The Lost Art of Gratitude

noticed the disinfectant on the shelf—the label showed a picture of a boy having his knee attended to by a concerned mother—for minor day-to-day cuts and bruises. They were innocent, those day-to-day cuts and bruises; Eddie had been scratched, and although she had initially believed his explanation of how the scratch came about, suddenly she began to doubt him. It was the same with those black eyes that people claimed were the result of walking into a door; usually they were the result of domestic violence, or of a brawl somewhere. Somebody had scratched Eddie—a girlfriend? Isabel wondered. Probably—Eddie had had that rather sinister-looking girl and although she was no longer with him, he might well have replaced her with somebody similar.

She went to the counter and put the float in the till. It was now nine o’clock, the delicatessen’s official opening time, and she nodded to Eddie to take the door off the latch. It was not unusual for customers to appear within minutes of their opening—these were people who called in for a cup of coffee on their way to work, and would spend a few minutes reading the papers at one of the small tables at the far end of the delicatessen.

It proved to be a busy morning. Shortly after eleven Cat telephoned to say that the gas board engineers had not come yet and that she was sure now that they would not arrive until much later that afternoon.

“What if we have an explosion?” she complained. “What then?”

“We must just hope that you don’t explode,” said Isabel. “That is all we can do.”

“It’s no laughing matter,” snapped Cat.

Isabel apologised. It had not been a joke; she had meant that she did not want the flat to explode. Cat was being unduly literal in assuming that the reference to her home was a reference to her. She had offended Eddie, and now Cat. Yet on neither occasion did she think that the offence was warranted; they were both too sensitive, she decided, or—and it was a worrying thought—was she the insensitive one?

They did not stop for lunch, as the delicatessen was at its busiest between noon and two in the afternoon. Then it slackened off, and Isabel provided cover at the counter while Eddie ate a sandwich in Cat’s office, his feet up on the table. She said nothing about that; when Cat was away it was understandable that mice would play.

Eddie finished his lunch and it was Isabel’s turn for a break. She poured herself a cup of coffee, telephoned Jamie to check that Charlie was all right and then sat down with her coffee and a cheese roll at one of the tables. A customer had left an early copy of the Evening News, the local paper, on the desk, and she paged through this. It was a parochial paper, as local papers should be, and Isabel rarely found anything of interest in it. On this occasion, though, a small headline on an inner page caught her eye: Woman Attacked in Morningside. She began to read the text below. A young woman, it reported, had been attacked the previous night near the Royal Edinburgh Hospital; she had fought with her assailant and he had run off. He was a slight man, she said, but that was all the description she managed. It had been dark.

Isabel read the article again and then looked up towards the counter. Eddie smiled at her.

No, this was completely inconceivable; it was ridiculous. Eddie was a gentle young man who would never attack anybody. He was more likely to be attacked himself, she thought, and indeed she believed that he had been, some time ago. Plenty of people were scratched, one way or another, and even if Eddie was making up the story of the bramble bush, and even if the scratch came from a set of fingernails, it was unthinkable that the attacker could be him. But then she remembered the expression: someone’s brother, someone’s son. Those who committed horrendous crimes were still someone’s brother, someone’s son; or someone’s mild, inoffensive assistant at someone’s delicatessen.

Isabel drained her coffee cup and rose to her feet. A woman had come in and was fingering the avocado pears, surreptitiously giving them a squeeze.

“Please don’t do that,” said Isabel mildly, as she came up behind the customer. “It bruises them.”

The woman turned round and looked defiantly at Isabel. “How do you expect me to tell if they’re ripe?”

“You can feel them very gently. Tap them if you must—use a finger. But don’t squeeze them hard.”

The woman’s nostrils flared. “I have never been so insulted in my life,” she said.

Isabel recoiled. “Oh, please! I’m not insulting you. I merely asked you not to squeeze the fruit. We have to throw out an awful lot, you know, because people have done what you’ve done.”

The woman turned on her heel. “There are plenty of other places to buy things,” she said. “Places where the assistants don’t insult you quite so much.” She spat out the word assistants.

Isabel resisted the temptation to laugh. “I’m very sorry …,” she began. But the woman was not listening. She looked helplessly at Eddie, who was smirking.

“What did you say to her?” Eddie asked, after the woman had left.

“I simply asked her not to squeeze the avocados,” said Isabel. “And she flew off the handle.”

“You must have offended her,” said Eddie. “People are so touchy.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow. We see the touchiness of others and not our own—obviously. Eddie watched her with the air of somebody who had seen another disgrace herself through impetuosity or sheer foolishness.

I don’t have to do this, thought Isabel. I really don’t have to put up with all these hypersensitive people. This was Cat’s business, and Eddie and all these difficult customers were her problem and not Isabel’s. She saw that Eddie was still looking at her. There was something odd about his stare, and for a moment Isabel thought: What if he knows that I know? What if he knows that I’ve read the report about the attack? What if he realises that now that I know, I’m a danger to him—a danger that can only be solved by … She brought this train of thought to an end. It was absurd, and she would not entertain any such absurd, fanciful thoughts about Eddie; she simply would not.

BY THE END OF THE DAY, Eddie had become quite talkative. His earlier surliness had disappeared, and even the scratch on his face looked as if it had calmed down. Isabel tried not to think about that, and largely succeeded: her imaginings had been ridiculous, anyway, and she felt not unlike one of those nervous women who keep phoning the police about the men they were convinced were hiding under their beds. Wishful thinking, the police might say, although they were always so tactful in such cases.

As she prepared to lock up, Eddie stood behind the counter, untying the strings of his apron.

“Cat washes that for you, does she?” asked Isabel, nodding in the direction of the apron.

“She’s meant to,” said Eddie. “But she always forgets. So I give it to my mum. She does all my washing.”