Charlie said nothing, fixing Jamie with the disconcerting, utterly fearless stare that only babies and very young children are capable of.
“No olives, Charlie,” said Isabel over her shoulder. “Olives all gone.”
“Olives all gone,” repeated Jamie. And then, turning to Isabel, he said, “That would make a lovely title for a song, you know. ‘Olives All Gone.’ It’s very poignant.”
Isabel agreed. “And the words?”
“I’ll have to think,” Jamie said. “I’ll tell you once I’ve composed it.” The song would come to him, he was sure; it always happened when a line struck him in this way. “Olives All Gone”—it would be about loss, of course, as so many songs were; about what we once had, but had no more.
It did not take long to reach Minty’s house, which was just short of Carlops, a small village twelve miles or so out of Edinburgh. It was in a stretch of country that Isabel particularly liked. Here the land spread out to the south and east, gently rolling fields and folds, green here, ripening brown there, becoming blue in the distance. It was a landscape of mists and distances, beneath a sky that was somehow washed, attenuated, softened. It was a landscape that had been the same for a very long time, dotted with farmhouses and shepherds’ cottages that were there in Robert Louis Stevenson’s time, and in the time of Hume. People here did what they had always done— tending this part of Scotland, keeping it fertile, handing it on to provide for a new generation. It was a place of custom and fond usage.
Minty had given very detailed instructions, which Isabel had written down on the piece of paper she now handed to Jamie. He used these to direct her along the narrow farm track, pressed in upon by hedges, that led off the main road and past a large stand of Scots pines.
“That’s it,” said Isabel. “Look.”
Jamie drew in his breath. “Is that her place?”
“I assume so,” said Isabel. “I never imagined Minty in cramped accommodations, but all the same …”
The house was several hundred yards back from the farm track, which meandered off towards a low byre and a huddle of sheds in the distance. A driveway led from the track to the house; this was lined with rambling rhododendron bushes, flowering in clusters of pink and pale red. Beyond the bushes, a lawn swept up to the house itself, which was Georgian and far more imposing than the larger gentleman-farmers’ houses of the area. At the time of its construction this would have been the house of a family on its way up; not quite in the league of those who aspired to a country mansion, but heading in that direction.
They turned off the farm track and made their way up the somewhat smoother driveway and to the parking place at the side of the house. There were already several prosperous-looking vehicles, which made Isabel’s green Swedish car look distinctly shabby. One of these cars had evidently arrived only a few minutes before, as a woman was still in the process of unloading a small child and a basketful of supporting paraphernalia. She looked in Isabel’s direction, hesitated for a moment and then gave a friendly wave as she made her way into the house.
They approached the front door, which had been left open. Minty was standing in the hall, talking to one of the other mothers. She broke off and welcomed Isabel and Jamie warmly.
“You’ve not been here before, have you?” she said.
Isabel shook her head. “No. But what a lovely place.”
Minty looked pleased. “We searched and searched, and eventually we found this just as we were seriously thinking of going to live in Gullane. Edinburgh
They went through to the kitchen, a vast square room floored with large stone slabs. The room was dominated by a long refectory table at which places for the party had been laid. Most of the small guests were now seated—all eight of them—with a parent beside them to feed them and to keep the food off the floor. Jamie took Charlie over to the table and sat beside him; Isabel watched from the side of the room.
As Charlie and Jamie appeared to be enjoying themselves without her, Isabel moved across to a French window to look out at the garden. The kitchen wing was at the back of the house, a Victorian addition that gave on to a small square of grass. On the other side of this lawn was a large kitchen garden, its surrounding wall built in the grey stone of eastern Scotland, several feet higher than head height. Against its outer side were espaliered apple trees and, in between them, white climbing roses, now in full bloom. Through the open doorway in the wall, she could make out what looked like fruit bushes, some of which were covered with nets against marauding birds.
Isabel became aware that somebody was standing behind her, and she turned to find Minty, holding a plate.
“I made these cheese scones for the adult palate,” she said. “Everything for the children, I’m afraid, is sweet. There are no carrots, I confess. I’m not the most modern of mothers.”
Isabel laughed. “I suspect that their little hearts sink if they get carrots at a birthday party.”
Minty held the plate of scones out to Isabel. “Do try one. I used Parmesan. The recipe called for Cheddar, but I find Cheddar so dull.”
“I suppose it is,” agreed Isabel. She felt almost guilty over her remark, which seemed to dismiss a whole tradition of cheese-making. So, as she took a scone, she added, “Some people like Cheddar, though, and they don’t think it’s that dull.”
“Oh, but it is,” said Minty.
Isabel took a bite of her scone. She was not sure if she wanted to get into an argument with Minty about the merits or otherwise of Cheddar, and so she simply said,
Minty looked at her. “And mine is definitely not Cheddar.”
Isabel said nothing. The scone tasted very good, and she decided to compliment Minty on it; it would be a way of ending the debate about Cheddar. But Minty, who had now put the plate down on a nearby sideboard, suddenly took Isabel by the arm, holding her just below the elbow. Isabel felt a momentary shock; surely a disagreement about Cheddar would not lead to a
