The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday

the smallest leaves of the tea plant, when they’re still buds.”

Isabel took the box of tea and thanked her. Then Cat left, and Isabel sat on the rug with Charlie. She embraced him, gently, feeling his breath against her cheek. She had tied nobody down. Not Jamie. Not Grace. And she would not tie her son down either. They were all free and would always be. That’s what I believe in, she told herself. That, and you, Charlie, you, my darling.

SHE WENT INSIDE. It was Charlie’s lunchtime, and she prepared some minced lamb and vegetable puree for him, which he gobbled down with enthusiasm. Then it was time for his afternoon sleep; he rubbed his eyes in his struggle to remain awake. “No need to stay awake, my darling,” she said. “Land of Nod for you.”

“Nn,” said Charlie.

“Nn? Of course, you’re right. Nn.”

He dropped off almost immediately, and Isabel made her way downstairs to her study. Jamie was in Glasgow for the day, playing with Scottish Opera in a walk-through of a new production. He would be back in time for dinner, he had said, and they would go out together; Grace had offered to babysit.

She sat at her desk and had begun to write her letter to Dove—the restrained letter—when she saw that the small red light of her answering machine was blinking. She had cleared it of messages earlier that day; something must have come in while she was sitting out in the garden. She wondered whether it was Jamie; occasionally he got away in good time and caught an earlier train. Or Grace, to say that she could not babysit? She had an aunt in Leith who was unwell at the moment, and she had warned Isabel that she might have to spend the evening with her rather than babysitting Charlie.

Isabel pressed the PLAY button.

“Hi. I hope I have the right number. I’ve tried the other one you gave me and there was no reply. I hope you get this. Good news. That audition in Boston—I spoke to Tom, the guy I talked about, and he said that they’ll hear you. He says they’re in funds right now and they’ll pay your fare—economy, sorry—week after next, as planned. I’ll come too. Hold your hand, so to speak. But they need to know real soon. So call me when you get back and then I’ll call Tom. Okay?”

Isabel’s finger stayed where it was, resting against the PLAY button. Nick Smart. How easy to get numbers mixed up, even, it would seem, when you are a very self-possessed composer whose life, it appears to others, moves on well-oiled tracks.

Jamie had said nothing to her about this. Nothing. And where was that picture of Brother Fox? Had she made a dreadful mistake? And did he really love her, or was she just labouring under some huge delusion?

She looked at the beginnings of the letter to Dove on her computer screen, as if that might distract her from the cold dread that had suddenly come upon her. She moved her hands back to the keyboard. Why did people hurt one another? Why did we punish one another in all the inventive ways we had devised for the purpose? She stared at the screen through her tears and decided she would not bring disappointment; she would not be the agent of Nemesis, not this time, not now. “Dear Christopher,” she wrote. “Thank you for sending me that piece on the Trolley Problem. Yes, we shall publish this. Not this issue but the next. Warmest wishes, Isabel.”

She pressed the key that would print the letter on the letterhead of the Review. Then she stood up, but sat down again almost immediately. She did not know what to do. She felt as if she wanted to run out of the house, to get away from everything; but Charlie was upstairs, and she could not. She was tied down. Jamie was free, as she wanted him to be, but she was tied down.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

JAMIE WAS ON THE TRAIN that left Glasgow at six o’clock. He arrived back at the house shortly after seven, letting himself in by the front door and going straight upstairs to see if Charlie was still awake. The nursery was in semidarkness, the shutters closed, the only light being that from the dim- burning bulb that calmed Charlie through the watches of the night. He could tell from his breathing that Charlie was fast asleep, and when he looked down he saw the small head on the mattress, his eyes closed, his mouth open in repose. He bent down and planted the lightest of kisses on his son’s forehead, or just above it, as he did not want to wake him. There was the smell of soap, of down, of washed wool blanket, of a tiny life.

He found Isabel in the kitchen, leaning against the polished steel guardrail of the cooking range, paging through a magazine. She looked up when he came in, and he sensed immediately that something was wrong. At least Charlie was all right; it had nothing to do with that. The Review? She had been worrying over some business with Dove. Or that doctor and his troubles; Isabel could get caught up in the problems of others to the point where she allowed them to destroy her peace of mind. Maybe it was that.

“Is something wrong?”

She shook her head; far too quickly, he thought.

He crossed the room. “Yes, there is. Of course there is.”

She avoided meeting his gaze, and that, he thought, was another sign. He was standing in front of her now and took the magazine from her hands; he saw that it was upside down.

“What is it, Isabel? Please tell me.”

She looked down at the floor steadfastly. “There was a message for you on the answering machine.”

He frowned. “What about?”

“About Boston,” she said. “About…”

He took her hand. “Oh,” he said.

She waited for him to continue, but he was silent.

“Nick Smart,” she said. “He telephoned to say that the audition was on.”

Jamie looked at her uncomprehendingly. “What audition?”