Friends, Lovers, Chocolate

“And said that he believes it possible. He says that he has some correspondence in which Auden says something about Burns.”

Grace’s expression suggested that she was not impressed. “I must get on with my work,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your . . .”

“Work,” said Isabel, supplying the word that Grace might have uttered in quotation marks. She knew that Grace did not regard the hours she spent in her study as real work. And, of course, to those whose work was physical, sitting at a desk did not seem unduly strenuous.

Grace left her, and she continued with the rest of the corre-2 5 8

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h spondence and with a set of proofs that she had neglected over the last few days. She did not regret the time she had spent away from her desk, particularly the previous day’s trip to West Linton. As far as she was concerned, she had done her duty by Ian and had brought the whole matter to its resolution. On the journey back from West Linton Ian had been loquacious.

“You were right,” he said. “I needed to say thank you. That was probably all there was to it.”

“Good,” said Isabel, and she had mused on how strong the need to thank may be. “And do you think that will be the end of those . . . what shall we call them? Experiences?”

“I don’t know,” said Ian. “But I do feel different.”

“And we’ve laid to rest all that nonsense about cellular memory,” said Isabel. “Our faith in the rational can be reaf-firmed.”

“You’re sure that I met him, or had him pointed out to me, aren’t you?” Ian asked. He sounded doubtful.

“Isn’t that the most likely explanation?” replied Isabel. “It’s a small village. People would have known about the death. They would have talked. You probably heard it, even if indirectly, from your hosts—a chance remark over breakfast or whatever. But the mind takes such things in and files them away. So you knew—but didn’t know—that Euan was the man you wanted to thank. Doesn’t that sound credible to you?”

He looked out of the window at the dark fields flashing by.

“Maybe.”

“And there’s another thing,” said Isabel. “Resolution. Musicians know all about that, don’t they? Pieces of music seek resolution, have to end on a particular note, or it sounds all wrong.

The same applies to our lives. It’s exactly the same.”

F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

2 5 9

Ian said nothing to this, but thought about it all the way back to Edinburgh, and continued to think about it for the remainder of that evening, in silence and in gratitude. He was not convinced by Isabel’s explanation. It could be true, but it did not seem true to him. But did that matter? Did it matter how one got to the place one wanted to be, provided that one got there in the end?

JA M I E WA S I N V I T E D for dinner that evening and accepted. He should bring something to sing, Isabel said, and she would accompany him. He could choose.

He arrived at seven o’clock, fresh from a rehearsal at the Queen’s Hall and full of complaint about the unreasonable behaviour of a particular conductor. She gave him a glass of wine and led him through to the music room. In the kitchen, a fish stew sat on the stove, and fresh French bread was on the table. There was a candle, unlit, and starched Dutch napkins in a Delft design.

She sat down at the piano and took the music which he handed to her. Schubert and Schumann. It was safe, rather gemutlich, and she felt that his heart was not in it.

“Sing something you believe in,” she said after they had reached the end of the third song.

Jamie smiled. “A good idea,” he said. “I’m fed up with all that.” He reached into his music bag and took out a couple of sheets of music, which he handed to Isabel.

“Jacobite!” exclaimed Isabel. “ ‘Derwentwater’s Farewell.’

What’s this all about?”

“It’s a lament,” said Jamie. “It’s been dredged up out of 2 6 0

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Hogg’s Jacobite Relics. It’s all about poor Lord Derwentwater, who was executed for joining the rebellion. It’s all about the things that he’ll miss. It’s very sad.”

“So I see,” said Isabel, glancing at the words. “And this is his speech here—printed at the end?”

“Yes,” said Jamie. “I find that particularly moving. He delivered it a few minutes before they put him to death. He was a loyal friend to James the Third. They had been boys together at the Palace of St. Germain.”

“A loyal friend,” mused Isabel, staring at the music. “That greatest of goods—friendship.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jamie. He leant forward and pointed to a passage in the printed speech. “Look at what he says here. Near the end—minutes from death. He says, I am in perfect charity with all the world. ”

Isabel was silent. I am in perfect charity with all the world, she thought. I am in perfect charity with all the world. Resolution.

“And over here,” said Jamie. “Look. He says, I freely forgive such as ungenerously reported false things of me. Then he goes to his death.”

“They acted with such dignity,” said Isabel. “Not all of them perhaps, but so many. Look at Mary, Queen of Scots. What a different world.”

“Yes,” said Jamie. “It was. But we’re in this one. Let’s begin.”