eyes upon her; cold rays.

“Well, I wasn’t lying when I said that. But tell me something—have you heard of the liar paradox?”

Minty looked uncertain. It was what Isabel wanted; she had forced the other woman on to her own territory.

“It’s something that philosophers talk about,” said Isabel. “A Cretan says ‘All Cretans are liars.’ But he’s a Cretan, you see. More to the point, though, I might say to you, ‘All Scots sometimes tell lies,’ which is probably true. There can’t be anybody, really, who hasn’t told a lie—even a little one—at some point in life, particularly as a child. So what this suggests is that you shouldn’t always believe what a Scottish person tells you. And, of course, I’m a Scot …” She smiled. “What a ridiculous conversation, though. Please don’t pay too much attention to what I say. I’m a professional philosopher, you see, and we go on about things rather a lot. Strange, unrealistic speculation, and so on.”

Minty was watching her, but Isabel now felt confident. Wickedness was tawdry when you came right up against it—as she felt she was doing now. It was tawdry and banal. There was nothing impressive or frightening about Minty Auchterlonie; she was very ordinary.

“Yes,” Isabel went on, “I love philosophical speculations. So I might ask myself, for example, whether in a case like this it would be appropriate for one person to compensate another. What do you think, Minty—do you enjoy speculating about that sort of thing?”

Minty remained quite still. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “I will. I’ll do something.”

Isabel watched her. No, she thought, she’s lying. Again. But she had played with her enough. It was not for her to punish Minty.

“I don’t think you will at all,” said Isabel. And then, rather reluctantly, she added, “And I don’t think that you really understand me. So let me reassure you. When I said that I wouldn’t say anything to Gordon, I meant that. You can trust me.”

IT TOOK HER TIME to calm down as she drove back, but by the time she reached the turn-off for Flotterstane she felt normal again. Her visit to Minty Auchterlonie, she decided, had not been a waste of time; nor had she allowed herself to become angry. She found herself wondering what would have happened had she yielded to the temptation to force Minty to make amends to George by threatening to tell Gordon of the affair. Again, she had made the right decision, as to do otherwise would have been to play by Minty’s rules, and Minty, she suspected, would always win in any such game.

She looked out of the car window, down towards Roslin and Dalkeith beyond. The evening air seemed to have applied a wash to the countryside, like the layer of faint blue that a watercolourist will use to blur the details. It gave the land that feeling of peacefulness, of near somnolence, of a country getting ready for the darkness that was still an hour or two away. She loved that view; she loved that bit of land, which, when she turned the next corner following the road that curved round Hillend House, would become the city.

Charlie had been put to bed by the time she arrived at the house.

“I would have kept him up for you,” said Jamie, “but he was ready to drop.”

They crept into Charlie’s room together, and she bent down and kissed him gently, imperceptibly, on the side of the head. His hair smelled of baby shampoo, and beside him was his stuffed fox staring up at the ceiling with the patience that only stuffed animals seem capable of. It made her think of Brother Fox, who must be better by now, she thought, unaware of why it was that his wound had stopped aching. That was the best way of doing good, she thought; do it when the person for whom you are doing the deed is under heavy sedation and will never remember. So might one leave presents for others—while they were asleep or otherwise unaware of what you were doing.

They went downstairs. Jamie had prepared an elaborate salad, which they would eat with wild Scottish salmon steaks and boiled new potatoes. She poured a glass of New Zealand white wine for both of them, chilled and dry. Then she told him what had happened that evening.

“That’s the end of that,” he said. “Odd ending, though.”

She found herself agreeing. It had indeed been an odd ending, but it was, she felt, exactly right. “If it had ended any other way I think I would have felt uncomfortable,” she said. “I just would.”

He thought about that, and after a few minutes he agreed. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“In fact, I’ve done virtually nothing,” she said. “Everything happened without my really doing anything. I was a complete pawn in Minty’s hands.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “But then you showed her something at the end.”

“Did I?”

He was quite sure. “I think you did. She may take no notice, but she may have learned something. May have.”

He took the salmon steaks from the fridge and prepared the pan.

“I love you in your apron,” she said, looking across the room at him from her chair at the kitchen table. “Why is it that men look so good in aprons?”

Jamie had no idea. He did not think of himself as looking good; he was without vanity.

“Oh,” he said, remembering something as he dropped the steaks on to the surface of the pan. “Guy Peploe phoned.”

