There were things which Isabel might normally have said to this. We were not the same as other animals, she thought: their consciousness was very different from ours. But at the same time she did not believe, as Descartes had asserted, that dogs were machines. If the concept of a soul had any meaning, then there was some sort of canine soul there, and it was a loving one, was it not? And if there was any survival of consciousness, then she did not imagine that it would be attached to a bodily form; in which case if there were any place in which this survival was located, it could well be full of doggy souls as well as human souls. But on all of this she had an open mind. We strove for God—or many people did—and did it really matter what form we gave to that concept of God? In her mind it was a striving for the good. And what was wrong with striving for good in a way which made sense to the individual? Grace paid her visits to the spiritualist meetings; priests and bishops celebrated their rites at an altar; people bathed in the Ganges, travelled to Mecca. It was all the same urge, surely, and an urge that seemed an ineradicable part of our very humanity. We needed holy places, as Auden pointed out in his poem to water:
She looked at Jean. She had survived the death of her son 2 3 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h without the comfort of religious belief. And to do that, and not to have surrendered to despair, she must be a strong woman, who believes in something, in either just getting by in this life or continuing in the face of emptiness and lack of hope. Isabel glanced at Jean’s hands, those hands rendered rough, no doubt, from the soap that she had to use constantly in her work; and she reminded herself that this woman brought relief from suffering every single working day and that she must do that for a reason other than the need to live. So there was purpose there, even if she did not acknowledge it, or talk about it.
There was something else that Isabel wanted to ask her, and she asked it as she rose to her feet to take her leave. Did Jean’s husband know that his son’s heart had been transplanted? No, said Jean. She had told him of the death by telephone and their conversation had been short. He did not know.
O N T H E WAY B AC K she stopped at the bookshop in the village.
Derek Watson greeted her warmly and led her into his kitchen behind the second-hand section. On the table a musical score was spread out, an arrangement in progress, with pencil mark-ings and notes. He put on the kettle and fetched a battered biscuit tin.
Isabel looked at her friend. “You must forgive me, Derek,”
she said. “I have come to see you, and yet I do not feel like talking. I have just been to see Jean Macleod.”
Derek stopped where he was, halfway between a cupboard and the table. He winced. “That poor woman. Her son used to come in here regularly,” he said. “He was interested in books about the Highlands. I used to look out for things for him, and he would pore over them out there in the shop. And then I used F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
2 3 7
to see him staring out of the window, across the street there, at his father’s house. Sitting there staring.”
Isabel said nothing. “Could you just talk to me, Derek, and let me sit here and listen? Talk to me about your composers, if you like.” He had written several biographies of composers.
“If you insist,” he said. “I know how you feel, by the way.
Sometimes I just like to listen.”
Isabel sat and listened. Derek was working on a defence of the work of Giacomo Meyerbeer.
“It’s shocking,” he said. “In the nineteenth century there was Meyerbeer, widely revered as one of the great figures of grand opera. Then suddenly—bang!—he fell from grace. And I’m very sorry to say that Wagner must take some of the blame for that, with his anti-Semitic views. Such an injustice. Meyerbeer was a compassionate man, a man of universalist outlook. A good man. And he was dropped. When did you last hear one of his operas? Well, there you are.”
Isabel sipped her tea. Should she be doing more to rescue the reputation of Giacomo Meyerbeer? No, her plate was full enough as it was. She would leave Meyerbeer to Derek.
“And then,” Derek continued, “I’m working on a symphonic poem. That’s it over there on the table. It’s all about Saint Mungo, for whom I have a great deal of time. His grandfather, as you know, was King Lot of Orkney, but they had that peculiar pimple-shaped hill down near Haddington. When Lot discovered that his daughter had been taken advantage of by one Prince Owain—in a pigsty, mark you—he had her, poor girl, thrown off the hill. She survived, only to be put in a boat and let loose in the Forth. Not very kind. We treat single mothers so much better these days, don’t you think?”
He refilled Isabel’s teacup. “She drifted over the Forth and 2 3 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h landed near Culross. There she was rescued by Saint Serf, no less, and she gave birth to Saint Mungo. So out of unkindness and a lack of charity can come something good at the end of the day.” He paused. “I propose to capture that in a symphonic poem. Or, rather, I shall try to.”
Isabel smiled. Listening to Derek had made her feel better.
There were countless injustices and difficulties in this world, but small points of light too, where the darkness was held back.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E
E
THE NOTE FROM JAMIE was short and to the point.
“Dear Jamie,” she wrote in reply. “If there is anybody with any apologising to do, it is me. I had intended to telephone you and tell you how sorry I am but I didn’t get round to it in the excitement of . . . Oh, there I go. You won’t approve of what I’ve done, but I have to tell you nonetheless. I went out to West Linton and spoke to the mother. It wasn’t easy. But now I know, and I think that I am slowly coming to a full
