The Right Attitude to Rain

Isabel became the philosopher. “A very nice problem,” she said. “Is a drunken agreement a proper agreement? Very nice. I suppose that drunk people can still know what they want. In fact, sometimes the fact that they’re drunk reveals to them even more clearly what they really want. In vino veritas. ”

Jamie said that this was true, but in this case there was a complication. “There was a bassoon on the ground. I recognised the model immediately. Quite a nice one. It needed a bit of work, but it would make a very nice instrument. So I asked him what he wanted for it, and he said, ‘That clarinet?’ and he quoted a really low price.”

Isabel laughed. “So you bought it as a clarinet?”

Jamie looked for a moment as if he was ashamed. “I’m afraid I did.”

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Isabel wanted to reassure him. Those who entered the market did so at their peril; it was caveat venditor as well as caveat emptor. But what was the difference between buying an antique from an elderly person who was unaware of its value—which she was sure was not right—and buying something from an ignorant drunk? There was really no difference except for the fact that we felt sympathy for the vulnerable and we did not for the drunk. But that was not enough to make a moral difference.

That was the problem with morality; it required a consistency and evenhandedness that most of us simply did not possess.

Or some schools of morality required that; and the more she thought about it, the more Isabel came to believe that such requirements were simply inhuman. That was not the way we worked as human beings. We were weak, inconsistent beings, and we needed to be judged as such.

Jamie looked at his watch. “They should be arriving soon,”

he said. “Tell me something about them. Tell me who these people are.”

Isabel also looked at the time. The moment, she realised, had been lost. They had skated round the issue, but at least she had seen something in his eyes and he had implied that it was not ridiculous that they should be more than friends. So now she knew that, and that was something.

“ TO M B R UC E .”

Isabel took the hand that was extended to her. It was a firm handshake, of the sort that Americans give, a token of direct-ness and no nonsense.

“And this,” he said, “is Angie.”

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel was in the hall, with Mimi and the guests. She turned to Angie, noting the low-cut cocktail dress and patent-leather shoes. “We’ve actually met,” said Isabel. “I’m sure that you won’t remember, but it was in a gallery in Dundas Street, a week or so ago. We spoke . . .”

“Of course!” Angie smiled. “Of course I remember.” She turned to Tom. “We were buying that picture by . . . What’s his name again, hon?”

Tom looked flustered. “Cal . . . Cal . . .” His words were distorted by the twisting of his mouth.

“Cadell?” suggested Isabel.

Tom looked at Isabel with gratitude. “Yes, that’s him.”

“One of our most distinguished painters,” said Isabel. “My father had one of his paintings, but gave it away. That was before they became so expensive. I’ve often wondered whether I could ask for it back.”

“Tom adores Scottish art,” said Angie. “In fact, anything to do with your country. He’s Scottish, of course. That name.

Bruce. Descended from Robert the Bruce.”

Tom’s embarrassment was palpable. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “It’s a possibility that we’re looking into. I’ve got somebody doing the research and he says that there are interesting things coming up. He thinks that it might be the same family. But I’m sure it’s only a remote possibility. We’re east Texas really.”

“But if it were true,” said Isabel, “that’s a royal connection.

Think of that. Of course, the Scottish throne has gone south now, with the Hanoverians. Some people still resent that, you know.” She led them into the drawing room, where Jamie was waiting, talking to Joe. Introductions were made while Isabel poured drinks for Tom and Angie.

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“Talking of Scottish kingship,” said Isabel as she handed Tom a glass of wine, “Jamie here has Jacobite sympathies.”

Tom and Angie turned to look at Jamie. Isabel noticed that while Tom turned away, Angie continued to look at him, as one watching. Jamie raised a hand in protest. “Not really.”

“Well, I suspect that he has,” said Isabel. “He seems to know a bit about the Stuarts and he sings Jacobite songs.”

“You don’t always believe in what you sing,” Jamie said, looking to Joe for support.

“No,” said Joe.

“Sometimes lost causes have all the best songs,” said Isabel.

“And the best poetry too. Look at the Spanish Civil War. The Republicans had all the poetry. Lorca, for instance.”

“Who are the Jacobites?” asked Angie, turning to face Tom.