She decided to stop dwelling on that, because that was a question of meaning and philosophy, and philosophy and its concerns seemed so far away here.
C H A P T E R S I X T E E N
E
THEY DID NOT SEE Joe and Mimi until they all met before dinner in the drawing room on the ground floor. This room had been sited without thought to the sun, and was north-facing, but there was a log fire in the grate—even in summer—which took the chill out of the thick stone walls. It was perfectly square, with a moulded ceiling displaying a cornucopia at each corner and four angelic heads about the central light. The furniture was right for the house—falling short of grandeur, but amounting to more than that which one might expect in a farm-house, even a prosperous one. There was a cabinet of china, a revolving bookcase, a thin-legged walnut bureau, commodious sofas, silk cushions with chinoiserie motifs, pictures of dogs and children; the accoutrements, Isabel noted, of the Scottish country gentry. On the outer wall was what must have been the largest window in the house, under which there was an enticing window seat and a low table of glossy magazines of a rural nature,
Isabel imagined how quickly one might slip into such a life, content with the small rhythms, impervious to the strife and anxiety of the outside world. And could one be happy in such a T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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life if one came from outside? She suspected that one could—
and many were. One might be like Horace, perhaps, leaving Rome for the consolations of his Sabine farm: the making of wine; the writing of poetry; the anticipation of the harvest. But, of course, it meant that one was entirely isolated from the life of the majority of one’s fellow citizens: a life of worry over all the things that people had to worry about—crime, money, noisy neighbours. It was better, she thought, to be of this world than to be detached from it.
She glanced at Tom, who was standing near the drinks trolley with Joe, engaged in conversation, forgetting for a moment Angie’s request that he serve the Martinis that she and Mimi had asked for. She wondered why they had chosen to come here, into this world so far from Dallas. It was summer in Texas, and Dallas was impossibly hot, but they came from an air-conditioned world, did they not? They might not wish to remain inside, of course, and then there was the sheer romance of Scotland, this soft, enchanting landscape with its pastel greens and blues and its cool air. That was what they wanted; or what
Tom gestured to the drinks trolley and detached himself from Joe. He had seen across the room, as Isabel had, the sign from Angie, a mime of a glass tilted to the lips; not as discreet, she thought, as the signs she had heard the Queen gave to her staff: a slight twisting of a hand which would swiftly bring a gin and tonic, part of an elaborate and tactful system of communi-cation that enabled life to proceed. She had heard, too, that the Queen liked to eat banana sandwiches, and that staff were trained to make such sandwiches in just the right way; an 1 9 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h endearing touch to a public life, she thought, human simplicity in the midst of state fuss.
Tom brought Isabel’s drink over to her and stayed to talk.
She had worked out, now, how to look at him without having her eyes drawn to the painfully lop-sided face and to the grimace which Bell’s palsy produced. By looking at the eyes, or just above them, the rest of the face became less important.
“I’m sorry about this face of mine,” he said suddenly. “I know that it’s hard for people.” Isabel opened her mouth to protest, but he continued. “It looks very uncomfortable, you know, but it isn’t. I’m aware of it, there’s a certain muscular strain, but after a while it’s nothing much. And I count myself lucky it’s not worse.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “And, really, it’s nothing . . .”
He laughed. “It’s not nothing. It certainly isn’t. I can’t bring myself to look at my photograph, you know. I say to myself, ‘Oh no, that’s not me, is it? I don’t look quite that bad.’ But then I gather that there are lots of people who can’t stand looking at their own photograph, who prefer not to be seen. Probably most people, if it comes down to it.”
“I’m one,” said Isabel.
Tom looked surprised. “But you . . . Well, I would have thought that you would be proud of how you looked. Surely you don’t have to worry.”
“You’re very kind, but I do. I’ve always thought that I’m too tall, for a start.”
“Nonsense. Tall women are really attractive. I much prefer tall women.”
Isabel glanced at Angie. She did not think about it, but her eyes flicked over, and then she looked back at Tom again, quickly, realising what she had done. Angie was not tall.
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If Tom had noticed, he was too polite to let it show. “Tell me,” he said, “do you like living in Edinburgh?”
Isabel felt a momentary irritation with him over this question. It was something one should not ask another, because it was either mundane to the extent of pointlessness, or tactless. If somebody did not like living where they lived, then that meant that they were trapped, either by marriage or some other domestic circumstance, or by a job, or by sheer inertia. Whatever the reason, if the answer to this was no, the background to that answer would be one of regret.
And there was another side to it. She had noticed that there was a tendency on the part of some Americans to believe that everybody, deep inside, wanted to live in America, and that it was inexplicable that people who could do so did not. And here was Isabel, half-American, and therefore in a position, one might assume, to live in America, living, instead, in Scotland.
Was Tom one of those Americans? she asked herself.
“Of course I like it,” she said. She hoped that her answer had not revealed her irritation, but she decided that it probably had, as he drew back slightly. She reached out to touch him. “Sorry. That sounds rather defensive. I do like