She looked up. “About that portrait?”

Jamie nodded. “He left a message, since he was going to be in London tomorrow and might not be able to speak until he came back. He said his view of that painting has been confirmed. It’s not the lost one. It was done by an Italian, I think he said.”

“By Dupra. I see.” She felt a pang of disappointment. “He told me that was probably the case. I still like it, though. And I’m glad we bought it.”

“Well, there you are,” said Jamie. “I’ve often thought about the value that we give to things that are authentic. Does it matter if something is not made by the person we’d like it to be made by? If a violin plays like a Strad, does it matter if it’s by a lesser maker?”

Isabel was about to answer “Not really,” but then she realised that sometimes it did matter. “It matters if we’re interested in where things come from,” she said. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s just utility we’re bothered about.”

“So if I composed something that sounded like Mozart, would it count for as much as the real thing?”

Isabel smiled. “It would to me,” she said.

He averted his gaze in momentary embarrassment, but soon turned round again and smiled at her. “Thanks,” he said.

Jamie returned to the stove and Isabel crossed over to the kitchen window. She stared out into the garden. A clump of valerian stood along the wall, a curious, light purple plant, a faithful returnee whom she had never had to encourage. It brought sleep, she knew, like the poppy. Baldrian, she thought; Baldrian in German. A German visitor, a professor of philosophy from Frankfurt, had seen it in her garden and called it Baldrian. She had asked why, and he had replied that it was named after a Norse god called Baldur—“so good and so true that the light shone forth from him.” There were people like that, not just gods—but only a tiny handful. How many in Scotland? Ten? Twenty?

Her thoughts returned to the picture and to Guy’s call. Things were not what they seemed to be; sometimes that mattered, while other times it mattered not at all. It was not important that the picture of Bonnie Prince Charlie was not what she had hoped it would be; the prince himself was probably not what so many people had hoped he would be. He was a military failure, he was proud and seemingly rather vain—as the later Stuarts tended to be. Minty was palpably not what she claimed to be; nor was George Finesk; nor Jock Dundas. She should not have taken any of these people at face value; she had been naive. But this conclusion, she realised, pointed unambiguously in the direction of cynicism, and she would not be a cynic. It was better to be naive—much better.

The salmon steaks cooked, Jamie served the potatoes and put the salad bowl on the table. “Very delicious,” remarked Isabel. She was looking away as she spoke and Jamie could tell that her mind was elsewhere. He assumed that all philosophers were like that—not only his philosopher.

“I think we should invite Cat and Bruno back for dinner,” she said. “How about next week?” She did not want to do this, but she knew that she had to make an effort. Ill feeling, in whatever quarter it existed, was like a slow and insidious poison, a weedkiller that strangled the life about it. She would make an effort with Bruno, no matter how hard it might be.

He shook his head. “It might be too late,” he said.

“Why?”

He delivered the news in even tones. “Because I don’t think they’re still together.”

Isabel had half expected this. Cat was incorrigible; she was ashamed of her, but she was also pleased. How quickly, she thought, have my good intentions been replaced by delight in the end of Cat’s romance. She was human, made up of a will to do good, but also with human failings. It was the end of Bruno, but she resisted any hint of triumphalism, or evident relief, restricting herself to asking Jamie how he had formed this impression.

“Eddie said something,” Jamie replied.

Isabel felt her pleasure fading rapidly. Eddie was not always to be relied upon.

“Eddie went to a show on the Meadows,” Jamie went on. “It was some sort of sample of what was coming up at the Fringe—the usual thing, actors, jugglers, musicians. And Bruno was doing a tightrope walk.”

Isabel could see it. There would be colour and music and the very faint hint of marijuana smoke mingled with cheap perfume.

Jamie continued with his explanation. “Bruno’s wire was not very high—about twelve feet or so, Eddie said. But he was doing all sorts of tricks on it—he rode a unicycle across and skipped—you know what these characters do.”

Isabel imagined Bruno padding across the wire in his elevator shoes. No, he would take those off and don a pair of soft kid slippers. Did they make elevator slippers? she wondered.

Jamie was watching her. “Are you trying not to laugh?”

She could reply—quite honestly—that she was not. But she sensed that laughter was there, not far away, and that this would spoil all her moral effort, her determination to like Bruno.

