The Careful Use of Compliments

and it was a sudden, shocking realisation—was perhaps unjustified. Cat belonged to a generation that did not feel particularly strongly about marriage, in that many of them did not bother about getting married, and so perhaps they did not regard married people as being off-limits. I have been so naive, she thought; so naive.

She struggled to find the words. “Well . . . I thought that . . .

I thought that you might have believed that he was single. It’s difficult sometimes if . . .”

Cat interrupted her. “It’s just fine for you,” she said. “You come here and tell me this . . . You’re not content with taking Jamie from me; now you come along and . . . and spoil this. Why can’t you just . . .”

Isabel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Took Jamie from her? She drew in her breath; there was so much to be said, as there always is in the face of an outrageous accusation. “I did not take Jamie from you. You can’t say that. You got rid of Jamie.

You got rid of him. He wanted you to take him back for ages, 2 2 0

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h ages, and you wouldn’t hear of it. Then you stand there and tell me that I took him from you. ”

“No,” said Cat. “It wasn’t like that.”

Isabel reached out again, but Cat turned away. “Cat!”

“Just leave me. Please, just leave me.”

The door of the delicatessen opened. Isabel looked round and saw that it was Eddie. He came over to the counter and smiled at her. Then he started to address Cat, whose back was turned. “My teeth are fine,” he said. “The dentist didn’t have to do anything, except polish them. Look.”

He opened his mouth in a wide grin. Isabel made a gesture towards Cat. “I’m going,” she said. “Look after Cat, please.”

She left the delicatessen and began to walk down the street in the direction of Chamberlain Road. The brow of Church-hill rose gently in front of her, and at the end, beyond the rise, were the Pentlands, blue at this distance, with a mantle of low cloud. She had once read a poem somewhere, by an Irish poet she seemed to recall, which suggested that we could all be saved by keeping our eye on the hill at the end of the road. What he meant by being saved was not clear. We could not be saved, she thought, from anything just by looking at a hill; certainly not from the raw pain that came from divi-sions between people, between brother and brother, sister and sister, aunt and niece. Then it occurred to her: one might be saved from taking one’s petty concerns—and one’s petty feuds—too seriously if one looked up at the hills. That must have been it.

WA LT E R B U I E ’ S D O G , a Staffordshire terrier, mesomorphic, muscle-bound in the way of a small pugilist, growled at IsaT 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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bel, baring stumpy, discoloured teeth. Such was his halitosis that even from where she stood, a good three feet from the unfriendly animal, she could smell him.

“Now then, Basil,” said Walter, reaching down to pull at the dog’s collar. “We must not be unfriendly.”

He pulled the dog away and it slunk off, with the air of a small-time thug whose plans for a fight have been defeated, but only temporarily.

“Such a nice dog,” said Isabel. “Staffordshires have such character.”

The compliment pleased Walter Buie, who beamed back at her. “How kind of you to say that. Some people find Basil a bit . . . a bit difficult to get to know. But he’s got a good heart, you know.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow involuntarily. “Every dog has something to offer,” she said. She was going to say something more, but could not.

“Exactly,” said Walter. “But look, do come in. I didn’t mean to keep you on the doorstep.”

They made their way into the drawing room.

“My mother,” said Walter. “I don’t believe you’ve met her.”

Isabel had not expected to find anybody else in the room and was momentarily taken aback. She recovered quickly, though, and moved over to the window where the elderly woman was standing. Walter’s mother had half turned round and extended a hand to Isabel. Taking it, Isabel felt the dry skin, the roughness. She looked at Mrs. Buie and saw the recessed eyes, the folds dotted with liver spots.

“I was going to make tea,” said the older woman. “Walter, let me do that. You stay and talk to . . .”

“Isabel.”

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

“Of course.” The eyes were fixed on Isabel, but they were still. There was little light in them. “I knew your mother, you know. We played bridge now and then.”

Isabel caught her breath. Her mother; her sainted American mother.

“She was such an attractive woman,” said Mrs. Buie. “And amusing.”

Isabel thought: Yes, she was. So many people said that—

that she made people laugh.

“And your poor father,” Mrs. Buie added.

Isabel said nothing. She wondered what would follow. Did Mrs. Buie know about her mother’s affair—the affair that Isabel herself had found out about only when her cousin had revealed it to her, on being pressed to do so by Isabel herself? Perhaps she did, but it seemed strange that she would mention it on a first meeting, unless, of