A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h sometimes happened when she had argued herself into a corner over some point and could not retract; the ironing would suddenly call, or something would be remembered upstairs. But now she was showing no signs of ending their conversation, and so Isabel continued.
“Of course, you may not be the only one to like him,” Isabel said. She tried to make the observation a casual one, but there was an edge to her voice, which Grace noticed. She looked up sharply.
“Why do you say that?”
Isabel swallowed hard. How would one put this? “I thought that the medium showed an interest,” she said. “She certainly kept her eyes on him. Over tea afterwards . . .”
“She often looks at people,” said Grace defensively. “That’s the way they communicate. They have to establish a rapport with the people there so that the other side can get in touch.”
Isabel thought for a moment. Grace was showing loyalty to the medium, which she should have expected. “But—and please correct me if I’m wrong—wasn’t that message she gave about somebody’s wife being concerned that somebody else was trying to get to know him better—wasn’t that directed at your friend? Didn’t you see his reaction?”
Grace pursed her lips. “I wasn’t watching very closely,”
she said.
“Well, I was,” said Isabel. “And I could tell that he thought the message was for him. It was as if somebody had hit him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.”
Grace sniffed. “I don’t know. Some of these messages are rather general. That could have been for anybody there. Most of the men who go to these meetings have lost their wives, you know. That man isn’t the only one.”
F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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Isabel stared at Grace. Her housekeeper had many merits, she thought. She was direct in her manner, she was utterly truthful, and she had no time for hypocrisy. But when she chose to deny the obvious, she could do so with a tenacity that was infinitely frustrating.
“Grace,” she said. “I didn’t want to spell it out, but you force me to do so. I thought the medium had eyes just for that man.
She was devouring him. Now then, imagine that you are a medium and you notice that the man you’re after is getting a bit too friendly with another woman. What do you do? Suddenly you discover that the wife is coming through from the other side and, lo and behold, she tells him that the opposition is bad for him. And since he believes it’s his wife talking, he takes the warning seriously. End of romance for . . . well, sorry to put it this way, but, end of possible romance for you.”
While Isabel was talking, Grace had fixed her with an unblinking stare. Now, picking up the pencil again, she twirled it gently between her fingers. Then she laughed.
“But what if the wife has got it right? What if I’m not good for him? What then?”
Isabel thought quickly. Her analysis, which she was sure was true, was based on the assumption that the medium was inventing the message. It was inconceivable to her that there was any communication with the dead wife, and so she had to think this. But if, like Grace, one thought that the message could be genuine, then quite another conclusion might be reached.
“If you believe that,” she said, “then I suppose you might keep away from each other.”
“Exactly,” said Grace.
Isabel was puzzled. Most women did not abandon a man to 1 7 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h another woman without at least some attempt at a fight. And yet Grace seemed to be prepared to hand victory to the medium.
“I’m surprised that you’re giving up so easily,” she said. “In my view, that woman is resorting to a cheap trick. And you’re letting her get away with it.”
“I may not agree,” said Grace. “So there we are.” She looked at her watch and turned away. The conversation had come to an end. “There’s work to be done,” she said. “What about you? Is the
Isabel rose to her feet. “It never is,” she said. “It’s a Sisyphean labour for me. I push a rock up a hill and then it rolls down again.”
“Everybody’s job is like that,” said Grace. “I wash things and they become dirty and need washing again. You publish one set of articles and another sack of them comes in. Even the Queen’s job is like that. She opens one bridge and they build another.
She signs one law and they pass another.” She sighed, as if weighed down by the thought of the royal burden.
“Our lot is labour,” said Isabel.
Grace, who had picked up a piece of paper from the floor, nodded.
“That’s right,” Grace went on, completing the quotation:
“Solomon,” mused Isabel. “What do you think his glory was like? Gold trappings and all that sort of thing?”
Grace examined the piece of paper she had retrieved from the floor. It was a page detached from a
