The Right Attitude to Rain

Miranda looked thoughtful. “That’s what he needs,” she said. “He needs a girlfriend to give him confidence.”

“It may not be so simple,” Isabel objected.

Miranda looked over her shoulder to check that nobody was waiting at the till. “Every boy needs a girlfriend—or a boyfriend, depending, you know.”

Isabel nodded. “Having somebody else is important.” She looked at Miranda, at the fresh, open face, at the optimistic expression. That was what she liked about Australia and Australians; there was no angst, no complaining, just a positive 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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pleasure in living. And there was such friendliness, too, embodied in that rough-edged doctrine of mateship that they liked to talk about. That had even found its way into the Australian Philosophical Review, where Isabel had found a curious paper called “What Is Mateship?” And mateship, it appeared, was a philosophy of looking after one’s fellow man, and sharing in adversity. She had been doubtful that Australians had any monopoly on that idea, but then she had gone on to read about how mateship had saved lives in the Second World War when captured Australian servicemen coped much better with the privations of the camps because their officers had shared with the men and taken a greater interest in their welfare than had the British officers, with their insistence on separation and privilege. British officers might have something to say about that, she thought, but it was interesting. Of course, mateship had its negative side: one had to take one’s mates’ side in any argument with the authorities, which was immature, thought Isabel—she had never understood why people found such difficulty in accepting that their friends might be wrong. I am often wrong, she thought, often, and I assume my friends are too.

Miranda was staring at her. “You’re a philosopher, aren’t you? Eddie was telling me.”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “That’s what I do.”

“I might have guessed that,” said Miranda. “Even if I didn’t know. You seem to think so hard about things. Just then you were sitting there and thinking about something, weren’t you?”

Isabel laughed. “Yes, I suppose I was. I find myself thinking at a bit of a tangent. I think of one thing and then I go on to think about something connected with it. And so it goes on.”

“And you get paid to do that?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. Philosophy doesn’t pay very well.”

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Miranda was looking at her quizzically. “And yet Eddie says that you’re rich. He told me that you live in a large house and that you have somebody who works for you there.”

There was no malice in the observation, and Isabel found that she did not resent it. “I’m very fortunate,” she said. “I’m well-off. I was left money. That’s where it comes from. But I try not to splash it around, I assure you. I don’t live in great splen-dour or anything like that.”

“Pity,” said Miranda. “I would, if I had money.”

“You don’t know that. You might find that it made no difference. And it doesn’t, you know. Once one has the minimum required for reasonable comfort, any more makes no difference to how you feel. It really doesn’t.”

It was clear that Miranda did not believe this, but the conversation came to an end as Cat came in the front door. “The boss,” said Miranda. “When the Cat’s away the mice will play. I must get back to work. Nice to talk to you, Isabel. And thanks again for getting me this job.”

Cat moved over to the counter and said something to Eddie before she came over to Isabel’s table and sat down opposite her aunt. Isabel could tell immediately that there was something wrong. Cat was tense, and her greeting of Isabel verged on the cold. Patrick trouble, she thought. This was how Cat behaved when her emotional life became complicated; it had happened with Toby and with the others, and although it tended not to last long, it was uncomfortable for everybody.

“Had a good weekend?” asked Cat.

Isabel hesitated. “Yes. I did. I—”

“I’ve just seen Mimi,” said Cat. “I bumped into her in the post office.”

Isabel suddenly thought: Jamie, and she experienced 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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moment of panic. She had not considered this, but of course she should have. “I thought that they weren’t going to come back until later this afternoon,” said Isabel. “We spent the weekend in the Borders. A house near Peebles.”

“So she told me,” said Cat. “And you had a good time?”

There was no doubt in Isabel’s mind now that Cat knew—

her tone of voice was unmistakably sarcastic.

“Cat,” she said. “I was going to talk to you. I was going to . . .”

Cat leant forward slightly and lowered her voice. “How could you? How could you do it?” she half whispered, half hissed.

Isabel drew back. “What did Mimi tell you?”

“That Jamie was there.”

Isabel wondered whether she should deny Cat’s inference.

Mimi would certainly not have told her about what had happened—and she had not discussed anything with Mimi. As far as Mimi was concerned, Isabel and Jamie were still just friends. But a denial on her part would be,