The Right Attitude to Rain

Vincent’s, in which high rites were celebrated. This was the home, too, of a slightly eccentric order, the Order of St. Lazarus, the members of which paraded in ornate uniforms and claimed descent from Templar-like chivalrous organisations; harmless enough, thought Isabel, and evidently satisfying two deep-seated male desires—to have secrets and to belong.

The afternoon weather had held, and as Isabel made her way down the hill from George Street the high northern sky was still filled with evening light. It was shortly after eight, but it 2 4 2

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h would not get dark until well after ten, and even then the darkness would be attenuated by a lingering glow, the simmer dim as they called it in the far north of Scotland. The air was warm, too, but with that touch of freshness that reminded one that this was Scotland after all.

The door of the bar was wide open and there were several people sitting on the stone steps outside, enjoying the warmth.

Jamie was already there, sitting at a table just inside the doorway, a glass of beer on the table in front of him. When he saw Isabel his expression lightened. He rose to his feet and took her hands. Then he leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Isabel felt herself trembling, like a schoolgirl on her first date. He has obviously had no regrets, she thought; he feels now as he felt over the weekend.

She sat down at the table while Jamie went to buy her a drink. She looked around the bar, taking in the small groups of friends, the couples, the one or two solitary drinkers seated on stools at the bar itself. There was nobody she knew, which did not surprise her. This was not her territory. And the thought of territoriality made her think, inconsequentially, of Brother Fox.

She imagined that she might come into this bar and find him seated on a stool, his neat furry legs crossed elegantly, sipping a glass of . . . What would Brother Fox drink? Sherry perhaps, or something even more sophisticated, one of those cocktails with elaborate names that one saw listed in grander bars. Brother Fox would drink something called a “St. Francis,” she thought: two parts gin, one part lime and one part chicken. And Brother Fox would have a group of somewhat raffish friends—people like Charlie MacLean, perhaps, that man who wrote books on whisky and whose whisky-nosing she had once attended down 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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in Leith; he and Brother Fox would get on well, telling each other stories. Absurd, but she smiled.

Jamie came back with her drink. When he sat down, his knee touched hers under the table, but he did not move it.

“I’ve got a present for you,” Jamie said, fishing into the bat-tered leather music case that he habitually carried. It was a case that served every purpose, from carrying musical scores to trans-porting cartons of milk and groceries from the supermarket.

He took out a compact disc in a small plastic bag and handed it to her. “It’s a wonderful mixture of things,” he said.

“And some of them we’re going to have to do ourselves. I’ll try to do arrangements if we can’t find the music. And I suspect that we won’t be able to find some of these things.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re . . . you’re very sweet.” She took his hand briefly and squeezed it. She examined the disc.

“Mood Scottish,” she read.

“A play on Mood Indigo, I think,” said Jamie. “But don’t worry. It’s all very good. Some lovely stuff. Look.”

He took the disc and pointed to an item on the list of tracks.

“ ‘Sinclair.’ It’s a Faroese song about a Scottish soldier in Sweden. They went there a long time ago. By invitation, unlike most British soldiers . . .”

“I know all about that,” said Isabel. “That’s why you come across Scottish names in Sweden. Macpherson and such like.

But Swedish now.”

Jamie tapped the CD case. Isabel noticed his finger, which was tanned light brown. It was gentle; so beautiful. “This Sinclair was on his way to battle,” he said, “and was warned by a mermaid not to go. By a mermaid, mind you.”

“One should always listen to mermaids,” said Isabel. “They 2 4 4

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h address one so infrequently that anything they have to say must be important.”

He looked at her in surprise and burst out laughing. Nobody else would say things like that; just Isabel. That was one of the reasons he found her irresistible.

“He didn’t,” Jamie went on. “And he was killed as a result.

Poor Sinclair. But the song is wonderful—it goes on and on.

Very odd stuff.”

Isabel pointed to something else. “And some Peter Maxwell Davies,” she said. “ ‘Lullaby for Lucy.’ I met him up in Orkney once.”

“Max,” said Jamie. “We played his ‘Orkney Wedding.’ Complete with a piper. Very dramatic.” He paused, took the disc and examined the cover carefully. Then he handed it back to Isabel.

“We could listen to ‘Sinclair’ after dinner. Would you like that?”

“Yes. I would.” Her heart was racing.

“Or we could go to the flat now and have dinner there. In Saxe-Coburg. How about that?”