The Lost Art of Gratitude

Lettuce smiled. “It’s as well that you said that, not me. These days it seems impermissible for men to make general remarks about the minds of women. Not the other way round, of course. You women can say what you like about men.”

Isabel had to admit that this was true, although she did not like hearing it from Professor Lettuce. She had noticed that the constraints on such remarks seemed to apply only to men. Women could say, quite freely, that men could not multi-task, for instance, but men could not say that women could not reverse cars as well as males could. Or if they said that they would inevitably be accused of condescension, or sexism, or some other unforgivable -ism. It was contextual, she realised; it is not just what is said that is judged, it is what was said before. So what men say now is taken in the context of what they used to say—and what they used to do, too, which as often as not was to put women down and make jokes about how women reversed cars. Whereas the words of women, who rarely put men down—except in some Amazonian fantasy—were free of this contextual baggage. So the motives behind a man’s words were now evaluated in the light of what men used commonly to think. Yet that, surely, was as wrong as saying that a person with a criminal record is likely to have committed the offence with which he is now charged. There were rules of evidence that were designed to stop exactly that conclusion, in the name of simple justice. So Professor Lettuce was right about this; it was unfair, but she was not sure that she wanted to concede the point, to Lettuce at least.

“Well, you can, can’t you?” challenged Lettuce. “You can say what you like and we can’t. I can’t, for example, say that science has demonstrated real differences between the male and female brain, and this makes for differences in the way in which men and women respond to distress or view art. Or even for differences in the way they reverse cars.” He laughed at his last example; he laughed.

She realised that Lettuce was talking for men here—for the whole class of men. It was a major assumption. And did the generality of men, she wondered, want people like Lettuce to speak for them?

“Oh, I don’t know. I think that there’s a time after a period of unfair treatment—or even oppression—when the tables are turned, so to speak. The victims of past injustice are given a bit more leeway, I think.”

Lettuce’s lips were pursed in disapproval. “Two wrongs do not make a right, Miss Dalhousie. A simple adage, but applicable, would you not say, to many contemporary forms of social engineering?” He had always called her Miss Dalhousie, and the formality, it seemed to Isabel, was meant to exclude. She was not a colleague, in his eyes; she was not a man, with whom he would feel comfortable. It was as simple as that. And, of course, he resented her purchase of the Review and the restructuring of the editorial board; his exclusion at the hands of a woman must have cut deep.

Isabel chose her words carefully. “Men have treated women badly in the past, Professor Lettuce. In many parts of the world, they continue to do so. They put women down. They try to stop them being educated, being given any opportunities.”

Lettuce listened impatiently. Now he interrupted her. “Not in this country, Miss Dalhousie. Not in this country.”

“Oh? Are you sure about that?”

Professor Lettuce’s head shook slightly with irritation. “Such treatment is illegal. And nobody is stopping women being educated here. Look at university admissions. When I look out over my classes of undergraduates these days, all I see is women’s faces. The occasional man. But mostly women.”

“Girls are doing better in the school-leaving examinations,” said Isabel mildly. “They appear to have better qualifications.”

Lettuce’s irritation increased. “That is because boys are now at a disadvantage,” he said. “They are the ones who are being made to feel inferior.”

The waiter appeared at the table. Isabel was relieved; she did not want to argue with Professor Lettuce, much as she disliked him. I must try to like him, she told herself; I must try to like this man, even if only a little.

“I’m sure you’re right about boys,” she said. “We must do something for them. No, you’re quite right.”

Her remarks seemed to assuage Lettuce’s tetchiness. “Yes, I really believe that we must. Not that this should in any way diminish our efforts on behalf of girls. But we must do something for the boys.”

With this common ground identified, they ordered lunch. “I shall have this salad,” said Lettuce, pointing at an item on the menu. “What’s in it?”

The waiter leaned forward to see which salad had been chosen. “Lettuce,” he said. “Tomatoes, olives and avocado.”

“Perfect,” said Lettuce.

Isabel made her choice and the waiter moved off. For a few moments there was silence. Then Isabel spoke. “You said that there was something you wanted to discuss with me.”

Lettuce looked out of the window. Isabel could tell that he was avoiding meeting her gaze.

“It’s a somewhat unfortunate matter,” said Lettuce. “Not something which I would have wished to become involved in.”

Isabel waited for him to continue. He was still looking out of the window. Now he cleared his throat. “Christopher Dove has drawn my attention to a most unfortunate matter,” he said. “I had not been aware of it myself, but he, quite rightly, I must say, brought it up.”

Isabel sat quite still. She knew exactly what it was. So Dove had involved Lettuce; she should have guessed that from the start.

“You’re referring to an apparent case of plagiarism,” she said.

Lettuce transferred his gaze back into the restaurant. Now he looked directly at her and she was able to see his eyes with their small folds of flesh above and below.

“Precisely.”

“I received a letter from Christopher Dove about that,” she said. “I have been attending to it.”

“Attending to it?”

Isabel took a deep breath. She could feel the tension within her rising. This was a fight.