The Careful Use of Compliments

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quite soon. We have a group of mothers here who take it in turns to walk the kids to school and back. We put them in a line of five and bring them back like that.”

Isabel smiled. “They used to call those lines crocodiles.

Walk in a crocodile,” she said. And she remembered the nursery school in Edinburgh that used to take the children for a walk all tied together with string; a sensible expedient, but not one, she imagined, of which the modern nanny state would approve—

today the state would simply prohibit taking children for a walk on the grounds that it was too dangerous.

“A crocodile. Yes.”

They sat down in the living room. There were signs of the small boy everywhere; a construction set, the pieces spilled out across a corner of the floor; a football and a muddy pair of football boots; a couple of children’s comics —Korky the Cat, Desperate Dan and his cow pie: the world of a small boy who has not yet been enticed by electronics.

“If you’re wondering about why I’ve come to see you,” Isabel began, “it’s to do with one of Andrew’s paintings.”

“I see.” Ailsa’s voice was quite level, and Isabel thought, Yes, it was eight years ago.

“I don’t know if you are aware of this,” said Isabel, “but a couple of paintings have recently come onto the market.”

Ailsa shrugged. “They do, from time to time. I must say that I don’t keep a close eye on what’s going on. I have about ten of his paintings myself. I don’t keep them here—they’re mostly at my mother’s house. I might sell one or two later on—depending on whether we need the money.” She looked about the room.

For all its untidiness, it was comfortable. “At the moment, things are all right. I have a part-time job, which is quite well paid, and I own this house.” She looked searchingly at 1 5 2

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel. “Are you interested in buying one of my paintings? Is that it?”

Isabel reassured her that she was not. “You must get a lot of approaches,” she said.

“A few,” said Ailsa. “Especially now that Andy’s work is so popular. There was a collector from New York who came round the other day. A very glitzy character. He had three of Andy’s paintings and said that he would go for them in preference to a Cadell or an Eardley. He let slip that he hangs one of them next to his Wyeth.”

“Good company,” said Isabel. “I have one, you know—

a small one. I keep it on the stairs. Not next to anything grand, I’m afraid.”

“So you don’t want to buy one of mine?”

“No. But I have been offered one by somebody who bought it at auction. It’s one of the Jura pictures.” Isabel reached into her pocket and took out a folded page from the Lyon & Turnbull catalogue. “There’s a photograph of it here from the auction catalogue. I wondered if you knew the painting.”

Ailsa took the paper and studied the photograph. “No. I don’t remember that one at all. But if it was painted on Jura, then it could have been one of . . .” Her voice faltered. “It could be one of his last ones. The ones that he did up there after he left.”

The matter-of-fact tone that Ailsa had used before was now replaced by one which was touched with regret; remorse too, Isabel imagined.

“Of course,” said Isabel. “But I thought that I might just check up to see whether you knew anything more about the painting.”

“No, I don’t. But it’s his, you know. It’s definitely his. Just look at it.”

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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Isabel took the piece of paper back from her and folded it up. At that moment, the front door was pushed open and a boy came in. He was halfway through peeling off a blue sweater, which he tossed down on the floor.

“Not on the floor, Magnus,” scolded Ailsa. “We don’t throw our clothes on the floor.”

But we do, thought Isabel. Charlie will do just that, no doubt.

Magnus was looking at Isabel with that undisguised curiosity that children can show. “This is somebody who likes Dad’s paintings,” said Ailsa. “She’s come to talk to me about them.

And you can go into the kitchen and have a chocolate biscuit.

One chocolate biscuit.”

As Magnus dashed into the kitchen, Isabel found herself thinking: Dad— that answers that, at least. Whatever the boy’s real parentage was, he had been raised to believe that he was the son of Andrew McInnes, whom he never knew, a father who was just a name, an idea, somebody of whom he might even have been brought up to feel proud; but what a poor substitute for the real thing, the flesh-and-blood father who would have helped the little boy with his construction kit and his football, helped him to grow up.

C H A P T E R T W E L V E

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ISABEL DALHOUSIE’S green Swedish car, laden almost to the point of discomfort with the impedimenta that a baby requires, nosed its way gingerly down the ramp onto the deck of the Port Askaig ferry. Charlie was awake, but lying still in his reclining car seat, staring at the ceiling of the car with intense fascina-tion. He had seemed to enjoy the earlier sea journey, which had taken them from the Mull of Kintyre to the island of Islay, and which was now to be followed by the five-minute crossing over to Jura. The rocking movement of the ferry and the noise of the engines made him wave his arms with pleasure. “It reminds him of the womb,” said