The Careful Use of Compliments

Isabel decided that what was needed was a dose of infant aspirin. She had a bottle of the suspension in one of the kitchen cupboards, where Charlie’s formula and spare bottles were kept, and she cradled the baby gently as she opened the door with her free hand. There, beside the bottles, was the gripe water, with its characteristic old- fashioned label. Isabel smiled grimly. So it was Grace’s doing after all, just as she had suspected; she had been right.

She reached for the bottle of aspirin suspension and then stopped and took out the bottle of gripe water instead. Twisting off the cap, she sniffed at the colourless, slightly viscous liquid within; it had a sweet smell, exaggeratedly floral, like an overstated, cheap perfume. It was not unpleasant, she decided, and on impulse she held the open bottle under Charlie’s nose.

The effect was immediate and dramatic, as if she had applied smelling salts of the sort resorted to by Victorian ladies for their swooning. The crying stopped immediately, and Charlie made an inept attempt to seize the bottle.

Isabel extracted a teaspoon from a kitchen drawer and set it down on a surface at the side of the sink. It was difficult to pour the gripe water using only one hand—Charlie was still cradled in the other—and she spilled a bit of the liquid in the process.

But she succeeded by dint of a steady hand, then picked up the spoon without spilling any more and manoeuvred it into Charlie’s mouth. His expression of contentment was immediate; the crying stopped.

“Darling addict,” she whispered.

She looked again at the bottle. The contents were listed.

Common herbs, she read: ginger, fennel, and dill, all of which one 9 2

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h might see on the open shelves of a supermarket. She searched for the offending word, sugar, but she did not see it. Nor did she see any reference to alcohol. It was perfectly harmless.

Charlie settled, and after some time in the garden with Isabel, he dropped off to sleep again. Isabel put him in his cradle and returned to her study to deal with the rest of the morning’s mail. She had been distracted by the arrival of the papers on the philosophy of taxation, and then by Charlie, and so she had not seen the letter from Professor Christopher Dove. Now she opened it, knowing immediately from the printed letterhead within that it had come from him. You write to me, Dove, she thought. Not content with displacing me, you write to me .

She sat down to read the letter.

Dear Ms. Dalhousie [I have a doctorate, Dove, not that I use the title, but you might at least have shown the courtesy],

I believe that you may have heard from Professor Lettuce about changes that have been proposed at the Review. [You proposed them, Dove.] I have been asked by the board to assume the editorship, and although I am hesitant to take over a post which has been so admirably filled by another [Pass the gripe water!], I have nonetheless indicated that I am prepared to do this.

I am aware of the fact that we have a number of special issues planned, including one on the philosophy of taxation. I would not like to interfere prematurely, but I am a bit doubtful about the value of our doing too many of these, especially in areas as specialised as the philosophy of taxation. My own view is that we should not lose sight of the fact [ In other words, I think, muttered Isabel] that we are primarily a generalist journal.

T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S

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There are, as you know, numerous more specialised journals, including several that deal with business ethics, and I think that the philosophy of taxation would be more appropriately covered by them, rather than by us.

[Come to the point, Dove.] For this reason, I think we should revisit our plans for that issue.

I think that this is just one of the matters which would be much better discussed in a meeting between the two of us. I believe that you now have a baby—

Congratulations!—and therefore it would be easier for me to come to Edinburgh than for you to come to London. If you would let me know what dates you are free, I shall come up for a meeting. We can then sort out the details of the handover, and I can look at the editorial archive. We will need to make arrangements for that to be sent down at some stage. I have quite a bit of stor-age space in my department—we do have empty cupboards, believe it or not, not that I advertise the fact, in case the university authorities convert them into offices (for junior academics!). [That was a joke.]

The letter ended with a few additional pleasantries. After she had finished reading it, Isabel stared at it for a moment and then rolled it up into a ball and tossed it towards her wastepaper basket. She had not expected it to go in, but it did just that, like a skilfully placed basketball. But then, almost immediately, she felt guilty and walked over to the bin, retrieved the ball of paper, and uncrumpled it. I shall not descend to the level of Dove, she said to herself. I shall not.

She sat down at her desk and took out a fresh piece of writing paper.

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Dear Professor Dove,

It was good to hear from you. Of course I shall be happy to see you in Edinburgh, and here is a list of dates on which I am free and on which we could certainly have a meeting. I must warn you that the editorial archives are quite large and need considerable space to be stored.

She paused and looked out the window. Should she? She resumed her writing.

And perhaps I should also warn you that I do not consider these archives to be anybody’s property but my own.

She read over what she had written. What she had said about the ownership of the archive was probably wrong. Some of it belonged to her—the letters written to her as editor were often of a personal nature and the copies of the letters which she had written, on paper which she had provided—those, she thought, were surely hers. But it was a warning shot, which she felt was worth firing.