She went through to the kitchen to fetch herself a sandwich and a bowl of soup for lunch. Grace had made the soup, as she often did, and it was simmering on the stove, a broth of leek and potato, salted rather too heavily for Isabel’s taste, but good nonetheless. It was while Isabel was helping herself to this that Cat telephoned. There was often no particular reason for a telephone call from Cat, who liked to chat at idle moments, and this was such a call. Had Isabel seen that new Australian film at Film House? She should go, because it was excellent, better than anything else that Cat had seen that year. The Australians made such good films, didn’t they? So perceptive. And witty too.
Had Isabel seen . . .
Isabel sat down at the kitchen table, her soup before her, and continued to listen while Cat expounded on the merits of 3 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Australian cinema. Then, as Cat drew a breath, she asked, “Did you go that film with Patrick?”
“Yes,” said Cat. “I did. He was working late and so we met at the—” She stopped. “You haven’t met Patrick, have you? Did I tell you about him?”
Isabel thought quickly. She did not want to tell Cat that she had heard about Patrick from Eddie, because it might embarrass Eddie if Cat were to know that he discussed her affairs. She might not mind, of course, but one never knew with Cat.
“I can’t remember,” she said, which was not true. And she thought: Why should I feel inclined to lie in a matter as petty as this? So she said, “Actually, I was speaking to Eddie and I asked where you were. He mentioned Patrick.”
Cat was silent.
“It would be nice to meet him,” Isabel went on. She tried to sound unconcerned, as if meeting Patrick was not all that important. “You could bring him round, perhaps.”
“All right,” said Cat. “Whenever you like.”
After that the conversation trailed off. No date was chosen for Cat to bring Patrick to meet Isabel, but Isabel made a mental note to herself to call Cat the following day and suggest an evening. She did not want to press her, as she was meant not to be too interested in something which was none of her business.
She thought of Richard Latcham’s lying patient and his struggle to tell the truth. This was not a great moral battle that she faced, the battle not to get involved in matters that did not concern her; it was really quite a small one. But it was nonetheless her battle; unless, of course, one took the view that it was entirely natural to be interested in her niece’s boyfriends.
Grace came into the room. “Was that Cat?” she asked.
T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
3 3
Isabel took out a bowl and began to help Grace to soup. “It was,” she answered.
Grace opened a cupboard to put away a duster she had been carrying. “I met her new boyfriend,” she said casually. “I was passing by the deli and I popped in. He was there.”
Isabel looked down at her soup. “And?”
“He’s called Patrick,” she said. “And he seemed all right.”
“Oh,” said Isabel. “Well, that’s something.”
“Apparently Jamie knows him too,” Grace volunteered.
“They were at school together. Same age. Twenty-eight.”
This was unexpected information, so Isabel again said,
“Oh,” and continued with her soup. That gave her something to think about, and she did so, while Grace continued to talk about something that had happened at her spiritualist meeting the previous evening. The medium—somebody new, said Grace, somebody from Inverness (and they’re all a bit fey up there, she added)—had contacted the cousin of a young man who had been coming to the meetings for weeks but who had never said a word until then.
“At the end of the meeting he had changed completely,”
said Grace. “He said that he had blamed himself in some way for his cousin’s death and now the cousin had reassured him that it was all right.”
Isabel half listened. To be forgiven from beyond the grave could be important if that was the only quarter from which forgiveness could come, which, for many of us, she reflected, might well be the case.
C H A P T E R T H R E E
E
THERE’S SOMETHING I don’t quite understand,” said Jamie.
“I hope you don’t mind my talking about it. But I just don’t see why you should be doing this.”
They were sitting in a small patisserie round the corner from St. Stephen Street. The early afternoon light filtered through a corner of the window, illuminating floating particles of dust in the air; there was a smell of freshly made coffee in the air, and vanilla from the pastries. On the table behind them the day’s newspapers were untidily folded, outraged headlines half obscured by creases in the paper: warns . . . resignation . . .
erupts in somalia . . .
Isabel leaned back in her chair. “It’s because it’s Grace,” she said. “I don’t want to sound like the on-duty philosopher, but, frankly, I have a moral obligation to her.” And Somalia? she thought. What about Somalia? There was a book somewhere in the house, a book that had belonged to her father, which bore the title
Jamie continued, “But buying a flat . . .” He trailed off. It was an expensive gift, it seemed to him, and although
