The Lost Art of Gratitude

“Yes,” said Isabel, smiling. “It sometimes feels like that, doesn’t it?” She felt the other woman’s eyes upon her. There was something disconcerting about her gaze. It was not hostile, or even reserved; rather it was a look that indicated that there was something that she wanted to say.

“I’ll show Isabel out,” Angela offered. She spoke in a slightly peremptory way, to which George meekly acceded. Isabel thought, She makes the decisions.

They left the room and made their way downstairs, Angela leading the way.

“Are you married?” Angela asked in the downstairs hall.

It was an unexpected question, posed out of the blue, almost rude in its suddenness. “Engaged, as it happens,” Isabel replied.

Angela nodded. “Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say that there are certain faults that one just has to live with. You feel that, I think, with a fiance as much as with a husband. You see your way past them.”

Isabel nodded. “I suppose that you find out more about them as you go along.”

“You do.” They were at the front door now, and Angela fumbled with the lock. “I must get this thing attended to. It’s always catching.” She gave the door a tug and it opened.

Outside, in the garden, Isabel was struck by the musky scent of a flowering shrub. The fragrance lay heavy on the air, like a coating. They began to walk down the path; Solomon’s Seal, Isabel said to herself, looking down at the delicate rows of suspended white flowers.

The older woman took Isabel by the arm, pressing hard. Isabel looked down at the other woman’s hand: there was an aquamarine set in a wide ring; a bracelet too—gold. There were sunspots on her hand—the Indian sun, presumably.

“I know why you came,” Angela said. “I know about your letter.”

Isabel started to explain. “Well, that’s not what it seems—”

Angela cut her off. “Please. Please let me tell you something. George didn’t really intend to do what he did. That’s just not his style—it really isn’t.”

She was puzzled. “To do what he—”

Angela interrupted again. “He should never have caused that damage—or done any of the other things he did. It’s just that he was so livid over what that woman did. He is a fair-minded man, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that woman sitting there with impunity. I think something snapped inside him. Of course he knows that violence and threats are no solution, but … well, he’s human—as are we all.”

She looked at Isabel. There was pleading in her eyes.

“Please don’t do anything that will cause difficulties for George,” she whispered. “I’m asking you woman to woman. Please don’t. He won’t do anything like this again—I promise you that.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IN HER DREAM, her aunt from Mobile had told Isabel to finish what she began. Isabel realised that this was wise advice, of course, of the sort that we started to give to children the moment they understood what the words finish and begin meant. She realised, too, that the advice given to us by people inhabiting our dreams was really advice from ourselves to ourselves. Somewhere within herself, then, was a self that wanted to advise another self about what to do—which suggested that the self was bifurcated, split between the wise self, cautious and prudent, and another self, lazy, flawed, headstrong perhaps.

No, she thought, I shall not be drawn into that. There were conflicting desires—that was all; there was only one Isabel Dalhousie, one self, but it had to weigh options and make choices. Any other view would take one down some ridiculous and dangerous path of multiple personalities, and Isabel was not going in that direction. Although … although how convenient it would be to have two personae and to be able to choose to inhabit one at this time and another at that time. We are all compartmentalised to an extent: there was the private self, the person we were when there was nobody about, and then there was the public self, the person we were when others were watching. For most, the differences between the two were small—ideally the two selves should be exactly the same—but for others there was usually some distinction. Even a saint might in private be irritable, or might swear sotto voce should he stub his toe; even the great and dignified might be silly at times when not in the public eye, might give the inner child the chance to romp.

Driving out that evening to Minty Auchterlonie’s house off the Biggar Road, Isabel told herself that at least she was finishing what she had started—or planning to do so. She knew that not only was this the correct thing to do, it was what Jamie wanted as well. He was right about that, as was her aunt in her dream; Minty was a ghost that had to be laid to rest. And yet she was not quite sure what she should do. Should she tell Minty that she knew that she had been used, and then demand an apology? Or should she simply upbraid her, thus showing her that she— Isabel—would not tolerate being implicated in whatever proxy lies or threats Minty might resort to in order to get out of difficulties? A third possibility presented itself—that she should drive as far as Nine Mile Burn and then turn round and head back to Edinburgh, forgetting about the whole thing. She almost did that; almost, but then Nine Mile Burn flashed past and she had not even slowed down very much and a new stretch of country revealed itself; at the edge of it was Minty’s house, now to be glimpsed, just, in the distance, a small block of white put down amongst the folds of the landscape, and beyond it the blue of the distant hills, and more blue.

Minty knew that she was coming, as Isabel had telephoned in advance. As Isabel made her way up the drive, the car wheels crunching the expensive gravel mix below—pink and grey—she saw Minty appear at the front door. She was carrying something in her hands, a magazine or a sheaf of papers—it was difficult to tell at that distance. She went back in, deposited the papers somewhere, and came out again just as Isabel brought the car to a halt in front of the house.

Minty’s manner was warm. “I know better than to offer you something to drink,” she said. “That’s one thing about living in the country—people have to drive out to see you and so your drinks cupboard rarely has to be stocked up.”

Isabel smiled weakly. “I like tea,” she said, “if that’s on offer.”

“Of course it is. Anything.”