“Anyway, he was walking along the wire, and Cat and Eddie were watching from down below. Cat suddenly called out to him and waved—Eddie said that he thought she was really proud of seeing him up there being admired by everybody.”

“I suppose so,” said Isabel. But she thought: I wouldn’t be.

“He looked round, apparently, and then fell off. She had distracted him.”

Isabel gasped.

“He wasn’t hurt, apparently, or not badly,” Jamie went on. “He twisted an ankle a bit, but picked himself up and went over to Cat.”

“And?”

“And he yelled at her,” said Jamie. “Ranted and raved in front of everybody. Then apparently he stormed off. Eddie said that Cat was in tears and nothing’s been seen of Bruno since then. No apology. Nothing.”

Isabel sat in silence. It was a painful discovery to make, but one very much better made before she married him.

“The end of Bruno,” she muttered.

“Yes,” said Jamie. He pointed to the salmon steaks on their plates. “Don’t let the salmon get cold.”

She lifted her knife and fork. Cat had made numerous mistakes, and seemed destined to make more. One day she would stop—she would have to—and take stock of the men she had chosen. Every one of them had been unsuitable, in one way or another, apart from Jamie, that is. But then Jamie had been unsuitable for Cat—principally because he was so suitable for virtually anybody else. Poor Cat: Could she not see the problem?

They exchanged glances. “Let’s be honest,” said Jamie. “It would have been a disaster. Those elevator shoes.”

Isabel was thinking more of his temper, but she agreed that the elevator shoes were a problem too. And the tightrope walking. And the stunts. And Oil.

“You’re right,” she said.

They finished their meal. Then Jamie said, “I composed something today. The words are by somebody else; the music by me. Would you like to hear it?”

Isabel said that she would. She would make coffee and bring it through to the music room. He could go through and get ready.

She ground the coffee, alone in the kitchen, savouring the smell of the grounds. She thought of Italy, and of the little coffee bar in Siena where she had stood at the high tables and drunk coffee with her friends. That was many years ago, and she was a different person now, and they were scattered to the four corners, as so many of us are. Were they happy? she wondered. For she wanted for them only that—happiness and wisdom, if their hearts were open to these two things, these principal things, that were the foundation of the good. I have been so fortunate, she thought, and Cat so unfortunate. She was grateful for that—for her own good fortune, that is, she was grateful. And she hoped that things would change for Cat, but she feared that they would not. We are condemned to repeat our failures, she thought, and some do so all their lives, to the very end, elderly children who have never learned.

She took the coffee through and put the cups down on the small table beside the piano. Jamie, seated at the keyboard, had his fingers on a chord and played it gently. Isabel sat down and waited for him to begin.

“Go on.”

It seemed to her that he was blushing. It was unusual for him to be embarrassed to play before her; they had done that countless times before. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not sure how it’s going to sound.”

She sought to reassure him. “It’ll sound just fine. It always does.” She looked at him. “You don’t have to—if you don’t want to.”

“No, I will.”

She asked whether he had given it a name, and he thought for a moment. “No, I don’t want to. It’s just a tune I’ve made up. Nothing important.”

“What’s it about? Olives? Or potatoes dauphinois?”

He smiled. “I suspect nobody’s ever written a song about potatoes dauphinois.” He played another chord, as if he were looking for something on the piano. “This is about losing things,” he said. “About thinking you’ve lost something, and then finding you haven’t.”

Isabel sat down next to him, on the piano stool. I would go ten thousand miles for you, she thought; as she was now sure he would for her. That was another song altogether, something about turtle doves.

Jamie began.What we lose, we think we lose for ever,

But we are wrong about this; think of love—

Love is lost, we think it gone,

But it returns, often when least expected,

Forgives us our lack of attention, our failure of faith,

Our cold indifference; forgives us all this, and more;

Returns and says, “I was always there.”

Love, at our shoulder, whispers: “Merely remember me,

Don’t think I’ve gone away for ever:

I am still here. With you. My power undimmed.

See. I am here.”

The music accompanying the words was simple, but it followed their mood closely, fittingly, as a well-made garment will follow the shape of the body. When he reached the final sentence, the notes became softer and died away.

Isabel sat transfixed, as did Jamie, and nothing was said for a long time; nor did they move—they were quite still, as they were when they heard the noise outside, the yelping sound: Brother Fox.

Isabel looked anxiously at Jamie. “I hope he’s not in distress.”

“No,” said Jamie. “He’s singing.”