A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h alcohol at the time, then running somebody over could lead to a ten-year jail sentence. Everybody knew that. Of course one would panic in such circumstances.
“Please tell us,” Rose said imploringly. “Please tell us what you’ve seen.”
Isabel studied her hands. “I saw a man driving a car down a road,” she said. “And then I saw a young man walk out in front of the car and get knocked down. The man stopped the car and got out. I saw him bending over the young man. I saw that the man in the car was shortish, slightly chubby in fact, and had fair hair. That’s what I saw.”
Isabel looked up from the study of her hands. She saw that Graeme, who had been standing when she began to talk, was now sitting down. He seemed to have relaxed, and was looking at Rose with a smile on his lips.
“You don’t believe me, Mr. . . .”
“Forbes,” he supplied. “No, please don’t be offended. I just don’t see how these things can work. I’m sorry. No disrespect intended to your . . . your calling.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Isabel, rising to her feet. “I wouldn’t wish to impose my vision on those who do not want to receive it. That’s not the way we work. Please forgive me.”
Rose was quick to get to her feet too. She took a step forward and reached out for Isabel’s hand.
“I appreciate your having come to see us,” she said. “I really do. And I can pass on what you’ve said to the police. I promise you that.”
Isabel now wanted nothing more than to leave. Graeme’s arrival had disturbed her greatly, and the subterfuge to which she had then resorted had hardly improved the situation. It was a serious matter to deceive a bereaved mother in this way, F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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she felt, even if she had not had much alternative in the circumstances.
“Please don’t feel that you have to go right away,” said Rose.
“I haven’t offered you anything yet. What about a cup of tea? Or coffee?”
“You’re very kind,” said Isabel. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time already. I don’t think I should have come in the first place.”
“Of course you should have come,” Rose said quickly. “I’m glad you did, you know. I’m really glad you did.” She stopped, and then, releasing Isabel’s hand, she asked, through tears, “Did you see . . . did you see my son’s face in this dream of yours? Did he come to you?”
Isabel took a deep breath. She had intervened in the life of this woman without being asked. And now she had com-pounded the potential harm by leading her to believe that she had seen her son. What had been intended as a quick response to an unexpected development—a story designed not to be taken seriously—had touched this woman in an unexpectedly profound way.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t really see his face. He didn’t speak to me. I’m sorry.”
Graeme had now got up from his chair and had placed a protective arm round Rose’s shoulder. He glared at Isabel.
“Please leave this house,” he said, the anger rising in his voice. “Please leave now.”
I S A B E L W E N T T H AT A F T E R N OO N to Jamie’s flat in Saxe-Coburg Street. She had returned home after her visit to the house in Nile Grove, but had been unable to settle. Grace had 1 3 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h sensed that something was wrong, and had asked if she was all right. Isabel would have liked to have spoken to Grace, but could not. What prevented her was embarrassment over the ridiculous claim that she had made, the claim that she was a medium. She came out of that rather badly, she thought, even if it had been a lie dreamt up to deal with a totally unexpected situation. So she reassured Grace that nothing was amiss—
another lie, although a very common one—and decided instead to see Jamie as soon as possible: that afternoon, in fact.
It was one of Jamie’s afternoons for teaching in his flat.
Isabel knew that he did not like to be disturbed while teaching, but this was an extraordinary situation that called for extraordinary action. So she crossed town on foot, walking down Dundas Street and stopping briefly at the galleries to pass the time before Jamie might be expected to be on his last pupil. There was nothing to interest her in the gallery windows, and nothing inside either; she was too uneasy to appreciate art.
On Henderson Row, groups of boys were coming out of the Edinburgh Academy, clad in their grey tweed blazers, engaged in the earnest conversation which boys seem to have in groups.
In the distance, somewhere within the school buildings, the Academy Pipe Band was practising and she stopped for a moment to listen to the drifting sound of the bagpipes. “Dark Island,” she thought; like so many Scottish tunes a haunting melody, redolent of loss and separation. Scotland had produced such fine laments, such fine accounts of sorrow and longing, whereas Ireland had been so much jauntier . . .
She continued walking, the sound of the pipes gradually becoming fainter and fainter. Saxe-Coburg Street was just round the corner from the Academy; indeed the windows at the back of Jamie’s flat gave a view down into the school’s grounds F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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and into the large skylights of the art department. One could stand there, if one wanted, and watch the senior boys painting in their life class, or the younger ones throwing clay, making the shapeless pots which would be taken back to admiring parents and consigned after a decent interval to a cupboard. She did not ring the bell at the bottom of the mutual stair, but walked up the several flights of stone stairway to Jamie’s front door. She paused there and listened. There was silence, and then a murmur of voices and the sound of a scale being played on a bassoon, hesitantly at first and then with greater speed. She looked at her watch. She had thought he might be finished by now, but she had misjudged. She decided to knock anyway, loudly, so that Jamie might hear her in the back room that he used as his studio.
