The Careful Use of Compliments

house in those days, and Orwell used to talk to him about being a Japanese prisoner of war. Some people think that that’s where Orwell got the idea of those awful tortures—the Room 101 part of 1984. Robin Fletcher, my grandfather, told him about what had happened in the camp. The Japanese were terribly cruel to their prisoners.”

“I’d like to see the place,” said Jamie. He looked at Isabel, who said that she wanted to go too.

“I can arrange it,” said Lizzie. “That part of Ardlussa, and the house up there, the Orwell place, belongs to my uncle now. My cousin Rob’s up there at the moment. He could come and fetch us—there are about seven miles of rough track to get to it. You need a four-wheel-drive.” She looked at Isabel, with something of the mocking air of a countrywoman addressing a hopeless urbanite. “That car of yours . . .”

“My green Swedish car is very strong,” said Isabel. “But no, I agree, it’s a bit low-slung for this part of the world.”

“I’ll get in touch with Rob,” said Lizzie. “How about tomorrow? Should we go up there tomorrow?”

They agreed. After they had had tea, Jamie went out for a 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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walk to the pier, while Isabel and Lizzie stayed in to chat and to feed Charlie, who had woken up and was looking about the room with interest. Lizzie had him on her knee and was entertaining him, rocking him gently backwards and forwards. Isabel watched Jamie through the window; watched as he slapped at his face and ears, under aerial onslaught by unseen attackers. Then he began to run headlong towards the end of the lawn and the pier.

“You can’t outrun midges,” said Lizzie, laughing.

“But we do outlive them, don’t we?” said Isabel.

Lizzie looked at her quizzically.

“Remember drosophila from biology classes?” Isabel said.

“The fruit fly? They had two or three weeks, didn’t they? Two or three weeks to pack everything in. I assume that the Highland midge has much the same. Not much of a lifespan.”

“That doesn’t make me feel sorry for them,” said Lizzie.

“There are limits, you know.”

Isabel knew. It was her biggest problem, after all: how to draw limits to the extent of one’s sympathy. In the past, she had become involved in all sorts of difficulties by taking upon herself the problems of others; now she had resolved to be more practical about that, and was trying not to get involved in matters that she had no real moral obligation to do anything about.

She was trying.

T H E Y R E T U R N E D to the hotel in the early afternoon. Lizzie had offered them lunch, but Isabel had not wanted to impose, especially as Lizzie had cleared the following day to take them up to Barnhill. They stayed in the hotel while Charlie slept, and then, in the early evening, they went into the hotel bar before dinner.

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Jamie ordered a dram of Jura whisky, which he held up to the window and, through the amber liquid, looked at the distillery over the road. The whisky fragmented the lines of the building, making for blocks of white, for impossible angles.

The hotel barman was friendly. “Edinburgh?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Sorry.”

The barman appreciated this. “There are worse places,” he said.

“I’m sure there are. But I don’t think that one should name them. Even the worst of places may be liked by the people who actually live there.”

It was while the barman was reflecting on this that Isabel said, “It’s a long shot, but how long have you been here?”

“I came over from Arran eleven years ago,” said the barman.

“I married a Jura girl and we moved over here.”

Isabel, who had ordered a glass of white wine, raised the glass to her lips. She was aware that Jamie was watching her intently, but she did not look at him. He would not have asked the barman how long he had been there; that was his business, and why, anyway, would one want to know?

“Do you remember an artist who came here? He was a regular visitor until about eight years ago . . .”

The barman, who was drying a glass with a pristine white cloth, held up the glass to examine his handiwork.

“McInnes?”

Isabel stole a glance at Jamie, who was frowning at her. Let him frown, she thought.

“Yes. Andrew McInnes.”

The barman put down the glass and fished another one out of the sink. “Aye, I remember him all right. I knew him quite well. He drowned—you know about that?”

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“I do,” said Isabel. “Or I remember reading about it. What exactly happened?”

The barman began work on the second glass. “The Corryvreckan got him. You know about the