Isabel frowned. “Drivers? Oh yes, somebody had mentioned a driver of ninety-three, which I thought was a little bit late to be in control of a car. I’m sure that one must be very wise at the age of ninety-three, but I’m not so sure about one’s reactions at that stage. I think I suggested that one’s car should become more and more grey as one gets older, which would warn people that one’s reactions might be a little slow. They would be like learner plates when one’s learning to drive—those are a warning too. So cars would be seen to turn grey, perhaps a little bit slowly, just as people’s hair greys.”
“And young men would be required to drive red cars?”
Isabel nodded her agreement. “Yes. Red cars would be a warning of the presence of testosterone. We need warning, you see.”
“And at intersections the red cars would yield to the grey ones?”
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
1 8 5
“Of course,” said Isabel. “Or that would be the rule in a well-ordered society. Do you know that in Japan, young drivers have to give way to older ones? It can get quite complicated if one can’t see the other driver too well and one can’t work out whether he’s older than you. I believe a certain number of accidents result from this confusion.”
Jamie laughed. “Absurd. And completely untrue.”
“Perhaps,” said Isabel. “Absurd. But fun nonetheless.”
“Tell me another absurd story.”
“About what?”
They were standing at the edge of the pond, looking at the ducks. Charlie, tucked up in his baby buggy, had dropped off to sleep. Jamie glanced about him. A man farther along the pond side had been helping his young son toss crumbs to the ducks; now he moved away. Jamie had seen that his forearms were covered with tattoos. “Tell me about a tattooed man,” he said to Isabel.
“Some other time,” said Isabel, looking at her watch.
Now, standing in her garden, her thoughts returned to the day ahead. The discovery that she had made on Jura would need to be dealt with, but there would be time enough for that. Some of Jamie’s caution had begun to have an effect on her, and she wondered whether she should hold back before taking any action. All she really needed to do was tell somebody—Guy Peploe perhaps—of her suspicions and then leave it to him, or somebody else, to make further enquiries. For a moment she considered the attractions of disengagement, of a policy of not worrying about the world. Many people lived like that and were perfectly happy. They did not worry about the destruction of our world, about the drift into medieval religious war, about all the cruelties and hypocrisies; they did not think of these things. But 1 8 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h what did they think about, these disengaged people? If one looked hard enough, perhaps one would see that the big issues that they ignored had merely been replaced by small concerns that could be every bit as pressing. The successes of a football team—or, more pertinently, its failures—could be the cause of a great deal of anguish; arguments with neighbours, worries over money—all of these could weigh as heavily as the greater matters. So being disengaged was more of an apparent solution than a real one, Isabel decided, although she was still going to put this matter off for a day or two.
There were twelve telephone messages awaiting Isabel on her return the previous evening, and she had delayed dealing with them until the morning. Three were from the same person, a distant acquaintance with whom she had promised to have lunch and who was now wanting to make an arrangement.
Isabel slightly regretted the original promise; she had not really intended it but it had been taken seriously by the other person.
This was a cultural misunderstanding. The acquaintance was a New Zealander living in Scotland, and New Zealanders meant what they said, much to their credit, and thought that everybody else did too. As a general rule, Isabel certainly meant what she said, but she was as guilty as everybody else of using language which was really intended to be no more than an expression of general goodwill. Suggesting a meeting for lunch might be a real invitation or it might not, depending on the tone of voice used, and the context. She remembered the late Professor Glanville Williams, whom she had met at Cambridge, once saying to an Italian visitor that they should meet for lunch. Whereupon the Italian had fished in his pocket for his diary, opened it, and said,
“When?” Glanville Williams had been quite shocked, in the same way in which those who automatically wished one to have 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
1 8 7
a nice day would be shocked if they were asked in what way they thought this might be achieved.
Isabel returned the telephone call, arranged the lunch, and then went through the remaining messages, skipping over several until she found the one she was waiting for, the voice of her lawyer, Simon Mackintosh. “You asked me to act quickly, Isabel, and I have. And a good result too, I’m happy to say. Could you please get in touch when you get back?”
She played the message and then replayed it. The news made her feel elated but concerned at the same time. She had acted impulsively before she had left for Jura, and she had not really expected a result so quickly. But now, when she reflected on the instructions she had given Simon, she experienced that curious feeling, that mixture of elation and dread, that comes from having done something very significant.
She replaced the telephone handset and said to herself,
They exchanged small items of news. Simon’s wife, Catri-ona, an artist, had just finished a successful show, and there was news of that, and Isabel reported on Charlie’s sleeping habits.
Then Simon opened a blue cardboard folder and took out a page of notes he had made on a sheet of paper.
“Now then, Isabel, those instructions of yours.” She wondered whether he was reproaching her, but it was not
