“You’re lucky,” said Isabel.
“But you have somebody to do all your washing too,” Eddie said. “Cat says that you have this lady who does everything.”
Isabel winced. “I’m also lucky. Not that Grace does everything. But she does a lot.”
“It must be great being rich,” said Eddie. There was no envy in his voice; it was just an observation.
Isabel smiled to cover her embarrassment. “I’m not really rich,” she said. “Again, I’m lucky. And if you have money, you know, you tend not to talk about it—or throw it around. If you’ve got anything approaching a conscience, you try to use it well.”
“Well, I’ll never be rich,” said Eddie, dusting a small patch of flour off his apron. “Not that it matters.”
“Exactly,” said Isabel.
Eddie folded the apron and slipped it into a plastic bag. “Cat says that she has to be careful. She’s got a bit of money and she doesn’t want a boyfriend who’s interested in the money rather than her. That’s what she told me, anyway.”
“She’s very wise,” said Isabel, realising that she had never before said that of her niece, and perhaps she should have. Wisdom came in different forms, she reminded herself. “There’s nothing worse than a gold-digger.” She paused, before continuing: “Is there anyone at the moment?” She intended to sound casual, but she suspected that Eddie could sense the depth of her interest.
He looked at her sideways. “Cat?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. There is someone.”
Isabel waited for him to expand on this. After a while she encouraged him gently. “Do you like him?”
Eddie shrugged. “Her boyfriends don’t seem to last long, do they? Do I like him? Well, I haven’t really seen much of him. This one has only been round here once or twice. He’s too busy, I think.”
Isabel probed gently. “Busy doing what?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Eddie said with a smile. “He’s a tightrope walker!”
Isabel said nothing. She did believe it. It was typical of Cat, even if it was somewhat original.
She picked up the keys. Eddie was ready to leave now; he had had enough of talking about Cat, and the evening lay ahead of him. “A funambulist!” muttered Isabel.
Eddie, moving towards the door, stopped. “What’s that?”
Isabel explained. “Cat’s new boyfriend. A funambulist. One who walks on tightropes.”
Like all of us, she thought. In the final analysis.
CHAPTER FIVE
RODERICK McCAIG’s second birthday party was to take place at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, with carriages at five. Isabel smiled at the thought:
Jamie was not enthusiastic. “Do we have to go? I don’t like that woman, you know. And Charlie hates Roderick. Do you really have to sit through the birthday party of somebody who tries to pull your shoes off?”
Isabel conceded that Roderick was, at present, not perhaps the friendliest company for Charlie, but pointed out that there would be other children there. “He’s got to start making friends at some point. Who has he got at the moment?”
“Me,” said Jamie lamely. “You. Grace.”
“You can stay behind if you like,” said Isabel. “I don’t want to force you. I can say that you couldn’t make it, which will not exactly be a lie. The truth would be that you couldn’t make it because you couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm. Minty won’t care.” It occurred to her, though, that Minty might well mind. She had looked at Jamie with undisguised interest, and she might be disappointed if he were not there. And then the further thought occurred: perhaps that was why the invitation had been issued in the first place. Perhaps it had nothing to do with Roderick and Charlie, but everything to do with Jamie.
“I’ll come,” said Jamie. “It may have its moments.”
They dressed Charlie with care. Isabel thought that he might wear the kilt that she had recently bought for him—a small strip of Macpherson tartan, expertly pleated and complemented by a tiny sporran and ornate Celtic kilt-pin. The garment had been specially designed for a wearer who was still in nappies, thereby resolving, in a very evident way, the age-old question of what was worn under the kilt, at least in this case.
“Look at him,” said Jamie. He pointed to Charlie, who was standing up unsteadily, getting the feel of his new outfit. “Aren’t you proud, seeing him in his kilt?”
Isabel was. She knew that one’s nationality was an accident of history and that it was difficult to justify being proud of a heritage—one never did anything to deserve being Scottish or American or whatever one was. But national pride was something that people did feel—they could not help it—and she felt it now on Charlie’s behalf. And it was a form of love, she decided; loving one’s country, one’s culture, amounted to loving a particular group of people, and that, surely, was not something for which one had to apologise.
They set off, with Isabel at the wheel of the car, Jamie at her side and Charlie strapped into his child-seat in the back. He liked the car, and chuckled with excitement as they started the drive to Minty’s house. Halfway there, with the Pentlands rising on one side of the road and the hills of Peebleshire off to the other, Charlie suddenly said “olive” again. Jamie turned round and smiled at him. Charlie stared back, as if surprised by his father’s sudden attention.
“Olive?” Jamie said. “Olive, Charlie?”
