The Lost Art of Gratitude

“The other one? That man?”

“Yes.”

“So she helped you?”

Isabel nodded. “I think so. But I was never really sure about her.”

Minty, having chosen her food, returned to the table. “Roderick has a very sweet tooth,” she said. “I try to control it, but he takes the view that if he comes out for lunch with me, he’s entitled to something sweet. So I cave in, I’m afraid.”

“Charlie’s the opposite,” said Jamie. “He likes savoury things. Olives in particular.”

“They’re funny,” said Minty. “Little individuals from day one.”

Roderick was staring suspiciously at Charlie, who seemed unaware of the other child’s presence. “Look,” said Minty. “They’re making friends.”

Roderick now reached forward and grabbed at Charlie’s small green boot, which he tried to pull off its owner’s foot. Charlie, vaguely aware that something was tugging at an extremity, looked to Isabel for clarification.

“He wants to play,” said Minty.

Isabel struggled not to show her astonishment. This was not play; this was an alpha baby trying to take her son’s boot from him by brute force. She had noticed this sort of behaviour in the playgroup that she took Charlie to three times a week. They were two-hour sessions, held in a local church hall and marked by an astonishing level of noise. Charlie, she had observed, was tolerant and put up in a good-natured way with the grabbing and pushing of his coevals. It was a quality he had inherited from Jamie, she thought.

“Aren’t they sweet!” Minty remarked. They were not: Charlie was sweet; this Roderick, it seemed, was his mother’s son. She remembered Minty as a ruthless high-flyer in the world of finance; her son would be heading in the same direction, no doubt. But the thought, she decided, was an uncharitable one, and she checked herself; Roderick had not chosen his mother, and, besides, all babies were little psychopaths in their early years. Only later would there emerge the finer aspects of the personality—if there were to be any.

“I wonder what they think of one another,” mused Jamie. “Presumably they see somebody like themselves.”

Roderick, at this point having abandoned his attempt to remove Charlie’s boot, had grabbed hold of his ankle, which he was trying to twist. Charlie watched, wide-eyed, but impassively. Gradually Roderick gained purchase and began to dig his tiny fingernails into Charlie’s skin. It was too much; Charlie turned red and opened his mouth to cry.

“He gets a little rough sometimes,” said Minty, moving Roderick away. “He doesn’t mean it. Sometimes I think he doesn’t know his own strength.”

Isabel made light of this assault on her son. “Boys …,” she said.

“And girls,” said Jamie. “I knew a girl who used to pull my hair when I was small.”

Minty was looking at Jamie again, and Isabel found herself thinking, She’s undressing him. And how would she feel if Jamie returned a look like that, as some men would, flirtatiously; but he did not. He looked away; he was used to this, she thought, and was probably vaguely bothered by the admiring glances of women. Such things could become irritating to those who had them all the time; the turned heads, the quick glances. Women used to be discouraged from overt manifestations of interest; but not now, not now that the male body was presented for admiration on posters and in magazines. Men were being given a dose of their own medicine.

She knew, of course, what Minty was thinking. She was calculating the difference in age and wondering how she, Isabel, had managed to catch a young man like this. This amused her. Minty was a type who would condescend to Isabel, but she could not do so on this. She’s envious, thought Isabel.

Minty turned to Isabel. “It’s a long time, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “And here we are with Roderick and Charlie. How’s Paul?”

Minty stiffened. “Paul and I are no longer together,” she said. “I see him from time to time, of course— professionally. He’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” said Isabel. “I didn’t know …”

“There was no reason for you to know,” said Minty. “I’m married now to Gordon McCaig. He runs a whisky broking business.”

“Ah,” said Isabel. Minty, she reminded herself, came from a world where people were immediately interested in knowing what business others were in; she and Jamie did not. Particularly Jamie: his main interest was in the sort of music that people liked. “That man,” he might say, “that man who’s keen on Wagner. I saw him today.” Or, “That pupil of mine—the one who likes Chopin—left his rugby boots in the flat. Covered with mud.”

“He has his own blend,” went on Minty. “One that he bottles himself. The Lochaline.”

Isabel knew very little about whisky—no more, really, than she had picked up from her occasional attendance at a talk by her friend, Charlie Maclean. She had never heard of the Lochaline, which sounded rather obscure to her and not really deserving of a definite article, or at least not yet; a definite article took time. Some whiskies, she knew, adopted a definite article, as an affirmation of their fame. The Macallan was one; a practice justified in its case by habit and repute. And some Scottish clan chiefs did a similar thing. There was a MacGregor who simply called himself The MacGregor, which had the virtues of simplicity and clarity even if it implied that other MacGregors were, by contrast, indefinite.

So Paul Hogg had been disposed of … no, she should not assume that. Paul Hogg may well have disposed of Minty, or indeed they might even have disposed of one another in an act of mutual emotional suttee. “And you?” asked Isabel. “Are you working?”

Minty nodded. “Rather hard, actually. This is one of my rare days off.” She paused. She was looking at Jamie again, and it seemed to Isabel that her answer was directed to him. “I run a bank. An investment bank.”

Jamie looked impressed, or tried to; Isabel could tell that investment banks meant little to him. And she liked that. There was nothing essentially wrong with investment bankers, but they were usurers, after all, and she was